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

[Barbatos]

My first entry. Fluff for Drang and his warband of Iron Warriors

Sorry about the weak formatting.

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DRANG

Hidden Content

“We failed at Terra. We were betrayed by the Sons of Horus, no one else. Not the Emperor, not the will of Chaos. But by those cowards. We fled towards the Eye, but opportunity presented itself and we were forced… by honour to halt our retreat. We found that the Sons had taken refuge on Alexandria, a planet I took with my own company. It’s people willingly took them in… spat in our faces and betrayed us…”

The final defender of the bell tower fell. Blood flowing uncontrollably from the opening in his side. His lifeless body fell to the ground, crushing the tiles of the church as it tumbled down the angled descent. Several more corpses littered the roof, either riddled with bolt-holes or hacked to death in various ways. They wore the colours of the Sons of Horus, but he was dead now and his orphans were wild and without rule. Four astartes clad in the lifeless iron of the IVth stood triumphant over the dead, their barrels scorched and blades heavy with viscera. Their armor was scarred and mainly scavenged from their raids as they retreated outward from the galactic core. The tallest of the warriors, Fuhren, wore the very ornate scraps of the Emperor’s Children, chromed and dulled by its new bearer. Two others, Rommel and Kruja wore an uneasy combination of Mk. II and the newer Mk. IV. But Warsmith Drang wore the purest Mk. III suit. It was rough on the surface, bearing hastily engraved patterns and welding scars from self-repair. The squad were the only ones to make it this far into the city, with smaller numbers than what they had started out with. Any other remaining Iron Warriors were clearing the city streets of the living.

Drang sheathed his combat knife, and wiped the blood clean off of his visor, seeing the greater picture of their actions. The city of Permia, planet Alexandria. The very same planet was conquered by the IVth Legion centuries ago, it was Drang’s company that had planted their standard on this very cathedral when compliance came to the world. Now everything had to be burned, for it had been tainted by the Fatherless Sons of Horus.

“Drang. The West Plateau has been cleared. Awaiting further orders…”

The Warsmith quickly responded,as was his instinct and duty, even after the great defeat on Terra, they would still maintain their composure in war.

“Captain Heizel move inwards, medicae district is your next point. Maternity Block B6-A and work your way through. Apothecary wants nothing older than four cycles. Do away with the mothers.”

“Yes Warsmith.”

Drang keyed in an open frequency and broadcasted it over the city. Into every home, church and manufactorum.

“Citizens of Permia! We have come for what is ours! We burn this city to ash, as is punishment for harbouring the cowards of the XVIth Legion. We will crush. Destroy. Burn and humiliate your world. Some of you will survive and once the ash clears, you will beg for death. And to my own warriors remember... For every ten you kill, spare one. Every one of them subjected to Rapine is to be spared, do not let them forget how they will suffer. Subject these husks to despair. Let them know of their trespass. LET THEM KNOW THE IRON WRATH OF THE IVTH LEGION!”

The thousands of hab-blocks on the West Plateau were ablaze in the promethium of Heizel’s terminator squad, it’s inhabitants screaming within, clawing for release from their agonizing torture. The assault squads led by Rosig carried people off into the skies and skewered them on the grand spires and monuments of the False-Emperor. Others lucky enough to escape the swooping predators were rundown by bikes and the warmachines of the Legion. The planet was not to be destroyed however, but left barely alive. The people were to be sentenced to a punishment worthy of traitors.

Fuhren stepped forward with his bolter shouldered, replacing the drum-magazine. “Drang! This vanity is unnecessary, we should have this place shelled and be away. This pointless display of power is a waste of our resources.”

“This display is necessary, to the men.” The Warsmith made his way to the bell tower gates, “It is their right of revenge and who are we to deny it?”

“Are the heads of less than a hundred Sons of Horus worth it? The Sons of Dorn still pursue us and you would risk their wrath?” Fuhren halted and demanded answer.

“Choose your next words wisely Fuhren, this is a warning! The men demand slaughter! Were you not by my side as we poured through the walls of the palace? We saw it! Our victory, our birthright. And then what Fuhren? They sounded the retreat with the death of their false idol. They chose to live as cowards, fearful of death when they should’ve pushed on! We could’ve tore down the very colums of the palace. The Emperor would have brayed like a bi-”

“Warmsith! They’ve found Belphat, base of the tower. Action?” Kruja interrupted, impatience heavy in his voice.

Without another word between the squad they made for the bridge, which arced off of the cathedral roof into the grand ivory tower. They moved unified like a true Iron Warriors squad. Drang led with combat blade and his twin-linked bolter, Fuhren and Rommel flanked and Kruja covering rear with a blooded chain-axe. Drang and his men were trench-clearers, it was their speciality among the Grand Company. Though unorthodox for a Warmsith to serve at the forefront of siege operations, Drang’s men were more than familiar with the horrors of trench warfare. In fact diving into the confined abyss of smog and mud almost comforted the Warsmith, the horror of finding death around the corner was the opposite to him, it was exciting.

The doors splintered from the force of Kruja’s axe, the other three flooded in and cleared the room. They descended through the tower, each floor filled with civilians cowering from the iron giants. Some begged for mercy and recited the stories of the IVth Legion’s glorious compliance actions, even the children joined in,knowing the fable word for word. They were all put down. No ammunition was wasted. Spines were crushed with boots, necks snapped and heads dashed off the walls. They were pathetic traitors, to dare turn away from their true liberators. Worse than turning back to the Imperial lies, they turned to the cowards. They deserved nothing less than a painful death. After clearing another fifty floors, all filled with the same debris they arrived at the final floor. It was clear that they were underground, the sounds of destruction were muffled at best, but the slaughter was still in full swing. A few feet in front of them was a single wooden door, dull and worn by age. Too small for any astartes to fit through even without power armour, but Belphat and the remaining Sons of Horus were in there, of that there was no doubt.

A roar of thunder shattered the door and a bright blue blaze of energy engulfed Fuhren. The heat of plasma melted away his armour and vaporised any flesh that remained. Without hesitation Drang and the others charged the entrance. Bolter fire filled the enclosed space, with a group of Sons of Horus firing from behind marble altars at the far end of the secluded chapel. A plasma cannon, salvaged from some form of tank or ship stood in between the two altars, a ragged servitors lay slumped over the smoldering ordnance. Rommel vaulted the first altar, his gun roared as it punched through the face of one enemy. A second Son of Horus tackled Rommel from behind, the two falling to the ground in a fury of hand to hand combat. Kruja engaged three of them, two with seemingly blunt blades and a third with tattered robes covering irreparable armour. But Drang made a charge for the figure standing atop a third, crudely erected altar. An astartes clad in sea green, waving around a crozius. He was chanting at the twisted effigy in front of him, a sculpture in the shape of a crude eye, moulded from metals, debris and human remains. Drang dismissed the idol and threw his combat blade with flawless accuracy, it sunk in the space between Baphet’s shoulder and chest plates. The former Chaplain roared and turned to face Drang, firing a bolt pistol without finesse at his attacker. Leaping like a starved wolf at his mark, Drang crashed into Baphet, knocking him off the altar. The two quickly recovered and engaged in combat.

Drang threw down his bolter and raised his spiked fists as he ran at Baphet. He ducked beneath the wide arc of the crozius and drove a fist towards Baphet’s chest, the other raised his knee to block the hit and drove his boot into Drang’s face. The Iron Warrior reeled back, blood filled his senses and his armours systems warned of damage beyond repair. Baphet came at Drang this time. The crozius came down above his head, Drang side-stepped. Another punch was returned in counter but was dodged. It continued like this for an unknown time. Blows were dodged, countered, knocked back but some eventually found their marks. Both warriors snarled at one another like animals, oblivious to the grenade that went off behind them, oblivious to fact that all their men were killed in the blast. They were consumed in the melee. Drang’s helmet was almost completely destroyed, it hung on his face like a decoration, no time to rip it off. Baphet’s crozius was near the same, the malignant runes worn out and the dark iron was giving way. Drang’s gauntlets withstood however, they were more reinforced and tested in the trenches. Whenever things went south in enclosed spaces and a bayonet or sword was useless, then the body becomes the bolter and the bayonet.

“Drang! The city is finished. The infants have been extracted and we await pickup. Status”

Drang ripped off the remains of his helmet but Baphet rose to the advantage. In the blink of an eye the crozius met with Drang’s skull, heaving the flesh from his jaw and removing his nose. Baphet continued the charge, dropped his crozius and wrapped his hands around Drang’s throat. The dark chaplain had been warp-touched, his strength proved this. Several things cracked and squelched as the grip tightened.

“HE WILL RETURN TO US! I HAVE SEEN IT! WE HAVE THE MEANS DRANG! WE HAV-”

During the speech Drang wretched his combat blade from between Baphet’s shoulder plate. Always have a contingency. Everything must be planned. In the midst of revenge Drang never forgot this. He stuck the blade in again at the meat of the shoulder, after Baphet’s grip became loose Drang jabbed again and again. After the shoulder he went for the throat, then the eyes,the temple. He didn’t stop, he wouldn’t. Baphet was nothing now, just meat in a metal shell. Meat that followed a false idol, one that was slave to the warp, like so many other fools. Drang took the remains of Baphet’s skull and chained it to his belt, a fitting reward. He picked up his broken helmet and salvaged the coms.

“Rosig! Baphet is dead. I am returning to the surface now… I have changed my mind… kill everything.” Drang gathered his weapons, along with those of his dead comrades, slung together in an old tapestry.

“Very well Warmsith. Sending orders to the men no-”

“Orbital! Do not waste the resources…”

The irony was lost to Drang. He discarded the coms and made his way outside, through a set of gates that Baphet had used, no doubt about it. As he walked through those ash filled streets, he passed crying maidens cradling their dead babes in their arms. Men having already soiled themselves asking why they survived the horror. Children calling for parents. Soon it would all end for them.

Drang, with his armour tarnished and his face gone, continued walking. Baphet, the target of his vengeance was dead, but the betrayal still hung in his heart. The betrayal of the Emperor who favoured the weak over the strong. The Primarchs who sought the things in the darkness to become stronger. The Sons of Horus who fled the siege. The people of Alexandria. Betrayal would never end for Drang, nor the Iron Warriors 42nd Grand Company. It never does.

[Carrack]

Rain Brings Flowers 

Aspis High Orbit, Subsector Seat

 

 

 

The slaves of the Corpse God put up an umbrella of fire in a vain attempt to keep Lord Carrack from bombarding their world.  Some of the defenders fired precision missiles, guided by suicide servitors and advanced targeting arrays to shoot down incoming ordinance.  Others just lobbed macrocannon shells up into orbit with nothing but prayers that they would get in the way of his incoming munitions.  Both the few accurate shots and the plenty inaccurate ones failed to completely stop the hell the Black Maw rained down on Aspis.  The slaves had taken other measures as well, drastic measures such as bulk carriers unloading holds of ore into orbit above the subsector seat.  Tugboats had repositioned the ore into a blanket of brigandine over their world.   It was a threadbare blanket that did little to keep the storm at bay.   Ember's bombardment cannon found its way between the chunks of metal, and the lances of the fleet cut right through them.  

 

Still, in spite of Lord Carrack's desires, Aspis would not burn today.  She would singe and smolder, but she would not be consumed with the fires of his fleet.  Lord Carrack could not approach the well defended world close enough to bring his broadsides to bear. Old enemies had guessed his destination after driving him away from picking the bones of his victory over the Angels of Immolation. Only days after crushing the loyalist chapter, a Space Wolves fleet had translated into the Garland System. The Wolves were too late to save the Angels of Immolation, but still early enough to catch the fleet of the Black Maw as it repaired from the battle and transferred its flag to the battle barge seized from the defeated chapter. Caught unprepared for another fleet engagement, Lord Carrack fled into the hells of the warp. The Space Wolves followed. Whether it was sound tactical reasoning, luck, or maybe the Wolves had tracked him through hell itself, their fleet washed out of the Sea of Souls shortly after the Black Maw's fleet. The Space Wolves were now hounding the warband across the system, with the ships of the Black Maw still recovering from battle.

 

Lord Carrack knew he couldn't burn Aspis, but pounded away at the world with his long range weapons anyway.  He wanted to let the slaves of the Corpse God know that nowhere was safe from his wrath, and to symbolically strike at the very heart of the subsector, even if it wasn't to be a mortal blow.  He knew the sounds of this bombardment would echo across the subsector, and weaken the resolve of its defenders, while bolstering that of his own forces.

 

A symbolic attack on the seat of the subsector the Black Maw was the tactical reason for the bombardment, but that was but an excuse. In truth, Lord Carrack would have shelled the world if doing so did nothing to further his plans of conquest. His thirst for vengeance against the Imperium was boundless. The Imperium was once wilderness, overgrown with weeds and untamed vegetation. The weeds were xenos, and Lord Carrack had toiled to pull them. The untamed vegetation were the petty kingdoms of humanity that had scattered across the galaxy during the Dark Age, and Lord Carrack had bled to tame them. The Emperor, Lord Carrack's genetic grandfather, was going to reward his sweat and blood spent clearing the Imperium, by giving the worlds cleared to less worthy tenants. The Emperor's betrayal was answered in kind, and Lord Carrack wouldn't rest until the account was settled. He would uproot the Imperium that had grown from the fruits of his labor. He would make the Emperor pay for his betrayal. He would never pass an opportunity for revenge.

 

Lord Carrack thrust aside his reminiscences, and enjoyed the view of fire blossoming like flowers on Aspis below.  Red flowers bright enough for him to see with the naked eye, bloomed with his fleet's passing.  

 

 

[Kierdale]

Only two entries so far (and one is by this week's judge)! I nearly have mine done but if another week would bear fruit I'm fine with an extension...

What say you?

 

Plus I have something special for December for you...

[Dizzyeye01]

Took a bit of time coming up with the idea for it but here's a little story which is an introduction of the small Black legion Warband I'm working on at the moment

 

Oathsworn

 

 

 

 

Do you, Karsan Arlan , accept your role in this?

 

It felt like a lifetime ago. So much had changed ever since Arlan had been taken from…from…he couldn’t remember. He knew he had been part of a family: snatched away from his parents for a role bigger than himself; some would say bigger than the whole world. He had been chosen for a higher purpose, to save humanity from the threats that circled it. A purpose that would see the Imperium be nothing more than the ash that many empires and republics before it had fallen into. The ruins and ash surrounding Arlan reminded him of that.

 

Do you promise to lead your men into the zone of war, and conduct them to glory, no matter the ferocity or ingenuity of the foe?

 

The foe. The enemy. The target. One word to describe the faceless enemy that constantly changed: xenos, renegades, they were all just that in the end. A target to take down. With bolter, chainsword and fist, [insert name] had carved a bloody path for the Imperium to walk through, to be hailed as champions and saviours of humanity. Worlds burned at his back and glory was given along with rank and title. That hasn’t changed. In fact, a beaten foe- no, something -more- knelt in front of Arlan, broken armour and arms highlighting his defeat.

 

Do you swear to honour the oath made to our brothers in the XIII legion and purge the xenos presence in Seventy-Two Fifty?

 

“Did you think we had forgotten?” Arlan began, “Did you think we had forgiven your betrayal?” A savage kick sent the former brother onto his back, his essence of life dripping onto the ash. This wasn’t the first time Arlan had spilt his ‘brothers’ blood before; Istvaan was the first time but certainly not the last.Arlan did what was asked of him, no questions asked. The Warmaster called and he answered, just like now. Oaths were broken, brotherhoods exploited and destroyed; not for some twisted feeling of cruelty but because it was needed yet for all of their sacrifices….

 

Do you pledge to do honour to the XVI Legion and the Emperor?

 

“Someone had to keep the Legion alive,” the traitor coughed out, trying to pull himself up onto his knees.  He still wore the colours of the Sons of Horus, a dead legion that died with Horus on the Vengeful Spirit. If it wasn’t for the blood on his armour too, he looked like a twisted version of the Luna Wolves merged with the Sons of Horus. Of Legions that served fools before being reborn and breaking free: first the Emperor and now Horus.

 

“Don’t you know?” Arlan replied, drawing his bolt pistol, ancient beyond doubt now, with a symbol of the wolf crossed off with the edge of a blade, “The Sons of the Eye are no more. As we speak, our Warmaster bleeds the Sightless and now they kneel, knowing their mistake. Not you though…you won’t get the pleasure of betraying us once more,” The traitor struggled to rise but his head only raised high enough to meet the cold embrace of the pistols’ barrel. Had his helmet still been in one piece instead of multiple scattered around them it might have stopped the round from killing him. “Such is the end for those who flee the wrath of the Black Legion,” Arlan finished, holstering his pistol. For him, it was one name crossed off a list and vengeance earned for the Warmaster.

 

For Arlan though, his work had only just begun.

 

 

 

[Warsmith Aznable]

I will put one in later tonight.

[MyD4rkPassenger]

I've been toying with doing something besides the Night Lords in IF, and today's video gave me the incentive I needed.  Just a fun little tale I came up with in my excitement.

 

The Serpent Encircles the Wolf

 

An ancient terran saying goes, "when setting out on revenge, dig two graves", I intend to dig a thousand.

Nebamun gestured his hands towards the warriors in the corridor in front of him.  Jets of etherial purple fire shot forth and consumed the grey clad marines returning fire.  The poor souls were engulfed by the sorcery and they howled in agony as the fire stripped them of flesh layer by layer till only charred skeletons remained.  Nebamun stepped over their corpses, advancing with marines on either side of him unloading bolt shells enchanted with more sorcery. The shells punched through the armor of the hapless defenders, they had been ambushed in their own cruiser.  Nebamun halted and looked down, the rest of the Thousand Sons rubic marines relentlessly continued forwards repelling defenders.  The fallen Space Wolf clutched his chest, a dark hole from one of the bolt rounds had shot through his right pectoral muscle, the skin around the wound festering and changing with warp driven malice.  All through the pain his yellow eyes locked with Nebamun's, his fury was clear, enhanced by his inability to strike out at Nebamun. 

   Nebamun had stared into similar eyes all those years ago on Prospero, the situation had been reversed however.  That moment was still clear in his mind, the knife point shattering his left helmet lens, stabbing his skin with broken glass.  The wolf on top of him bearing down on the blade with his whole body, Nebamun struggling to push back with his own strength.  Spittle from the warriors frothing mouth showered his helmet, until finally his strength gave way and the knife took his left eye.  Coming back to the present he knelt down beside the wolf.  The warrior snarled and reached for Nebamun, but he flicked his wrist and shattered the wolf's arm.  He closed his eyes and savored the sound of the howls of agony.  He grabbed the gorget of the warrior and whispered.

"You should not be mad at I, son of Russ.  It is you and your kin who pushed mine to this.  Did you even regret your actions after learning that it was Horus who gave you the kill order, not the Emperor? 

   Nebamun knew the wolf wouldn't answer, not out of spite, but because he knew the wounds were agonizingly painful.  He chuckled and grabbed the wolf's head with both hands.

"Let the last thing you see and hear be a warrior of the Thousand Sons dog.  Let the last thing you learn be that I will take from you all that you took from me."

  Nebamun flooded the mind of the Space Wolf with visions of the future Lord Ahriman had shown them.  The Fang in flames, rubic marines gunning down everything in sight.  Rune priests crying tears of blood as hideous beasts of the warp consumed their minds, and finally the Red Cyclops himself wading through the battlefield bringing death to Fenris.  The Space Wolf shook with fury and Nebamun remorselessly drew a rune carved knife from his belt.  It's blade was coated with dry astartes blood, and he pointed it to the wolf's left eye saying,

"Now I return this gift ten thousand years later on the eve of our greatest revenge.  Die...son of Russ."

  Nebamun drove the knife hilt deep into the skull of the Space Wolf, then rose.  The corridor was filled with the bodies of fallen Space Wolves.  The ambush on this perimeter cruiser was complete, and they were one step closer to avenging Prospero.  The great wolf would be slain, and snow and ice would return to dust, as all things do....

 

[Warsmith Aznable]

A side story from my ongoing campaign story-line.

 

I hope you like it.

 

Hidden Content

Vaults of night, corridors of shadow, filled with hearts of darkness.

 

He didn't need to see this to know this; he was born on this world, raised on this world, and made his ascension to the ranks of the space marines on this world.

 

He needn't ever see the colours of his Legion to feel the double-edge of pride and rage.

 

He never would, not since he tore his own eyes from his face. Not since he felt the muscular, rasp-like tongue slither around his fingers, tasting his willpower and savouring his hatred, before gently accepting his gift.

 

+++++++++++++++++

 

His existence was not sightless. Oh no.

 

Even now he stooped to inspect the faint traces on the corridor's floor. Behind him he could hear his hunt-brothers skittering back and forth on their clawed feet, hissing at one another, jostling for a place of honour near him. They were savage, feral, barely still intelligent enough to speak. But they shared his hatred, and that was enough.

 

He could see the trail. He could not describe to his hunt-brothers what it looked like to him, he could not tell them how the blood stained empty holes in his head could look directly at them and know which one was which. But they did not ask, such was their faith in him, such was their fear and awe of his terrible devotion to vengeance.

 

Another murder was near. He could see the trail, and the could feel the fires of his rage rekindling.

 

+++++++++++++++++

 

Each time he tracked down an Accomplice he could see them more strongly. Not details, mind you, but the strength of their complicity in the great treason burned brighter in his sightless vision. Each one induced greater fits of rage, equal to the physical and spiritual pain their mere presence burned into his soul.

 

He could not see their blood, but he could smell it in the air, feel it slide in great gobbets from his claws, hear every splatter and splash as wrought his vengeance upon them.

 

They cursed at him. They swore at him. They blasphemed his name to the Gods. They shouted words of power meant to destroy him. They screamed. They begged. They gurgled wetly as he tore open their necks and pulled their tongues from their heads.

 

But none of them denied it.

 

The last one had only laughed.

 

+++++++++++++++++

 

The presence was an incandescent pyre. He felt as if he were staring into a fusion furnace on a void ship, and he knew he had found The Architect of the Great Treason.

 

Here was the faithless bastard who had betrayed the Legion and allowed enemies into their midst.

 

The pain was nearly unbearable, but it only strengthened his resolve.

 

He felt his hunt-brothers terror, smelled their fear, heard their anguished howls. But they did not matter, only his prey mattered.

 

Enusat the Blind ignited his jump-pack, bared his claws, and rocketed toward the object of his hatred, howling inarticulate rage.

 

+++++++++++++++++

 

"One of our own?" The Word Bearers champion held his still smoking ectoplasma pistol off to one side, carefully avoiding pointing the muzzle at his master. He feigned indifference and cold distance, aping his master's easy confidence without possessing it, arching an eyebrow in theatrical distaste.

 

"A mad feral." Kor Phaeron waved a hand dismissively at the convulsing Word Bearers Raptor. It screamed and spit, but his bodyguards had been too precise and disciplined in their response; this creature had never posed a serious threat. Kor Phaeron had only hesitated a moment when it had made an appearance, only evidenced the slightest bit of surprise when it had named him Traitor. The Master of the Faith was already past the ambush sight, paying no attention to the desultory bolter fire his lesser servants poured after the feral Raptors who had accompanied this twisted creature. "Or a xenos assassin. Or an agent of the False Emperor's Inquisition. Stay by my side; you will get used to it as I have."

 

"Yes, master." The Word Bearers champion holstered the ectoplasma pistol and hurried after Kor Phaeron.

 

+++++++++++++++++

 

“Need food.” The twisted creature seemed apologetic. Enusat did not know which one it was, but it did not matter. He felt cold, and he was in complete darkness.

 

"Need food." The weak voice apologised again, and Enusat felt it take a tentative bite from his leg.

 

He had no energy to resist.

 

"Feast." Enusat rasped out feebly.

 

Oblivion would not take him, even as he felt the other survivors drawing near, their only master now their desperate hunger, even as they consumed him. They avoided the pious, ragged holes where his eyes had been, still in awe of his devotion and rage and, now, audacity. Enusat felt every tearing mouthful, and until his lungs were torn open and devoured he laughed.

 

Oh how he laughed.

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday: Tales of Vengeance over the last two weeks.

Aaaaaand Warsmith Aznable gets his in just in time!

I’m still finishing up mine so will post it out-of-competition later, then I can read everyone else’s entries.

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

Unit Champion

Choose one member of one squad in your legion or warband. Who is this champion? Was he the original leader of the squad before the legion/chapter’s fall? How did he obtain his position? How does he keep it? How does he run the squad and how does he view his squad members? What are his ambitions and flaws? Tell us of his arms and armour, his trophies, grudges, beliefs and glories won.

Photos of the miniature of this individual are optional but are most appreciated

Inspirational Friday: Unit Champion runs until the 25th of November. An exercise in keeping it concise.

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:

[Kierdale]

My (out of competition) entry for Tales of Vengeance

A continuance, in a way, of the 5th part of my interview with a Dark Apostle entry .

 

Faceoff

Part One - A Performance

Hidden Content

There were those amongst the renegades and traitors who flocked to the Eye of Terror that believed the touch of the Chaos Gods – mutation – was to be reviled. But those who embraced the worship of the Four, who sought the favour of their chosen deity (or rather that Great Power that had chosen them), saw these things as blessings, as gifts, and looked upon those who shunned such endowments as fools and cowards. It was blasphemous to flee the tyranny of the Imperium of Man, seek shelter in the realm of the Gods and then reject their divine gaze. When one was chosen, it was a cause for celebration, and indeed an equal measure of jealousy and covetousness.

 

Lord Sophusar of the Psychopomps sat upon his throne aboard the flagship Charon, his great sigil-decorated terminator armour wrapped in his cloak of turquoise, and regarded his servants gathered before him.

The fallen astartes were not the only beings present in the chamber, for while the Keeper of Secrets Ki’mahgu’reh was absent, a bevy of daemonettes reclined upon the step about the former chapter master’s throne and more stepped slowly, as if dancing through molasses to music no mortal ear could perceive as they moved about and between the assembled marines. The astartes had gathered in seeming disorder but Sophusar could see, and the daemonette dancers subtly divided them as they moved, that there were distinct groups before him. The chapter having fallen to the worship of the Dark Prince of Chaos over a century before, the company structure had begun to fracture and a new fabric was weaving betwixt warrior and warrior, seemingly independent of their former roles. Sects were forming.

“My lord.”

It was Angra, former master of sanctity, now dark apostle of Slaanesh. He knelt upon the step before his lord, unhelmed. Aye, unhelmed so as to display the blessing he had received from their patron: life anew. When their corruption had been discovered by agents of the Golden Throne, retribution had been swift and their cousins of the Black Templars had been the hammer which had descended upon the homeworld of the Stygian Guard (as they had then been known). Angra had been slain by his peer: chaplain Caedmon, the fallen demigogue’s face, nay entire body, split in two from his crown to his crotch.

In recognition of his multifarious sins, he had been resurrected by the Dark Prince, his left side restored in the form of a daemonette.

Unhelmed so as to show this blessing before all, for there was but one who had been more touched by Slaanesh.

And it was not lord Sophusar.

“My lord, I asked for this gathering to present a proposal.”

Sophusar nodded, studying the half-astarte, half-daemon and, as he oft found himself doing, wondered which it was that was addressing him or if the two souls had truly merged within his most trusted lieutenant.

“We lost our first company on Cyprius III,” the world which saw the chapter’s fall to the worship of Slaanesh. Sophusar had lead the second to tenth companies there seeking the veteran first, whom had been dispatched there upon the orders of the Inquisition years earlier. They discovered them maddened butchers, thralls of Khorne. “And those whom we were able to capture serve well enough as shock troops.”

Aye, that had been a merry hunt. After slaying the governor of Cyprius III they had set about rounding up and capturing as many of their former allies as they could. Now a century later less than half the first company’s original number survived, in chains deep within the Charon’s oubliettes, only released once pumped full of combat drugs. Barely controllable berserkers. It amused the Psychopomps, as servants of Slaanesh, to play thus with the pawns of the Lord of Blood.

“But we lack a true elite.”

This sent a murmur through the chamber and titters escaped the mouths of several of the dancers.

Two of those present actually took steps forward.

One, Orpheus, was master of the Death Knell: those of the Psychopomps who armed themselves with the warband’s devastating sonic weapons. It was no surprise to the lord upon his throne that the maestro of the chorus of death would object to the dark apostle’s words. That Orpheus had risen to his position not via any rank he had held whilst the chapter had been loyal - for he had been naught but a line marine of the Devastator company - showed his ambition and that he now stepped forward to voice his objection to his better’s words, showed his conviction. Sophusar nodded approvingly. Orpheus’ tongue, akin to those of the steeds of Slaanesh, flicked out angrily from the hole where his helmet’s grill had once been.

He was mildly surprised by the other dissenter: captain Castor of the 2nd. While his great rival, the peacock duelist Dophesia of the 8th held his tongue and not his blade, it was the usually cool and calculating Castor who raised his clawed hand in objection. Another daemonic gift, that claw. Castor, usually the cold, calculating tactician...Sophusar had expected him to look upon the apostle’s provocative speech with naught but distain. He had not expected an actual objection. But then, after so long basking in the Dark Prince’s glory, how could Castor not now be touched by the boon of pride?

Lord Sophusar looked about to see if any others would voice objections. Pheres, chief of the Black Stallions – the preeminent biker sect – held his tongue. Despite his moodiness – an attitude as volatile as the promethium which fed his men’s iron steeds – he knew that his bikers and his rival Pale Riders were but scouts and saboteurs. They had not the strength to rise higher. Not yet.

Then there were the former tech marines – warpsmiths now – and devastators, their armour burnished ceramite with patches of purples, turquoises and the Psychopomps’ iconic pink. Some had taken to etching and inlaying their armour with silver and other precious metals, displaying the symbol of the Dark Prince upon it alongside other glyphs and words of the Dark Tongue. Not a member amongst these wielders of the heaviest of weapons made a move, but cautiously and with open interest watched the play of power and ego before them. Aye, like the bikers they lacked the numbers, the strength, but they were comfortable knowing their considerable worth. When a hammer was needed, it was these astartes – and their daemon engines – whom lord Sophusar looked to.

He himself was not without gifts of Chaos, though none as visible as those of Angra, Castor, Orpheus, Pheres and others. No, the lord of the Psychopomps had been granted an ear with which to hear the music of the spheres, the hum of the lifecords which bound every mortal to the coil, and allowed him to know just how to pluck those strings. How to make them sing melodiously or scream in discordance. How far each could be pushed before their threads unraveled and they were abandoned to the abyss.

His terminator armour was topped with a grand brass organ of piping, flutes and daemonic visages and it was through this he could exercise his most visible of gifts. From a howl which sent resonance through the weapons of his enemies, causing them to explode in the wielder’s hands, to screams which drove the strongest of men and beasts to their knees, cutting through all forms of armour.

But it was not these Chaos-given gifts which enabled him to see the apostle’s theatrics, it was centuries as the master of the chapter, as familiar with politics as he was warfare, and in more recent years as a Chaos lord watching – steering indeed- the ebb and flow of loyalties and faiths of his men. And as he watched the sea of souls and sects before him now, as Angra’s wave broke and rebounded from those present, he recognized Castor’s objection for what it was.

He too was part of the apostle’s plan.

What deal had been struck here, he wondered.

 

“But we lack a true elite,” Angra repeated, “And I suggest the formation of a cadre to fill this void.”

“And where would these men be drawn from?” Castor asked dismissively, his tone betraying his wish to keep the astartes under his command.

“I would choose the most suitable from the chapter, regardless of company.” Aye, the warband still used the old terms, partly in jest and partly as the warband had indeed become `companies` of kindred spirits, those who sought the similar excesses flocking together.

“You would choose them,” Castor asked, “and you would command them?”

Angra turned his gaze back to the lord of the chapter and bowed low, “They would, of course, be the instrument of our master.” Sophusar caught the innuendo there, for they all danced to the Dark Prince’s tune.

“And what would elevate them above the finest troops we now have?”

On cue, the great doors of the chamber opened and the Naga entered. The Reborn. The First Touched. Once a psyker of the Stgyian Guard, Holusiax was now the leader of its sorcerers and he slithered into the gathering upon the serpentine body their patron deity had gifted him.

Every head in the room -astarte and daemon- bowed, some deeper than others, to the sorcerer. Only lord Sophusar himself demanded greater respect.

 

Part Two - Bondage

Hidden Content

Castor, Dophesia, Orpheus...Holusiax had not failed to surprise any when they had presented him with lists of the astartes they were willing to second to the new unit – likely not their true best warriors – and he had discarded their lists only to present them with ones he himself had penned. He had even called upon the leaders of lesser sects within the warband, having drawn up an esoteric list of Psychopomps.

“Tuva!?” Dophesia had not restrained his laughter. “He is not elite material, sorcerer! He is barely battle-worthy and has won no honour or glory in...” the peacock captain’s voice trailed off and he shrugged theatrically.

“Then you have no need of him and will not miss his joining the Erinyes,” Holusiax had replied curtly. “For I foresee in him that which we require.”

“Erinyes?” Dophesia had repeated, his brow furrowed.

 

Some time later Castor’s curiosity got the better of him – he did not lie to himself that it was concern over the men he had signed over to the dark apostle’s scheme – and he made his way to the chambers of the flagship that had been set aside for the `foundation` of these Erinyes. Aye rumour of the unit’s name had spread fast throughout the warband. The furies.

A pair of Holusiax’s Blessed Ones flanked the doors, their roseate masks and hoods hiding their features, their voluminous cloaks all but hiding the glaives they held, the weapons like oversized straight razors. They were fanatics, mortals who had copulated with the neverborn and in their ecstasy had seen the Dark Prince’s realm. Now they sought death, finding all other sensations meaningless, knowing they were awaited.

He swore he saw the leftmost of the two humans glance at him and he wondered idly if the man might seek passage to the afterlife at Castor’s own hand. He would grant it gladly, testing his own skills against the zealot, and sending the man on to cavort evermore in the many-ringed palace.

He was granted entry and breathed deeply of the smells within the darkened chamber. The iron tang of blood, the saltiness of sweat, the ammonia stink of piss, these feral odors mixed with various incenses to noxious that the mortals present all wore breathing apparatus lest they swoon.

There were ranks of pain gloves within the room: one for each of those who had been chosen for training, though he now suspected a more fitting term might be `transformation`. At the center of each contraption, suspended within the gossamer web of electrodes, was an Astarte clad in skintight black material which had an extremely gloss finish. These were not the bodygloves that astartes wore under their powered armour but were more akin to sensory deprivation or torture apparatus. The astartes were held in stress positions by these garments, even their faces smothered by tight masks, eyeless – in fact featureless – but for the pipes snaking from their mouths. At several other points on their bodies catheters and plugs were fitted into their limbs. Castor’s enhanced vision allowed him to see a pale lilac fluid moving through the tubes. Several of the marines convulsed and writhed, whether due to the pain the machines inflicted or due to that which was being pumped into them, he could not ascertain. Upon the metal frames of the gloves and indeed on the deckplates about them were painted words in accursed letters no mortal had ever seen and managed to maintain their sanity.

“Magnificent, aren’t they?”

Castor had heard the apostle’s approach and allowed him to approach from behind. Allowed him his further theatrics, knowing that such were not the ways of Angra before his rebirth. The master of sanctity had been a pragmatist supreme and even Castor himself had learned many a lesson from the head chaplain while suspended within the nerve glove.

“At what level are the gloves being run?” Castor enquired, suspecting Angra and Holusiax were slow-frying the initiates – if the smell in the room was any indication – to toughen them up.

“Tertius.” The most extreme level of excruciation.

“For how long?!” Castor asked, now with a measure of both concern and genuine interest.

“Seventy minutes and counting,” Angra answered conversationally before inhaling the odors wafting off the nearest suspended Astarte as it moaned and wailed within its bonds.

“Impossible!” Castor exclaimed, “None, in the history of the legion, have endured beyond fifty-two minutes without loss of sanity.”

Angra extended a hand, his human right one, toward the struggling marine and carefully grasped one of the thin, flexible tubes pumping lilac fluid into the subject.

“Sanity?” the daemonette eye glinted, “Possession, the true merger of the mortal soul with that of one of the neverborn, is never without risks, and is never easy.”

Castor recalled the spawn the chapter had released upon the Templars so many years ago now. Twisted monstrosities, amalgams of humans and fiends from beyond the veil, and he looked Angra in the eye. The eye of the daemonette side of his face.

“Only here, at the very peak of agony, at the summit of sensation itself...only here are they willing to make the necessary pact and accept the bondage of their souls.” The half-astarte, half daemon was breathless and looked longingly at those who would become the Erinyes.

Castor followed his gaze, with not a small measure of jealousy in his hearts.

 

Part Three - Vengeance

Hidden Content

Since the time of the shamans who gave their lives to form the soul that would one day be known as the Emperor, ritual magic required a material link to its target. A lock of hair, a treasured possession, a vial of blood, a sample of tissue...

A sample of the target had been kept. A memento treasured by one of the faithful who had made it off Fulcrum alive. They had dried and cured the fleshy scrap, keeping it within the fragmented ceramite. Upon the trophy’s discovery the cultist had been rewarded handsomely.

Three fingers of the right hand of the Black Templar chaplain Caedmon.

He who had `slain` Angra upon Fulcrum.

He who was now the target of the Psychopomps’ fury.

 

Caedmon paced the hall, his stony gaze passing over the bent heads of neophytes as they wolfed down protein-rich gruel and hard bread, sat on pews lining long tables of oak. Some muttered to one another, most often complaints about their victuals. These words died to silence as the chaplain passed though in truth he cared nothing for these complaints. There were but one hardship shared between comrades, and it was in these exchanges that brotherhood was forged. He suppressed a laugh. That he would deny these chosen men such complaints! The food was bland, but they would consume far worse on warzone deployment. At that time there would be no complaints, as they faced far greater hardships and tests of their bodies and minds. Complaints about gruel would be as the fondest of memories.

Though he wore his helm, he met the gaze of the two initiates stationed at the hall’s entrance. He could feel that they shared his amusement.

How long had it been since he had worn scout armour, those flak fatigues, and consumed that foul potage? He entertained his nostalgia by reaching up with his prosthetic right hand and removing his skull-faced helmet – immediately drawing over a dozen ill-hidden glances from those seated about him – and breathing deeply. Yes, that lukewarm smell, that vat-grown chem stink. His nose wrinkled at an acrid smell that wafted about. That he did not remember. He sniffed deeper as the smell seemed to worsen, drawing the attention and comments of those about him.

A stink of brimstone.

 

And then the fabric of reality split, the edges of sanity pealing back above his head as if space itself had been cut by a subtle knife, revealing the abyss within. All those within the hall turned their heads aside as a flash of unlight washed over them. There came the howl of the sea of souls, a billion billion minds tortured for all eternity, screaming their jealousy of the living. Several of the neophytes about him dropped to the ground, eyes rolled back and foam pouring from their mouths as their mental fortitude proved wanting. Other clawed at themselves and those about them, one drove his fingers into his eyes in a vain attempt to stop what he had seen within the rift, another tore at his ears to deafen himself to the siren call.

The first being through that blasted hole had barely alighted upon the flagstones, pinions of baleful fire scorching those nearby, before the bolts of the hall’s guardians tore into it, battering its ornate, roseate, sigil-decorated armour and punching through it in several places. Liquids which had no place in the human body pumped from the ragged wounds torn in it and an ear-splitting scream emitted from its twisted helmet’s grill.

A fallen Astarte. Caedmon knew this enemy. He had seen this madly-coloured armour before, and he believed his chapter had driven these renegades into the bosom of hell. But not destroyed them. The crusade had left the job unfinished, and it had come back to haunt them.

Caedmon threw himself to the side as the perforated corpse collapsed to the deck, and more of its kin descended into the mess hall. This was no teleportation as the terminators of the crusade used, but rather it was fell witchery.

“Destroy the mutant! Purge the daemon! Burn the traitor!” he roared as he rose to his feet, drawing the symbol of his office: his crozius. The only weapon he had on him. But it would be sufficient to finish the job or he would give his life in the attempt.

More and more of the twisted renegades appeared, their armour ornate beyond the need of any warrior. Their helms were topped with horns which he believed were no mere decorations but were likely anchored in the very skulls of these bestial marines. That the facial grills of their helmets were twisted like screaming maws equally pointed to the impossibility of them removing their armour. They were now as one.

Caedmon stepped aside and parried as the nearest of the Erinyes drove a three-pronged trident at him, its long tines crackling with scarlet energy and scintillating as the powerfields of the two weapons met. That the monster could thrust the large weapon – which would challenge a mortal man to lift - one handed indicated its daemon-given strength, and preternatural speed was betrayed by the swiftness with which it swung its other weapon. Taking advantage of the trident tangling with the chaplain’s crozius, the Erinys raked at his arm with a pair of jagged claws that protruded as if they had grown forth from within its left gauntlet.

He was saved from losing his arm – a second time to these curs, he realized, recalling his duel with their dark apostle – by the flash of his rosarius’ conversion field, which sent the beastly Astarte staggering backwards, swinging its trident wildly to ward off attacks.

Caedmon had but a moment to take in the greater battle: almost a score of these twisted astartes had appeared, within the very belly of his crusade’s ship! They threw themselves at the Templars about them with wild abandon, lashing out with barbed scourges, tridents and wicked claws more befitting gladiators of old. Or torturers. The neophytes put up a struggle worthy of praise to those who would survive, but their armour was as nothing to the weapons of these foes and young heads and limps were lopped off to the sound of mad cackling. The two initiates who had guarded the door of the hall had separated, one working his way round Caedmon’s right, keeping up their fire on those of the enemy they could target without hitting the chapter’s next generator, working their way into position for a punishing crossfire. He was confident that the alarm had been raised.

It was only a matter of keeping these bastards busy until more battle brothers arrived.

A lucky neophyte drove his eating utensil into the soft ribbing between an Erinys’ thigh and groin armour, eliciting a ululating screech before being kicked away, the taloned feet of the fury raking his face from his skull.

And then his attention was focused on the three before him, the greater battle would follow its own current for he had to focus his all on his own survival, ducking the lick of a many-tailed, brass-spiked scourge and side stepping one trident’s thrust aimed at skewering his legs, only for another to slide across his chestplate, slicing into his side. He felt the blade slip across his black carapace and thanked the Emperor that it had not penetrated.

He spat curses upon his foes, that they would consort with daemons, allowing these anathema to humanity into their very God Emperor-given bodies. Zeal drove his blows as he battered aside their weapons and smashed the warped skulls of first one then another with the winged tip of his crozius Arcanum. But as they fell it pulled more of their number from the battle with the initiates and neophytes.

He could hear the claxons roaring now, even over the reports of bolters and the brave cries of the young about him.

And this drove him on. Let them come. The more who would face him, the more he would fell, and the less who could slay his young charges.

“Face me, curs! Face me, gaudy blackguard scum!” He held up his prosthetic hand, the chrome gleaming, realizing how they must have found him. Some scrap of his tissue from that duel so long ago against Angra of the Stygians.

And they came. Screeching and bounding across the room in leaps assisted by the jets upon their backs, until he was buried under them.

 

“Back off!” called the power armoured Templars to the neophytes, pouring magazine after magazine of bolts into the backs of the intruders, ordering the reckless young to stay down and keep their fire lanes open.

The beasts were like a swarm. A feeding frenzy. A pack of killers surrounding their downed quarry.

There came a blood curdling scream from the center of the mass and as the scream reached its zenith the hunters broke, plumes of green fire jetting out as they bounded skyward once more toward the roiling void.

They were gone as suddenly as they had appeared, and the two Templars rushed to the fallen figure of chaplain Caedmon, surrounded by a dozen traitor corpses, barging their way through the young.

His body was torn, punctured and raked by claws and blades, but it was his face that froze them. His face had been torn from his skull, leaving naught but wet, glistening red muscle tissue and gore-streaked bone.

“Apothecary! APOTHECARY!”

 

Epilogue

Hidden Content

Castor could not take his eyes from the dark apostle’s pauldron. Stretched over it and held in place with gilt clasps was a sheet of leather. A face contorted into the most exquisite expression of agony the captain had ever seen. It was as horrific as it was magnificent. Into the flesh of the trophy had been tattooed paean to the Dark Prince, and the names of the Erinyes who had fallen on their hunt.

“Was it worth the price, Angra?” Castor asked, his head cocked as he regarded the features of chaplain Caedmon.

The human side of the dark apostle’s split face smiled widely.

 

 

“Why am I here?” the voice was rough, the words hard to enunciate without lips, and the pain which wracked his body was evident in his speech. He had forgone all salves and unguents. He would bear the pain.

His custodians watched as the naked figure paced the cell, running his left hand – his prosthetic right limb had been removed for security reasons – over the seamless walls. They looked at the webs of scars which crisscrossed his body. Operation scars which had seen him elevated from mortal to post-human. The scars of countless injuries suffered in his long years of service. And the raw scars of his most recent injuries, some of which were taking far too long to heal.

“You know why you are here, Caedmon. You know how the Enemy found you. Here you are safe. Here they cannot get to you.”

“Here we can watch you.”

[Carrack]

Here is my feedback with two disclaimers. The first is my usual one, I'm no expert. I'm not educated. I'm not published, I'm not a publisher, I'm not in this for anything other than enjoyment. So if you disagree with my assessment, your opinion is at worse, just as valid as my own, don't get sore about it. I'm probably wrong.

 

The second disclaimer is that I'm going to tell one thing I liked about each story, and one thing I felt could be improved. In each story I had plenty of things to choose from for positive feedback, and had a lot harder time finding anything to improve on.

 

 

Dizzeye - Oathsworn

 

 

This was a good story. I think the idea of telling a story through flashes of memories while Arlan executed the defeated marine was well done. The story was easy to follow, even with the flashback scenes, and that is not always the case with stories that use similar techniques. One drawback, for me, was that Arlan was seeking vengeance for the Warmaster, not himself. I think vengeance as a motive works better when it is personal, not following the orders of another.

 

 

MyD4rkPassenger - The Serpent Encircles the Wolf

 

 

Very well done. -An ancient terran saying goes, "when setting out on revenge, dig two graves", I intend to dig a thousand.- and -The great wolf would be slain, and snow and ice would return to dust, as all things do....- Two examples of why this story rocks. I think this story could be improved on by making the Space Wolves a little more capable. The battle seemed a little too one-sided, with the Wolves being called hapless defenders at one point.

 

 

Warsmith Aznabel - Enusat

 

 

Many stories this week captured the villainy of Chaos Marines, slaughter of innocents and fallen foes abounded, but somehow, Enusat blinding himself and offering up his eyes to a daemon, struck me as the most evil act in this week's stories. I think that you could have spent a little more time elaborating Kor Phaeron's importance, both because of his influence on the setting as a whole, and because of his importance in the story as well.

 

 

 

 

Barbatos - Drang

 

 

All right, I didn't like this story at first, probably for no greater reason then my own favorite faction, the Black Legion, was portrayed in less than favorable light. Then, with only a day left and this story being the only submission, I was going to have to declare it winner by default. Fortunately other stories were submitted and I had to think about which would win, fortunate because in looking over the stories, I reread this one with a more objective eye and realized it was really a good story. What I think makes it so good is that Drang is revenge. It truly is his motivation. Drang is so consumed by revenge he abandons his mission of acquiring aspirants, to get another little pound of flesh. He is so driven he carries on with a smashed in face. I don't normally get hung up on sci-fi names, but I did a little with this story. Drang and Kruja sound like names from one language, while the others sound German-like. I think you need even more consistency with naming for a group from the same culture, or less from a more mixed group. Also, Alexandria and Perdia are good place-names, but the Western Plateau is not, and its descriptive name isn't necessary to map out the story.

 

 

Me - Rain Brings Flowers

 

I liked my idea of using the imagery of gardening and farming, to tell a story of war and violence. I think I struggled with implementing this idea, and loaded it all into a paragraph, rather than kept it up throughout the story.

 

 

The Winner.

 

 

MyD4rkPassenger - The Serpent Encircles the Wolf

 

[Kierdale]

Congratulations to MyD4rkPassenger! You're the judge of the current challenge. :)

I finally got around to reading the entries. Good stuff!

 

As we have no entries yet - I must admit I haven't had chance to start myself - I'd like to push the deadline back to the 2nd of December if that's okay?

[Dizzyeye01]

I'm working on mine as I type. Got the ideas nailed out just needing to get all the words out really. Either way I don't mind it getting pushed back but then we might get another bunch of last minute entries :)

[Warsmith Aznable]

I've got one in my head, going to put it down tonight after I get back from Thanksgiving with the folks.

[Kierdale]

Deadline shifted to the second of December. :)

[Warsmith Aznable]

Another side story from my ongoing campaign series.

 

It's a bit long, 3,764 words, so I apologise, but I hope you like it anyway.

 

The final disposition of the champion will not be revealed until the campaign's epilogue, as it would spoiler the overall campaign story were it to be written about here.

 

Hidden Content

Sergeant Byrlindi stalked through the corridors of the Word Bearers fortress-cathedral. His squad, his Bone Eaters, trailed behind, moving with tactical caution, while he stomped down the middle of the hall on his piston driven cybernetic legs. The electrics of the fortress flickered then winked out, leaving everything in pitch darkness.

 

Byrlindi stopped and leaned against a wall, listening to the distant sound of heavy weapons and artillery. It rumbled softly, vibrating the stone walls, like a pleasant afternoon storm on a planet with a temperate zone. He had no thoughts beyond that passing comparison; he was simply tired.

 

An icon winked into existence in his augmented reality vision, accompanied by a phantom humming in his skull and the certain knowledge of the basic inquiry’s meaning, and its sender.

 

“Check it out, corporal.” Sergeant Byrlindi growled over his shoulder. He wore no helmet and did not bother with subvocalizations or the simple impulse messaging his power armour and space marine adaptations allowed.

 

He listened as his squad shifted in retrograde to investigate something toward their rear that Corporal Thekk had believed warranted a threat. Byrlindi ran his one good hand over his forehead and through where his hair had once been in a thoughtless gesture of irritation. The feeling of smooth metal that made up the left side of his head only irritated him, which caused the line of scarred flesh that met with the cybernetic replacement to start to throb.

 

“:cuss all this nonsense.” Sergeant Byrlindi flexed his crude power claw, a custom weapon somewhere between a set of lightning claws and a power fist, and continued forward into the darkness. He quickly closed off his connexion to the squad tactical manifold and dared anyone, Word Bearers or Iron Warriors, to challenge him.

 

The hammer of bolter fire erupted behind him, echoing through the cramped service corridors while muzzle flashes created brief, angry shadows. He paused, considering the situation, looking back. At that moment the distant thunder of artillery rose to a shocking crescendo, not quite so distant in that split second, and Byrlindi felt the world shift around him as his feet lost purchase on a floor that no longer seemed to be there. His power claw shot out as if of its own accord and buried deeply into a chunk of wall that, unfortunately, seemed to be moving in the same general direction that Sergeant Byrlindi was: down and out.

 

Suddenly Byrlindi was out in the open air. He did not panic and scramble for purchase, flailing his legs and wheeling his arms. He did not cry out or curse. He looked around himself, discovered that he was upside down, and calmly took in the scene outside the fortress-cathedral as he plummeted several dozen meters with the rest of the collapsing material.

 

He was quite surprised that the Iron Warriors auxiliaries were still putting up a fight this late into the Word Bearers relief assault.

 

And then everything went black.

 

 

The first thing he saw as he became conscious again was a pale yellow shield shaped icon, super imposed over his vision. With a thought he dismissed it, only to watch it reappear with a neutral chime. He did this several more times before he tried to access the alert. It was a nonsense string of information, but acknowledging it did not get rid of it. He settled for minimizing it, moving it into the corner of his vision, and recolouring it to something less distracting.

 

Next he tried accessing 1^st Squad’s tactical manifold, but could not get a return ping. The company and command manifolds were equally unresponsive. On a whim he tried the auxiliary broadcast channels and finally got a general recall tune on loop, shot through with static. Byrlindi knew these were broadcast by disposable servitors or unsuspecting teams of less valuable mortal troopers; the battle could have been over for hours, days even, and the Grand Company long gone.

 

Byrlindi felt relaxed, unburdened for a moment, and stayed as he was for several minutes, which was on his back amidst broken masonry and twisted rebar.

 

A line of red tracers stitched across his vision, followed by a few rumbling explosions.

 

“Back to it, then.” Sergeant Byrlindi wearily pushed the heaviest pieces of masonry off his power armour and struggled to a standing position. He nearly fell down immediately, looked down and saw that one of his cybernetic legs was now more or less a loose collection of gears, rods, and pistons covered in dirty grease and machine oil. He thought again of the warning icon that would not go away. “Oh.”

 

Byrlindi found that if he was carefully balanced he could limp along. After he cleared the rubble of the fortress-cathedral wall the going was more or less easy. Looking back at the collapsed walls he decided that he did not want to crawl through the fires that blazed in that sector.

 

The fighting outside appeared to be concentrated around the sector where their allied Knight Household had speared headed their main thrust toward the central gates. Great fires of red, green, and white sparked, guttered, and raged. Thick, oily smoke billowed into the darkness of the vault above. The entire landscape was eerily lit, with the unnatural Sicaran darkness oppressing the light, dominating it with unrelenting shadow.

 

The whole thing reminded him of some ancient Terran oil paintings the Warsmith had once showed him, an artists conception of a mythical plane of torment for the damned in the afterlife. Fitting, he thought, for a daemon world.

 

 

Sergeant Byrlindi labored to cross the deep trenches that their auxiliaries had cut and blasted into the vault floor. He might have been proud of them and their dedicated efficiency had their handiwork not then been making his life so difficult. He could still hear the auxiliaries fighting the Word Bearers rear detachment, but for the last hour or two his life had been climbing into and out of trenches and bunkers, or circumventing the seemingly endless supply of portable cage forms of concrete and sand that made instant barriers for the infantry to fight from behind. He might die of old age, he mused, before he found someone to finally kill him.

 

He was limping through one of the Legion’s disposable bunker emplacements when he was suddenly overcome with weakness and dizziness. A ravenous hunger, normally suppressed by his power armour’s regulatory systems, washed over him, manifesting as anger.

 

“You’ll do.” Byrlindi wasted no time rifling through the rations of the dead soldiers that filled this bunker, instead tearing the flak jacket off a tall, muscular assistant machine gunner from the Saga House Guard. With the fingers of his good hand he peeled back the skin from the assault troopers chest, then ripped out a well developed pectoral muscle in its entirety. “Thank you for your service.”

 

And he was ravenous. He devoured meat and blood, and cracked open bones to suck out the marrow, careful only to eat from the dead of the IV Legion auxiliaries and not the cultist slave soldiers of the Word Bearers. Who knew what sort of corruptions they hid?

 

Eventually the anger receded, the weakness of his body subsided, replaced with the heat of his digestive system breaking down and absorbing the sugars, fats, and proteins from his bloody feast. But he clawed open one more body, just to be safe. Without his power armour’s systems regulating his body in a high stress battlefield environment, and with his body already suffering from trauma, he might simply slip into a preservative coma, probably to be found by the Word Bearers, who were certain to keep him alive and torture him well beyond what he knew he could tolerate.

 

He noticed, just then, that it had become almost too easy to peel back skin and tear off chunks of meat. As he chewed a mouthful of raw muscle he held his one good hand up for inspection. He grunted with dissatisfaction when he saw that the armoured gauntlet had begun to fuse with his fingers and elongate into rending claws. He placed the last mouthful of meat into his mouth, took a moment to suppress the pain receptors of his nervous system with a short mantra that activated hypno-induced brain patterns, then used his power claw to quickly snip of his hand at the wrist. After a moment of consideration, he moved the power claw halfway down his forearm and cut off an additional length of his arm.

 

“Better to make sure.” He said to himself through the last bit of food he would bother with there.

 

“You reject the gifts of the Gods, freely given.” Came a voice from out of the darkness. “You and your kind are the vilest of blasphemers, and that is why you will all die on Sicarus.”

 

“Well come on then,” Sergeant Byrlindi sighed. “Have a go.”

 

Bursting into the bunker through a ragged shell hole in the roof, a twisted and mutated Word Bearers space marine dropped onto Sergeant Byrlindi’s legs and used one enormous clawed hand to shove his head backward into one of the bunker’s metal doors. Byrlindi took in the view of the creature now that it was in the light, grimacing at the collection of eyes and chitinous plates that merged its mutated flesh and tortured power armour. It opened a red maw full of needle-like fangs, and several smaller mouths cracked open across its corrupted form to form a chorus of gleeful snarls.

 

“Do it then,” Byrlindi remained defiant. “You great---”

 

With a sudden roar the Word Bearers Possessed struck, two fingers on one hand fused together and elongated, sliding through Byrlindi’s chest plate with ease, directly through his primary heart.

 

Or, rather, where his primary heart used to be.

 

Byrlindi felt his multi-lung puncture, but knew that the attack had not damaged his spinal cord or severed any of the major arteries that ran along the back near his spine, protected by his rib cage. There was a momentary shift in what passed for the Word Bearers expression, and the multiple mouths each raged independently as Byrlindi casually reached up and snipped the head off the Possessed space marine with his power claw.

 

As he pushed the screeching corpse off of himself he became aware of the howling of mortal voices, cultist slave-soldiers of the Word Bearers bellowing in outrage or wailing in despair at the death of the master they had led to the lone figure stumbling through the forgotten corners of the battlefield. The former rushed at him, piling into the ruined bunker to rain furious blows upon him, while the latter scrambled over the blasted landscape in a panic. Sergeant Byrlindi was forced to kill half a dozen of the maniacal cultists before he could he even stand, and in short order had painted the inside of the redoubt with the blood and offal of those that remained.

 

He did not bother to chase after those that fled, and could not have caught them even had he wished to. Instead he reoriented himself by listening for the sounds of battle, tantalizingly closer now, and continued to stump through the pandemonium on failing cybernetic legs.

 

 

Limping around the burnt out hulk of an artillery walker he saw he was now within 100 meters of the auxiliaries position. The Warsmith’s customised Shadowsword formed their final redoubt, and it was packed to bursting with the remnants from every regiment of mortal soldiery. The stout abhumans of the Aeneian Dragoons had circled a few Chimaeras and a Leman Russ into an outer defensive ring, creating a dual layer of fire between them and the soldiers piled onto the firing deck and crouched behind sandbag positions hastily thrown together on the outer hull.

 

The auxiliaries poured measured, well aimed defensive volleys into the waves of cultist slave-soldiers and minor chaos spawn that charged at them, crashing into their positions in endless waves. A lone Word Bearers space marine with a grotesque, biomechanical vox-caster growing out of his back urged the cultists on with hysterical tirades, flesh-tearing cracks from a power whip, and the occasional bolt pistol round. There seemed to be no end to them.

 

“The Warsmith won’t be half upset when his favorite gun gets repainted red.” Sergeant Byrlindi mused aloud, attracting the gleeful agreement of a nearby group of cultists he had not seen. The Iron Warriors sergeant regarded the toadying mortals for a moment, surprised that they did not immediately set upon him. He did not consider how bizarre he had come to look, covered in soot and gore, with many of his augmetics broken and leaking machine oils freely.

 

He grunted, and began stumping steadily toward the Word Bearers demagogue. He passed through several newly arriving cultist squads as they formed up for yet another assault on the beleaguered Iron Warriors auxiliaries. They cast their eyes downward as he limped past, but he picked up the pace nonetheless. A few meters from the back of the Word Bearers demagogue he lurched into his best approximation of a run, charging with awkward, stuttering steps.

 

He could not help himself, and an inarticulate battle cry slipped out, causing the Word Bearers to turn his direction, the annoyance on the enemy’s face quickly replaced with incredulous surprise. Sergeant Byrlindi underestimated the strength left in his legs as he swung, his power claw coming up well short of his intended target. He stumbled, shouldering into the Word Bearers space marine, who hammered the blunt end of his bolt pistol into the top of Byrlindi’s head.

 

Byrlindi felt his metal augmetic skull dent, and his bionic eye went out of focus. His vision split, his bionic eye now misaligned and looking up and to the side. He heard a load crack, the snapping of a metal rod, and found himself flung backwards as his damaged leg finally failed structurally. He struggled to stay upright, but his efforts only earned him a graceless pirouette as he tumbled toward the ground.

 

A bolt pistol shot rang out, and Byrlindi felt it impact into his backpack as he spun.

 

“You’re a lucky bastard.” The Word Bearers demagogue loomed over him, leveling the bolt pistol at his face. “But here on Sicarus your luck finally runs out.”

 

“I’ve been looking for a place to die for a long time.” Byrlindi told him calmly. “Here is as good as any.”

 

“Better!” The Word Bearers crowed. Byrlindi sighed as the malformed demagogue drew breath for what he was sure would be a very long and very arrogant monologue.

 

But that speech was never delivered. A mad rush of abhumans in carapace armour tackled the demagogue from behind and bore him down under their fury. The squat soldiers of the Aeneian Dragoons beat on the surprised space marine with trench shovels and the butts of their heavy rifles. The Word Bearers space marine thrashed violently, scrambling to get out of the way and recover his legs, while in the meantime another handful of the elite mortal soldiers grabbed up the prostrate form of Byrlindi.

 

“We have you, my lord!” One of the abhumans declared, even as several were burned horribly by the intense heat of Byrlindi’s broken and leaking fusion pack, or the highly caustic machine oils of his ruined cybernetics. One soldier pulled desperately at the remnants of his severed leg.

 

“Leave me!” Byrlindi bellowed. The abhuman who had tried to retrieve his leg dropped it and lent a hand at carrying his immobile form, and Byrlindi closed his eyes and ground his teeth. He did not even know exactly what he had meant, but everything about this situation irritated him.

 

They dropped him three times on the way to their defensive position. Each time a fusillade of stubber rounds tore into the auxiliaries who labored to carry his heavy frame, the survivors were joined quickly by more soldiers who rushed from the relative safety of their positions to join in his recovery. By the time Byrlindi was being man-handled up onto the firing deck of the Shadowsword not one of his original rescuers remained, though even more hands labored to convey him.

 

“I hate each and every one of you.” Sergeant Byrlindi growled as he was finally lowered to the deck of the firing platform by a group of the Warsmith’s Own Fusiliers. None of the mortal auxiliaries acknowledged this; the pace of fire suddenly rose to a crescendo and Byrlindi was abandoned on the deck as the soldiers rushed to their firing positions to repel the latest wave.

 

“I am a lucky bastard,” Byrlindi said to no one in particular, one eye watching red and green tracers stitch across the sky, the other eye watching spent brass and burnt out lasgun cartridges pile up around the boots of auxiliaries. “Beloved by all, favoured of the Warsmith, and honoured leader of mighty warriors.”

 

 

The yellow icon was back in the center of his vision, or as centered as his misaligned eyes could achieve. He ignored it, and everything else, for some time. Several bodies now occupied prominent places among the detritus on the decking that filled the vision of one eye, and he was certain that the warm glow in his other eye was from the flaming wreckage of the final Leman Russ.

 

“Go away.” He wearily thought at the insistent icon, then realized it was not the shield shape that had plagued him earlier, but a rune shape he was unfamiliar with. Curiosity caused him to will it open for data interrogation, and suddenly his thoughts were a flood of systems diagnostics and status updates. The data flowed at him so quickly it threatened to overwhelm him. He blacked out briefly, but was certain it was not for long. When he could restore mental focus, he realized that his still open tactical comms had automatically established a connexion to the Shadowsword’s command manifold.

 

“THIS THING STILL WORKS?” Sergeant Byrlindi raged indiscriminately at the soldiers around him. As he struggled to pull himself to a sitting position, several of the auxiliaries finally paid attention to him. “WHY ARE WE NOT USING THE BLOODY SHADOWSWORD?”

 

“My lord,” A Lifeguard with the rank of lance corporal knelt next to him, one hand holding an ill-fitting Fusiliers campaign helmet steady upon his head. “When the Legionnaires abandoned the vehicle to follow the Warsmith, the machine spirit locked down the control consoles.”

 

Byrlindi let out a steady stream of filthy phrases, many of which involved the physical acts of mortals he had never bothered to understand, and began immersing his consciousness into the superheavy assault guns command manifold. He was heavily augmented by the Grand Company’s Lord-Fabricator himself who had gifted him, rather dubiously, with a much higher grade of Mind Impulse Unit than the very primitive system that all space marines used through their black carapace implants to control their power armour. He had never bothered to learn much about it, causing him to flail about mentally for several minutes before he could convince the Shadowsword’s angry machine spirit to accept him for who and what he was.

 

“Get some people into the crew controls!” Byrlindi commanded. “And get everyone on board who is coming! We are leaving this place!”

 

The power plant of the Shadowsword roared to life, and flames sputtered forth from the exhaust stacks with blue-green anger. The tell-tale hum of rapidly charging laser batteries buzzed in the teeth of everyone on board the assault gun, and the tracks snapped taught as the transmission engaged with a thunderous chunk.

 

“Dragoons!” The lance corporal from the Lifeguards called out. “We need drivers in the Shadowsword!”

 

The surviving abhumans swarmed on board, and those who knew how to operate Chimaera and Leman Russ controls shoved their way into the crew compartment.

 

“Where are we going, my lord?” A voice crackled into his consciousness through the vehicle’s manifold. In answer Byrlindi accessed a three dimensional tactical map of the local area and willed a series of waypoints into place to clumsily plot a course. He could feel the driver’s incredulity, which only made him angrier. “Are you certain, my lord? There is no-”

 

“To Waelheim!” Sergeant Byrlindi began dragging himself up a troop ladder with his power claw and one still functioning cybernetic leg. “Let’s go die with Warsmith!”

 

Byrlindi felt his damaged fusion stacks shifting into power saving mode just as he cleared the gunnery compartment of the assault gun. He quickly locked his power claw onto a handhold and shoved his leg against the hull to steady himself. His body powered down to survival mode, but he manually maintained his command systems. His bionic eye powered down, granting him some relief from the misaligned vision, and he used his one good eye to take in the sights before the Shadowsword.

 

“Forward, you bastards!” Byrlindi screamed, the Shadowswords engine revving in angry empathy. “Forward to Waelheim!”

 

“To Waelheim! To Waelheim!” Came the ragged cry of the auxiliaries. Those who could not find their way onto the super heavy scrambled to find handholds on the hull, or run along close behind as the Shadowsword lurched out of the defensive ring it had anchored for several hours of fighting. Those unfortunates were quickly left behind, and many who clung to its sides fell off only to be ground beneath its heavy treads.

 

The cultist slave-soldiers of the Word Bearers scrambled to get out of the way, many joining those hapless auxiliaries beneath the tracks.

 

The main gates of the Word Bearers fortress-cathedral exploded inward as the superheavy vehicle drove on in its mad quest for death and glory. The Volcano Cannon roared, evaporating a group of Word Bearers space marines who were on their way to investigate reports of a problem in their rear. The Shadowsword burrowed deep into the vaults and halls of the cathedral, crushing indiscriminately and lashing out with its deadly main laser the very second its dangerously overcharged batteries could muster a volley.

 

Sergeant Byrlindi was knocked from his perch and fell downward through a gangway into the armoured troop compartment.

 

As he lost consciousness, searching for the cold embrace of death, the last thing he felt was a series of comms connexions manifesting as the wild vehicle pushed past tonnes of stonework on the trail of the Grand Company’s suicidal assault. The recall tune on the general net became crystal clear, and for an instant he believed he could see the face of the Warsmith’s Commorite wife.

 

“Why can’t I die?” He whispered. “What am I doing wrong?”

[Carrack]

Eye Nevermore

 

Distemper screeched in pain as the body he infested was blinded in its right eye. He could have ducked the slashing claw and avoided the injury. He could have shown submission and snuck off, tail tucked beneath him. Instead, he took the painful and debilitating wound and sunk his body's teeth into his assailant's neck, biting through the fur and drawing blood, but not cutting the artery or crushing the windpipe of his assailant. Distemper's tabby furred assailant pulled his head back from the bite, and ran off to the alley from which he came, leaving distemper the prized hunting ground of the fountain for the night, and unknowingly taking with him the gift Distemper had given him in his blood. It was the season of estrus, and Distemper hoped that his assailant would share his gift with many before the the flood of hormones left the other cats of the Aspis Palace district. Distemper could feel the body of the cat he possessed weakening from the infestation he had blessed it with, and with the wound he had sustained, knew that his time of giving with this body was nearing its conclusion. Besides, a way was opening for Distemper to enter the realms of man in his own body, which was much more preferred than possessing a mere animal. Distemper took his weakening body into the fountain, to die, but hopefully bring the joy of his gifts to many in so doing.

 

How long Distemper spent in the warp, he did not know, an eon or an instant, neither had any meaning, all he knew was a path was opening back to reality. A pawn of his master was drawing the path through the kaleidoscope of suffering and screams with old words and an older ritual. Distemper's moved through the warp along the open path, stepping into reality and forming his unnatural body with the offerings of the ritual, decayed and forgotten corpses disinterred from profaned graves.

 

Distemper stood amongst opened mausoleums on the Requiem Level of Callebra Hive, some years past and a vast distance from the fountain in the Aspis Palace District. The differences in time and space did not matter. All that mattered was he was where and when his master had decided to shower the realms of man with joyous gifts. Distemper reached out and grabbed a bar of wrought ironwork from a nearby tomb, watching it as it twisted and rotted into his sword. He strode forth with his sword high, ready to bring his master's gifts to all who would receive them.

 

Distemper on far right.

 

 

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

 

 

 

The Eye Nevermore 

 

 

Garaduk idly swatted at the cloud of flies that had become his constant companions. It was no use, they had survived burning promethium, freezing temperatures, even the heartless vacuum of the void, they would survive his slaps as well. They weren't really flies anyway, they were an expression of the attentions of his patron, The Lord of Flies, and like the attentions of his patron, weren't so easily dismissed. Garaduk stood on Level 81, The Requiem. In ages past, Level 81 had been a more prosperous uphive level. It had housed the High Cathedral for the world of Candlebright. But as the hive had expanded upwards into the sky, the High Cathedral had been relocated to a higher level to be accessible to the nobles and dignitaries without them having to rub noses with the common mid level dwellers.  Now all that remained of Level 81's more illustrious past was the bones of relatives once entombed in the High Cathedral, but now too forgotten, or too unimportant to be reinterred uphive. 

 

Garaduk's forces had just started their upward climb to link up with the spear tip assaulting the upper hive. They still had 32 levels to go, and although mostly comprised of the most feared enemies of the Imperium, Chaos Space Marines, they did not have the manpower to protect a protracted supply line. Thus the atrocities. From their initial breach point on level 77, Garaduk's strike force had climbed to Level 78, and released poison gas. It was a choking agent, a heavy, faintly green cloud that blanketed the level in death. Victims were drowned in fluid-filled lungs and left to rot. On level 79, in case the defenders had taken the precaution of rebreather masks, it had been a nerve agent. Invisible, the gas crept through the hive killing the inhabitants as it contacted with their skin. Level 80, The Billiard Room, as known by its inhabitants, had been a slower demise. The strike force had breached into a manufactorum and quickly slain the workers without raising an alarm. Then Garaduk had infiltrated his mostly human looking cultist into the level to poison the fountains that fed the thirst of the populace. Nothing was left that could strike back at the Black Maw Warband on all the levels Garaduk had visited thus far.  But Garaduk path was becoming predictable, he needed something to draw the attention of the defenders away from his strike force's ascent. 

 

The Black Maw had devoured their way to the center of The Requiem with ease. The PDF of this level of the hive was comprised of mortar platoons, tasked with supporting line soldiers in maneuvers in the open wasteland of Candlebright, but ill suited for battle in the low ceilings of the Calebra Hive. The center of the level was the foundation of the former High Cathedral, the building itself relocated uphive stone by stone long ago. In the centuries past since the heart of the level had been transplanted, no new construction had been allowed to cover the once hallowed ground. All that was left was a labyrinth of mausoleums that were once sealed beneath the sanctuary floor.  Judging by the detritus scattered on the ground and the scents still lingering in the air, Garaduk surmised that the bones of this cathedral now served as a place where women working in the oldest of professions would meet clients. There was a symbol here about the fate of the empire Garaduk had once helped build, but he was not the philosophical sort to figure it out. He had his perimeter set with the small squads of thinbloods under his command, and his two squads of plague marines were patrolling the area. It was just him and his retinue of Vulture Raptors, the dozen or so of his surviving cultists, and a handful of specialist-thralls in amongst the tombs. Garaduk looked at his specialist-thralls and the cultists and commanded, "Crack them open."  They went to work with stolen tools opening up the graves. 

 

The desicated corpses, some crumbling to dust, were laid out to form three circles by the specialist and cultists. Some of specialist-thralls began the chanting. They were mutants concealed behind black robes trimmed with green and corroded bronze masks. They served as a priest class for the mortals of the Black Maw, priests of Nurgle. They would assist in the ritual, but Garaduk would preside over it. 

 

Garaduk began the calling. The words were called in the dark tongue of the Daemon. They were words of power. The cultist fell to the floor, weeping, and these were hard men and women not unfamiliar with such rituals. The specialist-thrall laborers likewise hit the deck puking and scratching at their ears. The Calling continued. Some of the chanters were starting to succumb to the power of the ritual, as it started to syphon the sacrifices of the recent atrocities to power the ritual's master. One chanter passed out, bleeding from his ears and mouth. The other chanters struggled to pick up his slack, but remained voicing the Mantras of Despair. A sorcerer could have done all of this without the theatrics, but Garaduk had not been assigned one.  Another slight from his liege, Lord Carrack. 

 

The words of power and the chanting reached its crescendo with the culmination of the ritual. For a moment there was silence, then a series of sickening pops sounded across the bones of the cathedral. They sounded like puss filled buboes being lanced, only louder. With each pop, a daemon was wrenched from the warp to use the bodies of the one-time Imperial worthies to draw forth their unnatural forms. Skinny, disgusting mockeries of man sprouting worms from their bodies and single horns from their skulls. The daemons wrenched off lengths of wrought iron that were decorating the nearby tombs, these lengths of iron quickly warped and corroded into the vague semblance of swords.  They were Plague Bearer Daemons, and they were but the first wave. A few minutes after the first wave of ten Plague Bearers, another 10 followed along with a more powerful daemon who formed his body not from the bones of the Corpse God worshippers, but from the chanter who had been overcome with the power of the ritual. This daemon looked like the others, save he was taller, his sword more ornate, and had an aura of power far greater than the other Plague Bearers. Then the Grinder of Souls vomited into existence, gathering the myriad of insects and vermin infesting the area, including a fly or two from the swarm around Garaduk to form its body. The beast was some sort of crab centaur with a crab's legs and barnacle encrusted shell, but with a daemon form thrust from the top of the shell bearing a vicious claw. Lastly, with the remnants of the bodies in the circle, a series of small wet pops announced the arrival of three gangs of Garaduk's least favorite neverborn, runty but bloated, jovial Nurglings.  Now came the difficult part of the ritual, the call that Garaduk was unclear if it would be answered. The Calling of the Daemonic entity known as the Filth Monger, the calling of a Great Unclean One.  

 

Before Garaduk could conduct the grand finale of the ritual, several zings sounded next to his ears. One of the zings, caused by a large caliber projectile zipping out from a silenced sniper rifle, pierced his helm's right eye lens and blinded the eye before lodging in his orbital bone. The eye that once sighted down the barrel of a boltgun in the Emperor's palace on Terra,  would never see again. Garaduk unceremoniously dropped to his seat, losing his concentration, and his hold on the calling of Filth Monger. The thinbloods at the south of the perimeter began firing bolt rounds wildly, defensively, when he heard the cry, "Victorus Aut Mortis!" Over the roar of Astartes jump packs.  The war cry of the XIX Legion, the diluted remnants of the Raven Guard. 

 

Garaduk struggled to his feet, fluid still leaking from his shattered eye lens, as his retinue and the newly summoned Daemons charged to the southern perimeter. They were too late. The  Black Legionaries guarding the south of the position were ripped apart by chainswords and lightning claws. The Raven Guard assault squad had just as quickly, retreated, once again using their jump packs. Garaduk's forces, particularly his Vulture retinue started to pursue before Garaduk called them back.  "It's a trap, such is the way of the XIX. Withdraw to the breach point, leave the neverborn to wage war on this level."  

 

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday: Unit Champion over the last two weeks.

Only two but I very much look forward to reading them.

Things have been so busy these last two weeks I couldn’t put anything together myself.

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

Iron Warriors

The Iron Within – Iron Without Painting Contest finishes tomorrow, December 3rd, so this is a most fitting time for Inspiration Friday to focus upon the fourth legion Astartes. To those who took part in the IW Painting Contest I ask you to present your finished models here along with a piece of fluff written about them. To those who did not take part, show us your models and tell us tales of their battles.

Tell us of the brutal and unforgiving siege specialists, of their vast batteries of artillery, their armoured spearheads, their masses of slave-soldiers and their commanding warsmiths.

To those who do not model Iron Warriors (such as myself) let the blunt sons of Perturabo be your antagonists and give us a story of your renegades’ clashes with the remnants of the fourth legion.

Inspirational Friday: Iron Warriors runs until the 16th of December.

Iron Within. Iron Without. Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: MyD4rkPassenger.

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

And let it be known that the winner of the thirty-fourth challenge of IF2016 shall not be awarded the Octed Amulet. Oh no. To one who pens the finest tale of Perturabo’s sons shall be awarded this…

[MyD4rkPassenger]

Since we only got two entries (I was very busy as well) I may have a winner by tonight since I'm going to re-read them now. At the latest I'll have a decision by tomorrow

[MyD4rkPassenger]

So finals pushed back my decision, but free time has arisen and I must deliver my verdict. I'll preface with again you all gave me fantastic stories to read!

 

Warsmith Aznable

I commend you on the detail you provide in describing the scene, I was able to perfectly picture the whole story. I particularly enjoyed the scene where your champion was in the bunker. His disdain of the mutation and the description of the word bearer were awesome. Additionally I simply enjoyed his journey back to the members of his warband. Great story!

 

Carrack

I'll begin by saying great model! The story of your daemon possessing the cat and then being summoned was fantastic, really good stuff. Additionally the summoning of the daemons in the rest was really cool, if felt menacing imagining the daemons swelling in the immaterium right on the edge of reality. Finally the descriptions of the hive levels were really cool. Again great story!

 

After reading these awesome tales I have decided that Warsmith Aznable's tale is the victor.

[Warsmith Aznable]

Only two entries, but Carrack is a worthy competition all by himself.

 

I accept this victory in the name of Perturabo and the IV Legion!

 

And I look forward to sitting in judgment of Iron Warriors stories in the name of the Lord of Iron!

 

IRON WITHIN! IRON WITHOUT!

[MyD4rkPassenger]

Here's my entry for is week, since I am a Son of the Eighth I pitt them against the might of the sons of Perturabo.

 

War is hell, and I'm the devil

 

 

 

Zaal ground his teeth together, veins on his neck bulging as he struggled with the son of the fourth. His hands were around the Iron Warrior's neck and the space marine wasn't dying without a fight. With a roar Zaal finally snapped the neck of the struggling warrior, the marine's body flopping into the muddy slosh of the trenchworks. Zaal ripped off his helmet and leaned against the trench wall, rain hammered his face as he looked up at the scene above.

Heldrakes in midnight clad cut through the sky raining horrific warpfire upon unseen foes. Flak fire from anti air batteries tailed the daemonic dragons, even bringing a few of the beasts rocketing to the ground in explosions of ethereal purple fire. Raptors appeared in flashes of lightning dropping into the trenches of the enemy while gun emplacements blasted unlucky warriors from the air. Zaal sneered and put his helmet back on, this was not how the Eighth was supposed to fight. He blink clicked his vox channel on and the four members of his raptor claw blinked back their status. It was Judax who spoke first.

"Screw the Black Legion, forcing us to assault these dogs who refused Abbadon's call in the open. They waste our skills and our brothers by throwing us at this fortress."

It was not seven cycles ago that a sleek cruiser, dwarfing the strike vessel the 76th flew upon, appeared beside them in realspace. The ship immediately hailed Lord Kardos and demanded an envoy be allowed on board. Knowing full well that there wasn't really a choice in the matter he ordered the hangar be opened. Minutes later a black thunder hawk entered and landed. It's ramp opened and down marched a hideously mutated marine flanked by two terminators. Lord Kardos awaited them with an Atramentar retinue of his own.

At the sight of the mutated legionnaire Kuzbek made an audible grunt of disgust, and he moved to speak but Lord Kardos swiftly silenced him with a gesture of his hand. The Black Legionnaire stopped in front of Lord Kardos and produced an onyx box from his waist, as he opened it he drew a scroll of human skin and handed it to the lord of the Abyss Walkers. He grinned a smile of sharp goblin like teeth in black gummed delight.

"I'm sure you will make the correct choice lord of the eighth" he hissed. He then turned and returned to the thunder hawk which swiftly departed.

Kuzbek turned to his lord and inquired about the scroll, to which Lord Kardos simply replied,

"The despoiler has given us orders, ready our brothers for war." He then stalked back into a dark hallway in silent fury. No one defied the warmaster and lived...

Zaal knew his brother's remarks about the despoiler were correct, he didn't care about them, and only wanted to make an example of the Iron Warriors who refused his call. He looked at his brothers and was about to give the order to jump to the next trench when he heard a gurgling laugh behind him. He turned and saw one of the Iron Warrior's was still alive and clutching a vox device from the heresy. The fallen marine finally looked at them and gurggled out, "Fire on my mark, ignore danger close, IRON WITHIN IRON WITHOUT." Zaal's eyes widened as he realized the warrior signaled the artillery in the fortress to bombard the trench zone around them. He yelled out to activate jump packs but he already heard the sharp wailing of the falling shells with his enhanced ears.

The five Night Lords launched into the air as the trench below them exploded and threw all of them off course with the shockwave. Zaal slammed into the mud and struggled to rise, there was no time to waste, for the artillery operators knew that shelling the area was safer then letting them escape. Zaal rose out of the ankle deep mud and rocketed upwards as more shells screamed towards him. Aiming himself at the walls he was again thrown off course, except this was exponentially worse then before. One of his brothers must have been unlucky enough to take a direct hit, Zaal laughed to himself as he noted it was Judax.

Tumbling through the air he cursed the despoiler and the Iron Warriors as he again found himself in the rain drenched mud of no man's land. He knew his jump pack was ruined this time and unclasped the mag locks on his breastplate, then rolled off it and face first into the mud. He pushed himself into a crouch, then began sprinting to the trenchwork bunker before him. Bolt rounds were whizzing past him and Zaal finally knew how the Imperial Fists felt in the Iron Cage. He glanced at his HUD as he saw now two of his claw mates were dead. He snarled and lept into the trench and drew his power sword. In front of him were four havoc marines with heavy bolters and he smiled as they turned to look at him. Lightning flashed as his two remaining squad mates slid down next to him and reved their chainswords, revenge would taste sweet. One of the unhelmed havocs smiled and pointed at the door frame to the bunker, a rack of boltguns trained themselves on Zaal and his men. Zaal lept forward into the bunker and one of his brothers did the same, the other was not so lucky and his body was ripped apart by the automated systems.

Zaal recovered from his somersault and rushed at a havoc, decapitating him in one swing. A furious melee erupted in the small bunker, the Iron Warriors fighting with their stubborn brutality, and Zaal and his brother with murderous hatred. Eventually the fighting ended, Zaal pulling his blade from the chest of the sergeant. His last clawmate had fallen to a chainsword that connected with his neck. Zaal deactivated the automated systems of the bunker and stumbled out into the rain. He pulled his helmet off again and looked to the sky. The fortress wall exploded, Zaal guessed a claw had made it inside and detonated the munitions store, he didn't really care. The assault was practically over, but Zaal spat acid and blood into the ground and sneered. Too many of his brothers died in this wasteful show of authority. He had always hated Perturabo's sons, not for any reason other than they were masters of attrition and could throw away thousands of lives to secure even the pettiest of victories. Today changed nothing for him, he placed his helmet back on his head and opened a vox channel to commander Kuzbek.

"This is Zaal, 7th claw is destroyed but I'm moving into the breach." Zaal grunted as he hefted himself out of the trench and sloshed forwards to the breach in the wall. He mused that the his company fared the worst today, above them were the Iron Warriors, who despite losing the fortress were already in the midst of escaping in their thunderhawks. The Black legion finally were the top dogs, they had showed the price of defiance by routing the sons of Perturabo from this planet, and showed his company that they were pawns in a much larger game. Zaal ground his teeth and continued forwards.

 

[Teetengee]

Monsters (Halloween 2016) Part III is a bit NSFW, so pm if you want the uncensored version. I am going to figure out a tamer writeup to post here too.

[Carrack]

Crack

-Daemon World of Vassa, Eye of Terror-

 

 

Enasyor ignored the proffered tribute. He ignored the mortal soldiers, Vassan clan warriors, pledging their lives to him and the Warmaster. He ignored the spectacle, the rituals, the homage to him and the legion he represented. Enasyor ignored all

in favor of staring at a crack in a pillar of the temple. He had stood in this temple, then just a lodge hall, when the crack had been made. The pillar had remained unrepaired for thousands of years.

 

Vassa was different then. The Eye of Terror in which Vassa resided in seemed different too, not just because of the mind bending influence of the terrible warp storm either, but different in the perspective of Enasyor. In that ancient time he was both more and less than the man he was today. He was still young then, still filled with foolish notions of pride and brotherhood, he had still retained at least a semblance of humanity in his heart. He had sacrificed it all, a sliver at a time, to rise to the level of power he held today. He stood today as Enasyor, Scion of the Black Legion, Sorcerer Lord, and Legate of the Warmaster. The crack in the pillar marked a moment that had almost arrested his ascent to the heights he had reached before his climb even began.

 

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

 

Gedi abruptly looked over at me knowingly and donned his helm. I did the same. Gedi had been counting too, while we waited. We had counted the reports from the Iron Warriors guns, along with the explosions that they preceded. The last three volleys from the battery had not ended with deafening booms at the walls of the compound, nor had they missed their mark and struck the hide of the rocky flesh mountain that held the open-columned Canubi Lodge and its walled enclosure. The lack of explosions meant the last three volleys were chemical munitions. Chemical munitions meant another assault was underway. The Iron Warriors were predictable in their grinding advance. They could afford to be. They were winning.

 

Enasyor had been part of a contingent sent by Abaddon to assist one of the latest groups of Sons of Horus to take the black. Remnants of three companies of their brothers had formed around Captain Huma, and established a base on Vassa, a relatively stable world in the Eye. Huma had bent the knee to Abaddon, but his rivals from the IV had seen Huma's fealty as weakness, and attacked his base. Abaddon had sent a force to bolster Huma, but the Iron Warriors had been reinforced as well, with more legionaries than the Black Legion had on Vassa.

 

The clan warriors, mutants and primitive hunter-gatherers native to the demon world, had been rounded up by the Iron Warriors and driven in waves at the Black Legion. The Black Legion had been forced to consolidate on the Canubi Lodge and its defensible mountaintop compound. Still the IV sent in waves of mutants at the Black Legion. Only after the rabble had died by the thousands, did the Iron Warriors bring their artillery to bear on the compound, having seen the compound's defenses in action, and noting its strongpoints by the piles of dead. They pounded away at the Black Legion before assaulting. Still they sent in rabble, only now they were crudely armed and fitted with chemical warfare gear, after each barrage. They were grinding away at the walls and whittling away at the Black Legion numbers. Each barrage had culminated with a gas attack which would weaken any legionary that had his armor compromised for an extended period. Gas had signaled the end of the latest barrage as well, and the coming assault, but it wasn't mutants and savages rushing the walls this time, it was the sons of Pertubo themselves.

 

Enasyor and Gedi fired away from either side of one of the lodge's pillars. The north and west of the lodge was still holding, and the east hadn't been attacked. However, the south was falling. Three of Huma's sergeants, Vinno, Carrack, and Kharfus, had fallen for a feigned retreat, and charged after the Iron Warriors, leaving the south thinly defended. The Iron Warriors had pulled legionaries from attacking the east and west walls, to cross-rush the south wall. Enasyor and Gedi, along with the other legionaries sent by Abaddon, were in the center of the lodge, firing at Iron Warriors that made it over the south wall, but trying to keep from fully committing. It wasn't working.

 

Gedi half threw his empty bolter to his backpack as he drew blade and pistol, just as I fired my last bolt and did the same. As expected, the order to commit to the south came, and we charged the wall. A lascutter had burnt an opening through the wall big enough for two Iron Warriors to penetrate at a time.

They had sent in formidable warriors protected by breaching shields to push open a salient within the compound to exploit.

 

Gedi was being pushed back by one of the IV's sons. He was keeping the opponent's blade wide with his own, but couldn't get past the ablative shield, and was steadily giving ground. My opponent was trying to cave in my helm with some sort of heavy trench mace, but badly miscalculated my footwork and struck the flagstones in a shower of sparks. It was the miss I had been setting up, but I didn't take advantage of it, and instead reversed the grip on my blade and drove it into the back of Gedi's opponent's knee. The Iron Warrior fell and wrenched the blade out of my grasp. It was my turn to backpedal, shooting my pistol at my opponent's face, keeping him ducking behind his shield for a moment. The Iron Warrior blocked a few shots, then opened his guard with a wide swing of his mace. For what it was worth, I got a shot off into his faceplate before he knocked my pistol out of my hand and crushed the bones in my fingers. My opponent merely shook his head from the impact of the point blank bolt. His follow up swing would have brained me, but Gedi's blade found that odd angle over the backpack and into the flexible neck armor, and saved my life while ending the Iron Warrior's. I helped myself to his mace before it hit the floor, and Gedi and I turned to face the next pair of enemies.

 

We had given up too much ground dealing with the last pair. Four more sons of Pertubo had gained the compound, and another pair was stepping through. Still we engaged, this time more cautiously, trying to bide precious moments for our brothers to arrive from the other walls. Although we were focused on containing the breach rather than simply killing the enemy, the Iron Warriors weren't focused on our deaths either, their efforts were directed on pushing us away from the walls so their brothers could pour through the breach. Our deaths would come later. Gedi and I weren't unfamiliar with this type of battle for position, we were Astartes, but it wasn't what we had spent the Great Crusade perfecting, not so for these Iron Warriors. We were pushed back to the pillar. In the heat of battle, I sometimes had odd images spring to my mind. At that moment I imagined two Iron Warriors settling a matter of honor with a pushing match like we were having now. They probably did, inglorious bastards that they were.

 

The breachers pushed us to the pillar, and their brothers poured in and started rolling up our lines. I was fighting for my life against two breachers who were alternating offense and defense, they weren't toying with me, but they were taking their time waiting for an opening and not risking much. Gedi was facing more aggressive enemies. I felt, more than saw him fall behind me against the pillar. I glanced back and saw an Iron Warrior raise his blade for a killing strike and went to parry the blow with the haft of the trench mace I held, but one of my opponents came in low with a cut at my ankles. A maimed ankle was a serious matter when outnumbered. I would survive the wound, but my footwork would falter, and leave myself open for a more serious blow. I blocked the Iron Warrior's strike at my brother's neck and felt the bite of the blade on my own ankle. Gedi regained his feet, and we prepared to die as brothers.

 

Our deaths were momentarily reprieved. As our assailants shifted position to exploit my wounded foot, a duet of commands sang out over the compound. Captain Huma, and the Iron Warrior's Warpsmith called an immediate ceasefire. We stood wearily eying each other. My brothers had more to gain from this than the IV legionaries, so our weapons were lower, but still ready to strike should the truce fall apart. Huma linked our vox network with the Iron Warriors', and we listen to their warpsmith address us from orbit. We were to surrender the compound after the Iron Warriors withdrew, but we would be spared. In spite of the indignity of defeat, I was relieved to yet live.

 

Gedi and I, along with the rest of the Black Legion on Vassa, saluted our enemies as they filed out the breech in the south wall. The last Iron Warrior to leave, an auto cannoneer bleeding from his brow out of his ruined helm, turned as he left, and treacherously fired a burst towards the center of the lodge. He fired on me. I couldn't spring to the side with my wounded foot, so I pulled my brother in front of me. Gedi took a cannon shell to his chest, and the two of us were knocked back into the pillar. My elbow struck the pillar with enough force to crack the marble. No one returned fire, and the Iron Warrior disappeared through the breech. My brother died in my arms.

 

****

 

On behalf of the Warmaster, I accepted the tribute and fealty of the descendants of the Vassan clans who had served the Iron Warriors, never once looking at their chieftains, never taking my eyes off of the crack in the pillar. I would take their clans into my troop ships, and bring them with me as I brought the authority of the Warmaster to the same companies that I had fought beside here so long ago. Those companies would form the nucleus of the Black Maw warband, and they would regain and lose Vassa several times over the millennia. The warband would be brought to the heel of the Warmaster by my hand. A Vassan priest led a team of thralls with mortar and pestles to the pillar after the ceremonies had concluded. They must have mistaken my brooding over the crack as disdain for the lack of repair. I splattered the blood of the thralls across the pillar and the priest, telling him that crack was the holiest thing in this temple. With no further words, I left Vassa for the Aspis Subsector.

 

[lokkorex]

http://i1216.photobucket.com/albums/dd366/lokkorex/image_zpsvrvko28x.jpeg

It was beautiful.

The xeno-scum were pushed back metre by metre, their futile return-fire barely denting the supreme Cataphractii armour of Chief Apothecary Dawa and his Terminator brothers, as they marched on the ork filth, burning their presence off the face off the muddy battlefield with bolters and heavy flamers.

The xeno scum had tried to circle around the Iron Warriors flanks with a battalion-sized force off infantry, forsaking any mechanized support, in the hopes to avoid detection.

Their hopes had been brutally smashed when Dawa and his platoon of Terminator brethren had been dispatched to deal with the greenskins, after Master of Vox Matios had easily detected them.

The orks lack off heavy equipment had cost them dearly, as none of the Fourth Legions had fallen, and only superficial wounds had been inflicted on the Cataphractii, a destroyed eye-piece here, a ripped cable there.

But most beautiful off all was what was still visible in the battlefields muddy floor; here and there, sun-bleached yellow and reddish rust littered the battlefield, the remains off the Imperial Fist 437^th Expedition Force.

The 7^th legion force had arrived on the ork-infested world 8 months prior, believing the ork infestation to be easily surpassed by the Imperial Fists 300 strong force.

Their stubborn arrogance had cost them dearly, and barely fifty had managed to survive to return to their ships and call for aid against the xenos.

With the majority of the 7^th legion forces being occupied elsewhere, the high command on Terra had ordered the Fourth Legion to deal with greenskins.

Lord Perturabo had jumped on the chance to prove his legion superior Dorns weaklings, and had dispatched a full Grand Battalion to the conflict, ensuring the annihilation of the orks.

http://i1216.photobucket.com/albums/dd366/lokkorex/image_zpswbioymhw.jpeg

Dawa saw Brother-Chaplain Gogos, interred into a dreadnought chassis nearly two decades prior, ccontemptuously stepping onto the broken chassis off an Imperial Fists dreadnought, his immense weight pushing it deeper into the dirt, as he aimed his heavy flamers at a squad-size of orks, and cleansed the galaxy off their presence.

Dawa grinned at the sight, and went back into battle maul crushing and combi-bolter blasting, ridding the galaxy off the xenos, one shell at a time.

[Phatsquirre1]

For the (true) IVth

++++++++
B-blip. B-blip. B-blip.

These were the first sounds Jhaurot heard as he swam into consciousness, his eyes struggling to open through the gummy blood that covered his forehead.

Dim, patchy light spilled into his eyes, and as he finally forced his eyelids apart, he was confronted by a dirty grey-brown sky, flecks of dirty snow falling from the heavens above.

Except- it wasn’t snow. What he saw through his dimmed Mk.III helm was ash- ash falling from the monstrous weaponry unleashed here, the funeral pyre of so many of his kind. It was at that moment that he remembered where he was, and uttered an unintelligible word that more closely resembled a curse than a planet.

He groaned as he tried to move, his armor’s systems coming back online painfully slowly as they tried to reboot. Diagnostics, HUD, Friend or Foe markers- it all came back as a fuzzy blur, and Jhaurot started as he realized his respirator had been punctured- chalky air mixing with the rancid recyc-air he was more familiar with. His mind calmed as he remembered that the planet was non-toxic, but tensed again as a spiking pain blossomed from his legs. Worried, he inclined his helm, desperate to see what had caused such a feeling.

Sure enough, his legs ended in a pulpy mass of blood, fibers and bone, their ends protruding from where his knees would have started. Blood trickled from the stumps, and he cursed softly. It wasn’t a mortal wound for certain, but without medical attention, he could die- or more likely, fall into Hyper-Catatonia. If that happened, it was likely the Legion would leave him here, remaining in a coma until he withered away.

The thought shook him. What a terrible way to die.

One of the worst for an astartes.

He looked around, and his heart soared as he caught sight of another Iron Warrior searching through the debris of battle, scanning in a standard legion search pattern. His armor couldn’t make an identification of the marine’s company, but Jhaurot didn’t care. That was his lifeline, and he’d be damned if he didn’t reach out to him.

+Brother+

Snapping his bolter to his eyepiece, the lone marine scanned the area.

+I am here+

As Jhaurot said this, he reached out his hand, and he smiled to himself as the warrior caught his movement, making his way to the fallen legionary’s position. As he arrived, Jhaurot caught sight of his armor, a dusty, battered suit of Mk. IV, with all insignia ripped from his shoulders. Odd.

‘What is your company, legionary?’

The voice came from the newcomer, and snapped Jhaurot into life. The astartes held his bolter languidly in his hands as he crouched over Jhaurot’s form, his head cocked slightly to the left, like a hunter sizing up a kill. Jhaurot’s instincts screamed at him to get away- to survive. He pushed them down.

It’s just the pain and shock speaking.

‘212th Battalion. 87th Co., Tactical Squad Xeghen. You?’

The marine nodded, evidently assuaged by the answer. For some reason, the feeling of unease grew even stronger. Sweat broke on Jhaurot’s brow, but he pushed it down once more, his immediate desire to survive overriding everything he knew.

‘Call me Khyze. Where’s your extraction vessel, Legionary?’

Khaurot nodded and spoke, a sense of relief escaping his lips.

‘My squads’ ride is set to come down upon activation of our transponder, which should be about 300 meters back, under the next hill’s lee, along with ammunition and medicae supplies.’

The astartes nodded, but still sat there, silently judging Jhaurot’s wounds.

‘Khyze. Don’t leave me to die here- take me with you, so I can join the Legion in taking the fight to Terra, and repay the bastards that did this to me in kind.’

As he spoke the last sentence, a flash of something shone through the newcomer’s lenses, and Jhaurot caught sight of a faded LII on the marine’s kneepad, triggering a creeping realization- visions of a battle not long passed dawning on Jhaurot’s mind.

The Betrayal. It happened here. Gunfire, screams from the west. Vox-chatter reports heavy bracketing at the ridge line. The 212th was taking losses from the southwestern qudrant, indicators of friendly fire, 31% casualties. IFF tags indicate the 52nd has turned on the 212th.

The 87th was on the opposite end of that. I should’ve known. I should’ve known. What was it that Xeghen had always said?

‘You can’t trust anyone. Not in this Legion.’

‘Hmm. You’re smarter than I thought. Still, you’ll never walk upon Terra’s soil.’

The marine’s words broke Jhaurot’s memories, and as Khyze glanced at the wounded marine’s ruined legs, a dark, insane sound erupted from his grille, as if amused by his own unintended joke. Jhaurot tried to push himself away feebly, but in a flash, the marine had him pinned, and was nonchalantly drawing a brutally serrated knife from his belt.

‘I will use your transponder, your weapons, and your supplies to continue the war in a thousand battles, on a thousand worlds, and kill a thousand and more of those like you- wretched, faithless dogs. But you- Legionary Jhaurot- you will never set foot on Terra, because your life is destined to end here.’

No. No. What have I done?

Cold ice slipped down Jhaurot’s spine as the blade’s edge crackled into life, the stink of ozone filling the air and Jhaurot’s helm. Khyze’s hand, once pressed on Jhaurot’s chest, snapped to his gorget. He pulled the Legionary up by the collar, eyes fixed on Jhaurot’s own panicked gaze, never wavering in their hatred.

Please. Gods above. Not like this. Not here.

‘On this world.’

Khyze raised the blade, like an executioner hoisting the guillotine, its edge pointed right at Jhaurot’s neck.

‘On Istvaan.’

The blade fell.
++++++++