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

[Kierdale]

Campaign III – Trapped in the Web

Hidden Content

Void combat was alien and incomprehensible to the citizenry of the Imperium of Man. The distances at which fighting took place were unimaginable. Lances reaching out across thousands of kilometers, torpedoes the size of early Terran spacecraft rocketing through space and solid munitions shot forth from cannons and mass drivers taking minutes to impact, their trajectories guided by cogni-servitors programmed to predict the enemy’s vector and future position. Even the guardsmen of the Astra Militarum rarely saw the enemy when the vessels they were aboard were engaged in war amongst the stars. The closest a vessel might ever approach to a still-active enemy might be an orbital bombardment of hostile ground positions. Even boarding actions were usually only carried out once the enemy ship had been disabled and drawing alongside was deemed safe.

Thus the situation those aboard Rudra’s Trident, and Naga’s Bite behind it, now faced was highly unusual. The broadside gunners aboard the Psychopomps frigates were exchanging fire with enemy no more than two kilometers distant: upon the surface of the craftworld they now flew alongside within the mist-walled tunnel of the Eldar webway. As the cannons of the frigates pounded the huge Eldar craft’s starboard flank, those of the their sister ship Silenus hammered its port side. Great explosions blossomed upon the surface of Carth-Lar as shells and ordnance was fired upon it, the crews screaming madly, savouring the opportunity to see the destruction they wrought at such close distance. Though targets were designated and fed down from the bridge crews, the sensation drove the gunnery crews mad and who knew how many of their allies perished upon the surface to friendly fire?

The Eldar batteries fired up at the destroyers keeping pace with the craftworld, lances, lasers and rockets hitting the Chaos vessels’ shields and quickly wearing them down. Between the vast bulk of the craftworld and the membrane wall of the webway there was little room to maneuver. Whoever was piloting Carth-Lar – was it mortal Eldar or was it controlled by a gestalt of Eldar spirits via the craftworld’s infinity circuit? – realized this, the ponderous behemoth’s drives flared and it began to drift to port. Tocsin immediately sounded throughout Silenus and its laser batteries ceased as power was shunted to its engines. But too late, for even as the frigate tried to climb away from the approaching flank of the craftworld it could not move fast enough. In a panic the ship’s captain ordered the helmsman to direct them at the wall of the tunnel itself. None of the attackers truly knew the nature of the Eldar webway, though they knew that the warp lay beyond. Who knew? Perhaps a ship might be able to breach it and escape into the sea of souls?

Those aboard the Trident and Bite saw only a great explosion from the other side of the craftworld, signaling the demise of their sister vessel, either destroyed in their panicked collision or crushed between the membrane and the Eldar craft itself.

The gunners of these two destroyers noticed their range-to-target was decreasing and word was rapidly passed to the bridge: the craftworld was veering back in their direction, hoping to crush them as it had Silenus. Both shunted all available power to their drives, even going so far as to drop their shields.

The vast wall of the crafworld’s flank loomed large once again as the destroyers’ engines wailed and deckplates shook. Crew braced themselves against the acceleration, watched the elephantine mass approaching, and prayed to the Dark Prince that they might live through the coming minutes, swearing to reap a grand tally of Eldar souls should their patron look favourably upon them, or failing that for him to grant them glorious deaths.

Realising that the renegade vessels had dropped their shields, the Eldar gunners recommenced firing upon the destroyers as they grew larger and larger overhead, the overseers of each battery then entrusting their weapon’s continued operation to the spirit stones embedded within their bunkers and ordering the mortal crews to abandon their positions lest they be crushed in the coming collisions.

Explosions bloomed across the flank of Naga’s Bite as Rudra’s Trident pulled ahead and clear of the craftworld. Bite’s captain Isavel called her second in command, her closest confidant and most favoured slave, close as if for a last embrace upon the cusp of oblivion, only to plunge her dagger into his loins savouring the look of horror at this betrayal upon his face and even as she slid his body to the deck she beseeched Slaaneshi to take her sacrifice and spare her ship.

The ship continued to shake as its engines squealed and more fire from the craftworld shook it. Out the port windows the cityscape of Carth-Lar could be seen in frightening detail.

Alarum began to sound and Isavel kept her eyes on the bright drives of Rudra’s Trident out ahead. How she wished it were her ship.

It was then that inspiration struck her.

“Isavel to all forward batteries. Lock onto my target and fire everything you’ve got.”

 

Trident had made it. Its engines had carried it forward, out into the warp tunnel beyond the craftworld, saving it from being crushed against the walls. Thus the blare of sirens took the captain by great surprise, cold dread and shock taking his heart as Bite’s torpedoes struck his destroyer’s unshielded aft quarter. The engines, pushed beyond redlining, detonated and the suddenly hobbled craft dropped back rapidly. The front of the craftworld was a nest of vanes and towers, some containing navigational arrays, others observatories and remote towers where seers might sequester themselves to consider the mysteries of the cosmos. It was upon these spires, this cluster of speartips, that Rudra’s Trident was spitted. At such speeds were the vessels moving that the destroyer slid down a pair of great spars which gutted it, explosions rocking it within, smaller structures breaking off the spires as it was driven deeper onto the skewers until it came to rest. Only then did the internal explosions tear the ship in half, sending each severed section cartwheeling back across the surface of the craftworld. The fore section of the destroyer, a good eight hundred meters in length, flattened buildings as it rolled and spun its way aftwards across the back of Carth-Lar. Eldar, Psychopomps, their cult thralls and daemons alike were crushed as ants under its tumbling mass. Likewise was the destruction across the craftworld’s ventral side as the Trident’s rear half slide backwards, uprooting batteries, smashing towers and crushing those who fought there before they could even see their ends coming.

 

The celebration within the saved Naga’s Bite was raucous as they looked back upon the fruits of their betrayal, their sister vessel disemboweled and wreaking unimaginable destruction as it fell back across the Eldar craftworld, the batteries which had been pounding them now silenced.

 

 

From the footholds they quickly established upon the surface of the craftworld the Psychopomps, their cults and beastmen forces quickly spread out in seemingly random manner. The majority sought out the Eldar defenders, seized by the thrill of combat they sought glory, and the voices of the neverborn calling out in their minds for Eldar souls to be sacrificed to their patron deity. Those possessed of stronger will held to their mission objectives. Contingency plans in fact, for had the assault gone as initially planned the craftworld’s engines would have been disabled before it had been able to make it into the webway. Now forces raced aftward to destroy both the craftworld’s sublight engines and whatever arcane machinery enabled it to enter the Eldar nexus.

 

Though the craftworld’s many aspect temples had been made to bleed in the battle of Viarphia, those who had survived had a burning desire for vengeance aflame within their chests. Some fought in squads alongside their comrades, pitifully few in numbers but determined to die together if die they must. The warriors of some temples decided instead to grant their expertise to the craftworld’s guardian forces, for these had not sallied forth to Viarphia, having been forbidden to follow autarch Quarasion by the seer council. Oh how they needed Qarasion the Exile now!

 

A bas-relief of the chaining of Vaul, psychically shaped over decades by Carth-Lar craftsmen of old, was pulverised as a squad of Havoc Banshees played their sonic weapons over the wraithbone buildings before them. Their weapons sent out short-ranged sonics in such rapidly scaling frequencies that cover was as nothing to them. Guardian armour was no proof against these weapons, the flesh within turned to jelly and the ambushers became the ambushed, the survivors fleeing out the rear of the building, shuriken catapults held tightly, a lone Scorpion – their provisional leader – at their head. The scent of souls exciting the Banshees, the fallen marines raced inside only for a signal from the Scorpion to bring down a rain of Reaper’s missiles, toppling the shaken structure and completing their ambush.

So things went in countless battles across the surface and within the innards of the craftworld with ambushes and counter ambushes, feints, gambits and mad charges. Parks and forests which had once been oases of peace were now aflame, their once verdant turf now pockmarked with blast craters and the vegetation withered and wilted at the approach of the Dark Prince’s daemons. This blight spread out before their advance, forming accursed symbols.

Boulevards were filled with bodies and debris while the banners of the craftworld, which had hung so proudly above the heads of its denizens as they went about their lives, were now tarnished, scorched and torn. A number of the finest had been pulled down and taken as trophies by the invaders.

Not even halls and houses, nor even bedchambers, had been spared as desperate battles were fought back and forth through their crampt confines. Sculptures, paintings, toys and memorabilia of millennia-long lives were trampled and splattered with gore.

 

Deep within the wrathbone skeleton of the craftworld, where the sounds of the war outside could not be heard but only tremors felt, a chorus of robed figures stood, their heads bowed before those who had given their lives protecting Carth-Lar over the millennia since the fall of their race.

A silent army, towering over the chanting bonesingers and spiritseers, rank upon rank upon rank of wraithbone bodies. Long and sinuous of limb, these were no crude robots of the Mechanicus nor hellish tombs for the remains of fallen Astartes, they were things of fearsome, sorrowful beauty.

While the seer council had forbidden the craftworld’s guardian forces from accompanying Qarasion on her fateful mission to Viarphia, she had known that the aspect warriors would swear loyalty to her. She had stolen the avatar of Khaine from its resting place but even she had not been blasphemous enough to have attempted to call upon these warriors.

Ghost warriors.

An army of the dead.

 

 

Fire billowed into the sky, not borne aloft by an explosion but vomited forth from the muzzle of a flamethrower. The speed at which it was moving caused it to create a literal wall of fire in the air above the bike, as if the cultist chained to the spar on the front wielded some great diabolic standard. The bike rocked once, twice, as it rode down guardians not fast enough to throw themselves clear. A second biker pulled alongside, a marine stood on the rear, playing a flamer of his own onto the ground behind them, igniting their trail and the bodies of those they struck down. These were not the Black Stallion riders – the preeminent bikers of the renegade chapter, but rather the Pale Riders: their rival sect.

The first biker pushed his throttle wide open with one hand, throwing a disparaging gesture to his squadmate with the other hand. The cultist chained to the spar which protruded upward and outward from the front faring, hissed and spat, unable to scream as he had long ago chewed his own tongue off. He swung from the chains anchored into his flesh, the amputated stumps of his legs kicking as he played his flamer back and forth, its fuel pipe snaking over his shoulders and directly into the bike’s own tank.

It was this cultist who first bore witness to the dead, but in his mauled, crazed state he was incapable of drawing the attention of the equally maddened Riders, and the first blast of distortion scythes stripped their souls, astartes and cultists alike, leaving their bikes to skid, tumble and crash, tearing the lifeless bodies atop them into bloody chunks.

Without word, the dead marched on.

 

An Eldar warlock was both a formidable psyker, and akin to an officer in the armies of Man. Possessed of both precognitive and destructive powers they were able to lend great aid to the warriors they fought alongside, foretelling ambushes before they were triggered, ordering attacks with awe-inspiring accuracy and even directly rending the minds of their foes. Many were seers who had walked the path of the warrior.

But for warlock Aislin, sent to assist Carth-Lar’s guardian hosts by farseer Emrana, the tide of daemons and mad thralls that bore down upon their position, there was no premonition but one of doom, no witch-given insight that would stem the tide, she possessed not the power to strip so many hundreds of their wills or their souls, and never in her warrior experience had she faced such inevitable doom.

Dozens upon dozens of daemonettes danced toward the line of guardians behind their shield wall. Purple-skinned and barely clad in twisted armour and roseate loincloths, they were neither entirely male nor female, but were undoubtedly the spawn of She Who Must Not Be Named. It had been the Eldar’s folly which had brought about the fourth Chaos god’s birth, and now Carth-Lar reaped the fruits of their decadence. The daemonic horde capered and cavorted across the battlefield as if performing in some macabre circus, teasing the Eldar as much as charging at them. All too eager to feast upon the elfin xenos’ souls yet aware that once the slaughter commenced the ecstasy of it would be over all too quickly.

An old quote, a human quote of all things, came to warlock Aislin’s mind and she could not help but give it voice, “Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music.”

Aislin drove the fear from her mind with mantras she had learned as a warrior under Qarasion and, her mind stilled, directed the fire of her kin to take down as many of the monsters as possible before they engaged.

Lilac ichor sprayed as blasts of shurikens sawed limbs off and tore into heads topped with gaudy locks.

The dance ended as too many of their number laid spasming amid bodies of Slaangor and cultists upon the gore-slicked ground and, ululating furiously, the daemonettes charged.

“When the music changes, so does the dance.”

She slid her witchblade from its sheath across her back and looked to her left and right along the lines of craftsmen, tradesmen, gardeners, healers and entertainers all turned warriors. Some wore their high helmets but a great deal had chosen to face their fates unhelmed. All met her gaze and none flinched from it.

She took a step toward the wall, the ground now shaking not only with the footfalls of the hundrds of hellspawn bearing down upon them but also the bigger mechanical monstrosities which lurched and lumbered behind the daemons. Summoning the power of the warp to her she let it flow through her limbs and into her mind. It would guide her arm, and with it she hoped if not to save as many of her kin as possible, to at least slay as many of the enemy as she could before she too fell.

Aislin stepped up to the wall, standing almost atop it and screamed at the top of her lungs, over the wailing of the daemons, the hiss of the shuriken fusillades and the boom of heavier weapons.

“For Carth-Lar! For the children of Isha!”

Great voids appeared in the rampaging mass of daemons and thralls, the very fabric of reality being carelessly and most destructively unraveled. Mortals struck by the wraith weapons found their souls torn from their physical forms and even the daemons: beings of the warp itself given flesh form, could not survive being rent asunder. Blast upon blast upon blast tore across the enemy lines as one after another wraithguard, and even taller wraithlords, stepped from the ruins behind the guardian line.

While the momentum of the hellspawn foot troops was soon broken, such could not be said of the daemon engines toward the rear. Great loping fiends barged their way through their own troops, trampling both mortals and lesser daemons under their great iron-shod tread, batting them aside with horned and bladed heads and shrugging off all but the most hideous of wounds.

One, a huge fiend of iron and daemonic flesh possessed of no head but a great maw of tentacles, made it to the Eldar line, razor-like blades and spikes whipping out to skewer and disembowel those about it, snaking tentacles feeding the chopped remains and maimed victims screaming in terror, into the beast’s mouth.

The screams were silenced as a great blade the length of a starfighter stabbed down and pinned the bastard creation to the ground, the blast of a suncannon finishing off what the ghostglaive had begun.

A rousing cheer went up as the wraithknight stepped into view.

“The spawn of She Who Must Not Be Named now face the warriors of Carth-Lar, past and present!” Aislin shouted, watching as the enemy fled across the cratered field before her.

 

 

And a quick question. Would you like a third week to get entries in? I’m judging the current IF and I’d don’t mind having a fair few entries to read. If a third week will give more members the opportunity to enter, I’m fine with it.

[Carrack]

I'm fine with another week

[Teetengee]

yeah, Rocky Horror means I am not going to be doing it tonight for sure.

[Warsmith Aznable]

I don't want to be selfish about it, but I would like another week to work on my reentry into the contest.

[Carrack]

IF ideas

 

Halloween fun contest. Or horror story. Or both.

 

Best Of. Contest for frequent participants. Post the story you have submitted that you feel is your best written, or one of the best you have written. Maybe as a bonus round.

 

Troop model and background. Post a picture of one of your troops, not a champion, and tell his story. What is life like for a line troop in your warband? What are his goals, and what is he doing to achieve them?

 

Propaganda. How does your warband spread its infamy? Do they want to be feared? Or do they want to deceive others in to thinking life is better under their rule? Write a propaganda piece for your warband.

 

Legend. What tales are told of your warband. Do mothers frighten their children into behaving with fairytales of a real enemy from their worlds distant past? (Eat your peas, or the Eaters of Worlds will come.) Do feral tribes speak of an ancient evil that represents your warband. Are there myths of your warband that are studied in the scholams of a hive city, long after they are no longer believed? Tell a legend about your warband.

[Kierdale]

Until the 28th is is then! :tu:

 

And thanks for those suggestions, Carrack. The challenge after this one will be our regular Halloween/Horror theme :)

[Warsmith Aznable]

For reference, this campaign is the culmination of several stories throughout the life of this competition:

The Dark Apostle Harnak announces his arching of Warsmith Bolverk in this story from the Chaos Nemesis competition.

The Iron Hounds carry on with their usual activities, including recruitment in "A Gift For A Gift."

Harnak and his Word Bearers strike their second blow, preaching the Primordial Truth to the unknowing victims of Bolverk's blasphemous cult in the Interview With A Dark Apostle challenge.

The Warsmith, frustrated by his inability to locate the Dark Apostle Harnak, strikes at the Word Bearers Legion in general, interfering with the dedication of another Dark Apostle's attempt to construct a Gehemanet in Imperial space as told from the perspective of a loyalist space marine and an Imperial Guardsman caught up in the destruction.

Through the fallout of this action, and from the Warsmith's forging of a critical alliance with a desperate Dark Eldar House, the Iron Hounds gained the means to end their game of cat and mouse and strike directly at Dark Apostle Harnak in his own lair.


 

The 49th Grand Company mobilized an unprecedented percentage of their available assets, nearly emptying out their precious space hulk and calling in an avalanche of pledges of loyalty and favours from allied and client warbands. This apocalyptic force marched through dark and forgotten passages in the Webway and even transiting secret Eldar Maiden Worlds on their route to a surprise attack upon the planet Sicarus, home of the Word Bearers Legion itself.

The Iron Hounds and their allies struck deep underground on Sicarus, aided by a well positioned accomplice within the Word Bearers Legion who acted for his own nefarious reasons, securing a bridgehead with the heavy use of advanced parties of Warp Talons and Raptors in the Upon Cursed Wings/Jump Assault challenge.

With overwhelming force, the 49th Grand Company and their many allies and slave soldiers crushed through the front gates of Harnak's personal Cathedral in Campaign II: Assault.

 

The Iron Warriors of Warsmith Bolverk bring fire and ruin to a fortress deep underneath the surface of unholy Sicarus, but their window of opportunity is closing, and their revenge must be swift. One more installment, I present Campaign III: The Crucible:

 

Hidden Content

The Word Bearers commander paced, clenching his fists. His unholy rage leaked from the immaterium to coalesce around him, dark swirls of malice that mirrored his black thoughts. The dark sky above burned red with rage that matched his own, luridly coloured warp bolts crackling through black, boiling clouds. The black metal tower was illuminated by eerie green mist that crawled from cracks in the stone to wrap around the intricate stonework and gargoyles like a living shroud.

 

Finally, after what had seemed an eternity of humiliation and rage, the iron gates of the tower slowly creaked open, and the hoary old warrior stopped, turning to the shadowy figure that emerged with expectation.

 

"You are unleashed."

 

The messenger had barely spoken those three simple words before the Word Bearers commander turned and began issuing commands into the vox, hurrying toward the daemon-engine that would fly him directly to his command.

 

+++++++++

 

There was no art or subtlety to their approach. A hundred thousand screaming zealots descended upon the rearguard of the Iron Warriors invasion force. Those support units of the Iron Warriors that had bogged down or become separated on their way to their assault on Harnak's cathedral were instantly drowned in a red tide of furious and savage butchery. The mortal soldiery of the Iron Warriors had immediately dug in to protect the rear once the space marines had broken into the fortress-cathedral, but the cultists, zealot soldiers, and cursed chaos spawn that flowed into the massive underground chamber were too numerous. They swept around the tanks and siege engines still idling before the broken gates, and poured into the trenches and redoubts like liquid hatred.

 

Hard upon their heels came thousands of Word Bearers space marines, from many different coteries and warbands. Ambition and hatred between any and all put aside, the Legionnaires were outraged over the invasion of their homeworld. Their Rhinos, Landraiders, and Predators drove over mortals from both sides, cultist and invader alike. The space marines on foot that followed close behind their armoured transports sprinted past the carnage, their fury reserved for the Legionnaires of the IVth.

 

The two legions met in the bottleneck of the breach, and only the narrow space allowed the Iron Warriors much smaller numbers to bring any kind of resistance against the furious horde of Word Bearers.

 

Shaped charges blew huge chunks out of the ceiling, burying or crushing hundreds of Word Bearers, but still they came.

 

Before long, only the mountainous pile of space marine corpses that choked the breach kept the Word Bearers from sweeping into Harnak's fortress-cathedral.

 

+++++++++

 

The eldar wych-queen, Yseult Hardheart, raced through the dark corridors of the fortress. Dozens of Word Bearers squads had penetrated the fortress through secondary access points, and were rapidly moving to circle behind the Iron Warriors defenders. The situation inside was chaos and mayhem, and a part of her was thrilled with the danger and slaughter. Another part of her knew her chances of survival were dwindling rapidly.

 

She surprised a group of Iron Warriors rushing down a hallway, vaulting over them with ease. A few bolt rounds loosed in confusion burst in the air where she had only just been, but she paid it no mind.

 

Her bare feet finding purchase on the rough hewn walls, the lithe and agile female turned down another hallway, searching for her husband. The deep red of Word Bearers power armour dimly registered in her conscious thought, and her hands snaked out as she passed through them. A burst of flaming promethium chased her, vaporising the glittering mist of blood she left in her wake as he knives slipped through the soft, flexible armour between the torso rings and helmets.

 

In yet another random encounter, Yseult simply snatched the pins from frag grenades before darting out of the room, smiling in satisfaction at the cries of anger and confusion before the Word Bearers died in the detonations.

 

It was quiet for several minutes before she finally found the Warsmith. Only corpses, spent brass, and the smell of death filled the hallways this deep in the fortress-cathedral.

 

"Husband." She called, padding to a halt behind him.

 

The Warsmith crouched awkwardly in his artificer Terminator armour. His two Terminator bodyguards flanked him, each scanning different directions for threats while awaiting word from their master. Neither challenged her as she approached the Warsmith's back.

 

"Husband we must make haste," Yseult prodded the Warsmith. "The collapse of the rear is imminent."

 

She came to his side and peered down at what had captured his attention. Brunhyld, the Warsmith's pet human sorceress lay dead upon the cold stone. Her head was held in the lap of the Child, who for once looked upon Yseult and actually smiled. The sorceresses blood stained the black and white chequered dress of the Child, remaining bright red and wet instead of drying brown. The usually pale Child was ruddy cheeked, almost glowing with health, and her normally cold and distant gaze was now dreamy and languid. Yseult took a step back.

 

"They all die." Warsmith Bolverk whispered, running the back of his armoured hand across Brunhyld's pale, lifeless cheek. The difference in their sizes was large even out of their armour, but in his Terminator plate the sorceress looked absurdly small next to the Warsmith, more like a broken doll than a slain champion.

 

"Only death removed the scowl from her face." Yseult commented, marveling on the soft expression that had settled unto the notoriously cross woman's dead face.

 

The Warsmith leaned forward and kissed the cold lips of the sorceress. The Child reached out and ran her fingers through his tangled hair in a consoling gesture. Yseult, true to her name, hardened her heart.

 

"Husband." The Wych-queen said in a commanding voice. "Many of our people are dead. Many more will die yet. We knew this before we came here. We will join them in death if we do not now move."

 

"Only one death matters today." The Warsmith levered himself upright. "He is close. I can feel him."

 

"I still have faith in you, husband," Yseult drew her knives and played with their heft in her hand, eager for the first time in her life to see an end to a day of killing. "But I cannot see what you see. How is one opponent worth all we have lost to kill him? How are we going to survive?"

 

"Wife." The Warsmith's demeanor changed from melancholy to commanding once more. "Rendezvous with Forn Grimnir and the Isarnhauld. Assist them in evacuating what remains of our veteran corps."

 

"I will not leave your side!" Yseult protested. "The grand company is in ruins all around us and the enemy come in their thousands! Have you come here to die as well?"

 

"Come on then, Mrs. The Warsmith." One of the Warsmith's bodyguards gently took her arm in his iron grip. "Time to go."

 

The other Terminator bodyguard leaned forward and scooped up the broken body of Brunhyld from the floor. The Child smiled lazily after them as they dragged the Warsmith's frustrated wife and dead mistress away.

 

"Do you feel him too?" The Warsmith tested the weight of his hammer, getting a good fighting grip upon it.

 

"Oh yes." The Child replied dreamily. "I can already taste him."

 

"It is time to end this."

[Kierdale]

There are about ten hours until I'll be closing the current theme (though judging may take a little longer ;) ).

 

Any more entries to come? :)

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday: Campaign Part III: The Crucible/Tables Turn over the last three weeks.

Many thanks to Carrack and a warm welcome back to Warsmith Aznable.

MyD4rkPassenger, you never got the second and third parts of your entry uploaded but don’t worry: before the end of the year (or perhaps early next year. Time is going rather quickly) we’ll have the fourth and final section (Campaign IV: Climax). If you can get in the second and third parts before then (or at the same time as part IV) that’s fine. Likewise anyone else (looking at you IF stalwarts in particular, Teetengee and Scourged ).

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 thirty-first challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Halloween

It is the witching time again. The Dark Millennium is one of abject and creeping horror. Tell us this week a tale to make our skin crawl.

Inspirational Friday: Halloween 2016 runs until the 4th of November.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: me. Give me some time to read through the entries.

To the chosen victor: step forward and claim your Octed Amulet:

[Kierdale]

Carrack, your description of the Angels of Immolation from the viewpoint of the mortal Lorella was fantastic. I think it really captured the awe that mortals hold/suffer in the presence of Astartes, and the description of the shield Aspis Eternal and her feelings toward it really helped reinforce how vital, how sacred it is to her people (and such superstitions are a great aspect of 40k lore in my opinion).

And in the second section, chapter master Barcar’s thoughts, his view of his enemy, were excellently written. I thought they gave a great image of how a loyalist marine thought and viewed traitor astartes.

And finally, I want to see a model of Lord Carrack and his trophies after this campaign is over

MyD4rkPassenger

Firstly I love the name `Abyss Walkers`. Fantastic. And that the 8th intend to employ sons of Prospero in order to aid them in their raid? Most intriguing. Please post the second and third sections when you have time (title the posts Campaign II and Campaign III and we’ll know ).

Warsmith Aznable

“They swept around the tanks and siege engines still idling before the broken gates, and poured into the trenches and redoubts like liquid hatred.” Such a wonderful way with words!

The clash of the Word Bearers and the warsmith’s grand company was excellently written; that the sons of Lorgar sent their fanatics and spawn first in a tsunami of flesh, before they themselves entered the fray, not worrying themselves with mortal foes but pushing on to the Iron Warriors themselves. And I find it interesting the lengths warsmith Bolverk is willing to go to – losing so many of his men – in order to chase down his foe.

And I gave you Trapped in the Webway: the Psychopomps continuing their assault upon craftworld Carth-Lar, things having go slightly awry as the Eldar managed to take their vast craft into the nexus, and finally awakening the spirit host: the craftworld’s entire army of wraithguard, lords and even a wraithknight, turning the tables upon the pawns of Slaanesh.

I choose Warsmith Aznable as the winner of Campaign III: Tables Turn/The Crucible as I felt his story best fitted the theme.

With the death of chapter master Barcar in this third episode, Carrack, I look forward to seeing what you come up with for the fourth, final and climactic part...

[Evil Eye]

Halloween eh? Sounds good! I'll watch this one with keen interest, and hopefully I might actually finish writing an entry of my own this time!

 

For the record, would a more humourous (if still lore friendly) entry be permissable for the Halloween entry? I have some fiendish ideas...

[Warsmith Aznable]

For the record, would a more humourous (if still lore friendly) entry be permissable for the Halloween entry? I have some fiendish ideas...

The Forsaken will be guest judging once again, channeled through my mortal flesh. He does love to be amused. Betrayal and due come-uppance for the arrogant are his go-to knee-slappers.

 

He also like spooooky stories.

[Carrack]

Kierdale's campaign stories happened to start around the same time that I started my own campaign story in the fan fiction forum of the B&C. I thought I'd go ahead and post this short chapter here, as it is a summary recent events for my warband. Besides, what is more scary then a tax collector?

 

Aspis Sub, the Short Version

 

-Quill and Glass, A tavern outside of the Administratum Tower on Crypa Mundi, Segmentum Obscuras.

 

 

Adept Clovis plopped his paunch down at his usual stool next to Adept Verance and asked, "What did I miss?" Verance ordered up his usual seven year amasec and replied, "You were there at the briefing, why do you need me to fill you in? Clovis waved the barkeep over and looked crestfallen when the man shook his head. The barkeep poured Clovis a well amasec instead of his usual Constantine Vintage, and replied, "You know I can't concentrate when Adept Barquess is giving the briefings." Verance looked at him incredulously, but it was true, it was outright scandalous how Barquess's vestments were tailored. Clovis wondered briefly what errors he had committed over the years because of his inability to concentrate whenever Barquess had given briefings. He was sure some backwater world's peasants had been double tithed at the very least. He washed away his momentary guilt by downing the glass in front of him. Verance gave him the short version of the morning briefing.

 

"Well for one Clovis, you would have learned why your usual vintage has become so hard to come by. The briefing was on the situation in the Aspis sub, you know, one of those State of War or Calamity Fundamental Fact Report blah, blah, blah" This peeked Clovis's interest as the barkeep refilled his glass. His usual wine was imported from the Aspis sub, and Clovis felt the distance his grapes traveled from their vines to his gut made him appear sophisticated, but its mediocre quality still commanded a price he could afford on a clerk's stipend. Verance continued, "The Aspis sub had come under attack by the Arch-Enemy." Clovis immediately downed his second glass, and tried to appreciate its qualities. This news did not bode well for the Constantine Vinyards. Verance gave him the short version.

 

"Heretic forces designated as the Black Maw warband of the Black Legion punched a hole in the Pillars of Fortitude's orbital defenses. They then landed an army of savages and mutants, you know the usual sort, which have kept the fortress world from closing a temporary passage to the Eye of Terror." Other patrons of the tavern were making excuses to leave the bar, as Verance casually used forbidden, and no doubt classified names. The barkeep gave them the hush signal and refilled Clovis's glass. Verance went on, "The Black Maw went on from the Pillars to raid across the sub, crippling the Venicus Shipyards and corrupting the agri world of Calimyr." Clovis had never heard of Calimyr, but had seen the name Venicus Shipyards a time or two in his reports. He drank to their demise nonetheless, too bad for the dirt farmers and forge menials, but at least there would be a few less Tithe Production Summary (TPS) reports for a while.

 

Verance didn't stop there, he said, "The Black Maw then attacked Lemish, and unearthed the Magellous Vaults, whatever that is. Records were sparse on the contents of the vaults, it was either virus bombs or ration packs number 7, meaty gruel with added protein. About this time the Angels of Immolation chapter of Adeptus Astartes answered a call for aid from the subsector commander. Our fellow Adeptus brought their fleet to battle the Black Maw's at the Gundrum System. No, that's not right, some System that starts with a G, anyway, The Angels of Immolation lost the battle and their flagship."

 

The thought of eating meaty gruel with added protein made Clovis knock back another amasec, and another one once that was refilled. Then Verance, now grinning, lightened his dark mood, "Now for the good news Clovis. It appears our fellow Adeptus, only of the Astartes persuasion, Space Wolves and Dark Angels if I remember correctly, have taken on the mantle of relieving the Aspis sub. That means we won't have to requisition materials and men for a crusade, the Space Marines are handling it for us. So other than your favorite beverage running dry, we won't be bothered by this invasion in our lifetime."

 

Clovis bought another round or three to thank Verance for paying attention and to celebrate the space marines, they were true heroes of the Imperium. He then thanked Verance and cleared his tab, taking one for the road. Clovis left the tavern and stumbled his way back to the Administratum to reach his lectern before his lunch hour ended.

 

[Teetengee]

Monsters: Part 1:

Hidden Content

Arthanus, The 13 day of the 8th Moon, 20 After Enlightenment, Kesh and Jalal’s first anniversary:

 

Kesh woke to a hand holding her eyes shut and a heavy weight on legs. A rough strip of slightly damp material ending in two triangular tips slid lightly across her lips. She shoved her hands forward, tossing her assailant from the bed with a savage yell and landing on him before she could get a clear look at him.

 

“Jalal! Damn you, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

 

“Oh, it’s just a bit of fun!” Jalal’s forked tongue was darted in and out between laughs, “Happy anniversary!”

 

“You better hope so if you want to reach a second one. Is Mar awake?”

 

“Not yet, still sleeping,” Both stood and got dressed as they spoke, Jalal in the loose clothes of a laborer, Kesh in the more formal and close to her skin attire of her station, though both in bright colours.

 

“Well, leave her be, she’ll be awake plenty later when the rest of the clan is here,” Kesh tied her red silk sash about her waist.

 

“Ok, I’ll finish breakfast while you attend to the core.”

 

“Thank you love,” Kesh said, as she tied up her boots. She looked around at their home with great appreciation as she walked down to the core. The smells of Jalal frying meat on the exhausts followed her through the passageways. One year ago had their home been given to her as a wedding gift.  It was built into the torso of one the great engines of war that had fallen during the War of Enlightenment, taken by her late father. The machine’s still functioning antimatter core powered the whole of what remained of the Imperial city once known as Al’Ratir.

 

Kesh herself had never seen the war, having having been born in the first year after enlightenment. The scars of battle had surrounded her in childhood, but she had not truly felt their touch until her father Harthshep took the journey west, his war wounds finally taking too much of a toll upon his body for him to be of any use to the clan. Tears of sorrow and pride had mixed that day on Kesh’s cheeks, for Harthshep has strode defiantly into the sands, without begging or crawling, and with a smile on his lips. Men had said that not once had Harthshep knelt to their oppressors, and in that moment, as he walked into the shifting white, Kesh finally knew the truth of such stories.

 

Upon Harthshep’s leaving, Kesh had officially taken over his role as chief engineer. In actuality, her duties had changed little, her father’s growing frailty in his final years had meant that most of the work requiring keen eyesight or strong hands had been Kesh’s already. Only paperwork and the maintenance of the core, a task too important for her stubborn father to entrust to anyone else while he still had authority over it, had been turned over to her.

 

“Tell me old girl, what ails you this day?” Kesh whispered to the machine as she grew closer to the core. Something about the whine of the engine suggested additional draw. Perhaps nothing, just some work team getting an early start on shrine construction for the Enlightenment day celebration in two weeks time. But Harthshep had not kept a jury-rigged power station running for 20 years by assuming slight changes were “nothing,” and Kesh, perhaps even more attuned with machines than her father, had no intentions of letting this be the “nothing” that broke the core.

 

Kesh scanned the engine room for anything out of place. Her eyes caught on her old infant sling, still tied off to the side where her mother Charlenia had first placed it. Until age 8, Kesh had only ever slept through the night listening to the hum of the engine. Charlenia used to say that the machine was more Kesh’s mother than she ever was. But now the sling swung in no wind at all, and Kesh thanked Charlenia for the eyes she had inherited, foregoing the lights to hopefully see any intruder before they saw her.

 

Pulling a long screwdriver, Kesh slid to the side wall of the core, her heart pounding. She clambered up the side of the machinery and looked about to make sure no one followed. Slinking along the top, she peered out from her old hiding places for whatever being trespassed in her home. Some other clan perhaps, jealous of the dominance the engine left the Kartus clan? But how would they have gotten this far without some sort of alert going up? Someone within the clan then? Vivinia of Nine Owls had threatened her life when Jalal offered his hand, perhaps she aimed to make good on old threats? The core! What if they had sabotaged the core, and that was why it sounded so strange?

 

Moving as quickly as she dared, Kesh swept the vast engine room for fear and anger lending her speed. At each entryway she locked the exit, pulling metal shields down that had been prepared in case of Imperial assault in order to close off damaged sections of the fallen titan when necessary. Kesh had never given much credence to the horror stories her father had told of them, but his paranoia in defending the core would do just as well to protect against more realistic threats. When finally she was sure that any intruder was nowhere to be found, she dropped down from the catwalks and immediately began combing the engine for added equipment.

 

She looked twenty minutes before voxing Jalal. “Love, I am going to be late, check on Mar for me.”

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I think some children may have played a prank, but I need to make sure there is nothing more serious, if I am not back in two hours, bring Mar to your parents, I’ll meet you there.”

 

“Do you need me to--”

 

“No, Jalal. Trust me, I’m fine. Just take care.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

Kesh spent another hour locked away in the sweltering heat of the core room before she noticed that the sling was still swinging at the same pace. She walked up to it and pulled aside the fabrics and furniture that had been placed around it with a crash. Underneath, a cracked display flickered on and off. A rotating disk was caught in the rope holding up her infant sleeping sling, knocking back and forth and clicking on a broken axle. Kesh laughed with relief. Just some malfunctioning machinery, long since thought to be beyond repair. Still, why had it turned on now?

[Warsmith Aznable]

Warsmith Aznable

“They swept around the tanks and siege engines still idling before the broken gates, and poured into the trenches and redoubts like liquid hatred.” Such a wonderful way with words!

The clash of the Word Bearers and the warsmith’s grand company was excellently written; that the sons of Lorgar sent their fanatics and spawn first in a tsunami of flesh, before they themselves entered the fray, not worrying themselves with mortal foes but pushing on to the Iron Warriors themselves. And I find it interesting the lengths warsmith Bolverk is willing to go to – losing so many of his men – in order to chase down his foe.

I choose Warsmith Aznable as the winner of Campaign III: Tables Turn/The Crucible as I felt his story best fitted the theme.

With the death of chapter master Barcar in this third episode, Carrack, I look forward to seeing what you come up with for the fourth, final and climactic part...

Now that I actually have more than a minute to sit down, and am not staring at this on my phone, I'd like to say thanks so much, it's good to be back!

I am very much looking forward to finishing the campaign story and doing an epilogue for it. It's made me think a lot about my warband, way beyond just the initial IA I did for it, and with more of an eye for its future than the non-campaign stories I wrote for it before. The 49th grand company may see some big shake ups before this is through, sort of in-line with what seems to be happening with the fluff coming out of the recent campaign books.

[Carrack]

Joey's Skull

 

Kasr Woolten

 

 

Joey stood up for a moment from his chores to listen to his mother yell out the mess hall firing port, "Joethemal, you better dig that defensive firing position deep enough for your father to stand in, or you won't get any added protein with your meaty gruel tonight!" Joey went back to work with his entrenching tool. He was almost done, he just had to carve out a little step for his younger sister who was still at kinder-drill, and dig the grenade sumps.

 

The sumps were the hardest part. They were supposed to cover the width of the fighting position at each end, and be dug to the depth of his las rifle. They had to be angled to the side, then plummet straight down, so a heretic's grenade could be kicked into them and explode without sending shrapnel into his family. They were the hardest part to dig because he had to lay on the ground of the hole to use his entrenching tool, then stand up to throw the dirt in front of the hole, which was hard on his sore muscles after this morning's forced march. Besides the dirt was harder the deeper he dug, and roots from some old tree still crisscrossed the ground at that depth. Still, Joey liked added protein with his meaty gruel, so he got down and started to dig.

 

Joey's entrenching tool struck something hard. Something harder than the rocky dirt anyway. He reached down with his hand to brush aside the dirt from the root, and instead of old wood, he felt something smooth. He unlugged his bayonet from his las rifle to clear the dirt around the object, than thought better of it. Using his bayonet on dirt would not be proper of a Cadian, so he fixed it back to his las rifle and took out the knife from his mess kit. He used his mess knife to clear away the dirt around the smooth, roundish object and brought it out. It was a another skull. Joey set it aside for a moment and finished digging out the sumps.

 

As soon as he finished digging, Joey slotted his entrenching tool into its loop on the back of his ruck, and picked up his las rifle to man the position until his sister came home. Then he would supervise her concealing the position, and ensure she used the excess dirt to refill some of the family's sandbags. While he waited, Joey picked up the last skull with his non-firing hand and brushed the dirt away from its surface. He then shook out the clods from inside to get a better look at the last skull. It was roughly human shaped, only significantly larger. The brow was pronounced, and the bone thicker and denser than a man's. It weighed as much as a krak missile, as opposed to a man's typical frag grenade weight skull. The size wasn't the most unusual feature of the skull. What had first looked like an entry wound on the forehead, appeared far too smooth and even. The hole was of the same size as the eye sockets below. In fact, Joey was certain that was what the hole was, a third eye socket. Joey felt pride that one of his ancestors had killed this filthy mutant and tossed the skull into the pile of others he had unearthed with today's digging.

 

While he waited on his sister to march home, Joey arranged the skulls, again with his non-firing hand. There were seven of them. Joey had hoped for eight, his lucky number, for he dreamed of being inducted into the most honored regiment of all the Imperial Guard, the Cadian 8th, the Lord Castilian's Own. He formed a little pile, with the big mutant skull on top, a little monument to the brave Cadians and their vanquished foes who had died outside of his family's barracks over the years. He was proud of his little monument of skulls, it was like a little fortress with the mutant skull as its central tower. He shifted the skulls around so the eye sockets could represent firing ports for his monument. It was a perfect little fortress now, with interlocking fields of fire. Joey couldn't wait to show his sister when she came to help finish the defensive firing position, and then the rest of his family when they performed the bedtime drills.

 

Joey waited, sighting down his las rifle at likely avenues of approach, but he kept glancing at his skull fortress as he did. He searched for ways to improve it, for defensive works were never complete. He dug a triple trench network in front of it with his fingers, and added little tank traps he made from bits of roots he had unearthed. It still needed something else. Its front gate needed additional protection, it needed something to fill the gap between skulls that represented the entrance to the fortress. Joey looked around for a suitable chunk of root or bone fragment, but none fit.

 

Joey's mother ordered him to stay on alert from the mess hall without even sticking her head out the firing port. She intuitively knew he was not on task, which shamed him, so he went back to scanning his sector of fire. Still, the flawed fortress nagged at him, and was all he could think about while he manned his position.

 

Finally, Joey's sister, Revecca, came marching home from kinder-drill. Like a good little Cadian, she halted at the 300 meter marker and held her carbine up at the high port, this week's recognition gesture. Joey returned the gesture, then went back to panning his las rifle across his sector of fire, lingering his aim on his sister to check for signs of duress or compromise, as was custom. There were none. Yet he couldn't help but notice the size of his sister's head. Miraculously, her skull looked like it would be a perfect fit to the main gate of his skull fortress. He quickly dismissed such thoughts.

 

Joey challenged his sister at the 50 meter mark, with both the challenge word, "Violet", and with two fingers of his non-firing hand. His sister responded with, "Eyes", and one finger of her own, the correct responses to the day's challenges. Still, Joey didn't raise his barrel to let her pass. The nagging thoughts of his fortress coalesced into a voice in his head. It said, "Take her skull. Do it now, make the altar complete." Shocked by the voice in his head, he almost did what it told him to. Instead, Joey ignored the voice and raised his barrel high and wide, sweeping the little fortress of skulls down the piled dirt in front of the position. He then beckoned Revecca forward, and ordered her, "Pat down the loose dirt so it doesn't look like fresh digging. Then break up the silhouette with brush from the back drill field. Use some of the dirt to refill those old sandbags, too, and I'll check your work in a few minutes. I'm going inside to help mom with dinner mess." His sister immediately got to work.

 

After setting the mess table and washing his mess knife, Joey went to check on his sister. She was in the firing position, but facing the barracks, not her fields of fire. The barrel of her carbine was pointing directly at Joey. Behind her, was a pile of seven skulls, in the same fortress shape he had made himself. Revecca said, "Skulls for the Skull Throne, Joey." And fired.

 

 

I thought of this trick or treating last night with my kids, the time of year where suburbia has enough skulls to make a respectable battlefield in the 41st millennium. :)

[Kierdale]

The three bears

Hidden Content

“Not hungry my little one?” Helga crouched to look little Varin in his large eyes. He hadn’t touched his broth – she usually had to smack his hand away with her ladle to get him to wait for his older brothers – but he certainly looked fine enough. Ruddy cheeks, his eyes the bright blue of his father. Oh how those eyes reminded her of her late husband...

The ladle made a loud thwack as she used it to stop Sven from stealing his younger brother’s food. Sven, her middle son, did not cry out in pain – for which she was proud of him – but gave a cheeky grin before bowing his head.

“I accept my mistake and promise to do better.”

Not quite the rote phrase of their people, but he was learning.

She smiled at the two of them.

“Once your brother arrives, you eat all that up, understand? Eat it all up, grow big and strong and you might be chosen by the Sky Warriors!”

Though Varin was still quiet, in somewhat of a daze - daydreaming perhaps as he was still so young - she saw Sven’s eyes grow bright. He loved stories, particularly those of the Sky Warriors. That his uncle had been chosen was a source of immense pride for the family. That it had happened so long ago, before her sons had been born, before she and their father had married, mattered not. A source of pride it was, and a near impossible goal for the young boys of the family’s current generation to match. A yoke of ambition which some bore heavily: Vestar, her oldest, traipsed in through the door of their longhouse, the snow deep outside and more falling by the minute, setting his axe by the fireplace and shucking off his snow-matted coat of furs onto the floor.

“No bondsman of the Sky Warriors would be so careless with his belongings!” she scolded him and made no move to pick up the heavy garment as she would have with Sven’s or Varin’s. She expected more of Vestar. “No lord would choose a man who took such poor care of his own belongings! Such a man could not tend rightly to the lord’s armour, the lord’s holy bolter, the lord’s-“

“Quiet, woman!” the young man barked. “I’ll be no Sky Warrior and I’ll be no servant of them, either.”

Though only fourteen years of age, life on their world was harsh and the young grew strong quickly or died. Vestar was long of limb, and muscular from his daily duties. Chopping wood for the family for starters. Hauling goods for the merchants at the town market. A little hunting when they could spare time. And lots of shoveling snow. Lots of that.

But his muscle-corded neck was not so strong that his head wasn’t whipped to the side by his mother’s slap.

“No Bjornson speaks that way. Your father would be ashamed. Your uncle would be ashamed!” She sniffed. “And what is that stench?!” She looked him up and down, “You’ve been at the House again, haven’t you? Cavorting with strumpets! You’ll catch the rot,” she pointed toward his nether regions, “And that’ll be the end.” She clipped his ear and jerked her chin toward the table, “Now seat yourself and eat with your brothers.”

She watched sadly as her eldest took his position at the head of the table and bent himself over his bowl.

She could not entirely blame him for his bitterness or how he chose to let out his aggression and energy, for the Sky Warriors came for the finest youths but every few years – and even less often out here in the remoter parts – and simple timing had denied him the fate he had thought awaited him. Had he been born only a couple of years earlier or later...

Now the best he could hope for was to be accepted as a bondsman, a servant of the Sky Warriors, but his resentment would only serve to damage his chances at this. What fate then? To remain here, in their far-flung hamlet, to marry one of the local girls – not that there were many beauties here where the winds beat one’s cheeks to leather by adulthood – and raise his own children, praying to the All Father that one of them might be chosen. And then to live vicariously through them? She shrugged off her own bitterness at that thought. For any of the family to be accepted was a wondrous blessing of the All Father.

Varin barely touched his broth and eventually Helga gave up and let Sven steal his brother’s dinner. Vestar set the fire to burn through the night before he and Sven took to their beds. Varin, still so small, slept in his mother’s. She welcomed the company for the bed otherwise would have been so empty.

She awoke in the night to find Varin snuffling at her chest.

“What’s gotten into you, child?”

She had weaned him over a year earlier.

“Feeju. Feeju,” he repeated.

It made her laugh and she squeezed his cheek.

“Feeju. Feeju.”

“You should have eaten your broth.”

“Wasn’t hungry. Feeju. Feeju.”

She smiled, “Mummy can’t anymore. We stopped. Remember.”

This quietened him down. She gave him a hug and they fell asleep as the wind howled outside.

That morning Varin ate his breakfast, his hunger returned and Helga smiled in relief, but her worries returned twofold when that night Varin again pushed his bowl away, his cheeks rosy, a smile upon his face. But she did not question him this time for while Varin had been a little late, Sven still had not yet returned and she could see the snow falling heavier and heavier outside. Thankfully it was not windy, though it was beginning to darken as winter came.

If he did not return soon she would have to send Vestar out to find him as soon as her eldest got home. Where was he?

The hours stretched, the sky turned from pale blue through pink to black and finally a drunken Vestar staggered in.

“Where in your uncle’s name have you been?!” She did not shout for it had not been easy to get Varin to sleep and she daren’t awaken him, but her voice carried well and was strong enough to stop him in his steps.

Vestar’s eyes struggled to find her and then to focus. His mouth slowly opened.

“Your brother is missing!”

This cleared the mist from before his eyes.

An hour later her eldest returned, her second son over his shoulder, crying.

“Found him out in the wood beyond the wall, mother,” Vestar said, roughly dropping his sibling to the sawdust-strewn floor of their longhouse.

Helga began to berate Sven, screaming at him about the winter, about the wolves and the draugr and more, until she noticed he clutched tightly to something.

“What is that?” she asked, the answer gone from her voice.

Sven grinned and held it tight to him.

“What is that, son?” she said, letting a little of her late husband’s steel into her voice.

“Heroes and riches and palaces,” Sven muttered to himself, grinning from ear to ear.

Vestar clicked his tongue, clipping his prone brother with the tip of his boot as he made his way to the table, “child playing with one of his toys.” He sighed as he found his broth now cold and lumpy.

But Helga had never seen the toy before.

Once she had them all to sleep she crept over to find Sven asleep with the toy still firmly clenched in his hands. Teasing his fingers from it she could see that it was a carving, not of bone or horn or wood as most of their people’s toys were, but of some kind of stone. In the fading light of the fire it looked pale and striated with roseate veins. She had seen nothing like it, but its form was familiar: that of one of the Sky Warriors. His blade of teeth, his bolt-caster and ornate armour. It was fine craftsmanship. Finer than any she had ever seen of the Sky Warriors in her life. She reached out to touch it, to run her finger over its fine carved details. The swirls, whorls and coiled patterns upon its armour. She wanted to take it from him, because she feared for where Sven had acquired it, or because she wanted to examine it more herself, she could not say. The more of her son’s fingers she peeled from the toy, the more he struggled and his forehead became creased with a troubled frown.

Had he stolen it? If so she could only imagine that it had been the plaything of one of the thegn’s children. Who else would possess such a piece? She would have to ask around in the morning.

With great difficulty she tore her eyes from the carving and moved back to her own bed.

“Feeju. Feeju.”

She rolled her eyes. Varin had woken.

She winced as he fastened his mouth upon her right breast, sucking hard. With a grunt she pushed him away, frowning at her half-asleep son. She had finished feeding him over four seasons ago, and had always had trouble with her right side, always feeding him from her left.

“Feeju. Feeju,” he moaned once again, snuffling about with his face like a mole.

“Varin, sleep, boy. Sleep.” She managed to push his head away from her chest and patted his back, hoping to get him back into deeper sleep.

“Sleep. Sleep. You’re a big boy now. No Feeju anymore.”

“Feeju,” he mumbled weakly as drowsiness too him. “Feeju. Feeju in the trees.”

“You two: come straight home after your teachings. You will not leave the village. You: straight home after your duties.”

Helga’s tone at the breakfast table showed she would brook no objections, no excuses.

Once her boys were gone she checked Sven’s belongings and bedding, hoping he had left the carving but, as she had half expected, he had taken it with him.

That afternoon Varin and Sven returned on time for the first time in what she realized was likely several weeks now. She caught them both staring out the window into the falling snow several times, and when Sven didn’t have his eyes on the treetops now barely visible beyond the palisade wall they were fixed upon the ornately carved Sky Warrior. Now in better light she could see that it wore not a helmet but at first seemed to be bare headed, with a face contorted in a scream. A battlecry? She had never seen combat beyond the brawls her late husband had gotten into, but could any man’s face be so torn between pain, rage and pleasure? To gaze upon it sent a shudder through her.

She would have to dispose of it, of that she was now clear.

But of more concern to her was Varin, for he returned with no appetite yet also lacking the ruddy glow that had been in his cheeks recently. They were sallow and his face drawn.

Was she overreacting, banning them from some form of play with their friends in the woods? Some make-believe that had kept their spirits high while she had been so concerned these recent months with her eldest?

She was greatly relieved when Vestar arrived, he too when he was supposed to.

They ate little, but for the first time in months they ate as family.

The gates of the under realm appeared to have opened as cold wind gusted into the longhouse, blowing out the fire and plunging all into darkness. Flurries of snow blew in though in the darkness of the overcast night they were as black as soot, as if a fire colder than the depths of space was ravaging their world.

Helga awoke almost immediately, her eyes finding the door swinging madly in the wind, the great bar which usually held it fast inexplicably broken upon the floor.

Within the same second she realized that Varin was missing from her side and she screamed his name over the howling wind, to no avail.

Sven too was gone and Vestar could barely hold his mother back from the brink of hysteria.

This time it was his palm which glanced her cheek and he bid her relight then hearth as he donned his furs and hefted his axe before heading out, promising not to return without his siblings.

The winds tore at him like the claws of draugr: the restless dead. It was foolhardy, nay suicidal, to venture out after dark on his world for the night was the realm of beasts and of the dead. But his glorious future had been denied him, he would not march at the side of his uncle and those heroes of his world whom the All Father took. All that remained then was his kith and kin: something that he had been lax in his care of these months. He had fallen to resentment, bitterness and desire. Ale, pipeweed and the pleasures of the flesh. In these he had found solace. In the curling smoke of the pipe he had seen himself in the great plate of a Sky Warrior and in the flattery of the ladies of the House he was a hero.

But the wind and the cold stripped all this from him now.

His furs were soon heavy with snow, his left hand up to keep the snow from his eyes, his breath escaping like steam from the gaps in his mask of leather. His eyes watered in the bitter cold. In his right hand he held his axe: the tool of a worker rather than a warrior, but he held it loosely at the neck, ready to let it slip lower and swing into the head of any beast or phantom he might find.

And so he strode out of the village, the sentries enquiry and words of warming swallowed by the wind before it reached his ears, out into the woods beyond.

It was as black as a kraken’s gullet under the snow-covered trees. While the snow was caught by the higher branches and formed a great canopy, the lower branches were still covered in thick hoarfrost and his hand brushed it away in great chunks as he found himself wandering, near-blind in the darkness.

What was he doing? There were no tracks, no trace. He had no idea of where his young brothers might have gone. And yet something had lead him out here. Something had caused him to stray from the path at that certain point and plunge into the woods. Something caused him to pause at a great fir and head left rather than right. Something caused him to follow a near-frozen brook rather than simply cross it.

And that something lead him to a clearing. It was first simply a lightening in the darkness ahead, an illusion of his mind he thought at first until he drew closer and he could be sure it was light. As he moved, trees and branches passed between him and the light, allowing him to judge its distance a little. He pressed on now, a feeling deep within his chest that he neared his goal. That he neared his brothers.

A clearing. A snow-blanketed glade. The snow was blindingly bright, as if every moonbeam from Valdramni were focused upon it. And no wind blew, though he would have expected a clearing in the wood like this to have been whipped by a whirlwind.

The light that bled into the depths about it lit the hard ground and in the slow that had fallen about the glade’s edge he could see tracks. The tracks of small boots, one pair larger than the other, as if both had come together. No drag marks.

Suspended within the clearing, head-down over the carpet of snow was a numen, a radiant figure. Tresses of colours which danced across the spectrum hung down from a scalp half-shaved bare. Vestar saw much exposed flesh, embarrassingly little of its long-limbed body was concealed within a corset of leather and silver, as he moved closer and took in the maiden’s placid features. Large eyes closed as if in slumber, a small nose and full lips. She was quite unlike any he had ever seen. Far lither than the stocky women of his tribe, and far fairer and cleaner of skin than the painted ladies of the House though there was something in her otherworldliness which repulsed him at a base level. He took in her torso, noting the pert breast only on the right side, and his pulse quickened despite himself.

He tore his eyes from her as he moved closer, searching the darkness of the woods to his left and right, assuming that some troll or other imp of the night forest had strung her up, but the light bleeding from her, blinding him to the majority of her form, robbed him of his night vision and his surroundings were impenetrable darkness.

As he stepped into the clearing her eyes shot wide open, staring directly at the young man’s. Great irisless orbs of jade ensnared him and as he fell into those baleful eyes the light died. He could but see it in his peripheral vision, but her greater form was now revealed to him. Eight spindly legs suspended her from the surrounding trees, anchored into a large carapace-clad fleshy body of yellowed, leathery skin, from the front of which the torso of the maiden protruded. And her arms. Her arms ended not in the fine, long fingers of a maiden or the gauntleted fists of a Valkyrie, but in the oversized claws of some beast.

“You came for them,” her voice was like tinkling glass.

A clawed hand reached out to caress Vestar’s cheek, pulling the mask from his face, “I see your resemblance.”

His axe was as lead in his hand.

“The youngest ensnared with nectar,” the fiend stroked its breast, hissing as it touched itself.

“The second with visions and tales of glory,” it blinked and Vestar saw before him a great palace of silver and amethyst, huge roseate banners blowing, legions parading through statue-lined gardens.

“And what of the third?” she breathed as she drew nearer.

Hidden Content

Original title “Gaudilocks and the Three Bears”

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday: Halloween over the last week.

I have not had the chance to read everyone’s entries yet (due to the DDOS) but look forward to doing so.

Here begins our thirty-second challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Tales of Vengeance

“Revenge is a profound moral desire to keep faith with the dead, to honour their memory by taking up their cause where they left off.”

Retribution, retaliation, revenge...payback. A harmful action against a person or group in response to a grievance real or perceived, in the absence of formal law.

Give us this time a tale of grudge-bearers setting out to restore the balance of honour.

But remember,

“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

Inspirational Friday: Tales of Vengeance runs until the 18th of November.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Warsmith Aznable.

To the chosen victor: step forward and claim your Octed Amulet:

[Warsmith Aznable]

I will give these a careful rereading and judge by tomorrow afternoon.

[Teetengee]

Don't worry about judging mine, I figured I would have until tomorrow because of the DDOS, but alas, things went back up faster than I expected. I'll get up the remainder when I can.

[Teetengee]

Monsters (Halloween 2016) Part II (at least 1 perhaps more parts remain)

Hidden Content

Kesh finished the core maintenance quickly, deciding that faulty unused equipment was a problem she could fix on not her anniversary. Today was a day for family and community, not her father’s paranoia. She wound back up the metal carcass of her home, pulling her clothing tight as the sweltering heat of the core room transitioned to the much cooler hallways of the rest of the titan. A child’s laughter echoed down the halls, quickly joined by the smell of sizzling meat, as Kesh approached her family’s living quarters. Mar must be awake. Cheerful today as well, it seemed.

 

 

Jalal embraced her at the door, “So long you were gone, I was afraid you might have left us!”

 

 

“No need to worry, love,” she said, returning the affection with a kiss, “I would never leave you before eating such a lovely breakfast.”

 

 

Kesh sat at the small table Jalal had set out, taking Mar from her cradle and feeding her as both Kesh and Jalal ate. The feel of Mar’s small forked tongue, Jalal’s tongue in a sense, reminded Kesh of Mar’s existence as an expression of her family’s Oneness, as the priestesses might put it. The Many That Are One would certainly be a theme of their speeches today, she was sure, and it seemed to Kesh at least, that Mar was perhaps a more literal representation of that concept than any other in her life.

 

 

She finished her meal quickly, happy to just hold Mar and listen to Jalal tell stories of the factory. “Vivinia in particular seemed put out yesterday, but I cannot for the life of me fathom why,” he said, the jest plain upon his eyes, “She inspected over a dozen digging rigs, and not a single defect. Perhaps she was disappointed she had no excuse to keep us there longer?”

 

 

“Yes, I’m sure she would have loved to watch you work for another two hours, but perhaps we should leave her out of today, no?”

 

 

“I don’t imagine she’ll be there, so I think we’re safe.”

 

“You know what I mean, be nice Jal.”

 

 

“Very well, even if she is an easy mark.”

 

Their conversation was pierced by Mar’s wail. “Shh, little one,” Kesh said, but to no avail, the wailing grew stronger. “I’m going to bring Mar to the observation deck to see if it will calm her, please pick up won’t you.”

 

“Right away, I’ll have your clothes ready when you get back.”

 

Mar’s wailing reduced, but did not cease, as Kesh took her up to the top of the Titan, rocking Mar gently in her arms as she strode. “Hush now my darling, don’t worry nor cry, the Many are now singing, hush, hear their lullaby,” Kesh sang softly, the chorus of echoing whispers following her up to the top of the ancient metal warrior.

The observation deck had been made from the heavily damaged head of the semi-reclined titan. Where the killing blast had melted through its armoured skull, Charlenia had made a window of ten thousand pieces of scavenged glass, in hundreds of varied colours. Kesh’s mother had always been devout, and the arrangement of the glass into a window depicting the sacrifice of the Champion of the Many to banish the Dead God was breathtaking.

 

 

Kesh paced within the vast picture windowed space, rocking Mar and gazing out over the sand swept remains of Al’Ratir. She saw where her clan and others were making a home from the rubble of the hives. That the dead edifices of the worshippers of the Dead God served as a soil from which to grow new life seemed appropriate to Kesh. Her father’s stories of the war had impressed their evil well enough, and she was sure that the Many were pleased by such irony. This place was a favorite of hers because of how well it focussed one on that concept. The fact that the colored lights that streamed through the picture window seemed to have a calming effect on Mar was no small benefit either. The child had always been a difficult one, even her birth had nearly killed Kesh three moons prior.

 

 

Recovery had been difficult for Kesh, she still had not taken on an apprentice, so Jalal had to carry her about the core until she could stand on her own. His own work suffered, particularly with Vivinia as overseer. Still, even she dare not let the core go silent, lest the other clans decided to take the territory of the Kartus clan if they could not keep the power flowing. Al’Ratir’s heart lay in her hands, and she had nearly fell, dooming Kartus clan, and perhaps even the entire clan structure of the city to a cold death, should none prove up to the task of maintenance. Kesh decided to look at the ceremony to see which youth might be interested. The curious would undoubtedly attend, hoping to gain her favour.

 

 

Mar’s crying eventually stopped under the speckled colours of the stained glass and the singing of her mother. Her eyes clsoed and her breathing slowed, until she was sound asleep. Still, Kesh stood peacefully, staring at and out the window in quiet reverence. She looked far out to the colour shifted horizon, the sands and ruins as far as the eye could see, even from this high vantage. While looking through the stylized golden armour of the Dead God, she thought she saw a series of meteors. They plummetted to the earth, but at a distance so great, she could not be sure of their nature. She would have to sell the location to the satellite farmers of one of the clans in that direction. Perhaps she could get a set of clothes for Mar to wear once she grew older. Kesh’s old rags had long since found a home soaked with oil and engine grease.

 

 

With Mar soundly asleep, Kesh took care on the winding path back down, not daring to wake her. It was not until Mar was safely asleep once more in her crib that Kesh dared breathe deeply. Being late tonight would be an affront to the Many and surely bring ill fortune to their union. After all the day’s delays, Kesh feared they had little extra time to properly purify and prepare themselves for the coming rituals.

[Warsmith Aznable]

In what will probably be the only vote I cast today with any real meaning, I choose the winner at this time.

 

Sorry for the delay, life is still kind of crazy...

 

Not many to choose from, but I really enjoyed the quality of what was submitted.

 

But I choose Carrack's "Joey's Skull" as the winning entry. While both were good stories, Joey's Skull was more tightly written, managing to get more across with less, capturing both the theme of the challenge as well as the background of 40k neatly, with the added bonus of a twist ending that made me chuckle while at the same time being completely inline with the setting.

[Kierdale]

I got time to read the entries today.

Carrack, that was excellent. :tu:

Teetengee please do give us the remaining part/parts, I look forward to them :)

 

EDIT: it's interesting that we all went for stories featuring families.

[Carrack]

Thanks. To be picked out of this week's great stories is an honor.

[Teetengee]

I got time to read the entries today.

Carrack, that was excellent.

Teetengee please do give us the remaining part/parts, I look forward to them

EDIT: it's interesting that we all went for stories featuring families.

I will. Recent events have me a bit discouraged, to say the least, but I shall prevail.