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

[Kierdale]

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

Not a lot of entries, I guess some of you didn’t start the hobby back in the 80s and 90s! At the very least I hope the topic got members to search for old fluff. It got me to crack open my copy of Rogue Trader and Slaves to Darkness, which is always a good thing, though I regret not being able to work Catachan brain-leaves and face-eaters, Cthellean cudbears, ferro-beasts, sunworms, crotalids, ambulls or pterra-squirrels into my entries. Nor a Stegatank. Or a Hellbore. Aaaah!

Thanks to Teetengee for his entry Huntsman featuring everyone’s favourite (now headless) Slaaneshi biker. Truly inspirational.

I hereby vow to make a headless Doomrider within the next year..

And thanks to Carrack for Vehicle To Glory, showing us that Chaos dreadnoughts have never been reliable

Similar to Teetengee, I gave you a doomrider piece with Telling Tales – though whether Cythesai can be believed or not is another question...and Other’s Concerns, based on a random plot generated from the Rogue Trader book, with references to some old minis thrown in.

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

Here begins our twenty third challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

ETL Model

On Monday the 15th of August 2016 E Tenebrae Lux V will finish (hopefully with a glorious third straight win for Chaos). The 23rd challenge of IF is to give us a fluff piece about one or more of the models you completed (or failed to complete) for this year’s ETL.

If you did not take part in the ETL then why the bloody hell not?! Leave your head at the door give us a write-up about a recently completed model.

Inspirational Friday: ETL Model runs until the 19th of August

Let us be inspired.

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

[KrautScientist]

Alright, guys, this has been very enjoyable indeed! Great job all around! I've been part of the hobby since the early 90s myself (and tentatively got into 40k proper around the mid-90s, I would say), so most of the stuff I read did make sense to me and gave me delicious nostalgia goosebumps

As for the stories themselves:

Kierdale's Telling Tales is very well written and really really brings Doomrider into the current style of the lore without sacrificing some of the character's inherent corniness, which is key! There's also a dash of Mad Max: Fury Road in the closing paragraphs (you almost expect Doomrider to go all like "You shall ride eternal, shiny and chrome!). Anyway, an excellent read all around!

The Doomrider extravaganza continues with Teetengee's Huntsman. The story injects a bit of dark humour that really suits the character and certainly made me giggle! The story's one minor shortcoming is that it really kinda relies on knowledge of the short story that inspired it for the full payoff -- especially that bit about Doomrider launching an attack on the alabaster armoured opponent in the last parapgraph. That's a particularly nice shout out to the story that inspired this piece!

Carrack's "Vehicle to Glory" channels a part of the lore (and the rules!) every long time chaos player will be intimately familiar with: A Chaos Dreadnought blowing a fuse has ruined more than one of my personal battle plans. What I really loved about the story was the stream of consciousness we get from the Dreadnought himself. Nit an easy part to get right, but Carrack really nailed it!

And lastly, there is Kierdale once again, with Other's Concerns: I can't believe the lenghts he has gone to to truly achieve a retro effect by actually using the old plot tables! Nuts! Even more astonishing is the fact that he has managed to create a well-crafted tail out of it all once more. The reveal with the Striking Scorpions wiping out the poor Imperials really beautifully channels the "Only War" feeling of the soundbites that would appear all over the various sourcebooks and Codices in days of yore -- and the guest role for the old Space Crusade Dreadnought has been well and duly noted

So whom to choose....hmmm...

They were all great and worthy contenders, that much is certain! In the end, it was really a neck and neck between "Telling Tales" and "Vehicle to Glory", and after much consideration, I'll have to hand the octed amulet to Carrack: The soundbite from the Dreadnought's own perspective was what really sealed the deal for me, and the story also beautifully encapsulated the fickle nature of chaos that will lead to its followers turning on each other as often as not. Congratulations, Carrack! And thanks for the excellent reads, guys!

+ I AM KHARFUS! +

Regarding the next subject, I make a point of writing a piece of fluff for pretty much each of my characters, so this one was easy. Meet Apothecary Dumah:

Apothecary Dumah, Chooser of the Slain and Keeper of the Seed, Primus Medicae of the World Eaters’ 4th assault company

The presence of Lord Dumah could be one of the most important reasons for the ability of the 4th to still function as a fairly coherent fighting force, for it is due to his art that the company still has access to a way of replenishing its ranks instead of being left to slowly bleed out over the millennia: Apothecaries are a rare enough breed in the traitor legions, and especially so among the World Eaters, whose Apothecaries have succumbed to the bite of the nails for the most part, abandoning their former battlefield role in favour of bloodshed and insanity.

During the times of the Great Crusade, Dumah served directly under First Apothecary Fabrikus, and he was among those tasked with duplicating the archaic and little-understood neural implants Angron had been outfitted with on Nuceria. While working on the task of implanting an ever increasing part of the legion with those “Butcher’s Nails”, Dumah became aware of their debilitating nature and began in-depth research into the possibility of mitigating the negative effects of the implants.
Yet there was little tolerance for this kind of experimentation within the legion, as the Red Angel himself regarded any attempt at tampering with the function of the nails as a way of compromising their effectiveness and purity. So this line of research was quickly abandoned by all but a few Apothecaries, while the legion fell deeper and deeper into madness and bloodlust.

Ten millennia later, Dumah still serves as the 4th assault company’s Primus Medicae and has earned the epithet “Chooser of the Slain”, as his task is twofold: As a dark, Grim Reaper-like figure, he moves among the fallen and chooses which geneseed to harvest from fallen World Eaters and which to leave to rot, because it is too twisted and curdled by corruption to be safely used for implantation any longer. And he looks for those fallen enemies whose prowess in battle and martial honour have made them eligible for being inducted into the XII legion – either by being granted the kiss of the nails or, in very rare cases, a full conversion to an Astartes in the first place.

When off the battlefield, Dumah still continues his experiments with the aim of countering the nails’ degrading effects, and he feels that he is coming closer to a possible breakthrough with every generation of new implants and with every harvested progenoid. The only question is if there will still be enough of the company left to profit from his eventual success…

I also have a 30k version of this guy, and as soon as the model is painted, I think there will be a short piece of fiction describing how Dumah sought to save his company, even while the Betrayal of the early Horus Heresy turned Isstvan III into a blasted hellscape...

[Kierdale]

I'm glad to hear you have more planned for Dumah as 'Interview with a Chaos Apothecary' is planned for a future IF ;)

 

And now I might have to write 'Ride Eternal' on my kitbashed Doomrider when I make him :tu:

[Carrack]

I'm honored about winning, thanks. I'm also looking forward to this week's challenge, not just to write it and read everybody's stories, but to get me out of my hobby funk and finish up at least vow 1 of ETL. Good timing on this challenge.

[Scourged]

And I'm back. I decided to write about this guy from my first ETL vow this year:

 

http://i.imgur.com/tAMpuRsm.jpg?3

 

And so, here's the story for him:

Hidden Content

Battle Wounds

The vermin were scratching again. Scratching and scratching. Little claws tearing away at his brain, eager to tear apart and feast upon his frailing consciousness. There were less of them by the minute. His brothers were slaughtering the pests all around him, making the rats quiet. But those that survived or slowly died clung to their lies, swearing pointless promises to higher powers that don’t exist or reciting oaths to loved ones that no longer lived. Dead and dying, the vermin never ceased to torment.

He needed to free his mind. Clear the thoughts. Bash away the vermin. Pain makes them silent. Rattle the skull and scare the mice away. The helmet, it needed to come off. It needed to beat on his skull. It needed to leave him dizzy and ringing but clear of the pests. He reached for the helm but wasted his effort. The left arm was pinned. He tried to free it, but the heavy burden holding it down - remnants of some building, no doubt - would not budge. But his right was free. He moved it, but everything was wrong. He couldn’t grab the latches on the horned helm. He couldn’t bend at the elbow. Hah, of course - the arm was but a bloody stump now, impotently flailing as he slowly died.

It was the vermin’s machines of war. They did this. Curse those disgusting rats! The behemoth belching ammunition exploded in the midst of his melee, engulfing him with concussive flames and throwing him countless meters away from the fight. He was stuck here now, at the mercy of the mind-rats. They chewed and chewed, getting closer to devouring his sanity. Lost in some ruins, armor devoid of power, in-helmet HUD black and blind, limbs severed. Dying. A carrion feast for the mind-rants.

Zankar always survived. Always. Until today. Today Zankar will die.

***

He felt the vermin before anything else. Still they scratched, weaker now, but the little paws and claws gave him no respite. Their lying teeth still chewed at his weakened consciousness. Soon enough other senses returned, vying for dominance in Zankar’s mind. His body was light - armor gone. No more pressure on his left arm and legs - cleared from the rubble. Breathing was easier - the chest wound had healed. Hearing and sight returned on his right side - head and face damaged, but functional. Finally aware of his surroundings, he could see he was safely aboard Deception’s Call once again.

Zankar had survived. He would never die!

He moved to rise from whatever flat surface he was resting upon, but that was immediately found to be a mistake. Pain. Lots of it. In every inch of his broken body. He howled with an anguished rage. Alive he may be, but barely. At least it made the vermin in his brain scurry away for a bit. He could finally think.

Med bay. That’s where he was. The warband found him and brought him back, kept him alive. Yes, good! Zankar could recover, recruit, and be back on the hunt in no time. But his body still felt irregular. It must be the augmentics. Yes. Of course. No doubt they would outfit a warrior of Zankar’s ability with the finest of new limbs. Time to test them, get a feel for his new immortal shell.

No. Wrong. They augmetics were not responding. He could not feel his fingers and arms flexing at his commands. The auto-senses and lenses for his eye and ear were still switched to off. His legs and feet did not respond to his mental commands. Wait, nothing below the ribs were responding to his thoughts. How much of him was machine now? And why didn’t it function? Biding himself through the pain, Zankar forced himself to diagnose the malfunctioning hardware.

Oh. That’s why.

“Fleshmoulder! What in the True Master’s gaze have you done to my body?!”

The Astartes wielding the narthecium wandered over, the little mutated assistants and familiars at his side as always. The Fleshmoulder. He should have put new limbs on to him, not removed what few he had left!

“I really wouldn’t move, Zankar; it would not doubt cause a considerable amount of pain in your condition. You should relax.”

“No, Fleshmoulder, I won’t relax! Why am I not wired to augmetics?”

The little mutants were laughing at his question. What could possibly be so funny about it?

“Zankar… oh, Zankar… no amount of artificial limbs or senses could repair what damage has been done to you. Frankly it’s… well… let me just show you.”

The chirurgeon grabbed a long mirror and hoisted it above is prone form. The sight was a nightmare. The only limb that was left was the stub of his right arm from the explosion. The left arm, shoulder, and half of his face were gone, cauterized and scarred to roughly heal the wounds. He had no legs, or hips, or part of his lower spine. Part of his fused rib cage was missing as well. Carved into his chest was an open hole - large enough for his head - that left his lungs and hearts exposed to the open air, letting Zankar watch them expand and contract at an increased rate with his growing rage.

“See? Far too much damage for any kind of bionics to fix. Still, Zankar, count your blessings. Against all odds, you have survived. It seems you have been blessed, and will not die.”

“Blessed? Blessed?! I am a stub of an Astartes. I can see my own hearts beating, Thamda’ul! What damned reason could you have to leave me in shambles like this? I have served this warband for centuries, and this is how my life is repaid - with your inept ministrations?!”

In a flash, the narthecium was pointed directly at Zankar’s temple, all manner of surgical tool and injector came to life, teasing the surface of his skin. The pleasant lilt in the apothecary’s face and voice faded, leaving an expression of pure mirth and a speaking tone that rang with the cold certainty of a man accustomed to ending lives with the flick of a wrist.

“You are alive. Continue berating my skills that kept you this way, and I will correct the perceived error in my work, Zankar.”

He shut up. The Fleshmoulder made a very good point. The little mutants were bouncing all over now, chittering and cheering at their master’s bravado. To the best of his ability, Zankar relaxed on the operating slab beneath him to put himself and the apothecary at ease. So be it.

“Besides, immortal one - I can make better use of you than any series of surgeries could. You’ll be joining me from now on.”

The new voice came from the doorway. It was another Astartes - Zankar knew that from his voice alone - but he was not devoid of his armor as Thamda’ul was. The new attendant stood in full service plate, the marks a collaboration of older models. Behind him all manner of tendril and mechadendrite twirled and slithered, the semi-sentient minds of the harness scanning the room for data as their wielder stood still. He stood calm and at ease, but with his trademark cog-shaped power axe at the ready.

No. Oh, for the love of the Ever-Changing Master, no! Not him. Not that way. No the Iron Monger. Not Khan’tu.

“Quick, Fleshmoulder: kill me!”

***

The rats were back again. They wouldn’t leave him alone anymore. Their scratching had become a terrible burden to him, tearing away at his mind hour after hour. He wanted freedom from them. He would beat them away, as he always had.

But Zankar’s arms didn’t move. His head didn’t move. Nothing moved. He was trapped, forever drowning in his tomb of amnio fluid. Wires and cables tored throughout his already ruined body, connecting him to the vast hulk that now surrounded him indefinitely.

This was how he stayed all days now. This was his never-ending life. And the vermin knew it. Their little lies shredded away at his mind, hoping to open enough holes to flood him with the eternal torment he knew would come. No more could he beat them away. No more could he crack his skull on ceramite to make the mind-rats flee. They were always there, now. Always there. Always biting. Always scratching. Always.

This was the price of immortality. Zankar had survived. He always survived. Despite the odds forever stacked against him in every battle, and the countless members of the Hunters lost throughout the years, Zankar had survived. No matter what, he would not die. That had been his Fate. And until now, Zankar loved every minute of it. It was a glorious burden. Not any longer.

The mind-rats were in full force today. It was worse than usual. The devious little voices were assailing him with a new strength. They could sense his weakness now. Zankar wanted to thrash and fight them away, but his new body would never move without the Iron Monger’s permission. Nothing would ever move until it was time for war once more. Zankar needed that war. It would let him fight. It would let him destroy. It would free him from the mind-rats, if only for moments.

 

Author's notes: So, this guy is a character from my ongoing Ophiuchi campaign. If you're curious about his exploits in that fight, I've included them below.

 

 

Hundreds upon hundreds of rounds of shells were exploding en masse on the makeshift barricades of fallen walls and vehicles. The constant impacts and detonations were chipping away at all edges of the defensive cover, leaving slightly less room to hide as each second passed. Shrapnel was flying in all directions, though it harmlessly bounced and ricocheted off of all of their ceramite armor plates. Zankar’s Hunters were pinned down, and their champion was growing very frustrated.

His squad of nearly twenty had been reduced to himself and five others since the initial march through the capital. The resistance had been expected, but it was supposed to be nothing more than weaklings with small arms fire and some grenades. These were to be the pitiful filth that he and his Hunters had slaughtered on countless worlds, reaping the seeds of their sins. There was supposed to be no real threat in their meager defenses.

Weakened by his frustrations at the situation, Zankar’s mind suddenly flared with the chittering voices of the vermin. Even now, as they gathered in a scrambled defense of their home did they still persist in embracing falsehoods and deceptions. Always with the lies, never any peace. He could hear them all, scratching at his consciousness and attempting to burrow inside. No, they weren’t getting inside, not again!

“Damned rats, always scratching!”

He dropped his weapons to his side, freeing his hands to let him unclasp his horned helm and rip it off. Holding it flat between both palms he bashed the backside against his forehead, again and again. Zankar bellowed his frustrated rage as the ceramite beat against his skull, both eventually developing hairline fractures from many repeated impacts. None of the five other Hunters behind the barricade paid the manic action any attention - the outbursts of Zankar were quite mundane compared to others. When you’re touched by the Gift, you do anything you can to keep the voices at bay.

There, finally: his mind was quiet again. The scratching was gone, and he could think. The lines of falling blood and fractured brow were easy prices to pay to have such blessed silence again. Re-equipping himself with helmet and weapons, Zankar checked the chronometer in his visor’s display. Not yet. No reinforcements yet. Too early. He and the Hunters would need to keep holding. Now if only that damned gatling cannon would stop pummeling their barricade.

The attack would have been so simple to endure if it was only the ineffective shower of bullets from autoguns and stubbers. That had been how the assault started, and it was so foolishly easy then. But soon the heavy bolters came to life and started routing the Hunters. Then the acrid stench of lasgun fire began to fill the air. The the detonation of artillery shells. And now a Leman Russ. What was supposed to have been a barren wasteland thanks to the Djinn’s Curse was instead a pitched battle with a heavily armed resistance.

Thankfully the barrage of the Basilisk was aimed elsewhere. While that was unfortunate for some other poor squad, it was the only saving grace Zankar had in this failing assault. Should the vermin turn the aim of the artillery upon his squad while the Punisher kept them entrenched in the falling ruins it would be the death of the Hunters. Not Zankar, though - he would live. He always lived. So many Hunters had been lost in his lifetime through death and attrition, but Zankar always survived, and today would be no different.

If only he or another could reach Heshael’s meltagun; that would change things in their favor. It wasn’t that far: only twelve strides to Zankar’s right flank, and two paces forward. Heshael’s corpse was still holding the ancient weapon, his torso slumped on top as if to guard the prized firearm even in death. But it was well out of the range of their protective cover, and in a direct firing arc for the Punisher cannon. And attempting to retrieve the meltagun was how Mellinius became an explosion of scarlet upon the pavement.

Abruptly, the Russ ceased its suppressing fire. Peering through one of the many, many holes in the fallen slabs of wall, Zankar watched the still-smoking barrel of the tank, waiting for it to start spinning and exploding once again. It wasn’t. It continued to remain motionless. Instead the entire tank was in motion, rolling slowly forward, crushing debris beneath its large treads. A cadre of armed vermin no doubt following it closely, ready to swarm their position.

Damnit. Now they really did need that meltagun. No choice left. Unless...

“Chalusol’ul, get the melta, now.”

“Are you out of your mind? You saw what that cannon did to Mellinius!”

“I don’t give one dying grox groan what happened to that welp! I said get me that gun, and you’ll do it now, or so help me I’ll toss you at the Russ’s treads and see if that will slow it down instead.”

Zankar was not out of his mind, though. Chalusol’ul was going to die, but the champion knew that. The marine didn’t stand a single chance of retrieving the meltagun alive. But that was okay. It was a necessary sacrifice to Zankar’s new plan. He never liked Chalusol’ul anyway - the filth was always an insubordinate louse, and no doubt planning to usurp him and take over the Hunters. All the more reason he’d make the perfect distraction.

With a quick blink-click, Zankar muted his vox feed to Chalusol’ul but kept the line open to the rest of the squad:

“Once he takes off running, we all toss every single krak grenade we have at that lumbering beast. Hopefully we’ll do some kind of damage before Chalu becomes a big red smear.”

That got a laugh out of the Hunters. Chalusol’ul knew they were hiding something from him, but readied himself at the edge of the barricade regardless.

“I hope you all die.”

Those were the last words of Chalusol’ul. He did as was ordered and ran toward the meltagun. To his benefit, the Leman Russ did not initially pay him any mind. Zankar watched through his peephole as the vermin turned their guns on the sprinting Astartes and pointlessly shot at him. For a split second, it seemed like he might actually live and get the gun. Until the tank commander apparently saw what he was up to and ordered the Punisher turret to turn and open fire. The red mist of Chalusol’ul’s innards seemed to spread everywhere.

“Now!”

With the tank distracted for even the briefest of moments, the Hunters struck and tossed their krak grenades and hoped for the best. They all immediately dropped down to escape the swiveling wrath of the Punisher cannon that was quickly coming to bear on them, and Zankar found his peephole once again. Four of the grenades were nowhere near the tank, all having bounced away. They might cause a spare casualty or two among the vermin, but that would be all. The champion’s gambit would have been pointless if not for the single krak grenade that managed to wedge itself between the wheels and tread on the tank’s right side.

Zankar savored the sound as five detonations concussed on the other side of the fallen walls. Vermin wailed and screamed as some were maimed by hot shrapnel flying in all directions. Their pain was a pleasant bonus to Zankar, but his ultimate delight was the screeching of metal on metal as the Leman Russ’s right side felt the heat of a direct blast. The treads were immediately tossed in all directions while the wheels and frame of the tank bent and scraped on itself and the ground. The Hunters had immobilized the beast.

“So… now what?”

Why? Why did Numiach insist on ruining every good moment? Zankar just wanted half a second to savor the small victory, to bask in the triumph of his plan. Through his devious cunning all of their lives were spared for just that much longer. But no. That moment was over now. Any modicum of joy the Champion Hunter would have felt evaporated faster than the misted remains of Chalusol’ul. Damned, joyless Numiach.

“We get to stay alive for two more minutes, that’s what. As long as this rubble holds we’re safe from that gatling cannon and just have to worry about the little rats scurrying over to fight.”

Having said that, Zankar already suspected the vermin would be scaling the walls momentarily. He stowed his bolter and opted for his pistol and power sword in preparation. If the mortals thought they stood a chance fighting a demigod, then that was their problem. Let them come. As long as the tank and its cannon stayed on that side of the wall, then Zankar was happy. He would survive this fight, just like all the rest.

The fusilade from the Punisher cannon finally stopped it’s pointless waste of ammunition. It could try all it wanted, but it wasn’t going to break through the fallen mounds of rockcrete. Left with no more superior firepower or options, the little pests began to charge their position, hoping to slay the Hunters. Let them try. Zankar would exterminate them like all the rest.

Plasmic heat began to surge through Zankar’s jagged blade, humming with electric delight. Oh, how he loved that sound. On so many worlds, in so many fights, that sound had been the backdrop to so much slaughter. He acquired the blade so long ago he could not remember its origins, only that he had culled so many scores of vermin it was a wonder the blade was not permanently stained red. Not for lack of trying, however. And on this day, Zankar’s bloody tally was sure to rise much, much higher.

The mortal resistance was finally cresting over the top of the rubble heaps, jumping down with bayonets out and blades in hand. Quaint. Each of the Hunters casually aimed their pistols and fired shot after shot, decorating the massive slabs of fallen hab structure with corpses. Zankar chuckled as he watched the carnage, the heads and torsos all exploding. It reminded him of a childhood long forgotten: a fragmented memory of a holiday celebration with little exploding balls of confetti. The little bursts of red paper had amused him as a child, just as the exploding viscera of the rats amused him now.

With the tide cresting over the initial overwatch, the melee proper had finally begun. The Champion Hunter began immediately cutting through the swathes of amassed rats. Most of the men and women wore little more than basic rags and overcoats that offered zero resistance against the energy-charged blade in his hand. Rending their bodies asunder would have been a simple task with a basic blade, but was next to effortless with a power sword.

Back and forth he cut, separating limbs and eviscerating abdomens left and right. The vermin unlucky enough to continue living after being shorn apart screamed with righteous pain. Zankar loves that sound: the shrieks of penance. Sparing a glance, he saw the other Hunters faring just as well, their gladius blades making short work of the mortals. Yet still the vermin poured in, undeterred by their inevitable slaughter.

Zankar and his Astartes had the advantage of strength, and they no doubt had the advantage of superior armaments, but the mortals were relying on sheer numbers to win this skirmish. More and more of them were joining the fray, working their hardest to force blades of all type at each Hunter. Numiach had unfortunately caught an unlucky slice to the soft armor behind his knee. He had dropped down and was slowly being swarmed. Yup, he’d be dead soon. One of the militia would find a way to sneak an edge through his neck joint and Numiach would bleed out. Oh well. Good riddance. Zankar’s squad was now effectively four.

Somehow the flood of pests had not abated. More and more were flying over the tops of the wreckage, pushing the brawl further and further back. How could so many have survived? Zankar had witnessed the brutality of the Djinn’s Curse so many times before and it never left so many alive. Maybe these vermin were psychically attuned, or had some sort of shielding. Or maybe they had a bad crop of Astropaths. Regardless, the swarm of rats was becoming alarming.

They were probably going to die here. That morose thought crept in the champions head quite suddenly. Reinforcements were still too far away and the torrent of vermin was becoming too strong. The Hunters were going to die. Well, not Zankar - he always survived. But the rest of them would die. There were too many of the rats to survive.

Their little blades scratched at his armor like tiny claws. On and on he cut, burning blood and gore tainting the air with its stench. The beaten and mangled formed heaps on the ground, crying out and moaning as they slowly died. The assault never stopped. They all clawed at him like the rats in his mind, like the voices that gnawed at his consciousness…

No, no, no! The mind-rats were back! Zankar could feel them all again, the little lies nibbling at his mind’s edge. No, not now! He couldn’t go back to that pit of madness, not in the midst of this fight. He desperately looked around for something, anything to help him silence the scratching. Blades cut at his armor while whispers sliced at his mind until he finally saw exactly what he needed. Reaching out with fingers soaked in blood, Zankar gripped the neck of a poor soul foolish enough to be wearing a helmet. The little mouse gagged and squeaked, eager to get free. It didn’t matter; the voices needed to die!

Zankar hefted the man forward while he wrenched his own body down, smacking both of their armored heads together. There, there, yes, it was working, but he needed more. Harder, hit it harder to cast the voices out! Again and again he beat their skulls together, the concussive strikes ringing his mind like a church bell. The little mouse was ragdoll limp, his own head long since smashed and mangled, but Zankar beat his own against it ever still. He finally stopped, facemask soaked in red gore, and tossed the dead man aside. Ah, sweet relief.

The reprieve from the voices had cost him, though. Zankar looked around quickly to see that Ghalo was lying prone and immobile, not far from the slumped Numiach. In the brief moments Zankar’s powered blade had not been cleaving through the massed vermin enough of them had piled in to overwhelm the other Hunters. And in those moments he had also apparently acquired a few grazing cuts to his arms at the joints. The rats had gotten lucky. They would pay. Hopefully.

Returning to the fray of the fight, Zankar ignited his sword once more and charged at the nearest opponent. After bisecting the small woman he turned to engage the next. And the next one after that. On and on he fought, he and the two remaining Hunters, Scalia and Orio. By all accounts, the three Hunters would be able to fend off the now dwindling tide of mortals. But something about the fight did not feel right. What were these massed numbers meant to accomplish? Why had they thrown themselves to slaughter so willingly…?

That’s when he heard the piercing whine of a gatling cannon warming up to fire. Zankar looked up and saw his folly: the tide of vermin had pushed him and the Hunters in retreat far enough from the barricades that the tank had line of sight on them. Zankar was left with a split second to react and chose to drop immediately to the ground. He watched the few pests around him do the same as the Punisher cannon began to unleash its payload once more. Scalia and Orio and the handful of rats around them quickly ceased to exist, leaving in their place a collection of dismembered limbs and pools of blood. So much for his Hunters squad. Perhaps Zankar would not survive this after all. If he stood to flee, the Leman Russ would destroy him as easily as the rest. If he stayed on the ground, the vermin would gnaw at him until he bled to death. This was the end of his legacy.

And then the chronometer in his visor’s display reached zero and chirped quietly. Oh. Good. Perhaps he would not die this day after all.

 

 

[Kierdale]

Falx Horrificus

Hidden Content

The Ocularis Terribus. The Eye of Terror. The galaxy’s greatest rift in space, where the very stuff of the warp bled through from that otherworld into this. Truly a realm of Chaos, the laws of physics -nay of reality- did not apply there. Time was meaningless. Matter, thought and energy were indistinct, mutable.

It was the lord primarch of the IV legion who named it the Eye of Terror, though such had been stricken from Imperial records by the time events took the Psychopomps there.

While a great many renegades found themselves driven there, pursued by Imperial retribution as had the legions upon their great loss at the Siege of Terra some ten millennia earlier, it was a vision which led the fallen Stygian Guard to the birthplace of their patron.

Their fall to the worship of Slaanesh freed the chapter from the shackles of duty, of loyalty to the Lords of Terra, with which they had bound themselves. They saw the Imperium not as many of their renegade kin did: as a tyrannical empire to be torn down, but perhaps more as a bloated corpse to be fed upon when needs must and they saw no shame in avoiding confrontation unless their needs dictated it (but matters were different when the opportunity came for vengeance against the despised Templars). What focused the Psychopomps was their thirst for the souls of those who had in their hubris given birth to the Dark Prince of Chaos.

The Eldar.

As captives, strapped into the chapter’s Infernal Engine, the xenos allowed the Psychopomps to experience sensations far beyond the ken of humankind. And in those fallen astartes possessed of the sharpest minds, those who felt the tides of the sea of souls, these experiences allowed them to hear an echo embedded in the Eldar’s psyche. A race memory, perhaps. An echo of the birth of the god named She Who Must Not Be Named.

“We have arrived,” the lord of Chaos announced.

Floating in the hololithic display was a world shrouded in pale clouds. Lord Sophusar’s visions had brought them here to this nameless planet within the Eye, and the journey had not been easy. Perhaps smelling new meat, scavengers had been drawn to the gaudily painted Psychopomp fleet as soon as it had decanted into realspace. What had once been astartes, their original chapter or legion now undiscernible, had immediately demanded fealty broadcasting their demands from battered, twisted and warped battleships forming a picket at the rim of the Eye. But the Psychopomps had taken much time plotting their course, burning out half a dozen of their finest navigators, Sophusar pushing them until their minds unravelled, avoiding the vast buildup of Imperial forces surrounding the fortress world of Cadia. Having come so far they would not give up so easily. Would not bend their knees so readily.

And so they had turned their weapons upon fellow renegades for the first time. Not long having passed since the raid on Alceforge, the Psychopomps vessels were well armed and stocked, while those of the renegades proved desperate, though forgemaster Thenaros looked with great interest upon the unorthodox weapons the enemy used even as those weapons were fired upon the ship he was aboard. Bestially-muzzled cannons vomiting forth something akin to plasma yet fundamentally different, lasers which seemed to scream as they tore though the void, and more. He cried out in anguish as the Psychopomps pummeled the raiders and his calls for boarding parties and the capture of the enemy vessels were ignored.

Tarrying no longer, lord Sophusar had ordered them onward into the Eye, he guiding the vessels himself now, stopping only when they had come to this seemingly lifeless, unremarkable world.

“Master, our ships inexplicably struggle to hold anchor. It is as if even orbital space is as turbulent as the Sea of Souls here,” Angra, once the chapter’s master of sanctity, pointed out. The right hand of the master of the Psychopomps, he had been lain low by the Templar chaplain Caedmon, slain as his body was split from crown to crotch. Rewarded for his sins Angra had been restored, a full half of his being now daemonette. “Tell us why you have brought us hither.” Sometimes the dark apostle spoke as Angra but other times, like this, it seemed more as if the daemon half of him was in control and now it appeared to tease the astartes stood about it, asking yet by its tone Sophusar knew it already understood his purpose.

“And quickly,” this came from Dophesia, once the captain of the eighth company, missing the intricacies of the daemon’s speech. The peacock rested one hand upon the hilt of his sheathed sword, the other rapped impatiently upon the edge of the holoprojector. “I am told more marauders and renegades are inbound.”

“Nervous?” his rival captain Castor of the second, as cool as the other was taut, stared at his across the briefing room.

“Keen to see combat, be it in the void or upon this planet. Not all of us are content to wait and watch.”

While Dophesia was always in the thickest of the fighting it was not so much that he led his men from the front rather he wished to earn the lions’ share of the glory and trophies. Castor on the other hand was the cold tactician. While his rival would take your head with a flourish of his sword, Castor would slide an envenomed dagger betwixt your ribs without your knowledge, having had his men – his Reapers – infiltrate in advanced and slay your men in their sleep.

“Timing, captain Dophesia.”

“Timing is indeed vital. In the duel, for example. Perhaps I could teach you a lesson sometime, captain Castor?”

“This was an Eldar world.” These words from lord Sophusar ceased his minions’ verbal sparring. This drew their attention back to he who had once been chapter master of the Stygian Guard. That he was clad not in his robes or his powered armour but in his huge terminator plate indicated that for whatever reason he had led them into the Eye, the most perilous place in the galaxy, bloodshed was likely.

“The Eye itself was once the center of their empire,” he went on to explain. Surprised expressions appeared on the faces of all but for Angra – the mouth of the daemonette half of his face tugged upwards – and the naga sorcerer Holusiax, first blessed of the chapter.

“How do you know this?” Semoru, captain of the 9^th. As befitted his position directing the fire of the chapter’s heaviest weapons, he checked and rechecked everything, from intel to ammunition supplies. His bionic eye whirred as its focus moved from the ghostly green orb floating above the table, to their leader, clad in his ornate armour: the right side of which was pastel pink adorned with glyphs and sigils of white, trimmed in purple, the left side being light blue trimmed with green. Pink tentacles appeared to writhe upon the surface of the blue plates. And atop his armour was a great brass organ the likes of which one might more commonly see in chapels of the Imperial Cult rather than atop armour which made one as a walking tank.

“While some revel in just the excesses hidden deep within the souls of the Children of Isha,” he looked over his assembled captains, advisors and cult leaders, “I have pieced together fragment upon fragment of memories, buried deep within them. Memories of the Fall of the Eldar. The birth of our lord Slaanesh.”

At the mention of their patron’s name some bowed their heads, others raised them and loosed cries at the ceiling high above, one of the attending noise marines pulled hard on chains which pierced his exposed flesh, anchored not merely in his skin but in the nerves deep inside.

“This world, and those like it throughout the Eye, comprised the Eldar empire.”

Even to the barbaric eye of a human there was something distinctly wrong with the architecture of the ruins. One could only suppose that to an Eldar the difference would be more shocking. Though built for naught but war, the astartes were not completely incapable of aesthetic appreciation – perhaps it had been something ignite by their devouring of Eldar souls – and there was something attractive in the graceful sweep of the towers, bridges and halls they had torn down upon the maiden world of Mesusid years before. Yet here on this world those aspects, that beauty was twisted and wicked, more reminiscent of the raider base the Stygians had assaulted along with their Templar cousins decades earlier on Berolar XII, yet different once again.

It was exquisite, and as the Psychopomps made their way through the ruined city they could feel the gravity of what had happened here in ages past. The roads and halls were littered with debris and dust, the corpses of those who had once lived here having long decayed away, leaving warped yet intricate jewelry scattered about, weathered by the winds which howled through empty chambers like the ghosts of the departed, wailing in despair as the pawns of She Who Must Not Be Named trod upon their world, bringing back the memories of the atrocities they had committed and the doom they brought upon themselves.

And these fell acts were writ large all about. Carved bas-reliefs upon walls, stained glass windows worn until their wanton images were blurred, entwined lascivious and wicked statues lining boulevards.

As was the Psychopomp way those of the landing party set about the city, felling sculptures and smashing off faces with which to decorate their armour and vehicles. Others sifted through the scattered finery, seeking baubles and treasures which tickled their own twisted fancies.

But lord Sophusar was not stalled by these trinkets, pushing on deeper into the city, yet wandering seemingly at random. His captains kept close and silent, trusting their lord’s vision. At his side strode Angra, his daemonette’s eye focused on the lord as if watching and waiting.

The roar of racing Black Stallion engines echoed away as the commanders strode through one of the myriad dens. The Fall of the Eldar was all about them. It was not as if they could feel the pressure of the souls of the dead about them, rather the opposite: a complete absence of the haunting they might have expected to feel. A vacuum, the debauched denizens of this world having had their souls torn from them, the very life from their world stolen away, as Slaanesh had been born.

When Sophusar finally came to a halt upon the threshold of huge fane, it was Dophesia who first came to his side, his jump pack carrying him over his rivals and granting him the first glance into the desecrated temple.

“Stones!” he breathed as he looked upon the sea of green gems which carpeted the floor. It was only by strength of will that he managed to remember himself and step aside for his lord to enter the temple first, the heavy tread of his terminator armour crushing soulstones beneath his feet.

And in that moment they knew that they had been deceived.

There was no exhilarating release. No howl of torment as a soul was ravenously devoured by the Dark Prince.

Castor spat a low curse, eclipsed by the wail of Dophesia’s anguish as Sophusar strode deeper into the temple, waystones splintering under his feet as if he trod upon a mass of dead beetles. Inert, empty stones. Vacant phylacteries.

As the others fanned out, some checking each stone they could find for the merest glint of some sentience within, others cursing the ill fate which had guided them here, their lord continued his steady stride toward the altar at the building’s center. A respectful distance behind him strode Angra in his blossom-decorated black armour.

The altar itself was of wraithbone, Eldar runes carved into it, but upon it stood an artefact of what appeared to be roseate marble, veins winding through its surface of hues from pearly white through greys to faint reds. But it was the shape of the sculpture which held the Chaos lord’s gaze.

From a ring shot forth a spur which ended in a tight crescent, its wings almost joining. A second, larger crescent reached back to embrace the ring.

The icon of Slaanesh.

At first the sight of it sent warning signals throughout his brain for how could such a symbol be found upon this world, seemingly untouched in a hundred centuries? Yet the layer of dust upon it was as upon all about them. The altar, the flagstones, the statuary, the stones beneath their feet.

He shifted his great axe to his left hand and reached out as if to touch the icon with his right. Had it been a focus of worship here by the fallen Eldar?

He paused before laying a finger upon it and turned to find Angra watching him, the astates half of his face calm, the daemonette half taught with anticipation.

“Is this what I was brought here to find?”

“Our master works in mysterious ways,” the daemon replied, the last word drowned out by the bark of Castor’s bolt gun.

“AMBUSH!”

Sophusar’s eyes did not leave his apostle’s until he was satisfied he saw surprise in both the human and daemonic sides of the face, and he wheeled about to find ghosts setting about his commanders.

Castor and his Reapers had quickly moved to stand next to Semoru and his bodyguard of Havocs, the two captains and their men carefully blasting at their attackers while Dophesia darted about, sword drawn, dancing between the rotten cushions and the stones which littered the floor. Holusiax had his scarlet daggers drawn in his lower arms while with his upper arms he steadily fired his bolt pistol at the wraiths.

Colourful wraiths they were too, flowing with far more grace than the captain of the 8^th, leaving trails of scintillating colour in their wake.

One of Semoru’s former devastators was the first to die, the huge heavy bolter in his hands falling silent and slipping from his grip as something punched clean through his chestplate before being withdrawn in a blink, a spray of liquid gore erupting from the wound. Another fell and then a Reaper and even Dophesia cried out in pain as phantasms made a mockery of his swordsmanship.

Sophusar strode down from the altar, walking back up the aisle toward the melee at the threshold of the fane. When sparks erupted from his armour and he looked to find razor-thin stars imbedded there his suspicions were confirmed: these were no ghosts but rather the Rillietann. Their murderous skill was at stark odds with the foolishness of their clown-like appearance.

There had been no sign of life from orbit. Then had these gaudy phantoms followed them from outside the Eye? Or could it be that they had made their way here via that implausible network of the Eldar which penetrated the warp itself and was said to link worlds across the galaxy itself?

Such mattered little now and could be wrung from any survivors later. He brought up his great axe to parry the blow of a flickering apparition which cartwheeled toward him, only for the enemy’s blade to slide past the haft of his weapon and nearly cut deep into his gut. A quick turn by himself prevented this and the tip of his foe’s blade scored deep into his codpiece.

“You’ll pay for that,” he spat as he briefly saw the hook-nosed mask of his opponent before it dissolved into a mist of colour once again and he fought to bring his axe round to swing about in an arc which would be near impossible to dodge. Yet dodge the harlequin did, flipping over the humming edge of the powered axe only to strike down and sever the great blade with its own weapon. Sparks emitting from the severed cables of his truncated weapon, Sophusar spun the haft in his hands, deflecting the troupe master’s next strike and dealing the Eldar a blow to the temple which sent him staggering backwards, kicking up empty soulstones from the floor. This took the harlequin far enough from Sophusar that the alien noticed the dark apostle who had been stood behind the terminator lord. As soon as the harlequin’s gaze took in the half-daemonette visage of the former chaplain it emitted a fearsome howl – had this warrior nomad once been a banshee? – and as one the troupe members left their individual fights to head straight for Angra.

As they circled about the apostle and that circle began to shrink, there came a deafening blast which shook both the body and the soul, emitted from the great organ atop the lord’s armour. For meters about him the soulstones on the floor shattered, shards tearing through the air. The windows blew out and dancers caught mid-tumble were tossed backwards, weapons dropped as they held their heads and screamed in torment.

It was not merely the amplified war cry of a lord of Chaos, but the reconstituted birth cry of a primordial annihilator, pieced together from those souls the lord had consumed.

When lord Sophusar the Facinorous strode once again from that alien fane, his armour was adorned with the masks of three harlequins, a hook-nosed one upon his crotch, and his fated weapon was complete: the falx horrificus, the great roseate marble icon of Slaanesh chained atop the haft.

And the model:

Hidden Content

I give you Typhus lord Sophusar the Facinorious of the Psychopomps, the Doom of Carth-Lar, the Piper of Madness.

And some close-ups...

However that Harlequin died, he died weeping bloody tears.

Not that this one faired much better...

The pink marble of the Falx Horrificus

Not too much blood since, hitting someone with a huge chunk of albeit slightly sharpened stone, its more bludgeoning than anything.

The Templar helm and chain of severed ears.

And...

The cloak.

[Carrack]

The Sinful Drip

 

 

 

Thousands of years ago, when Calebra hive was built as a shining city, gleaming with light and polished stone, visible across the verdant fields of Candlebright, it was a marvel of efficiency, and a testament to mankind's promising future. It tapped power from geothermal sinks driven deep into the mantle of the world, enough power to light the topmost spire like a torch, bright enough to be visible from space. The city boasted reclamation reservoirs that preserved all but the tiniest fraction of water used by the hivers. Wondrous achievements of technology integrated the levels together, to form a grand hive that was much more than the sum of its many levels. It was a monument to the promise of humanity, and a testament to the power of technology and innovation. Calebra Hive was the jewel of the subsector.

 

Time dulled the jewel's luster. Calebra Hive aged, and did so badly. The technology that kept the hive running with ease broke down, bit by bit, long after its secrets were forgotten. The craftsmanship used in raising the great hive would never again be equaled. The hive became isolated, each level becoming increasingly independent from the rest. Yet the city survived, although it no longer gleamed, and the lights no longer shined over the desolate wastes and miles and miles of landfills that came to surround the once-great hive.

 

One aspect of the city, a base but necessary aspect, provided a metaphor for what Calebra Hive had become, it's sewers. Where once a vast and intricate, if unseen, network of pipes led waste to reclamation reservoirs to be filtered, cleansed, and reused by the hive as a whole, there became what was called "the social drip". Upper hive residents flushed imported marble and gold toilets that led to pipes that simply emptied out into stinking alleys several levels down. Mid-hive manufactorums dumped industrial waste down lift shafts to levels their workers would never see. Lower hivers threw chamber pots out their windows into the streets, that would eventually get swept towards cracks in the floor, and rain down on the unfortunate under-hivers. It was a steady drip of effluent, industrial waste, and garbage from the top of the Spire, to the levels below the Bottoms. It was more than just a physical act, it was a societal act, a reinforcement of the social structure where the the subjects of Calebra Hive would uncaringly, and quite literally, urinate on their social inferiors who lived in levels below them.

 

However, in the very bottom, the flooded basements of Calebra Hive, where the waste of billions compacted and fermented, something was stirring in the goo. When the Slayer of Multitudes, Lord Carrack, brought doom to Calebra Hive with his Black Maw Warband, the very presence of his ancient legionnaires echoed through the warp. That echo was heard in the putrid depths of Calebra Hive, and the stirring life that was emerging from the sludge coalesced into a daemonic manifestation of Nurgle's love for what he saw in those depths. Out of the goo strode his Bearers of Plagues, and they would climb the hive to return the Grandfather's gifts to the many sinners of the Calebra Hive.

 

 

 

The Drip

 

 

group shot

 

http://i725.photobucket.com/albums/ww256/Carrack1/Mobile%20Uploads/image_zpszoqw7vi3.jpeg

 

 

Selfies

 

 

http://i725.photobucket.com/albums/ww256/Carrack1/Mobile%20Uploads/image_zps0awfzy2d.jpeg

 

Reminding you its Nurgle's Rot Awareness Month

 

http://i725.photobucket.com/albums/ww256/Carrack1/Mobile%20Uploads/image_zpstsedbyco.jpeg

Be sure to wash after handling little critters you find in The Garden, no matter how cute they might be

 

http://i725.photobucket.com/albums/ww256/Carrack1/Mobile%20Uploads/image_zpstyetg6c5.jpeg

What do you mean I haven't reached my deductible yet?

 

 

 

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in ETL V Model over the last two weeks.

KrautScientist’s entry was about apothecary Dumah, Chooser of the Slain and Keeper of the Seed. I do like a nice long title. I liked the explanation that he not only chooses whom of his own brothers can be saved, but also which of the enemy have earned a (no doubt unwilling) position within the warband. Also the glimmer of hope that his research may yet bear fruit.

Scourged gave us Battle Wounds: the tale of the Scourged warrior Zankar and the apothecary `Fleshmoulder` Thamda’ul’s granting him immortality...by way of incarceration within a helbrute. I think you excellently captured the horror aspect renegades are said to face at the prospect of entombment in a helbrute, and I do so love those titles...Fleshmoulder, Iron Monger...

Carrack gave us The Sinful Drip, taking us back to Calebra hive – the site of many of his IF entries. Firstly I loved the initial description of Calebra’s perfection and beauty (I could picture it easily!) and its inevitable decay as technological secrets were forgotten (how very 40K!). The third paragraph’s descriptions of the various strata of the hive’s society idly casting their waste down onto their lesser was also great.

And I gave you Falx Horrificus: lord Sophusar of the Psychopomps leading his fallen chapter into the Eye of Terror for the first time, their discovery of a Crone World, ambush and the eventual creation of the Falx Horrificus.

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

Here begins our twenty fourth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

The Primordial Annihilator versus the Inquisition

From the myriad Ordos – Malleus, Xenos, Hereticus, Chronos, Scriptorum, Machinum, Sicarius - to their Astarte lackeys of the Grey Knights and the Deathwatch, the most Holy Orders of the Emperor’s Inquisition are a powerful and common foe of those who serve the Four.

This week I ask you to give us tales which pit renegades and the servants of Chaos against the forces of the Inquisition.

The challenge has also been extended to the =][=, Grey Knight and Death Watch forums (particularly a challenge in the latter’s anti-xenos-centric case).

Inspirational Friday: Versus the =][= runs until the 2nd of September.

Let us be inspired.

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

[Carrack]

IF - ETL Model

 

Judging this week's contest has been hard. I say that about every week I get to judge, but this one is particularly difficult. Even though there were only a few entries, they were submitted, along with pictures, by three of my favorite painters on the B&C. I made an effort to remain objective, and judge the stories on their own merits, but I can't say I totally succeeded. I'll include what I liked about the minis, as well as the stories, mostly for my own sake so I might one day be able to accomplish similar feats, and be able to pinpoint what I like about the minis beyond just general feelings of awesomeness. My own painting skill is minimal to say the least, and like my writing, is mostly self-taught, but perhaps input from a novice such as myself might be of some use to you.

 

Krautscientist - Apothecary Dumah

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dumah_(angel) An angel of death armed with a fiery sword, coincidence?

 

-I liked the mythological aspect of his role as Chooser of the Slain. I think this is a cool way to describe his role as an apothecary, taking the worthy to fight on in immortality.

 

-He has his own personal goals. This is important, it gives him motivation, which is important to both his own character, and that of the warband he is part of. It is also nice that although he hasn't had success, which would bring the warband out of the realm of established background, he is making progress, and not blindly following an unattainable goal.

 

Dumah

 

-the light effects. Not just the glowing power sword, but the glowing bits on his armor, especially how the ones that are more recessed on the model aren't as bright. Also, the way the Khorne talisman gleams is cool.

 

-the pose. He looks like he is striding the battlefield with an open stance, inviting some fool to challenge him, while at the same time looking for the worthy. Alright, maybe I'm tying the story in with the image, but it fits so well.

 

Scourged - Battle Wounds

 

-Zankar was one of my favorite characters you had written about. His Quiet Riot Head Banging ( I'm going to date myself, but that was my first 45 record) was a unique way of dealing with The Gift, and really showed the madness most of The Scourged suffer in a memorable way. He deserved another story, and he is a perfect candidate to show the horror of helbrute interment.

 

-Speaking of which, I think you have written the best description of the horror of a Helbrute's existence I have read. Also, I'm looking forward to more about the Flesh Moulder.

 

The Iron Monger

 

-The colors. The contrast between the daemon flesh, armor, mechanical parts, and accents is superb. The helbrute is one of my favorite models, but I find it can be a little confusing as to which parts to paint what, you definitely didn't have that problem.

 

-The weapons. The missile launcher is really well done. I like how you incorporated the red part of your color scheme into the weapons.

 

Kierdale - Falx Horrificus

 

-The artifact. Every great lord should have a great weapon. The origin of the title weapon is fitting of such a weapon, and especially so for the Psychopomps.

 

-The impact of your lord. Lord Sophusar doesn't make a lot of appearances in the tales of the Psychopomps, but when he does, it is memorable. This heightens the impact he has, which I think is important.

 

Lord Sophusar

 

-I honestly don't know where to begin. I mean the eye lenses, the faces, the marble, the little ears, the freehand symbols, the pages on the book, I'm awed. Truth be told, I don't even like the colors, but they are done so well I love them anyway. I'd say you've outdone yourself, but you always put out top quality.

 

 

 

I really did try to limit my fawning praises, but it got harder and harder as it went on. I also would have gotten my choice out earlier, but I got stuck looking at Krautscientist's WIP page for a while in amazement.

 

My favorite story was Battle Wounds by Scourged.

[Carrack]

Trial

 

 

The mobs were shouting, but they kept their distance from the impromptu court that had been hastily assembled in the square. Ryon didn't blame them, they might want his blood, but they didn't want to catch the eye of the judge, they knew better. He himself stole a glance in the judges direction, his own fate was out of the hands of the scarred and aged man in the heavy red robes. Gleaming torchlight glinted off of the judge's badge of office, a heavy gold chain that would have been gaudy except for the nature of the pendant it bore. It bore the "I" of the most feared authority in the Imperium. It bore the symbol of the Inquisition. Ryon quickly looked away. He had sinned. He knew it, he had betrayed the Emperor, and he was about to be tried, and undoubtedly be found guilty. He took the last fateful steps to the stand with a heavy heart, at least he wouldn't have to live with the guilt of his sins for much longer. His punishment would be immediate.

 

Ryon had collaborated with the arch-enemy of mankind. He hadn't done so willingly, but that hardly mattered. He was still just as guilty. His decent into damnation had begun only a week before this very day. His fall had been born of his selfish cowardice, a desire to avoid an almost certain fate in an Imperial Guard Rapid Response Regiment. He was healthy, fit of body and sound of mind, but his soul was weak, his heart unwilling to boldly face the enemy. That, and he had a sister who was lazy. Carole had made a vocation out of laziness, from medicae excuses to avoid studies, to scholastic exemptions from the manufactorums, her life had been a constant shirking of responsibility. When the Black Maw Warband had struck the edge of the Aspis Subsector from the dreaded Eye of Terror, she had been quick to secure a Bond of Immunity from the hastily founded regiments of the Imperial Guard. She had claimed a Matron's Immunity with fictitious certificates of five children already serving in the surely doomed Triple R units. Carole had assured Ryon that her forger could do the same for him, irregardless of the fact that he was biologically incapable of earning such an exemption. Ryon's draft lot had been called, with less than a day to report or be declared a deserter, he had secured his forged bond, and delivered it by courier to the Militarium board. The bond was excepted, and Ryon breathed easier, knowing he wouldn't be given the most rudimentary training, then thrust into the fray with the foe he had been taught to hate and fear since birth. Instead, he had been forced into collusion with that very foe.

 

The forger was a heretic. He had been for a long time, making false identifications and custom slips for the Zanizar Network, the intelligence apparatus of the pirate and smuggler Zanizar, who called port in the Black Maw base of Howler's Charn. With the invasion of the subsector underway, the Zanizar Network had been put to use fostering covens, harboring saboteurs, and spying on the brave defenders of humanity. The forger had eased Ryon further and further into damnation with threats of informing the Militarum of Ryon's false bond. At first, it seemed like harmless enough tasks, delivering an attaché case to a drop box by the palace, and meeting with a ganger on Runners Lane, only to speak three nonsense words. These tasks might have seemed harmless, but to Ryon's cowardly heart, they were major endeavors. He hadn't slept the night he delivered the case, his heart had raced so fast, and when he spoke the code words to the branded and clearly intoxicated ganger, he barely got the words out, his breathing had become so rapid that his vision had started to tunnel. That was just the start of it.

 

The next task was significantly more involved, and when Ryon found the courage to protest to the forger, and threaten him with informing as well, the forger merely asked, " Matron Ryon, do you know what was in the attaché case? Do you know what the commissariat will do when they find out? Ryon swallowed his hopes of leveraging out of his circumstances, and went and stood watch outside a condemned hab block while a group of things gathered for a few hours. They weren't men and women, although they looked like them, men and women didn't make the street lights blink out when they passed, men and women didn't make what looked like all the rats in the city come scurrying to the alleys beside the boarded over hab block. They certainly didn't make his eyes cry tears of blood when he inadvertently met one of their gazes as they left.

 

After that gathering, Ryon decided he wanted no part in what took place in that condemned hab. He went home and began packing his bags. He decided to report to the Militarum first thing in the morning, hoping he could explain his Bond of Immunity as a clerical error, he clearly was no matron. It might work, rumors were that they had started resorting to press gangs in the slums already, they were desperate for meat for the grinder. He had desperately wanted to avoid life in the Guard, but serving in the Guard had to be better than serving something like those things at the hab-block. As Ryon packed his bags, and drank up the last of the contents of his liquor cabinet to steady his nerves, the sounds of the mob came down the street. They had kicked in his door, and dragged him out from under his bed to the square. He thought it couldn't get any worse than this. Then he saw the Inquisitor, and it got worse.

 

Still lost in thought as he watched his damnation replay in his mind, Ryon stepped up to the stand. The stand was a thick metal shield that bent around him at waist height, up to his shoulders. It was held up by four wheeled legs, although the wheels had been pulled up, to allow the legs to hold the stand firm to the street of the square. At the start of the Inquisitor's judgment, two of the ruthless judge's entourage, big brutes with slabs of muscle and armor had dragged the stand to the edge of the square by their master. The mobs howled with glee as Ryon took the stand, and began pelting him with rocks and less pleasant things. The stand mostly protected him from such abuse, but that is not what it was made for. The stand was where he would be tried. Grimly, Ryon looked through the port at the front of the stand. He saw the first heretic that the Inquisitor had already condemned by summary judgment. The condemned was chained to a yet unlit bonfire, awaiting her punishment. She had been condemned to burn for witchcraft. She was the thing that Ryon had met the gaze of, after standing as a lookout for the gathering in the derelict hab block. The Inquisitor had named her witch with no uncertainty in front of the angry mob.

 

The inquisitor was less certain about Ryon, so he was to stand trial. Trial by Plasma. Another of the Inquisitor's men, this one wearing blacked out guardsmen's carapace armor with no insignia beyond the stylized I on his chest in gold, went to the front of the stand. The Inquisitor's servant gingerly placed an ancient, and in places rusted, plasma gun into the port of the stand and locked it in place. It was pointed at the witch bound to the timber. Ryon's fear overtook him in the face of the ordeal he was about to be tested by. He couldn't run, the mobs would tear him to pieces, but he couldn't go through with it either, he knew he was guilty. He knew he would die. His legs buckled, and he almost fell, only the but stock of the weapon caught under his armpit, and kept him upright. He thought he heard something snap in the weapon when it took his weight. He tried vainly to find his courage, until the Inquisitor spoke,

 

"Ryon Maron, if the Emperor finds you innocent, you will shoot the witch, and set her fires aflame, but if He finds you guilty, He will cause the plasma gun to overheat, and you will be burned in the flesh, just as your soul will burn, while we light the witch ourselves. Yet, if you miss the witch, or fail to fire the weapon, I will judge you guilty, and you will share the bonfire with the witch you must have collaborated with. Do you have any words for the court?"

 

Ryon couldn't speak any last words if he wanted to, his heart and breathing were racing again. He was on the verge of passing out. The witch however, had plenty to say. She screeched out shrilly,

 

"You will be devoured by a maw of blackness! I have heard the Voice booming from that Black Maw! My soul has heard the Voice of Lavam! Throw off the lies of the Golden Throne and embrace the True Gods of these last days! The maw of blackness will spare only those who bow before the glory of the true gods!"

 

As the witch screamed, loose logs from the bonfire rattled, then were lifted off the ground by unseen hands, and started to swirl around her. Their was an electric charge in the air. The Mobs screamed, not for blood, but for their own souls. Ryon stopped shaking, and his heart and breathing slowed, not fully, but enough to keep him from feinting. In the face of the most terrifying thing he had ever witnessed, Ryon found his courage. He looked down the barrel of the plasma gun, as best he could tell, it seemed to still be pointing at the witch. He grabbed the pistol grip with both hands, both index fingers on the trigger, one on top of the other. He squeezed the trigger. A sharp click sounded from the trigger assembly of the weapon. Ryon squeezed his eyes shut, flinching. A high pitched hum increased in volume and octave from the containment assembly of the plasma gun. Ryon tried to let go of the gun, and slammed the back of his head into the stand as he desperately tried to distance himself from the potent energy weapon. Heat poured out of vents that were blackened and warped before the gun was even emplaced in the stand. The weapon fired, but not out the barrel. The ancient and ill kept weapon couldn't contain and focus the energy it needed to harness its destructive charge out the business end. Instead, the super heated energy spilt through several small cracks and around worn pieces of the gun's internal mechanisms, widening the damage as the energy sought to expand. Ryon didn't have time to blink, he was incinerated in an instant. He was guilty.

 

[Kierdale]

Dupes

Hidden Content

“Nothing human moves that fast!” Hrodgeir spat, gripping a talisman in his left hand whilst he triggered a burst from his bolter in his right. The skittering, dancing killer darted out of sight before the Space Wolf’s shots had even exited his weapon’s muzzle. “Ecclesio!”

“Keep down, brother. Wouldn’t want to scorch your whiskers.”

The space wolf’s retort was lost to the roar of the Blood Angel’s heavy flamer, the sheet of flame engulfing the piles of debris and filth they found themselves fighting amidst.

“You really should consider donning headgear in the field, brother.”

“’m not a pretty boy like you, Angel.”

“Quite tru-“

A keening wail cut short their exchange as the pirouetting, somersaulting killer staggered, swathed in fire, into view. It dropped to the ash-covered ground and began to roll to no avail for the fire of promethium could not so easily be extinguished. A few second later it lay still, charred and smoking.

Strigifo’s hand on Hrodgeir’s pauldron stopped him from advancing out to examine the kill. The space wolf stared at the Mentor legionary when he did not remove his hand.

“One down,” the Mentor answered in a cautionary tone before shouldering his own bolter and moving off, not toward the charred corpse but circling round to the right. The Fist, Paz, followed suit a few meters behind.

Taking cue from their squad leader, Ecclesio took off round to the left, hefting the bulky flamer with ease. That left Hrodgeir and the Templar Audemar. They exchanged a long look.

“I didn’t think you were up for that either,” Hrodgeir chuckled as he and the other raised their weapons and strode out openly across the ash. Up the middle.

Let them come.

 

 

The squad of five Deathwatch marines had been briefed by an inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos and quickly dispatched here to the sumps of Brasov Hive on Hydrus VI. They weren’t informed of the source of the intel – how typical of the Ordos! – only that an Eldar incursion was anticipated in the hive within a standard month. What purpose could draw the fay aliens to the lowest levels of one of the planet’s oldest hives none could fathom, but the Deathwatch was the Imperium’s shield against the xenos scourge. No matter their purpose, the aliens would die.

 

 

Hrodgeir kicked the blackened corpse with his boot, his own armour a similar shade of black but for his right pauldron, still displaying the black wolf’s head upon a field of brilliant yellow, all dusted with the grey ash which pervaded these lower levels. About his armour he had hung the talismans, runestones and trophies he had accumulated throughout his century-plus years of service to his chapter. It had been his skills garnered over those blood-soaked decades which had seen him seconded to the Deathwatch.

“What is it?” Ecclesio called out from across the silt flat.

“Dead,” the spacewolf called back, laughing and looking to Audemar to share the joke. The Templar was as a statue, and this cooled the wolf’s humour.

“No idea what it was…Harlequin?” Hrodgeir ventured, though he could find no shuriken weapons or mask. Nor did it have that bastard-deadly spike weapon strapped to the back of either forearm.

“We are being watched.”

Audemar had barely spoken since the squad’s coming together so this final breaking of his silence focused Hrodgeir.

“Sniper?”

The Templar made the slightest of nods but no move to indicate the direction of the enemy he had apparently spotted.

“Should’ve worn my helmet,” the wolf muttered.

 

 

Hrodgeir and Paz were down and the rest of the squad pinned. It was now apparent that the dancing killer’s advance had been covered by a master sniper. And likely reinforcements – enemy reinforcements - were en route. That left the three remaining Deathwatch divided, each huddled behind debris: fallen masonry from the higher levels of the hive, broken pipework and rusting, discarded shipping crates.

Strigifo had ordered them to regroup on his position but as soon as Ecclesio and Audemar had left cover shots had come their way. The timing had been so impeccable that the enemy had to be eavesdropping on their comms, so the three had abandoned vox. In a squad which had fought alongside each other for years, where each marine knew his battle brothers almost as well as he knew himself, this was no great issue. One intuitively knew how the others would act, but in the case of three astartes from wildly differing chapters who fought alongside one another for the first time, it was another matter.

Strigifo checked his bolter’s ammo once again and thought of his squad mates. A blood angel and a black Templar. He sighed. While he would have preferred to out-think the enemy, he feared the angel and Templar would prefer more...visceral…tactics.

So be it.

He rose, aiming his bolter in the direction of the sniper’s last known position and loosed a long burst, hoping the others would understand his intention.

It worked when he saw Audemar and further off to his left, Ecclesio, break cover and begin sprinting across the ash-carpeted chamber.

“Traitors!” came a roar from his right and Strigifo was forced to cut his burst short as a pair of men – men! Not Eldar – charged at him from behind a half-fallen wall. Had the bastards been flanking him while the sniper had him pinned? Scraps? Sump-dwellers? Hive gangs? He had little time to take in their appearance other than that they bore large ornate shields and swords, arcs of power dancing across the surface of both. No gangers, then.

The remaining bolts in his weapon tore the first man in half, the impacts of the first two shots pushing the shield aside before the third blew the man apart, but he was forced to thrown himself backwards as the second man swung at him.

He blocked the next swing of the man’s sword by sacrificing his bolter, dropping the two halves of the weapon and drawing his pistol as soon as he had booted the man backwards to get some room.

The Mentor then charged the man, firing as he went to ensure his foe kept his shield up. Blinding himself. When the firing stopped the man instinctively lowered his shield to look about for the black-clad marine, and Strigifo’s fist took his head off.

Even as he heard the report of his squadmates’ weapons and that of the enemy sniper, his attention was drawn to the weapons of the man he had just felled. The crosspiece of the power sword had upon it an immediately recognizable symbol, albeit smudged with the ash and silt which coated all surfaces down here. An ornate capital I.

His mind raced, searching for an explanation. If these men had been sent as backup then surely he would have been informed. There was no reason for their attacking the deathwatch squad. Had they somehow been deemed traitors and set up thus by the inquisition, to be taken down by the Ordos’ killers in this deep dungeon of the hive?

What was clear was that these men were agents of the inquisition, and the Mentor legionary would have answers, or vengeance.

 

 

* * * *

Castor, captain of the 2nd, knelt before his master.

“It appears our dupes were duped, my lord.”

Lord Sophusar of the Psychopomps leant forward in his throne within his chambers aboard their flagship, Charon.

“Go on.”

“Master Angra’s cultists were successful in seeding the hives with rumours of a coming Eldar incursion, as planned, and members of the deathwatch were dispatched...however it appears your nemesis responded with not her own forces this time but rather orchestrated it that agents of another Ordo, likely Malleus or Hereticus, were tasked with taking `us` down.”

The barking laughter of the lord of Chaos rocked the room and was soon joined by a chorus of sycophantic daemons who reclined upon the steps and divans scattered about the room.

“Well played, autarch Qarasion. Well played.”

 

 

With only two entries so far...do we need another week?

[Kierdale]

As the only entries so far are from a couple of old Chaos hacks ;) and a couple of loyalists have shown interest in another week, I've pushed back the deadline to September 2nd. I hope no one objects.

[Scourged]

No objections from me. I haven't put my idea to the paper yet, though I've got a good one. I just figured there was no rush on my particular part, heh.

[Evil Eye]

I'm brewing up a story, but it's still in its infancy ATM. No objections from me.

[Teetengee]

...

[Scourged]

I had fun with this. Who doesn't love a good origin story? My namesake warband served their loyal days under the hand of the Inquisition, so you know I was going to have fun with this topic. And even more fun was recycling an Inquisitor I outlined in another story that I never finished. Good times were had here. Enjoy.

 

Hidden Content

In a Vostroyan Forest

“It would be wise, Gallus, for you to put that bolt pistol down and walk away.”

The unstable demigod appeared to disagree with that logic, or just did not care. The Chapter Master refused to comply with her demand. Instead he held the firearm pointed in her general direction with an unsteady hand. He and the majority of the other Astartes had become manic lately, slowly descending into an irrational madness that worsened with time. The results of this malady no doubt brought about this heretical standoff aboard Veritas, flagship of the Seekers of Truth.

“I.. we… I… all hear, Inquisitor. All hear… lies… voices in… she died… little thoughts… wrong, so wrong... such horrors and… so small and weak… mind-echoes… hurts...  you killed her... ”

Babbling. Nonsensical babbling. Though Gallus was still better off than the majority of the crew. The fool could barely articulate himself over his weakened and failing mind, but articulate himself he still could. Many more weren’t so lucky, reduced to pained wailing or a comatose state. Regardless, it was this affliction that had driven him to a state of irreparable paranoia. But no matter his reasons, the Chapter Master was still threatening her at gunpoint.

“I’ll say again, Gallus: put down your weapon and walk away.”

Tsalie Krejcik had never faltered from the threats of weaker men. No soul could rise through the ranks of the Inquisition with such a weakness in their convictions. An Astartes threatening to take her life had never caused her any undue stress. This occasion would be no different. Tsalie embraced the standoff with her own Inferno pistol drawn, keeping Gallus and his small retinue at bay while they exchanged their parley.

The confrontation had come as a surprise while enroute to her shuttle. No doubt the Chapter Master chose this moment, as he knew Tsalie’s acolytes would be away from her side to prepare the shuttle for her departure. Clever. Even in their weakened states the Seekers still possessed a whim of their cunning tactics. A shame they would never serve the Imperium again, after this day. The Servo-skull hovering over her shoulder had been recording everything as it unfolded, automatically uploading it to Inquisition servers. The Seekers of Truth would no doubt be classified as Excommunicate Traitoris before this exchange ended.

“...just a child… so small… you let her die… lie to all, lie to all… no one… dead in the snow...”

On and on with the babbling. Nothing she was saying was making it through Gallus’ clouded thoughts. The man was lost. The three Astartes behind him seemed no better, either. One stood on unsteady legs that swayed him to and fro, while the other two were wracked with twitches and spasms to the point of miniature seizures as they fought to maintain an active consciousness. Gallus was the most composed of the lot, able to keep his weapon aloft while the others were not. But it wouldn’t be long before he was as ruined as the rest.

“Gallus, you need help. You are not thinking clearly. None of you are. If you put down the weapon  I will help you. But if you make a single more threatening action in my direction I will put you and your men down with the swiftness and fury of the God-Emperor.”

“...die… lie… die… lie… girl dies… lies… sister dies… you lie… you lie… the lie… the lies…”

This didn’t sound babbling anymore. It was the same thing, over and over, about death and a girl. He had been going on and on about a girl dying and lies. Quiet rumors had been spreading through the ship that the Seekers of Truth had been gifted with a new psychic touch that let them hear lies. She had written it off like all of the other countless rumors of extraordinary abilities the superstitious crew would invent about their Astartes masters. Even if that wasn't nonsense, death and lies were part and parcel for the Inquisition and their Astartes servants. But this time he said “sister.” She killed a sister. Gallus was ranting about someone specific, a certain child and sister. Did he mean…?

No. No! He couldn’t know about that. This was some odd gambit Tsalie couldn’t understand. Gallus was toying with her, in some kind of game or attempted manipulation. In his paranoia he invented some unforgivable offense and was instituting his corrupted justice upon her. Or it was a crafted means of unsettling her, and only luckily managed to strike a nerve. Surely that’s what’s Gallus was doing - he was playing off of those rumors to toy with her. Yes, that had to be it. No one, Gallus or otherwise, could know about her.

“This is your final warning, Gallus: either you-”

“But the lies! I hear, Krajcik! I hear all! I hear yours!”

His outburst was sudden and loud, rather out of place from the mumbled stream of thoughts he had been speaking since approaching her in the narrow hall. His shouting  revealed a saliency in his  eyes that had been missing until now. Gallus Herodicus was finally granted a reprieve, a moment of clarity within his madness. And he was wasting no time in speaking clearly before the moment evaporated away.

“Your father’s lasgun. Target practice in the woods. Trees… and snow… and trees… quiet. Your sister… sister… such a little girl… sister wanted to join. Uncertainty. Father said… father said… father said… forbidden. Hand the lasgun away. Aim. Pain and light and fire and pain and screaming. One face mangled… melted… dripping. One body ruined… burning away… open wounds… flesh of fire... tears freezing in the snow…”

No! There is no way he - or anyone - could know about that! No one had been there to see it happen. They were alone. No one for miles, their parents in the mines. It was just an accident. She just wanted to be an ace shot, like her father. She needed the practice. Then powercell on the rifle overcharged and exploded. Tsalie’s face had been partially melted and destroyed from the blast. She was lucky from only being adjacent to the rifle. But… but Teesa had been holding the gun…

The revival of the buried memory saw the Inquisitor unconsciously touch her gloved hand to the side of her face, feeling the damage done that day. The skin and sinew had long since healed, but she never did repair the damage. She wanted the scars to remain forever, even if the guilt was buried away. The lower portion of her right profile was a twisted wreckage of scar tissue and bone and crude Vostroyan augmentics. It felt so cold to the touch, though the resurfaced memory burned bright.

“The gun didn’t kill. Sister’s body charred and smoking. Arm gone… leg gone… chest open… everything burning… flesh black… So much pain. Begging. Crying. Begging for help. Crying from the hurt. Begging to make the pain end. Sister begging sister… help her… help her...”

“Stop it.”

“No help for kilometers. Home so far away… sister can’t walk. Can’t move. Can only cry and beg. No medic to help. Only cold and pain. Memories come... father’s stories from wars... soldiers dying of wounds... no medics to help… only Emperor’s Mercy.”

“I said stop it, Herodicus!”

“Nothing around. No weapons. But a rock. No one around. No people… no voices… only tears and begging. You do it... you grant her mercy. You end her pain. Sister screaming… you crying… bone crunching. Strike and strike and again and again. Finally silence. You ended her pain. Her suffering.”

Tsalie can’t hold her composure anymore. Fifty years had been spent repressing that memory - the truth - from the universe and herself. It was not a memory she wanted. But here and now, at the threat of gunpoint, she was forced to relive it. A stream of tears - cold as the Voyastran winter that day - poured from her biological eye. It was the only thing she could do to help Teesa, the only thing! It was the only option!

“Last… last chance, Gallus. Stop it. Stop this, whatever it is… please.”

“Can’t tell them… won’t understand. Hide the truth. Father won’t understand. Mother won’t understand. No one will understand. Craft the lie. Believe the lie. The blast killed sister, not you. But you did. You killed her. You killed her. And lied. You killed her and lied. Lied. You lied. All of life based on the lie. Everything from the lie. The lies. The lies!”

The coherency in the Chapter Master’s voice was faltering again. His eyes were once more growing glossy and dim. He was losing himself to his mind once more. He and the three other Astartes were shuffling toward her now, closing the gap. His chanting of “the lies” had become a sort of rallying call to the ailing warriors at his side. With Gallus’ accusation done, apparently they were satisfied and wished to render judgement.

Tsalie’s pistol was shaking in her hands as unsteadily as Gallus’ now, but for far different reasons. The sorrow was overwhelming, having to relive her sister’s death after so long. The scars had remained all these years, reminding her every day of her past. But never once did she confront the memories, relieve them, or face judgement for her sins. Never. Having to confront them here and now, so abruptly and with no escape, it was too much. She needed to focus her thoughts, tighten them, sharpen them. She needed to bury her sister once again. This was not a situation for sorrow. No, this situation necessitated rage.

The rumors had not been rumors after all. For once the scuttlebut of toiling minions had been damningly accurate. The Seekers of Truth had become tainted by some foul influence. They could truly hear the lies of others after all. The accusation of Gallus was proof enough of this sorcerous ability. And to cohort with the sorcerous will of the Warp was among the most ultimate of heresies in this galaxy. The Seekers of Truth had sworn themselves to her service to eliminate the deceptive heretics they had become. By this indignation she would not abide.

“Death to the heretic.”

The heat and flash of the Inferno pistol was staggering, overwhelming her biological senses as the beam of energy tore a hole through the left shoulder of the Astartes closest to her. The superheated beam left a circular void where armor and flesh had once been. Groaning, the superhuman slumped to the floor as his brothers ended their trudging to start running in her direction. The standoff was broken. Time to run.

Turning on her heel with a flurry of robes Tsalie sprinted toward the hangar where her shuttle and acolytes waited. The hovering Servo-skull spun in the air and followed, continuing to record as the three Astartes chases the Inquisitor. It couldn’t be any more than a hundred meters before reaching the safety of her ship and bodyguards. She could make it, if she ran fast enough. The repeated barking of a bolt pistol firing behind her was an extra incentive to run faster.

One such round glanced off of her pauldron and detonated in the adjacent wall, a loud reminder of death’s proximity. In that moment Tsalie was very glad her power armor had been worn this day. Normally, on such a casual visit to the Seekers of Truth she would have adorned her more informal garments and robes. But something within her soul had urged her to wear her full plating before this encounter. Later, once safe, she would have to give proper reverence to the God-Emperor for his guidance.

Only fifty meters left -  nearly an eternity to go. The three Astartes were not closing on her, thankfully, but the pace was maintained. Gallus’ aim was just as thankfully compromised by his manic state, unable to connect anymore shots since the glace against her shoulder. But all it would take was one lucky shot for a bolt round would find its mark and end this chase prematurely. That could not happen. Not now, not this close...

Twenty-two more meters, and finally close enough to link her augmetics to the receivers in her acolytes. That shuttle needed to be ready to go. The stream of data covered her right field of vision once the link was established. The shuttle was ready! Thank the Golden Throne! A single thought later and urgent messages were broadcast to all of her servants, updating them to her situation. Acknowledgement runes all flashed before her eye, giving Tsalie a burst of confidence that she just might live through this day. She just might make it.

There. The bulkhead door to the hanger. She could make it to safety in mere moments if that door wasn’t currently sealed shut. There was no time to open it herself, no time to have her acolytes do it, and no time to think. Were she to try and open in mid-pursuit it would no doubt bring her death. All Tsalie Krejcik could do was hope: hope that her throwing aim was accurate, hope that cutting off the barrel of her pistol would create a beam just the right size, and hope that she could do it all before Gallus struck a lucky shot.

Now or never.

While still running at her full speed, Tsalie threw her robes open and pulled the power saber from its ornate sheath, activating it in the same motion. Using one fluid swipe she arced the blade in front of her to slice the barrel of her Inferno pistol off, the momentum of the blades trajectory allowing her to then fling the saber away. It flew across the expanse in front of her, still alive with energy, and pierced the panel controlling the bulkhead door. That had better short out the power and prevent the door from opening, or this next part would be pointless.

The Inferno pistol fired, now unrestricted to a narrow beam and shooting out in a much wider spray. Such a thing had weakened the power of the shot, but it was still miraculously strong enough to cut a hole in the door. And, sure enough, that hole was now just wide enough for Tsalie to leap through. It seemed that way anyway. But maybe it wasn’t. It was hard to tell in the split seconds she had before needing to leap with arms and legs outstretched. Either she would fly through the damaged door and complete her escape, or find herself stuck in a ring of molten metal and left to the mercy of three insane Astartes.

Though a combination of heightened senses and skill and miraculous fate she lept and cleared the small opening. By the God-Emperor, it worked! The Inquisitor tumbled onto the grated floor of the hanger bay, turning and spinning her body until she could right herself and finish her sprint to the shuttle. Sparing a glance over her shoulder, she saw Gallus trying to fit through the hole but unable to do so, thanks to his much larger frame. Still, though, he fired away with his bolt pistol, unwilling to end the chase.

“Jaco, suppression!”

 

“Aye, mistress!”

The acolyte in the featureless mask turned and unleashed the explosive fury of his heavy flamer at the hole in the bulkhead door. The younger man doused the opening with a torrent of burning promethium, forcing the Astartes to withdraw to a safer distance. Only when his mistress was safely in the shuttle did he cease his efforts and join her. With extreme haste, Inquisitor Tsalie Krejcik and her retinue departed the battle barge of the Seekers of Truth to rendezvous with the nearest Imperial outpost they could find.

Once safely departed from the vicinity of Veritas and free of any weapons locks, Tsalie finally relaxed in her seat. Her heart was still pounded from the exhaustive chase, and her fury was burning just as bright. Then and there, Inquisitor Tsalie Krejcik vowed to ensure that the Seekers of Truth would suffer annihilation by her own hand. Their vast history and presence within Imperial archives will be deleted from existence and their stain on the God-Emperor’s Holy Imperium would be forever removed. She would scourge them from this galaxy.

As she mentally accrued her wrathful declarations Tsalie became aware of an awful smell tickling her nose. Looking down at her robes she saw bits of still-molten metal burning away at the rich fabrics. The smell filled her small cabin. It was a strong, acrid smell. The heat and sulfur of the metal gave a sharp tang to the thick burnt carbon of the natural weave. It shouldn’t, but it smelled familiar to her just then. It smelled like a memory, it smelled like regret, and like… like a smoldering corpse in a Voyastran forest.

[Evil Eye]

A short one, and not my best one, but one nonetheless. Hopefully not too late!

 

 

Yes Inquisitor.

 

Inquisitor Vivian Draskette was an interesting character. All that was known of her past was that prior to her induction into the Inquisition, she had been instrumental in uncovering one of the biggest Chaos cults in the Segmentum Tempestus, and even that was subject to wild speculation. Whistleblowers were not usually prime Inquisitor material after all. She was a maverick with an attitude perhaps more suitable for a rogue trader than an agent of the Ordo Hereticus; she had few scruples, hired some truly unsavoury individuals and had a somewhat cavalier approach to correct Inquisitorial conduct. Regardless, there was little doubt amongst her compatriots of the Ordo Hereticus that she was a supremely talented individual.

She was of somewhat voluptuous build, and slightly above average height. Her skin was clean and fair, and her hair a vibrant shade of orange. She wore a scandalous outfit consisting primarily of a semi-translucent black synskin bodyglove, macabrely detailed red, black and silver “armour” (that was in truth little more than a corset, boots and gauntlets), a pair of holsters strapped to her thighs, and a rosary made from heavy black beads, supporting an Inquisitorial I pendant. Her eyes were concealed behind a steel-rimmed, slit-like reflective visor. The outfit- costume even- was far from practical, but it served its purpose. Her attire was for show first and practicality second; she had found that the weak-willed found her appearance either intimidating or attractive, either of which could be useful when dealing with the uncooperative. Whilst she generally avoided direct confrontations, in any situation in which combat was unavoidable she had only to speak a codeword and her suit's built in conversion field would activate, and any would-be attackers would be in for quite a nasty surprise. The practicality of one's outfit hardly mattered when an attempted blow against you would temporarily blind your assailant.

Vivian was not in the greatest mood imaginable. She had been somewhat rudely awoken and summoned to the computation deck of the Invisible Knife (her personal ship) with no particular explanation given other than “It's very important and you need to see this”. Between the highly unsociable hour she had been summoned and the rather blunt attitude of the individual who insisted she see...whatever it was, she was more than a little irritated.

Striding down the flight of stairs, she made her way to a door marked “COMPUTATION DECK- AUTHOURIZED INQUISITORIAL AGENTS ONLY”. She spoke a brief authorization code, and the door slid open with a hiss of pneumatics.

She walked into the room- a dark, dingy chamber illuminated only by the large bank of pict-screens and logic-engine interface consoles set into the wall. Hunched over the master interface panel was the tech-savant Milo, a young boy with sandy hair whose skill in the use of cogitators, logic-engines and computation devices was far in excess of what one would expect from someone his age. He was fairly quiet, but when he did speak he was nearly always lippy and brusque, rather unfitting of his youthfulness. He wore an expression of concern Vivian was not used to seeing him with.

“Ah, Milo. I seem to recall that you requested I come down here rather urgently.” she said, exasperatedly. “So, what is it that's so important that I see?”

Milo looked up from his console, fixing the Inquisitor with a rather disdainful look. “Inquisitor Draskette. How pleasant it is to finally see you, my lady. I've only been waiting for 20 minutes.”

“Enough of your belly-aching. Get to the point, I have very important work that needs doing.” she snapped. “This had better not be another restoration of some ancient game-slate.”

The tech-savant rolled his eyes. “No, my lady. Recently you asked me to investigate the unauthourized radio transmissions that were detected by the agents on Tor XV. I've done so, and the results are...alarming.”
Vivian raised an eyebrow. “I see. What has caught your attention then, may I ask?”

Milo gently poked at the trackball on his interface console and punched in a combination of integers, several volumes of transcripts appearing on the monitor.

“First of all, the actual encoding of the transmissions is of note.” he began. “The transmissions were cast using antiquated shortwave radio technology, of a type incompatible with the vast majority of Imperial vox-networks. We can count ourselves lucky that we saw fit to supply our moles with a variety of interception tech.”

“I see. Clearly the people behind this transmission don't want it being intercepted.”

The boy nodded. “I wouldn't either if I were casting these messages.” He cleared his throat as he zoomed in on select parts of the transcripts. “Though the messages were heavily encrypted with some bizarre coding rites, I was able to decipher some of the content. They seem to be making mention to an organization called “The Clergy of the True Faith” which I have a feeling we've dealt with before.”

Vivian gritted her teeth. “I recognize that name.” she hissed. “Jeminus IVXIII had a small uprising by a cult called that.”

“And Ytterbion, too, my lady. If my recollection is correct, this is the third time this cult has been detected, if it even is the same cult.”

The Inquisitor stroked her chin. “That doesn't make sense. These planets aren't anywhere near each other. They're not even in contact. They're in the same sector for certain, but even so, it's unusual.”

Milo continued to scroll through the transcripts. “Anyway, the transmissions also make mention of an entity or group of entities only referred to as “the guiding hand”. Each transmission begins and ends with a glyphic image of some description. I'm not sure if you recognize it.”

He flipped a switch, and the screen before them blinked as a stylized, simplified hieroglyph appeared. Though difficult to make out, it appeared to resemble an outstretched claw attached to a wing.

“Emperor preserve us...” Vivian quietly gasped. “The Emperor's Children.”

“Come again?”

The Inquisitor sighed. “Traitor Astartes, Milo. Some of the worst there are. And it would appear these cults that are popping up everywhere are being instigated by them.”

Milo shuddered. He knew little about the forces of Chaos, but he knew from experience that where they went, woe inevitably followed.

“Thank you for showing me this, Milo. I need to contact the planetary governors of Tor XV immediately.” Vivian said, before turning to leave.

“Wait, I'm not finished yet!” the tech-savant said. “The transcript also mentions something about Tor's catacombs, and there's obscure references to a...door of some sort.”

“I see. Anything further on that?”
Milo shook his head. “No, that's all I've deciphered. I can find out more, but I'll need-”

Vivian shook her head. “There's no time. I'm sorry, Milo, but I need to go and make contact with the planetary governors, now.”

Before Milo could say another word, she had left the room, the pneumatic door closing behind her.

 

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in The Primordial Annihilator versus the Inquisition over the last two weeks.

Sadly nothing from the lapdogs of the Corpse-Emperor

Carrack gave us The Trial, in which the protagonist Ryon inadvertently got steadily deeper and deeper in with – to heavily understate it – the wrong crowd, finally facing trial before a member of the inquisition.

The design of the trial was excellent, conjuring up images of dark age witch trials, and I was kept guessing as to what fate might await Ryon until the very end.

In A Vostroyan Forest was Scourged’s entry this week, finally giving us the origin story for the Seekers Of Truth. As always with your work it was very well written, kept the tension up and I could empathise with both sides.

Squigsquasher’s entry was Yes Inquisitor, detailing inquisitor Vivian Draskette and her acolyte Milo’s discovery of corruption – a cult familiar to them – upon an Imperial world. I hope we’ll see a follow up to this story!

I gave you Dupes. I’ve mention before about my chaos lord Sophusar and his nemesis the craftworld Carth-Lar autarch Quarasion fighting proxy wars. I decided this time to have both sides attempt to outwit the other, with the final result of a deathwatch squad expecting to fight Eldar but ending up taking on the acolytes of an Ordo Hereticus (or perhaps Malleus) inquisitor dispatched to combat the Psychopomps.

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

Here begins our twenty fifth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Interview with a Chaos Apothecary

While they lack rules beyond that most infamous of fallen physicians: Fabius Bile, no warband can survive without specialists to tend to the injured and, as they did while loyal to the Golden Throne, so too must they continue to preserve the geneseed of the legion, chapter or warband. Who are these fallen apothecaries? How do they cope with the desperate circumstances of their warband? Do they attempt to maintain its purity or do they experiment with the captured geneseed of other chapters and warbands with glee? What are their views on the Gods? On mutation? Do they hide themselves away in the warband’s ships and bases or do they take to the field? To what purpose?

This week I ask you to give us an interview with a Chaos apothecary.

(as with previous An Interview with... challenges the format need not actually be an interview )

Inspirational Friday: Interview with a Chaos Apothecary runs until the 9th of September.

Let us be inspired.

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

[Scourged]

I swear, you folks never make this easy on me.

 

Trial

 

Beyond everything else, I have to say that you have a knack for world-building. This story, like many more, does such a great job illustrating the non-Astartes and non-battle sides of all things Chaotic. The influence the Black Maw has on the sectors is felt from all these stories with a mortal's perspective. I always enjoy that. This one was no different. I enjoyed the "unintentional heretic" aspect of it. Part of me was expecting to see the sister make a comeback in the end, for some kind of twist. Still, it was a fun little end. Quite nice.

 

 

Dupes

 

I can see the appeal now in writing for Deathwatch. All those chapters, and all of those personalities to play with. Heh... should have worn a helmet. Good stuff. The way the story plays out fits nicely with the way your warband has developed through the tales. A nice little chess game. But if I'm being picky, that aspect could have used a little more development.

 

 

Yes, Inquisitor

 

Always fun to see the new voices popping back into the IF thread for more forays. It's a shame this was just a short one, because it had the fun makings of building into something grand. With the exposition really building up and describing Vivian I was anticipating it paying off in her interactions with the enemy. Though, I suppose that'll happen next time we see her. The antiquated radio and build-up of emerging cults was very nicely done.

 

 

In the end, of the three options, only one (I felt) best encapsulated the interplay between the Ordos and the Heretics. In one story we all truly had a taste of the imperceptible and inevitable corruption of Chaos finds its way into the most loyal of servants, as well as the unforgivable and resolute nature of the Inquisition that seeks to stop such corruption. And so, I pass the baton back to Carrack for Trial.

 

...now I need to see what I came come up with for this week's topic. I did just invent the Fleshmoulder a few weeks ago, so I guess he deserves some spotlight time.

[Kierdale]

Well deserved!

 

I'm finishing up my apothecary story and hope to post it tomorrow. It turned out a bit big...

[Carrack]

Thanks. I honestly didn't know if the story worked. I liked the trial by ordeal, it seemed appropriate for the Inquisition, but the rest of the story was written just as set up for the trial, and I was never quite satisfied with it. Thanks. I'm looking forward to reading this week's stories.

[Evil Eye]

A well deserved win for Carrack!

 

I'll agree mine was far too short. I was intending it to be a fair bit longer but I ran out of time and had to wrap it up fairly quickly. Vivian Draskette and her long-suffering tech-savant acolyte Milo will almost certainly return in the future though.

 

I'll hopefully be able to crank out something for this new competition, though with college I may find myself with precious little time. We'll see.

[Carrack]

The Mesomelas Stalks

 

 

 

There was still a spark of life left in the legionary that lay slumped against the bulkhead. Any expert of normal, mortal, human medicine would have marveled at the miracle of the legionary still clinging to life, despite the gaping rent in his armor, flesh, bones, and organs from collar to opposite hip. The Mesomelas didn't marvel, he had seen legionnaires clutch at their last grasps of life after suffering such fatal wounds countless times before. He understood the desire to fight against an inevitable death, he imagined he would do the same, if he was as unfortunate as the dying legionary, he was just unmoved, because he didn't care. It wasn't him that lay dying on the loyalist battle barge.

 

The Mesomelas dropped to a knee beside his dying brother, noticing the black sharkskin grip and dried wolf's paw dangling from the fore grip of the legionary's boltgun. A quick glance across the legionary's pauldrons, one bare, one embellished with a bronzed skull over an octed star, told him the recognizable boltgun was in the hands of its dying owner, Legionary Akanax. The doomed legionary lifted his arm in a failed attempt to unclasp his helm's seals. Akanax was probably trying to make a more personal appeal to the Mesomelas for assistance, or, if he was realistic about his prognosis, just a few more moments to draw breath before his soul departed to whatever damnation hungrily awaited its arrival. The feeble movement of Akanax's arm did nothing but cause more ichor and blood to gush out the wound. It wouldn't have mattered if he had succeeded. The Mesomelas didn't have time nor compassion for Akanax's most desperate request, and would have as easily refused to his unhelmed face as he did now to his impassive helm that was designed to instill fear, not compassion. The Mesomelas lifted his arm and roughly grabbed one of the horns that crested Akanax's helm, jerking it painfully to the side. His other arm grasped the exposed neck of Akanax, and the bulky reductor gauntlet extended a sort, circular, power saw to cut open a precise incision in Akanax's neck. Once the neck of the dying marine was opened, a bladed claw pneumatically shot into Akanax's neck to extract his progenid gland. The Mesomelas deposited the bloody gland into a tube at his belt and retrieved its twin from the abdomen of the now thrashing Akanax.

 

Akanax was the host of the original geneseed of Sihon, who had been born and died upon Terra, the birthplace of humanity. One day the lineage of Sihon would again stride upon that world, burning, killing, and maiming. Sihon's geneseed was surely corrupted, judging by the extra fingers on Akanax's left hand, but nonetheless it was XVI legion geneseed, the most prized geneseed of the warband, and was valued more than purer, but more distantly related geneseed extracted from the sons of other primarchs. Geneseed was all that mattered to the Mesomelas, the dead were all that mattered. All other duties of an apothecary were not his concern.

 

The Mesomelas stood upright as he sealed the progenid tubes, listening as their numbers were counted off on his tally-slate. Icons flashed across the battle map of the slate, indicating where more geneseed was ready to be harvested aboard Ember, the loyalist battle barge the Black Maw was waging war upon. He still had six dozen to go before his service as the Mesomelas was complete, and he could reap the rewards of his holy quest. Becoming the Mesomelas was a ritual, sanctioned by the officers of the Black Maw. It meant casting aside one's self, and taking on the persona and duties of the Mesomelas Apothecary until his quest was complete. His own armor and weapons were stowed in the Apothecarium, since he had donned the jackal-masked and white limbed armor of the ritual undertaking. Only the torso armor of the panoply of the Mesomelas remained the black of the legion colors. His personal arms and armor, along with his very name, would not be used until he completed the quest of securing 144 progenid glands. The Mesomelas would forgo the glory of attacking in the spear tips of the warband, instead following behind, scavenging for the future of the Black Maw. If he succeeded in this sacred quest, traditionally, the officers of the warband would bestow a greater rank and position upon him, and he could choose the next legionary to become the Mesomelas. The level of rank bestowed, typically depended on the quality of the geneseed recovered, and thus far, he had recovered no noteworthy seed. He overlaid his tally map with the general plan of battle, and current known positions of key personnel.

 

Pleased, the Mesomelas stalked onwards towards the great spinal corridor of the enemy barge. His map check had revealed an opportunity to possibly complete his quest, and more importantly, recover some of the most noteworthy geneseed ever extracted by the Mesomelas in the Black Maw's history.

 

 

Well it's not an interview, but it fleshes out an important role in the Black Maw.

[MyD4rkPassenger]

Old Wounds Never Heal

 

 

 

The Black Templar beneath his boot feebly tried to reach for his combat blade only a few inches from his grasp. Morion took enjoyment as the marine was bleeding out beneath him, and he slowly prepared his narthecium. As he readied the reductor, he bent down and grabbed the marine's last hope. He turned the blade over in his hand and his vox enhanced voice boomed out.

 

"What did you believe to do with this Templar?"

 

He contineued to eye its craftsmanship, it was clearly not standard issue. The dying marine coughed blood out onto his greave and growled.

 

"Whatever I could you traitorous filth-AACH."

 

He grunted in pain as Morion rammed the blade deep into the warrior's armpit, softly whispering.

 

"Die knowing your legacy belongs to the Eighth now."

 

As the marine began to seize from his wounds Morion pressed his tool to the marines neck and, as it was in a state of minor disrepair, jaggedly opened his neck. Blood fountained from the cut and as the Templar's eyes widened in pain, he raggedly bubbled out his last breath. Morion deftly removed the organ necessary for becoming a space marine, as he had done countless times. He then moved to the marine's abdomen and removed the second organ depositing them into the jars at his waist.

Rising he surveyed the quiet hallway that moments ago rang with the roar of bolters and clashing steel, only the dead and dying remained. Some of the dead were too ravaged to successfully harvest their gene seed, he held no pity for them. A gauntlet shot out and grabbed his leg. He stopped and looked down, it was a blood red gauntlet.

Following the limb he looked into the helm of a fellow Night Lord, and he sneered in disgust. Zaphel was indeed a Night Lord, but in name only as he was a defector from the Dark Angels. Zaphel was beyond Morion's skills as a combat medic. His left arm was limp, held on only by scraps of flesh. Bolt wound to an un-pauldroned arm. The legs were severed at the knees, a perfect cut. Power sword. Finally a gaping stab wound through his secondary heart, also power sword. Morion theorized the Templar was charging Zaphael, and landed a lucky shot on his arm. As Zaphael staggered the Templar dropped low and chopped his legs off, and to finish his kill drove the sword into his chest. A heartbeat later Morion realized he hadn't aknowledged his "brother".

 

"I cannot save you Zaphael and with these wounds and your status as a traitor, you'd be nothing better then a servitor if I wasted my time."

 

Zaphael growled as he pulled his body towards Morion.

 

"There are cybernetics aboard the Abyss, you can save me, you're choosing not to."

 

At this Morion roared as he freed his leg rom Zaphael's weak grip and delivered a powerful kick to the warrior's helm. It flew off and the crippled Dark Angel slumped back, blood pouring from his shattered nose. Morion dropped down and grabbed Zapael's face, his helm inches from the other's ruined face.

 

"You would have me save a son of the Lion?...You are more foolish then I originally believed you to be." He hissed out.

 

"I was at Thramas, we fought your kind for three years and for what? I lost my legion, everyone scattered beneath the heel of Lion El Johnson. I lost my right arm and foot to one of your warriors. I wouldn't harvest your gene seed if it meant the survival of the Night Lords."

 

At this he pressed the reductor into Zaphael's abdomen and removed one of the organs, bringing it to the grunting marine's face.

 

"For the Haunter."

 

He crushed the precious gene seed in his fist, then removed the second from Zaphael's neck. Savoring the dying marine's death throws, he brought the final organ to his face.

 

"For the Eighth."

 

He again crushed it and then delivered three swift punches to Zaphael's face, shattering his skull and finally ending the Dark Angel's life. Morion rose and looked down the hallway, another Templar was in good enough condition to be harvested. He spared Zaphael no glance as he continued along with his work.

 

 

[Scourged]

Fleshmoulder

Hidden Content

Fleshmoulder

The stub of the Astartes Zankar was slowly being carted away, out of the medical bay and toward a new home in the bowels and forges of Deception’s Call. His departure was quite a relief, really; berating Thamda’ul for his work, then begging him for death at the flip of a whim. Such an annoyance he had become, in such short manner! And the stub did not even have the decency to provide a sustainable harvest of biomass for experimentation. Shame.

With the distraction gone, Thamda’ul walked with no sense of urgency to the next ailing Astartes in his wing. There were quite a few, thanks to the events of Ophiuchi. From the stories told, it was one very bloody campaign against the locals. He did not mind, though. The bloodier the battle outside of the ship, the more fun and resources would come aboard the medical bay.

Like this pour soul. Unlike Zankar, this one would not be fodder for the Iron Monger. This one - what was the name… Chisol? Kamdalee? Phael’ul? Hard to keep track of all the neophytes these days - was clearly dead, but too stubborn to admit such defeat. These were the patients that always proved most annoying. Aside from the tedious routine of gene-seed harvesting, they always fought with what little strength they had to cling to their pointless lives. Though, doesn’t everybody?

Thamda’ul softly ran his left hand and fingers over the scabbed face of the almost-dead Astartes upon the slab. Two of his mutant minions took that opportunity to race down his arm that they might play on the landscape of the enhanced flesh beneath them. The unknown marine - Simisal? Un’da? Mherinda’ul? - feebly tried to swat them away, unamused with their chittering antics. Oh, that would not do.

With a thought, the narthecium on the apothecary’s left wrist came to life. Though, in truth, the device and his wrist were indistinguishable now. Multiple lifetimes within the Warp’s influence and his own playful experimentations had found the means to fuse his body and his purpose into one fluid appendage. Resting the top knuckle of his middle finger against the temple of the fallen soul beneath him - was it Rhuhimia? Or Skoben? - he issued his mercy: an ossified spike shot out of the knuckle at lightning speed and pierced the thick cranium, curved barbs and hooks making mincemeat of Astartes brains.

“So why spare Zankar, but sacrifice Xhophias? This flesh was far less damaged than my new playtoy’s.”

Khan’tu. Thamda’ul had not realized the smith had not left with his servitors and prize earlier. Recalling the ossified spike back into his narthecium-wrist, he turned to address his guest. It was rare that anyone willingly chose to stay within his operating theater. An exchange of dialogue would perhaps be stimulating.

“That’s where we differ, monger. You know your metals and daemons, but I know the flesh and the soul.”

“Then enlighten me, moulder. What could my senses not perceive?”

Thamda’ul paced the perimeter of the operating slab, moving to the opposite side that he could dissect while still engaging with his guest. The central slit in his narthecium-wrist parted and out forth came a chitinous collection of tiny limbs and blades. By rote, the chirurgeon turned and moved the body with his right arm, letting his left start to cut away and collect the precious gene-seed within, all while conversing with Khan’tu.

“Yes, the torso and limbs of… who was this, again?”

“Xhophias.”

“Sure. Body and limb suffered only minimal damage and could very easily repair on their own. But internal hemorrhaging was beyond repair. Cardiac function was at twenty-four percent and declining. Lung perforation was beyond easy repair. There was severe laceration to multiple other organ systems, all of which conducive with a heavy concussive force to the chest that splintered various bones to cause said ruptures. And that is before I could even diagnosis any cognitive damage. Nothing of this flesh was salvageable for life.”

Not dissuaded by the gory scene unfolding, the Iron Monger was approaching Thamda’ul to stand opposite him around the corpse. The semi-sentient mechatendrils hovered and swayed, looking this way and that, one or the other moving to investigate some form of data stimulation and leave it again. It reminded him of his pets, his creations, the little beings dancing around his shoulders and the corpse. They moved and played no different than the tendrils, but with an excitement and speed that all smaller creatures possess.

“Point taken, Fleshmoulder. But I did not need more fodder for the forges. Why bother sparing Zankar at all?”

“That was pure amusement. For a creature so obsessed with his own immortality, I merely saw fit to grant him the boon he desired. Though, of course, his wish was granted with an irony even the True Master would approve of.”

The chitinous tool-arms finished their work, both progenoid glands harvested with zero complications, as always. Eagerly, two of the little mutants grabbed at the still-warm organs to carry them away. Off they scampered, blissful with their temporary duty, to deposit the glands within the dwindling stores of others. To be able to harvest both glands, let alone one, was a rare treat nowadays.

“Even still, I am hardly well provisioned. We are lucky I have the materials to maintain our meager collections of machines and engines. I won’t have the means to grant Zankar his new life until we find lucky spoils of war, or even luckier means to barter. He’ll be trapped motionless within a sarcophagus with only his thoughts for quite some time.”

“...and?”

There was a pause, and then both artisans allowed themselves to enjoy some fits of laughter. Thamda’ul’s was hearty and organic, barely modified by the ornate respirator he wore at all times. His head was thrown back, hands gripping the table, while all of his minion joined him with laughter all their own. Khan’tu’s laughter was a metallic scraping through his utilitarian helm, head lowered and slowly shaking from side to side. The more salient of his mechatendrils turned and ‘looked’ at him, confused by the new stimuli.

Soon enough the two Astartes composed themselves. Thamda’ul was already working to crack open the fused ribcage of his latest corpse. Deep within was an Oolitic kidney that was miraculously without harm. He had not played with one of those yet, not in a long time. And he was long overdue for a distraction aboard this monotonous vessel.

To his surprise a dragon-faced set of claws appeared in his vision, helping him pry open the splayed torso. Thamda’ul looked up in query but found only the steeled gaze of the Iron Monger, unflinching once more with their shared laughter now ceased. What an amusing gesture. But was it the claw, or Khan’tu who willed this sudden assistance?

“You’ve already harvested his progenoid, Fleshmoulder. What more use do you have of Xhophias?”

“This is my hobby, and I have not indulged in quite some time. I do believe I already know your thoughts on the matter, Legionnaire, but how do you perceive mutation?”

A disgusted grunt was the only answer needed, and expected.

“So I thought. What you abhor, I revere, as do many others. The change of the flesh is a miracle found exclusively in the Warp. I’m endlessly fascinated by it. What causes it? What purpose does it serve? Why will one of us become heightened by our changes, while others still hindered? Is it the will of the True Master, thus beyond our understand and seemingly random? Or is there a root cause?”

“Have you found such a cause?”

“Oh no, not at all!”

This time it was just the chirurgeon who laughed, albeit briefly. There was never any real answer to those questions. To understand the nature of the Warp was faith and philosophy, not science. But that did not mean attempting a logical understanding could not be fun, even if futile. With the kidney now in hand, it was the perfect moment for a demonstration.

“I will show you what I know, though. Look here: the Oolitic kidney. This is a product of our reality, by our own hands. It is as plain and tangible as the bolter at your side. It is a product, made and manufactured. But it is organic, and thus so susceptible to the aetherial energies of the Immaterium. Observe.”

Another section of the narthecium-wrist opened up, this time slithering out a malicious serpent. Its eyes and underside glowed with the unnatural orange lights that infused so many of the daemonic energies Khan’tu had employed on many occasions. Upon seeing the serpent-tool freed all of the little mutants and minions scurried away, fleeing in fear. The serpent-tool hovered in place, glowing, waiting for a command from its master.

“Curious about all of this one day, I decided to studio ectoplasma. What a wonderful invention it is. But it can be more than just a weapon, you know. Oh, so much more! Yes, it is lethal, but within its energies there exists the potential for the opposite as well…”

The serpent-tool lashed forward, striking the inert kidney in Thamda’ul’s right hand. It bit down, diluted ectoplasma flowing into the dark chunk of flesh like venom. And as quickly as it struck it let go, receding into the narthecium-wrist once more. Khan’tu waited, his gaze shifting between the kidney and the apothecary a few times, until something finally developed.

Before both of their eyes the surface of the organ began to boil and bubble though it emitted no heat. It bobbed and shook on the hand it rested, like some creature from within trying to break free. Rapidly and in no logical pattern little limbs sprouted from the sides, six little legs all scrambling to prop up the organ. As a single eyes bubbled to the top surface to cover it all with a sickening blink three more limbs burst forward: all with too many joints and none of which resembling anything close to functional physiology. Now granted with existence, the kidney-thing lept from Thamda’ul’s hand and danced around, looking and moving like a pincered arachnid.

“See? The flesh was made to change. It was made to be corrupted. It was made to be moulded.”

“Moulded? You say that like you dictated these changes.”

“I have, to an extent. There are elements in the ectoplasma that I can control, in a way. It is not a uniform energy. With less of one frequency, or more of another, it will affect the outcome. Yes, when left unchecked it leads to randomness. But if harnessed, it can be controlled.”

“So, you have found the way to create life? You have become a god?”

The incredulous tone was not lost on Thamda’ul. Though the smith was impressed, he was not convinced of the depth this knowledge held. To the warrior of iron, this corrupted flesh was to be as reviled as much as any other, despite its beginnings. Though, his tone was not without merit. This ability, though quite marvelous, did not make him anything close to a god.

“No, no. Sadly, this knowledge is not the key to my apotheosis, or anyone else’s. That thing, or any of the others, is not alive. Never was, and never will be. It may move around and act on instinct, but it lacks a soul. There is no life in that flesh. Though the Warp gave rise to my minion, it holds no psychic presence there. So much must still be learned.”

With the serpent-tool sheathed once more, the tiny mutants timidly made their way out of their hiding places. Before long they were bounding and scampering all along the robed body of Thamda’ul once more. One of the more bold creatures wandered its way toward the warpsmith, curiously wanting to investigate this new mountain of a man. It took small steps, inching closer and closer while making inquisitive squeaks. A daemon-faced flamer whipped around in a flash, incinerating the little entity in a heartbeat. Khan’tu would not dare let that thing ever touch him.

“Then… why bother?”

The Fleshmoulder paused his actions and stood, thinking. He wasn’t really sure. Unable to think of an adequate answer, he simply shrugged.

“Because it’s fun.”

Perhaps it was from the natural termination of the conversation or from his own personal disgust with the demonstration, but for whatever reason Khan’tu decided he was finished with this dialogue. He nodded to the apothecary and left, the mechatendrils rapidly investigating their surroundings for any last scrap of sensory input before leaving. Oh well. It was a fun conversation while it lasted.