Inspiration Friday 2016: Thousand Sons (until 1/13)

[KrautScientist]

Hey guys, so I've never taken part in this particular part of the forum, which is an enormous oversight of my part, of course. But when I peeked my head in here earlier today, I realised that the current subject perfectly fits a piece of background that I wrote to further flesh out the warrior culture behind my World Eaters army, Khorne's Eternal Hunt. So here goes:

 

Rites of Passage

 

The cavernous chamber rang with the sound of a thousand hammers striking an anvil. Flames blazed in the furnace at the end of the hall, casting their haphazard light across the countless trophies and weapons arrayed on the monumental walls, creating an ever changing play of jagged shadows.
One by one, the hammers fell silent and the assembled hunters waited.

 

With the sound of grinding metal, Khoron the Undying, Keeper of Trophies, strode from the shadows to where a bier had been placed. On it lay the dead body of Huntmaster Ferax, his armour torn and broken in a dozen places, his pale flesh still smeared with both his blood and that of his enemies. At the conclusion of the latest hunting campaign, Ferax had collapsed amidst a circle of corpses, with all of his assailants dead around him, before finally allowing himself to die. Now he was cold and dead, his scarred features strangely peaceful.

 

The ancient Dreadnought addressed the assembled members of the company, his voice impossibly deep and metallic, the flames casting their flickering light on his brazen skull mask:

“We have assembled here to perform the rites of passage for this servant of Khorne. He took the lives of his enemies, and now his life has been taken in turn. He died a warrior in this long war, and I call him worthy of the eternal battles that await him in our lord’s realm. Let he who would say otherwise speak now or forever hold their peace.”

 

Nothing but silence greeted Khoron’s challenge: Ferax had been a champion of the company, and nobody would have dared to doubt his prowess.

After a moment of silence, Khoron turned away from the hunters “It is time”, he rasped.

 

From the shadows emerged Huntmaster Torus, the Taker of Skulls. His face was gaunt and entirely without expression, his eyes hooded in deep shadow. With the soft scraping of armour, Torus hefted his enormous axe, and with one swing, ritually severed the corpse`s head. Then the bier holding the now headless body slowly glided towards the furnace.

 

“This hunter’s passage is paid for”, Khoron intoned, “Lord of battles, take his skull as you have taken the ones that he has offered you before. Lord of hunger, feast him at your table. Lord of thirst, give him drink, that he may endure in your realm. Great Khorne, welcome your servant and know his worth.”

“He broke his chains and knew freedom”, Khoron boomed.

“He died a free man”, came the answer of the hunters.

“His hunt is now over.”

“But he still has his honour.”

As the final words were spoken, the body had been completely engulfed in the flames of the furnace. The flames played in the eyes of the assembled Astartes, and all was silent once more.

 

***

 

“Step forward and be counted.”

 

Lord Lorimar’s abyssal growl matched that of the ancient dreadnought. Five hunters moved into the light, each of them stripped to the waist, their triumph ropes plain for all to see amidst their corded muscle and scarred flesh. They were Ferax’s lieutenants, each of them now a contender for the position of Huntmaster. In the dim firelight, their faces were masklike and unreadable.

 

“Ferax’s hunting party is in need of a new leader. As was taught to us by our primarch and lord father, his successor will be chosen by a trial of blood and fire. I shall name he who is the last to stand on the Hot Dust Huntmaster, as it has always been.”

 

“And evermore shall be so” , came the murmured reply of the assembled hunters.

 

Lorimar nodded solemnly.

 

“Let the games begin.”

[Scourged]

Good entries, all. They were enjoyable to read. But only one can win:

 

Squigsquasher, I felt your entry best exemplified the theme for the week, and thus I present you with the Octed.

[Evil Eye]

Thank you very much! (I was supposed to just add the amulet myself, wasn't I?)

[Servant of Dante]

Not sure what I would have done if I had somehow won . . .

 

No way I'm putting a chaos star in my signature!

[Kierdale]

I forgot to post my own comments on the last IF entries, so will do now:

Servant of Dante gave us Whisper in the Wind. I thoroughly enjoyed this piece though perhaps it would have been more suitable for the Tzeentch-themed IF of a couple of weeks ago. Still, a great read and I look forward to more of your work as your corruption progresses.

You know it’s inevitable.

 

Warsmith Aznable answered a call for more of inquisitor Dashwood! And did not disappoint! I’ll add that the Slaaneshi in me adored the decadence of the governor’s court.

And that last line...”The ends justify the means”...just happens to be the theme of a future IF...

Quite prophetic.

 

Squigsquasher’s Rotten body, rotten soul started with an excellently detailed description of three high champions of Chaos. Lord Patroklos’ reaction to the chamber of rot was a great view from the eyes of one devoted to the Dark Prince. The descriptions of the Nurglites were equally well written and I hope we can read about the assault upon Tor XV in a future Inspirational Friday.

 

 

Carrack’s submission, Salt of fire gave us the most interesting Gelvira the Scroll and Jergal of the Word Bearers chapter of the Broken Seal, fighting alongside lord Carrack’s Black Maw. The description of Gelvira, her birth and the zeal of the Word Bearers was truly fantastic.

 

Finally Scourged and myself gave you Crystal and Flesh, a tale of the Scourged and Psychopomps, after an initial (and rather bloody) case of mistaken identity, cooperating to take down a sorcerer of the Thousand Sons and his rubricae squad, each for their own purposes. It was great fun to work together and I look forward to seeing how each warband makes use of its prize...

[Kierdale]

My entry for this week.

 

The Fate of the Captive

Hidden Content

Men ought to know that from nothing else but the brain come joys, delights, laughter and sports, and sorrows, griefs, despondency, and lamentations. ... And by the same organ we become mad and delirious, and fears and terrors assail us, some by night, and some by day, and dreams and untimely wanderings, and cares that are not suitable, and ignorance of present circumstances, desuetude, and unskillfulness. All these things we endure from the brain, when it is not healthy...

Hippocrates, On the Sacred Disease

 

 

He had heard tales. Stories of what happened to those captured by the servants of She Who Must Not Be Named. Who knew from where these tales came, for those who were taken did not survive, let alone escape. Mere tales to cow the young and have them obey their parents? No, these tales were too shocking. A child would be traumatized. It was true that all of his race were taught the truth, the history of the Fall, but only when one was sufficiently mature. No, these tales had at least some truth to them he feared as he was dragged from his cell.

Captured during the Enemy’s assault on Viarphia, one of craftworld Carth-Lar’s fairest maiden worlds, perhaps even their finest, the dire avenger Oisin had awoken upon one of the Psychopomps vessels. From the vibrations in the ugly ships’ deck plates and the tone of its inelegant engines he could tell that they were within the Warp. Oh how the mon keigh gambled with their pathetic lives! Traversing the sea of souls – the very realm of the primordial annihilator – protected only by an energy field which could so easily fail in comparison to the safety of his people’s Webway.

Would that he have died in the defence of fair Viarphia! That his soul might have been entombed within the phylactery upon his chest: his spiritstone, and recovered by his kinspeople so that he might have fought once more within a body of wraithbone. But such was not to be. Here he stood, blood encrusting his wounds, his armour in tatters and the gemstone pried from its setting at some point during his unconsciousness. Death now, without the stone, would mean his soul’s devouring by the very Chaos god his race’s debauchery had given birth to. He could almost hear the neverborn calling to him from beyond the metal walls of the ship’s hull. He put these thoughts from his mind. He was a warrior, of the Aureate Crest temple, and if he was to die he would die fighting.

He found himself being dragged in chains by a group of the Enemy’s pawns. Astartes though they were twisted caricatures of the Emperor of Mankind’s warriors. Their armour showed no uniformity but for an overall roseate hue, supplemented with other pastels and striking colours. On some these colours formed patterns which snaked across their armour, while in other cases individual armour panels were different colours but lacked detail. Some seemed to have reduced their suits to base metallic tones and added little colour. A form of ascetics or minimalists within the mad mob? He put these B’fheidir speculative thoughts aside and concentrated on analyzing the Enemy. Each carried sidearms, short brutish pistols, which suited the close confines of their vessel and equally inelegant blades which were as daggers in the grip of Astartes but were easily as long as Oisin’s own arm. The four warriors had him in shackles at his wrists, chains extending to two of the marines, anchored to rings upon the breasts of their armour. Each was likely three or four times his own weight and a dart to the side would not likely unbalance one let alone two of the brutes. The other two kept their distance, weapons holstered. He realized that they wanted him alive, that they did not mean to kill him yet and likely would try not to extinguish him. Could he use this to his advantage?

He began to drag his feet, eliciting yanks upon the chains from those in front of him and a shove in the back from one behind, so hard that his back almost gave way. So, they were to keep him alive, but not necessarily able of body.

At a junction they met another unit of the cursed Astartes, pulling between them a figure Oisin immediately recognized: exarch Caoimhe of the Banshees. He had seen her dance upon Viarphia, as graceful as she was fast and deadlier still. Had their gods forsaken them? For how else could such a supreme warrior have been not only defeated but taken alive! Was the wane of Carth-Lar a signal of the End Days, the coming of the Rhana Dhandra?

Caoimhe held her noble head high and her gaze straight, as if she strode through the gardens of their fair craftworld and she saw naught of the corruption and insanity about them. He dipped his head toward her in deference to her rank, she not returning the gesture, as was protocol for an exarch of another temple.

 

The reek of blood, Eldar blood, assaulted their noses as the doors of the lift opened and they were lead into a small chamber. Oisin barely took in the five Enemy warriors seated before them, his attention stolen by the corpses sat before them.

Niamh and Saoirse of the Banshees.

Darragh, Maeve and Ailbe of the Reapers.

Aoife of the Spiders.

Dear Cabhan, his fellow Avenger.

All were knelt, backs straight, as if in meditation. They could have been mistaken for the finest of wraithbone statues, psychomoulded by an artisan supreme, but for the fact that the crown of each had been removed and they grey matter within hurriedly, messily removed.

For what reason would the Enemy butcher his people so?

He looked to the five seated Astartes. There was something different about them. A malefic aura. Each was touched by the warp. By the neverborn. It was not quite possession, he could sense, but foul ichor ran within their veins, he knew. Behind them various weapons were stacked. Lengthy claws, tridents and nets, the tools of these hunters’ trade. Their faces showed the ugly gigantism of the Astartes but there was a sharpness given to their features by their corruption by She Who Must Not Be Named. And upon their lips and chins were stains of gore.

 

Holusiax slithered forth upon his serpentine body and looked at the two Eldar. One an avenger, the other no less than an exarch of the banshees! Good, good. The warp talons, the Erinyes would learn much from them.

He focused his gaze upon the avenger, boring into the stalwart warrior’s mind with his own, exerting his will upon that of the captive and steadily but slowly he drove the avenger to his knees with the power of his mind. The Eldar’s teeth were clenched in effort and he wept in anger and the realization of what fate awaited him.

It was then that Caoimhe made her move. Her captors were distracted by the battle of wills taking place between their mutated sorcerer and the blue-clad xenos, allowing her to get some slack in the chains that bound her. She swung and looped one about the neck of one of the marines she was bound to, the other reflexively pulling on his chain when he saw her moving and inadvertently tightening the chain about his comrade’s throat. This took these two out of her sphere of concern for precious seconds and she turned to the other two, spinning the heel of one boot into the helmet of one. The other she let come on, for he had drawn his knife and as he stabbed at her she put her shackles in the way. The marine was fast, far faster than those she had faced before, those still loyal to their fragile Imperium, but no match for a Banshee and the blade parted her bonds with ease. In one continuous motion she drove her hands up, letting them slip either side of his helmet, forcing the sliced shackles apart and she turned her seemingly gentle caress of his faceplate into murder as she stabbed her thumbs through the eye lenses and as deep as they would go into the marine’s head. A cartwheel took her to the open door, kicking another marine to the ground as she did so.

“Take her! Take her alive!” Holusiax roared as the banshee exarch darted out into the corridor beyond.

Even as the warp talons placed their hands upon him and his scalp was pared back, the crown of his skull sawed away so that they might consume his brain and all his knowledge of his craftworld that laid locked within it, Oisin knew that the warriors of Carth-Lar would not easily fall.

[Carrack]

Rites of the Chosen

 

 

 

Copil could feel the Wash lapping at the edges of his mind as he rejoined his squad on the loyalist battle barge. He panicked. Unfortunately, there was nobody he could hit to calm his nerves, and release the tension mounting in his mind. The Wash was bad. It was a flaw in his creation, a product of the unorthodox way in which he had been gene-forged.

 

For all intensive purposes, Copil was an Astartes, he had the implants, and the benefits they provided. He had the speed, the power, the longevity of a marine. He looked like a marine, he thought like a marine, and he fought like a marine, but he wasn't truly a marine, not like the rest of the Chosen of Lord Carrack who were burning through the armored hatch with melta shots and bombs. He wasn't a marine because he hadn't been created like a marine. He hadn't begun life as a mortal aspirant and gone through the ritual enhancement of a true Astartes. Instead, he had been created in a laboratory by the infamous Fabious Bile. He had been made into the semblance of an Astartes, but not quite an Astartes. The Wash was what separated him from true marines.

 

The wash was a flaw, an oversight in Fabious Bile's attempts to recreate Astartes. It was a tendency for the warp infused energy used in his creation to overwhelm his psyche, and wash away years, decades, even centuries of his memories. It left him bewildered and confused, vulnerable in the company of ruthless killers, and more often than not, in the midst of the tempest of battle. He couldn't afford to have the Wash come now, so he fought it off with rage. He focused on his rage at the universe at large, then narrowing that rage against his cruel brothers who stood beside him. The slights they visited upon Copil were too numerous to count, but mostly revolved around their claims of superiority from fighting the Long War from its inception. He looked again for something to hit. The waves of the Wash receded a bit in the face of his monumental anger. It was how he dealt with his flaw, a personal rite, that if performed correctly, might quell the surge of blankness that threatened his mind.

 

Copil made his way to the front of the squad, eager to strike the hatch with his power fist, and further channel his anger into physical action. As he passed the other chosen, he thought of their own individual rites that they performed for unique reasons.

 

First he passed Harold with the barrel of his flamer pointed low, waiting to step to the fore when the hatch was breeched. Harold's rites were in the care of his weapons. Harold's flamer was an ordinary flamer, no different than any other carried by the legionaries of the Black Maw, but the contents of his promethium canisters were unique. Over the ages, Harold had concocted a secret recipe for his flamer's fuel. Added to the promethium were strange ingredients that he believed increased the potency of his weapon. Out of curiosity, Copil, like every other Chosen in the squad had at one time intimated some of Harold's thralls into revealing this secret recipe. Strange ingredients like an eye of a newt and a toe of a frog were stirred into the fuel for no apparent reason, along with various types of blood from arterial to menstrual, were added in homage to the Blood God. Despite what Harold believed, the fire from his weapon burnt no hotter than that of any other. Still, it was a ritual, an act of worship from the legionary that he did in preparation for battle.

 

Next in line was Casper, Casper the Cannibal. Casper was known to seek out enemies, or thralls if none were at hand, that possessed talents for the arts. When he found them he would set an elaborate table, complete with fine china and silver, than with a white linen napkin tucked into his gorget, he would eat their brains. He proclaimed he did this to engage his omophagia, and sample the delicacies of humanity's protégées, but before he took his first bite, he always offered up the skull of his entree to the King of Skulls. It too was a personal rite of worship. It always amused Copil how Casper's thralls went to such great lengths to appear as simpletons and slobs.

 

Third in line was Marbas the Revenant, the insufferable whiner of the chosen. His rite wasn't something he himself performed, but something the chosen did on his behalf. Marbas was dead, many times over in fact, but before his first death, the cursed Eldar had banished his soul to the warp with psychic rites. Years later, a sorcerer of the Black Maw had uncovered the rites the xenos had used on Marbas, and by performing them in reverse, brought Marbas back from his banishment to bolster the ranks before a battle. Begrudgingly, the chosen still did this before major engagements, and Marbas would join the squad for battle, and either die or be pulled back to the warp a short while later. Incidentally, the same sorcerer later discovered a way to bring Marbas back permanently, but Vinno, the Champion at the time, stabbed the sorcerer in the back and destroyed the knowledge he had uncovered to the unanimous praise of the squad. Nobody wanted to hear Marbas whine more than they absolutely had to.

 

Saint Tiam clashed the Wrathful Standard into Copil's pauldron as he passed by. Saint Tiam's personal rite was extravagant, but as standard bearer, he received a double share of loot, and could afford it. The legionary had actually flooded a section of a sub deck on the Bitter Revenge and stocked it with those nasty black monsters from Katan II. He offers up sacrifices to Khorne by cutting their heels and throwing them to the sharks. The water would soon churn with blood as feeding frenzies would commence. The Blood God is surely pleased by Saint Tiam's rites, but no more so then by blood being spilled in a simpler fashion. Apparently the sacrifice had failed at one point in the last decade, for Saint Tiam's chief arming thrall proudly went barefoot, showing off his scarred heels to the lesser thralls.

 

Copil paused a moment to look his champion in the eye. Champion Paimun refused to make eye contact. It was how the new champion dealt with his secrets after learning that they were anything but secret. Paimun pretended they were still secret, hells of the warp, the loon probably believed they were still secret. Paimun had the dubious gift of a mutation. There was some sort of minor daemon growing out of his stomach or some other internal organ. It had a face, and a voice, and it told Paimun what to do. The current champion of the Chosen of Lord Carrack had actually kept his secret for an undetermined age. For decades the quiet legionary would occasionally slip away, either past Black Maw lines, or to the lower decks of Bitter Revenge. What he did was a mystery, but a boring one, Paimun was a little off for sure, but he was quiet, and never involved in any of the more interesting intrigues and power plays of the warband. He kept his head down and went unnoticed, but Copil had been a member of the squad since he was purchased from Fabious Bile, almost 8,000 years, and although he was the newest member of the squad, as his brothers so frequently pointed out, 8,000 years was a long time, so he had once endeavored to discover what Paimun did when he was away. It had not been easy. Paimun made a habit of leaving no witnesses to his secret forays, but Copil had eventually managed to spy upon his brother in the snowy mountains of Poe V. Paimun was on his knees in the snow, clutching his belly as if in extreme intestinal pain, and talking to whatever was inside him. Copil couldn't understand the words, but whatever it was, was talking back. The rest had been pieced together by investigating the wreckage of the medical bay every time Paimun had been wounded to the point of requiring surgery. When Copil brought the news of what he found to the squad, they had laughed at him, saying they already knew, they just didn't care, because Paimun was still a great warrior, and still offered up blood and skulls just as he had always done.

 

Passing all the Chosen save for Obbo, who had stepped to the side to let his meltagun cool for a moment, Copil slammed his power fist into the hatch, pushing a melon sized dent out the opposite end, he recovered his fist and punched again and again, breaking through the last of the barrier between him and the Chosen's objective. He broke left firing the boltgun in his right one-handed at the guards in this well appointed cabin. They looked professional, skilled even, for mortals, and armed with chain-bladed halberds, but their eyes were covered with heavy black blindfolds, necessary considering the charge they protected, but certainly a hindrance. As he charged into one, his boltgun blew another onto his back in the center of the room, across a mosaic seal of House Rossi of the Navis Nobilis. The rush of combat, and the flood of wrath stirring through his veins, sent the Wash receding back into the recesses of his mind. He had fought it off, for now.

 

[Zhaharek]

I'm back.

[Zhaharek]

The 18th Hall

 

Mirrors had always held a certain significance to Rasziel. Why, he was not certain, as he had never had a penchant for introspection. Nor had they ever been a component in his many sorceries: he preferred dead flesh. Fangs from xeno creatures, flayed skin parchment, crystallised eyes and bits of bone suited his psykana. Yet mirrors had always seemed to draw his attention, the broken shard at his feet no exception. Perhaps it was just vanity. A moment passed. He pulled his gaze away from the shattered looking glass, and back to the cavernous hall in which he stood. The thralls behind him shifted nervously.

 

The 18th Hall held no glory in that moment, but Rasziel knew that in a few hours it would bear an unfathomable power, when the rite began. It would have to be cleaned first. Broken glass littered the marble floor and rags bundled in the corners. Rasziel swore he could smell a corpse, the rotten fruit and faeces stench of it lazy in the air. He wrinkled his nose.

 

The thralls that stood behind him were degenerate things, blood and vomit staining the purple robes they wore over their blubbery forms, faces mercifully obscured by masks resemblant of gulping fish, scaled and gormless. Rasziel pointed at the nearest one, a plump female with a line of old blood stained below the left nostril of her mask. "You. Cleanse it all before I return," she nodded hurriedly as he spoke and began to direct her fellows around the room with shrill little barks. Rasziel wondered if Astartes regarded mortals the way he regarded these... Scum. He left them to their work, passing through the wide doors out of the hall, and into the corridors beyond.

 

He had a summoning ritual to prepare for.

 

 

 

The ritual began with a word. Yet "word" was too small a title for Rasziel was witnessing. For what he was part of.

 

"C'MATH'UIN."

 

Rasziel's robe was heavy on his shoulders as he kneeled, the bangles encircling his wrists clattering, and the charms and medallions about his throat began to throb, the motion echoing into his ribcage. His head was bowed, his eyes closed, - sharp pain in his temples slowly intensifying. With aching effort, he lifted his head, and opened his eyes.

 

"DRATH'A'GUIN."

 

The 18th Hall returned his gaze, as did its inhabitants. It's domed ceiling stretched high and far above, a sky of black marble. Censers the size of a man's torso hung from silver threads, smoke falling like rain, a downpour of twisting ash.

 

"CROSH'NATH'ACH."

 

The dome was held aloft by walls of polished blue glass. Before the ritual, the glass was mundane and faded, yet now it shone with a sickly light. As the radiant walls met the ground, the cerulean glass melded seamlessly into black marble once more. The whole hall was an immense sphere, it's colour a gradient from night black at its apex, to deep blue at its equator, terminating in onyx black at its subtly flattened base.

 

"DUR'THRI'GILITCH."

 

Within, at it's centre, at the base of The Hall, was a pool, a gold ringed pool filled with a foul smelling yellow fluid that was unerringly still even now, at the height of the ritual.

From without, The Hall called to mind nothing more than an immense drop of tainted ink. From within, it resembled some vile receptacle of caustic chemicals.

And now, at the moment of ritual, it was filled with blasphemous chanting.

 

"ES'MESET-RAN."

 

The chanting of The Ninefold Blade, the Warband to which Razsiel was sworn and beholden.

They were all in attendance.

 

"DI'RIATH'CURAIN."

 

21 Astartes, each clad in rune-marked robes, their armour foregone in favour of sorcerous trappings, drifted above the untouched pool, held aloft by nothing but will. Rasziel looked up to them, watching their mighty forms languidly slide through the air. He recognised a few. Amuk'ran, eyes aglow, pale tattoos stark against darkened flesh, his limbs held out in a cruciform. Dahzaran, out of place without a huge weapon by side, his immense fists curling and twisting as his six eyes blinked and flickered. Rasziel shuddered to think what heights of power could test an Astartes to such degree.

 

"YG. NASTOTH NASTITH."

 

Far beneath the Astartes, kneeling, heads bowed, and lips blurring with dread syllables, were the mortals of The Ninefold Blade, arrayed in circles, radiating out from the pool. Among them, Rasziel, his heart pounding with power. He looked to his left. A man with lank hair crumpled and twisted beneath an emerald cowl as light spilt from his mouth.

 

"SED'RRIRATH."

 

Rasziel looked to his right and saw a young girl swaying back and forth, her teeth gritted against her own power, her eyes blazing like coals.

 

"GRIS'IKAEN, MO'DO'MORATH."

 

Rasziel steeled himself, the air rippling about him. Whispers gushed into his mind like an unbound river, and he tore his mouth open and joined the chant.

 

"DAEL'MORIATH'ZEKARAEL!"

 

The pool rippled.

The air stank of burnt hair and saltwater.

A claw burst the surface of the pool, ripping through a membrane atop the liquid. It slammed into the brim of the pool, and darkened head breached the surface, followed by a pair of maddened eyes.

The daemon shrieked. It twisted and writhed as acid yellow runes seared into its gunmetal flesh, it's teeth flickering and warping, iridescent flame coruscating in its eyes. It looked right at him. Right at Rasziel.

Then, it tore free of the pool. Kicked its shifting legs, and swam into the air, shrieking.

 

A second joined it, clawing and gibbering. Then an other. And an other. Until the air was swarming with shrieking, hollering daemons.

Rasziel heard distant laughter from above, from a point higher than the Astartes, as the now roiling pool at the centre of The 18th Hall roared.

 

The laughter halted, and Rasziel heard a voice call out.

 

"IT HAS BEGUN."

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in Chaos Rites over the last week.

As well as entries from regulars it was good to see the return of Zhaharek and a first entry from KrautScientist (hopefully the first of many).

I hereby close that topic for the purposes of rewards (though as always if you have more entries on the topic of Chaos Rites, please post them at any time, with a suitable note in the post's title).

Here begins our twenty second challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Retro Chaos

In July of 1996 the 2nd edition Chaos Space Marine codex was released and accordingly this week's Inspirational Friday (as well as Daemon Forge from July 23rd to August 27th) is dedicated to retro Chaos in all its flavours (particularly first and second edition... stretch as far as third edition Kai guns and the Eye of Terror if you're especially naughty).

Peruse the hallowed Realm of Chaos tomes, Rogue Trader, the old Codexes and fluff and give us a piece to bring tears of nostalgia to our eyes.

Inspirational Friday: Retro Chaos runs until the 5th of August.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Squigsquasher. To the chosen victor: step forward and claim your Octed Amulet:

[Warsmith Aznable]

I'm not sure I understand this theme. You want the narrative focus to be on old codex wargear?

[Kierdale]

Not necessarily old wargear but anything from the 1st and 2nd editions of 40k (or, at a stretch, 3rd). Wargear, units, characters, battles, fluff. Have your CSM battling squats if you wish ;)

[Scourged]

Well that'll be a bit of a challenge. I've only been at all of this for a couple years. Don't quite have the knowledge (or books) of the old days. Hell, I wasn't even around for the gilded age of 3.5. 

[Kierdale]

Trawling Lexicanum you can get an idea of what was around back then. A fair few models were released then. Most of the big name ex-legion characters came about then. Perhaps some characters we don't see now (Doomrider :( ).

There are of course other places on the net you can find old codexes. I'll neither mention nor recommend any names, but I'm sure those who know, know.

 

Or, give me three rolls of a D100 and I'll give you one of the random plot hooks (and a sub plot) from the first edition rulebook for you to Chaosify ;)

[Teetengee]

I doubt I will get to this soon, but would a story bringing a old thing into modern setting (even if piggybacking off of official type stuff) be ok?

[Scourged]

Hm. I'll peruse the recommended places at work and see if inspiration hits me. I'm due for a story after taking the week off. Old vs. New is a trope I do like to explore. 

[Kierdale]

I doubt I will get to this soon, but would a story bringing a old thing into modern setting (even if piggybacking off of official type stuff) be ok?

Sounds great.

I don't think we're that strict in IF anyway. If you get inspired by something, even going off topic, I'm sure we want to read about it anyway :)

[Kierdale]

Telling Tales

Hidden Content

Cythesai cursed as he cut his engine. Though the HUD in his helmet fed him all his bike’s specs perfectly, he could not help but look down to check the screen mounted between the handlebars and rap his knuckles in irritation upon the top of the tank nestled just in front of his saddle.

Bingo fuel.

He drew his pistol from the holster of cured and tanned flesh belted to his lower leg and looked about. The sky was full of thick black smoke and the contrails of both missiles and rockets and flyers: storm talons and hawks, up through ravens to eagles and raptors. Thunderhawks, even. Some in the garish colours of the Stygians-turned-Psychopomps, some in the black and white of the Templars, for the hammer had fallen. Their homeworld of Fulcrum was under assault, the Emperor’s retribution cometh, and the renegades were fighting for their lives.

Explosions rocked the ground so hard one might have thought the Emperor’s pawns had managed to land an engine of the Mechanicus. The roar of gunfire of myriad calibers from the harsh bangs of bolters to the throaty cough of artillery, echoed through the debris-strewn streets, yet still Cythesai could hear the pings of his bike’s exhausts cooling, the creak of the leather of his saddle as he swept his pistol about, checking his surroundings, for so in tune was a biker of the Black Stallions that he could hear all its sounds, its very voice, even over the sound of battle about him. While they had once been simply outriders and scouts for the chapter, the unit possessing no name for the chapter had been ascetic in the extreme, upon their enlightenment those who reveled in the chase, the hunt, those whose nerves could only be ignited by the speed of a bike, had banded together to form the Black Stallions. Scouts still, but now also reavers, hunters and saboteurs, the Stallions displayed the proud head of a pearly-maned ebony destrier upon their right pauldrons.

As the Imperial attack had been revealed, initiated it seemed by infiltrators, the Stallions had been dispatched to scout out and harry the enemy’s positions. This they had done with gusto, their bikes able to tear through the streets of their homeworld’s capital city with ease, avoiding the fire of the Templar tanks and getting themselves behind the columns of ebony-and-sable rhinos, darting out to attack with melta guns and bombs before making their retreat. Two scouts, novices or whatever term the Templars used, would not learn the folly of going into battle without helmets, for their heads now adorned spikes upon the back of Cythesai’s mount alongside the black helm of one of their seniors. He idly hoped he had not damaged the brain tissue within the three skulls in driving them onto the skewers, for he hoped to consume them at some point, but had more pressing priorities.

Fuel.

The battle was far from done, but he was low on fuel and had become separated from the rest of his squad. In truth, in the ecstasy of the chase and the roar of engines and guns, he had no idea if he was now behind or in front of the Templar advance, but took shelter in the shadowy alleyway to catch his bearings and ponder over his situation.

There were other vehicles scattered about, civilian ones – he briefly smiled for even these showed signs of the corruption the Stygians had brought back with them to their homeworld and indoctrinated the populace in – from which he might siphon fuel, though it irked him to fill his tank with lesser fuels and the possibility of being caught by the enemy whilst stealing fuel...embarrassing to say the least.

The rumble of heavy treads along a street to his right had him holter his pistol once more and he stabbed the ignition of his bike. From the sound of it, it was at least a Land Raider if not something larger. Not something he was going to bring down with his twin-linked bolters or few remaining krak grenades. He throttled up and sped away as the Crusader rounded the corner.

Was another Templar head worth it? Meagre pickings and his bike was now both chipped and hammered, its beautiful paintwork hideously scarred by the squadmates of the one whose head he had managed to take, his front tyre punctured and his tank all but empty. Would he need to abandon it and make his way back to the fortress-monastery? That was where the fighting was thickest, understandably, and likely from where the Psychopomps would make their retreat, for Cythesai realized that this world was lost to them now. The sheer numbers of the enemy. Matt black Valkyries soared overhead and confirmed his suspicions: they had been infiltrated by Scions.

He knelt and pried the flamer from a cultist’s deathgrip, the cults of their homeworld having been incited – by Angra, no doubt – to throw themselves at the loyalists. To cover the retreat of their betters. Their corruptors.

Cythesai shook the fuel flask, already realizing it was far lighter than he had hoped, and unscrewed it from the weapon anyway, pouring what promethium he could scavenge into his bike’s tank. He could feel its thirst and its pain.

But why burden himself with it?

He put down the empty flask and swung his leg off the bike, the first time he had dismounted since the assault had begun hours earlier.

Perhaps he could ambush some of the Templar’s own bikers. Get himself a new ride.

He took a step away from the bike only to hear the roar of a rhino’s quad engines coming from a couple of streets away. That it advanced unaccompanied by screaming and shouting meant that it was not one of his own chapter’s.

About to scurry away toward the ruins on the other side of the street and make his way through the city as best he could toward the fortress, he paused to remove his remaining krak grenade and reached out to set it under his bike’s rear tyre. If the Templars got too curious they’d go up with his bike and the pissy little fuel still in it. He grinned to himself, only to have that grin wiped from his face as the rhino rounded a corner two blocks up from him, far sooner than he had expected.

Its pintle-mounted storm bolter immediately opened up as soon as the gunner saw the gaudily-armoured renegade crouched by his bike. Bolt shells chewed up the road and Cythesai threw himself behind his bike, putting it between him and the tank. He found he still held the krak grenade and contemplated throwing it, praying to the Dark Prince it might sail in through the gunner’s hatch...

Who was he kidding? The Gods were not smiling upon him today, that much he knew.

A couple of bolt shells struck his bike-come-cover and the shooting stopped just as he thought it might be him taken by his mount’s exploding. The gunner was reloading?

He took the opportunity and broke cover, sprinting up the road a couple of paces before he staggered to a halt and stood dumbfounded in the middle of the street.

For from up the road ahead came what could only be described as a bat out of hell.

Upon a monstrous bike of amethyst and bronze, a great pair of muzzles flanked by scythe blades above its front forks, came a rider unlike any the Black Stallion had seen before. Both grander and more obscene than any of the bike-masters of the Scars or the Ravenwing, this lone rider’s wheels churned up the tarmac beneath it, leaving the scarred road glowing like embers. The rider must have been controlling his bike via some form of MIU, Cythesai wondered somewhere at the back of his stupefied brain, for neither of its hands were upon the handlebars. One hand was held high, a clenched fist but for the index and little fingers extended; the right hand held back, a hooked and decorated blade held tightly in it. No mortal weapon was this, for while not blessed by the Pantheon, Cythesai could feel the taint upon it even at this distance. The rider, whose armour matched that of his mount, was either wearing a helmet upon which the pale face of a daemon had been stretched, or had been gifted by the Great Corruptor himself with a countenance at once hideous and handsome, from the brows of which extended a pair of slender black horns flanking a shock of red hair. A long pink tongue snaked out from ruby red lips.

Cythesai almost cried out in anguish as the Templar rhino commenced firing once again, horrified that anyone might fire upon a rider of such supreme magnificence, but he almost though his savour spaced him a glance, a playful wink, before throwing his roadhog jinking - nay dancing - about the road, unhindered in the slightest by the debris littering it, the storm bolter fire unable to touch him. The Black Stallion turned as the doomrider roared past him, the growl of his engines reverberating in the marine’s chest.

The rhino’s upper hatch popped open, the Templars within rising up to add their own fire, driving the devilish rider to mount the curb. Cythesai bit back a curse, sure his savior would be forced to crash, but there came a cackling laugh as the daemonic bike merely drove its way up along the shop fronts, gravity be damned.

Gunfire chased but could not touch him, even as he returned to the road, making a line straight for the rhino.

The rider revved his engine, which gave a beastly roar and the bike reared up into a wheelie, mounting the front of the rhino and riding up the glacis plate in a blink. It was now that the rider put his blade to use, driving it down into the armour, splitting it like paper and with a flourish taking half a dozen heads from those who had sought to gun him down.

The purple bike leapt into the sky, off the back of the rhino which had been cleft clean in two, only to come back to earth a dozen meters down the road and screech into a turn.

Cythesai looked as bifurcated and disemboweled bodies tumbled from the remains of the Templar rhino, then gave a start as the doomrider pulled up before him, next to his own abandoned bike. Not sparing a single glance at the Black Stallion marine, the daemonic rider raised the six heads it had taken, holding them over the open fuel tank of his battered ride. Shameful in contrast to the untouched glory of the rider’s own bike. Blood dribbled from the severed necks of the Templars and the pale-faced biker nodded approvingly, as if in communion with the wounded vehicle.

Cythesai watched as blood ran from the puncture holes in his bike’s tyres, coagulating and sealing the rents. Likewise the holes in its armoured flanks. Dents flattened themselves and as the last drop fell into the fuel tank his bike gave an excited roar of ignition, flames spurting from its exhausts and its rear tyre spinning until a cloud was kicked up and the smell of hot rubber filled his nostrils.

Only then did his savior turn his gaze upon Cythesai. The eyes of the daemon – for the rider could be no mere mortal nor Astarte, at least not anymore if he had in fact once been one – were purest pearly white though he could feel them bore into him nonetheless.

“You shame your ride, brother.”

His knees gave way and he lowered his head, presenting his neck, for he knew he could never ride as this one had.

“Do not kneel, brother. Ride! Ride with me! Ride to madness and the palace of the Prince!”

Cythesai took the proffered hand and stood only for the daemonic rider to stop him, hand upon his chest. His savour reached up and deftly snatched his mark seven helmet from the Psychopomp’s head. He tossed it away before reaching into a pillion bag and removing a helmet with a great crest-like blade across the crown.

His new helm upon his head, Cythesai rode on with his savior, taking a fearsome tally of their besiegers before he made it back to the fortress-monastery alone once more, telling his comrades tales as they made their retreat offworld.

Tales of the Doomrider.

After settling on a `subject` I realized it was 3rd edition, but anyway it was fun to write.

[Evil Eye]

Every entry was quite fantastic, but there can only be one.

 

It was a tough call, but I have to give the win to KrautScientist. His piece, detailing the funeral rites of the Eternal Hunt, was quite superb, giving an almost humanizing element to the World Eaters. Step forth and claim your Octed Amulet, KrautScientist.

[KrautScientist]

Oh my, what a fantasic surprise! Especially given the strong competition! Thank you very much, Squiqsquasher, this is quite an honour!

 

It's great to hear that my attempt at "humanising", for lack of a better word, my World Eaters seems to have come across in the piece: The members of the 4th have been trying their utmost to keep the damnation that has claimed their legion at bay, clinging to what honour and scraps of mongrel warrior culture they can, while certainly only staving off the inevitable. It's a tough balance to maintain in the conceptualisation of the force, and I am doing my best not to turn them into Mary Sues in the process ;)

 

Anyway, thanks again, and I am really looking forward to whatever you guys come up with for the Retro Chaos subject! :)

[Teetengee]

I wrote a thing, although I have had trouble figuring out how/when to end stories these days. Still, have at thee:

Huntsman

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The sweating master of ceremonies stood in the center of an arena splattered with every bodily fluid imaginable, and even a few that defied explanation entirely. His patterned cloak glistened in the over-bright lighting, cavorting daemons debasing their way along its rim as he raised his arms to the crowd. “You have seen tonight the impossible, the strange, the perverse, all things that bring glory to the Dark Prince!”

 

The crowd roared, bleated, sighed, and screamed, a thousand times a thousand voices each unique; the cacophony of throats brought a genuine smile to the MC, one such that few crowds could. His arms rose once more with a snap, a golden bauble ensorcled with brain itching runes held high aloft his head, reflecting both crowd and spoiled sands. The crowd quieted as he tossed the orb into the air. He stood, mustache quivering, the orb just hanging there six feet above and six feet behind him. After a pregnant pause, the orb gave birth to a thousand tiny violet tendrils; they snaked out and swirled into a pulsing oval hanging in the air.

 

The MC began, voice part rhino salesman and part apostle, his mustache danced with every sentence, “From deep within the annals of unrecorded time, comes a man infamous throughout the galaxy for habits both profane and powdered. You had better catch him quick before he goes! Astride his chromium steed, and with throbbing weapon in hand, here he comes! The one! The only! The DO---”

 

But the MC stopped, the front half of a snarling technicolour motorcycle was above him, unmoving though its front wheel spun in the sky, jets of fire crashing about. It jerked back and forth through the portal, moving forward slightly only to be yanked back, tires squealing on nothing. Suddenly a change came over the vehicle, the fire turning green and burning away the colourful decorations. Iconography of joyous perversity was replaced by that of hatred, unfulfilled desires, and death. The vehicle snapped forward, tilting out of the portal and slamming into the awestruck MC, crushing him flat and setting ablaze his magnificent cloak and mustache.

 

The crowd’s intake of breath could have cut steel when they saw what rode the tarnished metal horse. A suit of what was once powered armour sat upon the engine belching smoke and fire. It was pink and black, with golden edging now tarnished and glowing green in the hellfire surrounding the cycle’s wheels. But where one might expect a head, was nothing, a patch of air above a sucking void. No platinum locks, no powdered upper lip, no sneering disdain, just a pit into which no light could penetrate.

 

The headless beast in front of the crowd stood from his metal ride, a pulsating sword held dragging across the sand, leaving a trail of iridescent glass. The moaning MC locked terrified eyes with nothing, as his broken form was lifted by his hair. His body hung limp in the air for only a second, before a sweeping blow severed his neck. The armoured monster placed the head above his shoulders, it’s eyes filling with green fire. It stayed there only for the precious few seconds it took the monster to sit once more atop the legendary steed, before it began to slowly sink into the abyss between the huntsman’s shoulders.

 

 

It’s eyes scanned the crowd, even as it disappeared through where the huntsman’s neck should have been. They finally fixated on a traitor marine, armoured in alabaster, before the head was sucked into nothingness with a sucking pop. The crowd erupted as the snarling bike’s engine screamed, and the huntsman’s sword blazed into life with a searing green fury. The bike shot forward temporarily uncontrolled as the huntsman’s hand pointed toward the marine. The white armour gleamed as the crowd streamed away from its wearer. The wearer, to his credit, stood his ground, brought up his weapons, and let loose a savage war cry. He might die this day, but he would be damned if he did not make his killer pay for that mistake. Somewhere, deep in a trophy vault, a head cackled at the irony.

unless you know of the events of a recent white scars story, this will probably make no sense, sorry

In that story, basically, the Khan rips of Doomrider's head as he goes through a portal in a Great Hunt. Considering doomrider is a daemon, I figured it's far more likely that he would go all Sleepy Hollow than be gone forever

[Kierdale]

Teetengee, that was fantastic.

I need to model that.

[Scourged]

Hm. I've stumbled too deep into the rabbit hole. That Champions of Chaos set of tables and such from Realm of Chaos is so deliciously good. I may or may not be trying to tweak and rework it to make a Renegades and Heretics style Path to Glory. Or something that nature. I have seen the light, and it is beautiful.

[Carrack]

Vehicle to Glory

 

 

 

Parche moved up, keeping in a crouch with his boltgun at a low ready, he moved like a barely constrained beast, ready to attack at the first sign of prey. His demi-squad followed suit, in a loosely spaced line down the corridor of the enemy ship. In spite of their body language indicating a tense alertness and a readiness to shed loyalist blood, Parche could feel the smiles beneath their helms. Their smiles matched his own. Glory was at hand, and it would come cheaply.

 

Parche's assignment in the boarding of the Angels of Immolation's battle barge, Ember, was not one with a great chance of glory. His demi-squad, newly created marines and renegades, all less than a century old, were part of the second wave. They were suppose to secure hull breaches, exploit openings, and distract the ship's defenders from the main thrusts of the assault. They were support. The gods had different plans for Parche and his demi-squad. The guidance system on the Arvus had never came online, so Parche had directed the pilots to fly by sight, and find a hull breach they could use. They found a circular scar of a dreadclaw's melta cutter and boarded Ember. They had found the breech of some dreadnought, and followed it in. They were just behind the mad dreadnought now, as deep into the ship as any legionnaires of the first wave. All they had to do was follow this dreadnought as it blasted, burned, and cut its way through loyalists, and listen to it repeatedly scream, +I AM KHARFUS+ They were getting close to the bridge, and once the dreadnought handled the defenders there, they could secure the bridge and be showered in wealth and honor for winning the battle. Parche couldn't help himself, he smiled from ear to ear, whoever this dreadnought was, was his vehicle to untold glory.

 

****************

 

 

+I AM KHARFUS+ I still lived, even if just barely. +I AM KHARFUS+ I still fought the Long War, just as I have since Terra. +I AM KHARFUS+ My enemies should tremble at my presence, yet they act as if they don't recognize my name. I know that they must have had days and days of briefings on me and the havoc I have wrecked on the Imperium, yet they still face me unafraid? What is this madness? +I AM KHARFUS+ I announce myself to the next squad of thinbloods stepping into the corridor to slow my advance. They too remain firm, preparing to meet my charge. +I AM KHARFUS+ Still they don't flee at the revelation of who they face, just like the thinbloods that are trailing me. The trailing thinbloods where the colors of the Black Maw, my colors, but they are thinbloods, no different than the ones in red and orange up ahead. +I AM KHARFUS+ Still no one flees at the sound of my name. It is as if they don't care about my victories, my legend, my very name! I will make all these thinbloods know that, +I AM KHARFUS+

 

 

****************

 

 

Parche could see the next squad of loyalists between the legs of the dreadnought and chuckled, another squad this dreadnought would be taking care of for him. Suddenly, after another of the same introductory announcements, the dreadnought pivoted on its waist axis to face Parche. He heard the clanging of the dreadnought locking in place. Parche signaled a halt and waited to see if the dreadnought would say something different. It did.

 

It spoke not with words, but fire and the revving of a great circular chain blade. The heavy flamer underslung beneath the saw blade poured out fire over Parche and his demi-squad, just as the plasma cannon that was the dreadnought's other arm launched a ball of searing plasma just over Parche's head to strike the wall and reduce his meltagunner to ash. Somehow, Parche had survived the treacherous fire of the dreadnought and picked himself up, priming a krak grenade for a futile charge. Before he could take a step, both of Kharfus's weapon arms fired again.

 

As Parche franticly searched for the disintegrated remains of his legs through the flames of his burning torso, he heard the last words he would ever hear, +I AM KHARFUS+

 

 

Note.

I'm not sure if the old crazed table originated from the "retro" era, but I thought it would make a good story, and the "powdered upper lip" Emperor's Children story had already been written. :)

 

[Kierdale]

A second one as I had time and wanted to give it a go...

Other’s Concerns

Hidden Content

The bulk cargo hauler hit the ground with the force of a thermonuclear warhead. That the besieged Imperials had been forced to make use of a non-military vessel spoke of their desperation and captain Semoru had ordered the gunners let the ship reach a decent altitude and let those aboard think that they had succeeded in escaping hell, before punching it from the skies. The captured defense laser, designed for engaging enemy vessels in low orbit or swatting interplanetary ordnance, had penetrated the transport’s engines and engineerium in a split second and, suddenly robbed of thrust, gravity had done the rest.

Had those aboard been less desperate - or perhaps more crazy - they might have thought to get themselves out over their besiegers. Instead they had made a burn almost straight up from their take off position, which meant the huge starship fell back to earth upon the city it had tried to escape. Those amongst the besieger camp could not see the destruction wrought within the great shield wall, but the mushroom cloud brought cries of joy and bloodthirst from the various warriors about the Psychopomps captain.

This was not their war, for the Psychopomps distained siege warfare, but an offer had come their way: payment in exchange for forces leant, and lord Sophusar had dispatched Semoru - formerly the captain of the Stygian Guard’s 9th company before they had become the Psychopomps - along with several of their havoc squads, a couple of Thenaros’ warpsmiths and the Chaos dreadnought: not a Contemptor nor one of the more common Castraferrums, it was somewhat reminiscent of a Deredeo, yet had reversed knees and four weapon mounts in addition to its chin-mounted double bolter. Not originally a dreadnought of the Stygian Guard, the warband had salvaged it from a space hulk they had discovered.

Thus they found themselves fighting alongside renegade astartes of three other warbands as well as hundreds of thousands of turncoat guardsmen – many of whom were natives of this very world.

Semoru cared not for their reasons, nor the name of the city or the planet he stood upon, though a younger, more precise and exacting him might have. Now he was both more mercenary and reveled in the destruction wrought by his arts. That the turncoat general had ceded control of the captured defense lasers along the western ridge to him had been most welcome: leave the final bloody assault to his lesser. He would wield the power of gods, the likes of which could only be matched by the engines of the mechanicus.

He nodded to himself as his Astartes set about recharging the great weapon they crewed. It would join its sister cannons in a great bombardment of the shield wall at first light tomorrow and the siege would be ended. The other warbands and the traitor guardsmen would tear across the cratered and torn plains in their rhinos, chimeras and tanks and be into the city, for whatever ends they had. The breach of the wall would bring an end to his mission. Payment then return to the warband.

A part of him wondered if they might be able to get one or two of the defense lasers offworld in the warband’s own ships while their `allies` were busy in the city.

Night fell and with it an air of confidence over the camps of the besiegers, assured that the dawn would bring them victory. Fewer renegade speeders and bikes tore across the plains which formed the no man’s land between the shield wall and the ring of camps. And the camps themselves were spaced out, some clustered about the stolen defence lasers in their great earthworks, some in hastily dug trenches, none too close to another for there was distrust between the various factions, united only in their greed and bloodlust.

It was these factors which allowed the commandoes to exit the city via one of the huge aquaduct pipes which once stretched across the planet from city to city in a network up to the northern icecap. Cracked and severed in the initial bombardment, the defenders’ elite rappelled down in the shadow of the truncated pipe and made their way across the plain, from crater to crater until they neared the closest of the defense laser emplacements.

From hereon they trod with extreme care, for behind the line of Aegis walls were rhinos.

Astartes.

The darkness of night had hidden the black-clad soldiers from their Judas brethren but would do naught to counter the autosenses of powered armour. Communicating via hand signals they advanced, leapfrogging, their hotshot lasguns held ready, their left hands both steadying the barrels of their rifles and at the same time gripping combat knives ready to plunge into the necks of any who discovered them.

They snuck their way through the unlit encampment; unlit for the Astartes had no need of illumination and so the colours of the rhinos, gaudy and gauche in daylight, were muted. Several times they were forced to backtrack and seek hiding places as pairs of Astartes passed by on patrol. More still must be resting within their APCs, the commando lieutenant estimated. But they were not here to slay their enemy, they were here for the laser itself. To turn it on its kin or simply destroy it. Accordingly each of the commandoes had a melta bomb strapped under his backpack.

Once again they sought cover as the sound of servoes and the tremor of heavy footfalls indicated something coming. The towering dreadnought, easily some four or five meters in height, strode round a corner of the defense laser’s emplacement, scanning its weapons across the camp. A missile launcher, an assault cannon, a las-cannon and a conversion beamer, it bore arms equivalent to a Devastator squad, all on one heavily armoured frame. With a mechanical growl it stalked onwards and the commandoes breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Nerves taut as they neared their final objective, pushing aside last moment questions about this suicide mission, those first into the hastily constructed bunker stopped in their tracks when they spotted the marine sentries slumped in the doorway. Dead.

As two of the human soldiers moved forward to secure the junction their sergeant crouched to examine the corpses. Still warm. Throats slit by chainblades. Not a single round fired from their bolt guns. The marine’s own blades were still sheathed.

He had no idea who had done this, but gave a silent prayer to Him Upon The Golden Throne. A part of him wanted to take this as deliverance. Someone had come to strike down the foes of the Emperor in his stead. He and his men would not need to give their lives this night...

But duty – and if he admitted it to himself, curiosity – got the better of him. He looked up to find one of his men watching him, the soldier already turned as if to leave the bunker. They shared a look. Though a commando, the soldier was young. He wouldn’t have been wearing that beret, that uniform if the loyalists hadn’t been pushed back to this one last city. He didn’t deserve to die tonight.

“Just a quick look,” the sergeant whispered a lie, patting the young man on the shoulder and directing him back into the bunker’s dark corridor.

Aisling withdrew her biting blade from the renegade captain’s chest.

“Autarch Qarasion sends her regards,” she spat over the corpse before turning to her scorpions, each who now stood over Psychopomp corpses. “Mesusid is avenged.”

The Eldar turned only to find the first soldiers of a squad of black-clad humans blocking the doorway. Each had their weapon up but wore a look of extreme confusion upon their faces.

Aisling threw up her sword to the side, staying her squad from attacking, and she took a careful step toward the humans. They showed no signs of corruption, either by She Who Must Not Be Named as the Psychopomps did, or any of the other powers of the Primordial Annihilator.

The leader of the humans evidently identified her as the leader and stepped forward.

“Y-y-you did this.” It wasn’t clear if it was a question or a statement. Aisling nodded, as she knew was the Mon Keigh way.

“W-why?”

“For to save my people,” the scorpion Exarch replied. The Mon Keigh tongue did not come as easily to her as it did many of her race. She preferred killing them than conversing with them. She took another step closer. And another.

The sergeant’s pale face under his red beret broke into the hint of a smile and his stance eased. This spread to his squad and some even lowered their weapons a fraction.

Another step closer. She now stood before the man.

“A goal we sha-“

Before the man had finished his sentence her mandiblasters shredded his face. Her biting blade took the heads of the two to the right and her squad, crossing the room with blinding speed, were upon the rest before weapons could be aimed.

“Mon Keigh concerns are none of ours,” Aisling said to the corpse of the sergeant before the Carth-Lar scorpions disappeared into the night once again.

I rolled up a random plot from the 1st edition (Rogue Trader) plot generator and a sub-plot...and threw in a Space Crusade mini for good measure.

The plot gen rolls

Hidden Content

56 – Raid and destroy

11 – An Imperial planet is in a state of civil war, with government troops besieged in the capital. The rebel siege train includes a number of mighty defence lasers, torn from their concrete silos and arranged in great earthworks surrounding the city. They have already done much damage, and only a daring midnight raid by a party of government troops can save the day. The objective is simply to destroy the guns – their own survival is irrelevant.

Subplot:

54 – While the players battle it out a further alien force lands and enters the fray – perhaps hoping to take advantage of the disorder to fulfill some mission of their own.

That was rather fun, actually. Would anyone like it done as an IF topic sometime?