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

[Goreshed]

Here is my story. It is based off of one I had done ages ago but I have since lost the hard copy of it.

 

 

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Eons. It had seemed like eons had passed and yet that word did not seem to do the day justice. One battlefield looked like the last in the end when all of the gears and cogs of the Grand Company moved across the field of death like carrion birds to tally the butcher's bill. But that was ever their way; for war was in their blood just as it had shaped them and crafted them into the killers they are today. Where before their wars had brought glory, now they simply scratched a dull itch one that could only be scratched by the next conflict. The next fortress to be turned to rubble. As the tread of Titans sent minor shock waves through the ground one solitary figure stood upon the battlements he had spent the better part of four months trying to topple and watched history repeat itself once more.

 

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"Sire our men are..." With a gurgled cry the mortal was hefted from the ground where it had abased itself in front of a demi-god. One moment that demi-god had been standing before a large table looking over charts, the next moment the mortal meat sack was lifted into the air by another one of the demi-gods in the chamber, its vision now looking up towards the ceiling of the Leviathan mobile fortress. The figure in ancient terminator plate armour continued to look at the map while the mortal continued to gurgle loudly as it tried to force air through a ruptured throat. For a long moment no one moved or said anything within the large command center, all movement had stopped and all eyes were upon the figure at the table. With a slowness that echoed the age of the terminator plate the leader of the Great Company raised an arm clad in a power fist to silence the mortal slave.

 

"We are well aware of what your men are not doing Sub Commander. That will be all." The figure holding the mortal wore a smaller suit of armour compared to his Warsmith, yet it showed just as much age. With contemptuous ease the lesser lord of iron closed his mechanical fist completely and snuffed out the life of the mortal without a second thought. Tossing the slave's body at the door he let other mortals of a much wiser caliber drag the body out to be thrown over the side of the Leviathan. Turning back to his Warsmith he shook the mechanical claw of the remaining bits of mortal that were still stuck to it. Using his other hand he beckoned the now newly risen Sub Commander forward.

 

"Congratulations on your promotion slave. Carry out the Warsmith's orders." The slave who had been trying to not draw any attention to himself paled at his new promotion. All who served within the Grand Company knew the price of failure, this had not been the first time someone had disappointed the Warsmith. But the mortal tried to at least seem like it wanted the position in the first place and saluted the Warsmith before turning and leaving the Leviathan's Command Center. Orders and other such information would already be compiled and set before the new Sub Commander as it returned to the fighting front. The figure with the mechanical claw looked at his Warsmith as he cast his gaze to the map laid out before them, laying that same claw back onto the table. Centuries ago it would have been a hand but once the mutation had set in he had cut it off himself and crafted the claw that was the replacement. He would not be the first to have done so and wouldn't be the last. Inwardly he wondered how much of his own Warsmith was still gene enhanced human but filed it away for another time.

 

"Warsmith this fortress as well as the planet will be yours. We have suffered only small set backs and..." Once more the Warsmith raised a gloved hand for silence and wisely the lesser lord of iron obeyed. "Hush now Tarad. Our enemy is the enemy of old. We will conquer this planet because I will it. The outcome was never in question. The Sub Commander simply did not understand whom it was that we fight. We should expect these tactics from our ancient foe of old." The Warsmith continued to look at the constantly updating map. Though he would never say it outright the enemy commander was competent and would provide a worth while challenge, one that the Warsmith hadn't faced in years. The use of underground digging machines to transport Scout class Titans into the thick of his landing field was a brilliant stroke and had cost the Warsmith dearly in slave labor and machines. But with each Hive that fell those numbers were returned tenfold. Raids on his supply lines were starting to become a nuisance that he could no longer afford to delegate to mortals and instead had to send valuable members of his Grand Company out to protect the near constant supply of shells needed to feed his hungry guns. Not unforeseen, but still a nuisance all the same.

 

Tarad simply nodded to his Warsmith. They had fought together on thousands of battlefields over the millennia and not once had he doubted the word of the Warsmith. His word was as Iron, unyielding. "Shall we enact the next stage then?" Though the Warsmith was helmed Tarad would have sworn by the Gods of Chaos that the Warsmith was smiling but the words that came out of the ancient vox unit sounded just as dead as the forgotten world of Olympia. "Wake the sorcerers, tell them they may star their sacrifices now." With a sick smile that broke his war ravaged face apart Tarad saluted his Warsmith and went to carry out the order.

 

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The first two months of the invasion had seen the planet bathed in a world wide conflict of blood. None were spared as hordes of soldier slaves as well as smaller operating units of Iron Warriors sated their need for raw materials, mortal slaves and blood lust. Every population center was scoured clear. Every industrial center was put to new uses to bring more glory to the Grand Company. Every newly conquered town, city and hive was turned to Chaos and the will of the Warsmith. Months prior all air and space superiority was won over by the baroque ships of the Iron Warriors and now those same ships were either patrolling the reaches around the planet or suckling from giant conveyors that had been raised to kiss the outer atmosphere and deliver thousands of tons of cargo to prepare the Grand Company for it's next conquest.

 

All the places on the planet bar one. On one of the smaller continents, nestled within a range of mountains on the coast a lone fortress hive had held out. Against all odds and against a number of different opponents it had held out, must to the frustration of the Warsmith. All the loyalist followers of the false god had fallen back to this ancient vastness and shut its many meters thick doors tightly behind them, seemingly impervious to all physical attacks. Now, well into the third month of the siege of the plane this one last outpost of the Imperium's false hope for humanity remained.

 

From the tower perched upon the back of the Leviathan the Warsmith stood with his inner council of warlords looking out across the wide plain in front of the gates to this last bastion of light. His mood was foul and those around him knew when to speak and when not to. This was one of the later times. As they watched another attack flounder against the walls one couldn't help but notice just how high the bodies reached up the sides of the wall. Once they might have been a hundred food high walls but now the dead were piled nearly three quarters of the way up it. Attempts had been made to burn and bring this undead slope down but each time an attempt was made it was repulsed by the pin point gunners of the Iron Warriors.

 

Still hordes of mortal slaves waited behind the various bunkers, redoubts, trenches and supply trenches, barracks and mobile factories, titan pens and pits of demonically possessed fighting machines. When the wave was reduced to nothing but scraps of flesh the next wave was sent. When the hordes of slaves were being prepared for the next charge or the next sap to be driven to towards the fortress the artillery would continue to bombard the shields and bastions. The fortress possessed a number of shielded sections but there just simply wasn't enough power to cover the entirety of it which meant many places went without and thus suffered the most. While it was true that the Orbital strike could have toppled the last fortress, it also meant that there could be survivors and that was something the Warsmith could not tolerate. 

 

The plague that had helped bring down other fortresses across the planet did not seem to take hold upon this last fortress and the reasoning continued to baffle the last of the sorcerers. Far to many failures had occurred for them to be at their full strength and even now slaves were being tested to refill the ranks of those that had fallen. For the most part the brunt of the attacks had been carried out by the meat fodder of the planet but such was the will of the Warsmith now the various warbands that made up the Grand Company were being called upon now that the rest of the planet was in their hands. Only token forces of Iron Warriors and their mortal soldiers were left behind at the key production camps as the rest of the world had been scoured clean. Now for the first time since setting foot upon the planet, all the leaders of the Grand Company were assembled before the last edifice of resistance.

 

As this last attempt by the slaves had been thrown back, with only little to gain but an inch or two higher up the walls with bodies, the Warsmith turned to his lesser commanders. Even spoken through the vox of his helmet and broadcasted beyond his ancient armour they could all sense his displeasure. "It is time to show these lap dogs of the Corpse Emperor what it means to feel pain. Deploy your cohorts, bring down those walls. Leave none alive!"

 

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The Warsmith had ridden into battle within the metal hide of a Spartan Assault tank that had at one point been known as "Death's Warcry". That noble beast, long since corrupted by the influence of the warp, now wallowed in a mire of broken bodies and its own demise when a lucky shot had penetrated it's inner housing and set fire to the driver. By the will of the Warsmith it had still driven on for another thousand feet before finally coming to a halt, assault ramp slamming down against cracked rockcrete. Now, well within the walls of the fortress, last ditch efforts by the defenders were being played out but the writing was already upon the walls. As soon as his first warriors had stepped foot outside of the now dead tank they had started taking shots upon their armour but there were few weapons in the galaxy that could penetrate terminator armour forged in the halls of ancient Olympian forges of the Great Crusade.

 

Without fear or feeling the warriors that made up the Warsmith's retinue drove headfirst into the horde of defenders that were attempting to push back the tide of attackers. Mortal slaves were one thing. Iron Warriors in various marks of armour was one thing. But the terminator elite of the Warsmith's own retinue were an entirely different animal all together. Where they walked only death followed and soon bodies were building up against them like waves onto the very fortress walls they were assaulting. The symbolism was a sweet irony the Warsmith allowed distract him for a brief moment. A sudden and violent explosion landed in the midst of the group of walking tanks, sending many of them toppling over. Casting a glance around him at the devastation the Warsmith noted that a number of his warriors would not be rising again to fight the Long War. Searching for the source of the destruction he found it almost right in front of him behind the latest wave of defenders, a lone vindicator sat with it's barrel still smoking, a single figure standing beside it wearing the laurels of a Company Captain. The yellow of his armour was unmistakable, even with four months of war upon it and the Warsmith knew instantly this was his foe who had denied him the planet for so long. As if sensing the Warsmith's glare the Imperial Fist raised his power sword and let out a rallying cry to his fellow defenders.

 

What exactly was said was lost in the equally violent explosion that blew apart the vindicator in a pyrotechnic display to rival any explosion. Glancing behind him the Warsmith saw the scout class titan start to reload and a quick command gave him a link to the princeps of the ancient war machine. "He is -mine- Princeps. Reinforce those upon the right flank." Some sort of reply was given though exactly what was said boggled the mind of the Warsmith. Every year the Titan crews seemed to fall steeper and steeper into the grips of Nurgle and lost their ability to vocalize anything beyond a gurgling hiss. With diaphragm shaking tread the titan started to walk away from the combat, searching out other worthy targets to kill. Returning his attention to his prey the Warsmith started to run towards the Imperial Fists Captain who was even now getting to his feet, shaking off the sudden loss of his tank and picking up his sword once more.

 

Terminator armour was neigh unstoppable once set into motion and the Warsmith used this to his advantage. The Captain saw what was happening and a grim expression worked its way across his face as he squared up to the charging behemoth of iron. Bracing himself he adopted some sort of fighting stance that was very similar to something the Warsmith had seen in his past but he could not remember where he had seen it before. Just as he reached his prey, one power fist encased glove ready to strike, his other arm wielding a hammer that he had carried from his days of the Great Crusade, the loyalist captain struck out, intending to spear the Warsmith through his twin hearts. The power sword, forged in the great foundries of Terra by a master craftsman parted the armour as well as any designer could have hoped for, pushing its way deep into the body of the Warsmith and yet the momentum of the massive suit of armour carried them on. At the last moment the power fist deactivated to scoop up the Imperial Fist Captian by the chest while the hammer went limp by his side mere seconds before the terminator plate pinned the captain to the shell of the vindicator.

 

For a long moment nothing seemed to move on the battlefield playing out within the very walls of the fortress. All around the Imperial Fist Captain his soldiers were fighting on, some in the livery of the Imperial Fists while others wore the local garb of the PDF. Those who had seen what had happened started to cheer thinking that their Captain had at least given them some sort of victory in this inevitable defeat. But that moment did not last. With grinding gears the arm holding the Captain to the shell of the tank pushed the Captain further up, pinning him there. A deep chuckle sounded from the vox of the Warsmith as he looked at the Captain. The look of shock upon the face of the loyalist was too much for the Warsmith to bear and he allowed his laughter to boom out around him. Dropping his hammer to his side he removed his helmet to look upon the Captain with his own eyes. Not much of his real face was left and a mass of cybernetics and other dark machinery greeted the Captain.

 

In stunned silence the Captain looked down upon his doom. "Fool. You had one chance and you failed. Die knowing this world is mine and that Terra will fall again." Without another word the Warsmith activated his powerfist and slowly crushed the captain against the shell of the tank, savoring the look of pain as his victim screamed his denial into the death soaked air. All around the pair the forces of the Grand Company of the Warsmith were taking the fortress, slaughtering all who stood before them and offering up only pain to those who surrendered. Another world was lost for the Imperium and another stepping stone was taken towards Terra and vindication.

[Canadian_F_H]

Alright... y'all got me... I'll try to whip something up before friday... need a kick start for my iron warriors project anyhow since I'm now fithing them into my personal sub setting... the Acadian Crusade. They shall be fitting and formidable antagonists to my black templars, imperial fists and crimson fists "dornian crusade" mote sturdy and tenacious foes than the zealous word bearers with whome they have tenuously formed a pact of war.

[Canadian_F_H]

Damn... well so far it's more of an outline and a few ideas of actual narrative in between... but it is seamingly more about some techno monstrosities of the dark mechanicus and the abhumans beastmen the Iron warriors have pressed I to service as their legion in preparation for the invasion of the Acadian subsector...

 

It won't be done in time no doubt but I'll post up what I have in what will become my iron warrior background and plot thread and link it. As it is relevant but certainly not cohesive enough to be a submission...

[Trevak Dal]

I kind of have this idea of Slaaneshi Iron Warriors calling themselves the "Seige Dancers" led by a Gold Chain obsessed warsmith being involved with the (mis)adventures of Giselburtus and Adrastus, agents of the Nightblades.

[Teetengee]

Elder

Hidden Content

The marine sat in a heavily upholstered chair, black, with yellow stars. His left leg ended at the knee, sockets and bolts embeded in years old burn scars. Three days of grey growth were on his cheeks. Right hand, right hip, left eye, the three smallest fingers of his right hand, lower jaw, and a lung, as evidenced by the access point in his chest, were heavily bioniced. In his hands were a set of tools, some held, some protruding from further more minor modifications. In his lap, the lower half of his left leg, panels open for maintenance.

 

 

“I am too old for this. Wrench,” He said, holding out his hand for a tool. The young assistants, a boy of seven named Allesar, and a nine year old girl Mar, scrambled to find the right tool, Mar grabbing it first.

 

“Here Sir Uther,” she said, holding out the tool.

 

“Good, this is the right wrench, at least you are leaning that. How many times must I tell you though, Escharon’s insistence on giving appellations does not interest me. My name is Uther, titles and ranks are tools with no function in this forum. I have lived long enough to see kings become slaves, and slaves kings, they merely reflect our purpose in the moment, they are not a name. A name is all we own.”

 

The children sat attentively, listening happily to the chosen’s battle yarns.

 

“You are how many years? Eight? Ten?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“You may not believe it, but I have lived over a thousand of your short lives. The first few though, I remember clearly. The corpse walked then, the one your clan calls the Dead God. He was golden when he came to my village. I was the youngest recruit for the fourth that day. Bright-eyed, I believed in that fool’s vision. They warn you of the honeyed words of daemons, but I have always found the words of men sweetest.”

 

“The apothecaries told me that my age would make the transition easier. They failed to mention how much more it would hurt along the way, the pieces did not truly fit until I received the last, the carapace,” Uther spoke with a grimace, absentmindedly stroking some of the exposed interface sockets on the back of his hand.

 

“Still, the Gods have not deigned to keep me standing, they did that. I did that. The procedure certainly has lent me years I could not fathom at the time. Perhaps still cannot. My mind was not stretched so far as my body’s expiration date.”

 

The children shifted with slight discomfort, warnings of blasphemy ever present in the backs of their minds.

 

“The marines of these later years do not last so long. Their bodies give out, or their minds. Mutation, spawndom, daemonhood, all of these are deaths of a sort. Who they were is gone forever. Not that I am better, I have died a hundred deaths over the years, just none complete enough to end my story,” Uther punctuated this by screwing the bottom half of his left leg back in place, the well machined part freshly oiled.

 

As he stood, the two children pulled rags from their back pockets, rushing forward to polish and shine the towering marine’s exposed metal.

 

“From Iron Cometh Strength. The Flesh Is Weak. Both legions knew that we were our own greatest weakness, but they did not know why. Manus’s boys blamed their human origins, thinking that the machine would save them. Pertarabo’s? We thought that it was others who held us back. That the machine had to be trimmed of the fat of failures and fools. But that is not it at all. Everything has the same weakness, and nothing we can do will stop that. Everything dies.”

 

The children moved quickly aside as Uther walked toward his clothes, charcoal black, with yellow and green trim.

 

“Damn Escharon’s heraldry. Damn his pomp and shine. I was there at Terra same as him. I watched from the wall under a heap of rubble, holding a Blood Angel’s plasma pistol to my stump. Colours are meaningless, but he lets us, nay forces us to put so much stock in them.”

 

 

“Boy, shut your mouth before something flies into it,” Allesar’s mouth clapped shut like a trap. “Escharon is still the best blasted captain I have served. He knows how to recognize the difference between stubborn and resolute, strong and strained, brave and stupid. If he chooses to dress me in foppish finery of long dead nobles, that is the price I will pay. I will die before I see him fall, even if his plans should never reach fruition.”

 

“That boy Lucius spins wild tales of time out of mind, and being neither here nor there. ‘Horus is Dead. Horus shall Come Again,’ bah, corpse take him. Quickly now, wasted time kills,”

 

 

Mar and Allesar rushed to work, dressing Uther in his formal attire. Throughout it all however, Uther continued his musings.

 

“I tend to think Escharon might even believe those tales, or perhaps he just wants to. Whatever keeps him going is best in my estimation. We will all die someday, but that day comes much sooner if Escharon is not in charge. I need no part in the business of rule, the simplicity of following an order, taking a soldier’s life, those are the only things I need. Let others wear the targets of leadership across their backs. Yes, death, that was the point of this story was it not?”

 

“As you say, Sir Uther,” said Mar, reaching on her tiptoes from atop a stool to finish fastening his cloak by the end, such was the difference in height between master and servant.

 

“Yes, death. Escharon seeks to master it, but he does not understand. Death is more than just the cessation of life, it is the cessation of the one who lives. Each large change is its own death. Each of us die a little every day, the we of old being no more alive than our father’s fathers. Everyone fears death, fears change. The great lie ‘And they shall know no fear,’ would be enough reason to fight. Fear shall never be conquered, and those who tell you otherwise have something they desire from you. No, I fear death, and I will face it anyway on Escharon’s orders. He has earned that much.”

 

Mar and Allesar moved back to check their work, to make sure every piece of Uther’s uniform was in place.

 

“At the end, when only the World Eaters seemed to keep the will to fight, after my captain had long since fled, after Horus had fallen, I saw him. Dried blood covered his face, and the thorned crown sat upon his head. He screamed his cries ‘For the Warmaster’ as his jump pack boosted him above me. Landing, he reached out to pull me from the rubble, shoving a lascannon into my hands. “Covering fire’ he said, but his eyes said more. Eyes that had lost their father. Eyes that screamed for vengeance. That face I shall never forget.”

 

“There was no question of disobeying the order. I killed four more that day, but not before the fourth landed a blow that finally severed the remaining power to Escharon’s armour. He fell, but did not die. He did not die even as the World Eaters swarmed into the gap he had created, adding their screams to his. He did not die even as his men dragged him back, pulling me and several other’s whose legion had fled with them. The boy Lucius gave orders to turn back, to save Escharon even as he tore at his useless metal skin, seeking some way to continue his fight. Such was the madness of the Siege, we listened.”

 

“Escharon’s eyes did not change from that day. He did not die in that moment, when so many others have. He pushed through, his purpose never wavering, though he knew he would fail. Those eyes are why I follow him, in the end. His eyes gave to me back a purpose as much as his hands a weapon, one stolen from me as my legion fled and the walls broke, one I watched leave every other soldier I saw fighting that day. His will, his purpose, is iron, and he will never forget it, so neither shall I. Now, get to your duties, I have a council to attend.”

 

Mar and Allesar watched on as Uther continued into the hall, muttering as he marched. Mar smiled, Uther was far more pleasant when the mood to ramble took him, even if she scarcely believed a word of it.

[Canadian_F_H]

Well... I'm not going to get any further with it today. So this is my notes. It is all as subject to change as the fickle winds of chaos. It's more a brainstorm than anything else. Trying to justify my plans for bringing brayherd renegade guardsmen, and iron warriors into my subsector fluff... as such there are inconsistencies and I need to do some research to make things fit into 40K lore and such better.

 

Hidden Content

The Iron warriors had deployed over a 1000 marines plus auxiliaries during the GC into the Acadian subsector who later moved into the neighboring subsector to establish a garrison before largely withdrawing immediately prior to the HH.

 

 

In the outskirts of the adjacent subsector a relatively unremarkable system was long forgotten by the imperium… the Iron Warriors hadn't however.

 

 

During the HH they had held a garrison on the moon of the 2nd terrestrial world of the system designated HGW-1896… a reckless magos of the dark mechanicus, Dokk Taur Moreaux, obsessed with using the power of the warp to surpass the genesplicing techniques of the emperor had turned his attention to the unfortunate populations of the systems worlds.

 

 

By the time the rogue magos’ work was done he had exterminated every sole surviving true breeding human on nearly every world within the system excluding the Iron Warrior’s and their slaves. Over a billion souls had perished… the surviving abhumans were ghastly hybrids of man and beasts whose origins traced back to sturdy and useful animals brought by ancient colonists to the galaxy. Their dna long stored on Mars as a bank for creating tailored livestock and labor animals to benefit would be colonists.

 

 

After a thousand years the abhumans had yeilded brimming populations and a culture of violence. Perfect to be subjugated by the Iron Warriors.

 

 

The Iron warriors would routinely raid the world for recruits for its Auxiliaries which they used to choke the teeth of the imperial warmachine with their gore.

 

 

In the 41st millenium Warlord Iron-Ward Rend-Deck has filled nearly 2 dozen captured chartist captain's freighter vessels and subjugated their crews. Filling their hulls with several million of the hardy visceral stock of their domain, and a years production from the now shattered forgeworld of *******...

 

 

The fodder is ready to fuel the forge of battle.. And the masters of Iron are ready to work their mettle!

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cacophony of corrupted machine code. Not the humble ordered binary language of the faithful of Mars, but the layered streams of quatrary, the language of true animus malorum, the dark machine intelligences who’s thoughts resonate with the universe in the quantum domain.

 

 

Captain **** of the Iron warriors. Had finished overseeing the installation of the blasphemous device within the bridge of the chartist freighter. The tendrils of the machine mind had penetrated every I/O port and had threaded a million nano cables thru the nerve endings of every surviving member of the comand crew. They were now it's slaves until it had stolen every last thought from their ever shrivel in minds.

 

 

He had become accustomed to the constant chatter in his mind as the dark presence flooded his mind with its dark desires and brutal calculus. The AI had repeatedly hacked every interface, every frequency transmitter receiver. The ancient Iron Warrior had grown tired of fighting it millennia ago.

 

 

“sshhhrgghhooolloopth feast of Iron… rrrggi-gi-gi-gi-zzhzthloh-tep Feast of blood…” the AI desired war.

[Zhaharek]

(Not an actual entry for Iron Warriors this week, just an intro to a character I intend to focus on in my future entries. Also: I'm back again. For more than one week this time. Enjoy)

 

 

 

I am Izuriel Crain.

I am a master of hidden things, a vessel of secrets in midnight clad, a silhouette of ebon silks wrapped about crackling war-plate. A 100,000 stolen teeth clatter about my throat on fraying threads, a relic of my humanity (more of that will be revealed before this story ends). I got to war accompanied by with a hammer in one hand and the threads of warpfire in the other. I do not simply slog my way across the realms of this galaxy, but am carried by Vakari, a steed of iron, fury and fell mechanisms. I have been instructed, by my master Avostos Crouw, to integrate myself into the ranks of that ancient fool, Abaddon. His Black Legion collect an ever growing cabal of sorcerers, from babbling imbeciles to the terrifyingly powerful. A cabal which I am to join. An utter waste of my talents, as you shall see. So this chronicle will detail my sufferings among these god-ridden fools.

Before I begin: my gauntlets are a deep, thorough, crimson.

 

 

Now- A Conquered World

The Hound's clawed gauntlets clicked a staccato rhythm on the obsidian of his throne and his aura flickered with jagged impatience every time his roving, black eyes landed upon me. His visage was decrepit, resembling nothing more than a leather wrapped tight around an old skull. His impatience was like sour glass on the edge of my sixth sense. An irritant. Indeed, the chamber within which I knelt seemed designed to antagonize its denizens. The whole space was a tribute to defilement, an Imperial church unmade. Every skull had an 8 point star, or a stylised skull symbol, burned into its forehead, some still smoking softly, the edges of each brand glowing soft red. I can only imagine the maddened whims of a mind that would brand an image of a skull onto an actual skull. I have done bizarre and horrible things to cadavers in my unnaturally long life, (the teeth for example), but never with such dazzling idiocy. The sweeping arches were hung with burning braziers, smoke falling to the earth in thick columns. I knelt, and where I knelt, the blood that soaked the floor was staining my armour. The Hound continued his endless clattering. I did not move. I simply knelt in place. Not the kneeling of some subservient slave, although I am certain that The Hound believed otherwise. I kneeled as if were mediating, my legs beneath me, hands upon my knees.

 

The Hound rose. One of the many, many flaws I have discovered in my Black Legion cousins is their adoration of some ludicrous tetrad of greater Warp filth. The warrior before me, it would seem, had dedicated himself to an entity I had heard of only in the whispers of The Warp. A God of Rage. A God of Blood. A diety for the brutish and simple.

The Hound reflected this in his armour. The plate was matt red, trimmed with a bronze that was either rusted, or simply so poorly applied to the armour that it was falling away. Furs were tied to his vambraces and greaves, each one black with dried blood. I recognised the animals they were ripped from. Dethragrax, T'corinth, and Lyr-Cats. Vile creatures all, bred by mortal scum for bloodsport. This warrior before me, so lacking in panache that he would choose to be announced simply as 'The Hound,' had been fighting mortal bred hunting beasts. The thought made me taste stinging vomit.

 

He strode towards me, shouldering through column of languid smoke. Such melodrama. In another life, The Hound would've made an excellent showman.

His voice was heavy with age as he spoke: "Why did they send you to me?"

I shrugged, servo-motors whining, "Clearly you are possessed of exceptional judgment." The Hound's power amour, like mine, could turn away a bolt shell. Unlike mine however, The Hound's amour seemed to protect him from thinly veiled insults so utterly that they simply sailed far above his head. I continued, "Why else would Magister Kophit'ran give you the honour of assigning me my duties?"

He snorted, his toothed vox grille translating it to static, "A Nostroman speaking of honour, how rare,"

He wasn't wrong, I'd never shown an ounce of honour in my life.

The Hound stepped passed me, blood splashing about his ankles, "In war, you will join Bal Herek. Go. Train with them now. You will lend them your sorceries."

 

I looked up at him. I wondered, for an instant, if this great leader had any more to add. Anything less... Mono-syllabic. I nodded, the slender, mega-corvid skull I wear over my helm bobbing. Best not to give such a creature a clear insight into my being. I did not need my powers to take the measure of The Hound. His nature radiated from him in each step or almost violent gesture. He was a brute. A cunning one, but a brute nonetheless. I could see it in his inattention. To him, another Astartes (yours truly for example) fell into two categories. Brothers or enemies. Brothers were mistrusted. Enemies destroyed. I could also tell that if he were to decide that I were the latter, I would not win. I am not arrogant. I have no claim to be a master warrior or exalted sorcerer. The Hound, however, moved with the massive weight and improbable grace of an ocean leviathan. Like the long dead Killer Orca of Terra. He reminded me of an old, old friend: Mugil.

 

Nostromo- 10,000 Years Previous

Rain on our backs and blades in our slack hands. Slack hands, no fists, no fists, not yet no. I stand tall. I'm not the leader, but I am strong. My power makes me strong. Let's me push our victims to sleep. I smile at the rest of them. They have their own strengths. Burgahn with his size, his lumpy fists and monolithic muscles, grown to keep Daddy away from Mummy. Little Grecka with her knives, tied to bony thighs, still red from our last adventure. Mugil, with his ugly face and beautiful sword, pried from our last adventure's cold fingers. He IS the leader. Suva, with her lovely curves, already a hot one, as young as we are. She can put to sleep nearly as well as I can. She just does it with matter rather than mind though. Then there's me, Eezy to my friends, The Tooth Fairy to everyone else. You'll see why. Mugil stands, dwarfing me. He speaks, and the glass beneath us quivers: "This is work. Eezy got us the chance, got us the in. Now. No messing, no jokes: we do this right." He tenses, and draws his sword.

I smile, and throw my pliers from my left hand to my right. I nod at Mugil, but before my head even bobs, he jumps, holds his sword in stabby-stabbing direction, and smashes the skylight. Grecka shrieks with glee, daggers ready. Burgahn roars as we fall. Suva shrills like a gyr-falcon as she draws her razor. Mugil lands first, planting his blade deep into......

 

Now: A Conquered World

The Hound did not acknowledge my nod of agreement, as I expected. He simply stared at me through deep-set lenses until I rose and left. If he was expecting a bow, he was disappointed. I held out my hand and my hammer flew across the room and slapped into my palm. It's name was Shudnii. I had once caught it out of the air as it fell from the hand of a Chogorian fool, some three thousand years previous. It's killing head was stylised eagles visage, the twin spike upon the other side designed after the birds elegant plumage. It's haft was a length of black wire wrap and its previous owners teeth were clustered near at the base of the handle. I returned it to my belt as I stomped out of the defiled church and into the writhing metropolis of Disparchia, latest conquest The Black Legion.

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your many entries in Inspirational Friday: Iron Warriors over the last two weeks.

We haven’t had seven entries in a topic for quite some time! I should have known I could trust in iron.

I’ll take a slice of the festive season to catch up on this and other recent entries as free time as been short of late. It may take some time for our judge, Warsmith Aznable to get through them all too. But who could be a more fitting judge than IF’s resident warsmith?

Rather than shutting down Inspirational Friday over the festive season as we have in previous years, I’m setting a topic and giving you a good few weeks to work on it between family-gatherings, engorging oneself on fine viands and making/painting what plastic crack Santa brings you.

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

Thousand Sons

Blessed with a plethora of gorgeous models in the recent release, not least of all their own primarch, the legion and warbands of the Thousand Sons represent one of the greatest tales of hubris in the 40k universe. From their Tzaangor thralls to the tragic rubric marines, husks of once-fine warriors, the might of the Scarab Occult to the proud exalted sorcerers, to the prodigal son Ahriman and his father the Crimson King, the forces of the Thousand Sons are varied and powerful.

Tell us, as the 35th and final challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016, tell us tales of these warriors, the fallen XV legion astartes.

To those who do not model Thousand Sons, let the dusty automatons and their conceited wizard masters be your antagonists and give us a story of your renegades’ clashes with the remnants of the fifteenth legion.

Inspirational Friday: Thousand Sons runs until the 13th of January.

Let us be inspired. Scientia est potentia.

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

To the chosen victor: step forward and claim the Iron Amulet:

And let it be known that the winner of the thirty-fifth challenge of IF2016 shall not be awarded the Octed Amulet. It is only fitting that the champion of the fifteenth be granted a token at least equal to that gifted to the best of the 4th legion.

Behold!

[Kierdale]

Counts-as is of course also welcome. :)

[WarriorFish]

I'm in on this one! Just... let me start on the actual background for my Thousand Sons first and I'll get back to you :lol:

[Dolchiate Remembrancer]

Count me in!

[Warsmith Aznable]

I apologise for taking so long to make my judgment on the Iron Warriors challenge. There were many entries, and I enjoyed every single one of them. I am proud for my Legion that so many chose to participate in writing about them. I am also pleased with the high quality of the entries. That all of them pleased me also makes the judging so difficult, however.

 

I want, more than I ever have, to give multiple awards.

 

But we are Lords of Chaos, Veterans of the Long War, and nobody knows more than we that only the strongest triumph.

 

With that thought in mind, I choose "Crack" by our honoured challenge-brother Carrack.
 

What stuck out in my mind the most was the final, spiteful shot of the autocannon. I could feel the callous spite of the Iron Warrior who did it, even though nothing else had been said of him. It was also a perfect moment that broke through the illusions of the protagonists honour. And that is what Iron Warriors do, they break down walls.

 

This story captured the IVth Legion, the Black Legion, life in the Eye of Terror, and the Long War all in one short story. And it did all that even while narrowing the focus down to one character's remembrance of a pivotal moment in his life.

 

Well done and a huge thank you to everyone who submitted stories for this iteration.

[Carrack]

If this challenge's stories weren't so good, I'd be gloating a little, but as it stands, I'm honored to be named winner. There were lots of good stories.

 

I'm glad the cheap shot from the nameless Iron Warrior came across as intended. I thought about explaining how the Black Legion couldn't retaliate without risking their annihilation, and how the Iron Warrior was more heated over the damage to his helmet than the wound, and wanted a little payback, but I thought that detracted from the cheapness of the "after the whistle" attack.

[Rune Priest Ridcully]

The two titanic figures stood across from each other on the mosaicked floor, one in emerald robes, the other storm grey ones.

Each held a staff taller than them, cast of bronze, etched in runes of a fallen world.

The figures leapt each other, chanting, causing the air around them to simmer with the power from beyond the veil they were summoning. Their staffs clashed, each spinning and lashing out to attempt to bypass the other’s.

The figure in grey robes then barked a harsh end to his chant, and was consumed in white hot flames that seemed to come within him. The flames expands outwards in a wave towards his emerald clad opposite, who was pushed back to the black marble wall of the chamber, a sparkling green aura around him protecting him roaring flames.

“A pretty catrip as usual, though will it protect you from anything more focussed?” In a voice that sounded more kindly then one wreathed in flames had any right to be, the grey clad Sorcerer asked his Emerald clad fellow as they circled.

In a soft voice the emerald sorcerer responded as he spun his staff around him in patterns which blurred the air around him, humming both a low and high pitched note which would cause mortal ears pain.
“It won’t need to brother dearest”. The emerald sorcerer brought his staff down onto the floor,  creating a flash of emerald light and a whipcrack that sounded in both the material and psychic planes, momentarily stunning his storm clad fellow.

The Grey Sorcerer turned, his staff blocking a two handed swipe from his emerald fellow, before blocking a strike from a clone, where once sorcerer in emerald stood now three were attacking him, two hand to hand whilst the other chanted in the rough tongue of ancient  Gyptea, energies spinning around him in a fell wind.

Ducking and rolling, the Grey sorcerer change his angle at the last minute, bringing his staff up into the back of one of the Emerald clad sorcerer’s thighs, a blast of white fire vaporising the limb and sending the sorcerer into the air, shattering into shards of green glass which melted into air moments after hitting the ground.

The destruction of the clone did not deter either of the other Emerald sorcerers, one seeming lost in his chants, the other launching a furious two handed assault with his staff, not allowing the Grey to rise above his knees.

“Aegnor Ancar!” With a dry bark and blast which dried the air, the Grey sorcerer rose back up, a serpent of sapphire emerged from each end of his staff, leaping towards the Emerald clad figure who had steadied himself, wrapping themselves around his limbs, binding him upwards as his flesh and robes started to burn before he two, turned to crystal and shattered.

As this happened the emerald sorcerer who had been chanting ceased as emerald lighting covered him like his opposite’s flames, and charged at the Grey clad Sorcerer. Before the lighting emerald clad sorcerer could reach his Grey brother, he was struck by a whip of fire, casting him back, breaking into emerald shards as he landed.

The look of surprise on the Grey Sorcerer’s face was only matched with the speed he spun and held his staff in both hands, catching a bolt of dark green lightning which drove him back, his feet skidding as he quickly started chanting in dead tongues to pour energy from the great ocean into his staff, a disk of sun orange flames shimmering from it, halting the movement caused by the lightning.

For an eternity, the flames and lightning clashed. For but mere seconds the Sorcerers were focussed on each other.

Suddenly, the lightning and flames spluttered and died, the power snatched away by another who had just stepped in, resplendent in sapphire lacquered armour, an ancient mkIv helm with a horned Solar disc cresting it covering his face as his deep voice echoed into the chamber even as the two previously fighting figures turned and bowed before him.
“We have arrived above Portha Chova III, prepare yourselves, for tonight the Mausoleum of Raphealon shall render to us that which it’s guardians have long forgotton.”


I'm not entirely happy with it, especially the ending and have a few more ideas for different scenes I may work on instead.

[WarriorFish]

There isn't a word count is there? You can always edit it to expand I've been far too busy to have any hope of attaching a model to this, but that would have just been a bonus. I'm still digging into Sons lore so it is couched somewhat by my CSM to compensate, but as they'll be closely linked in their background it is a fitting start Hopefully I can get Akhenaten painted up sooner rather than later

The Musings of Akhenaten

Akhenaten supposed it was inevitable his mind would be cast back to those times, so very long ago. That was the thing with these recent renegades, they still had so much of a chapter within them. Admittedly the Swords, or Sunder as they called themselves now (Akhenaten cared little for why), were unusual in how strong these bonds still remained but this was a particular quirk of theirs due to the intense cult of personality their leaders had. It was impressive and amplified their formidable combat prowess, for that they made most useful allies.
Move
It seemed silly to find it so remarkable that they would help one another in battle, even if it was as much to demonstrate their superiority over their peers as anything. Odd, given they clearly all aimed for their own glory. No doubt they recognised there was no point in rising to the top of a depleted force, a king of ruins is no king at all. A lesson many would do well to learn. Perhaps there was a little more Tzeentch in them then they'd like to admit?
Move
Ah, but wasn't that true of everyone? Some more than others; Akhenaten could think of more than a few names, the thought giving him the faintest of wry smiles. How strange that he found himself missing the brotherhood of old. To have peers to work with - and surpass. The Sunder made for good allies, so much so even they acknowledged the benefit they gained in return. Reliable so long as you knew how to handle them, which of course Akhenaten did. This was just the latest in many collaborations to mutual gain, and he knew that there would be many more too. His coven was a small one, allies he could rely on were a necessity for survival as he worked towards his grander plans.
Attack
Truthfully, he had reservations about the Rubric. At first he regretted it, but over time came to like the control. You can't find servants this reliable anywhere else after all. Could the Rubric even be undone anyway? Akhenaten doubted it, though he could never be sure if this was more because he didn't want to it undone. It was of no current concern; he would decide on that particular path when, or if, it presented itself.
Hold
Akhenaten sighed as the last Aspect Warrior fell dead at his feet. He could afford a minute reminiscing on the past, true, but it always did feel a waste of time that could be spent better - much like battle itself. A small gesture pulled the soul stones of the slain warriors to him, and they circled pleasantly - a small gift to Yjun for he knew how much they enjoyed Eldar prey, as all those in service to Slaanesh did. What the xenos were protecting however... that was his alone.

"Did you find what you seek, Sorcerer?" Yjun's unmistakable voice purred, appearing silently as he always did.
Akhenaten turned to greet the Chaos Lord as he weaved his way through the motionless Rubric Marines, his bright pink, white and gold armour serving to stand out ever more against them. Something Yjun no doubt enjoyed.
"As I see did you," Akhenaten nodded to Yjun's collection of stones as he used his telekinetic powers to add his own to the tally, darting off one by one from their floating circle.
Yjun merely tilted his head, as the closest such an ego could give in thanks, and turned to leave.
"Until next time, Akhenaten. Use your new trinket well," his words always like silk, but this time like honey too perhaps?
"Of course, Praefactor; that is without question," came the matter of fact response.
Another contract complete. Another treasure his own. Another step closer.
Follow

[Warsmith Aznable]

Yours to Command

 

Hidden Content

The spindly juve gingerly probed his sore teeth with the tips of his fingers. He was dismayed when one of them wiggled. Groaning he sat back and massaged his broken nose, trying to clear away the drying blood so that he could breath more easily.

 

“Are you hurt badly?”

 

This was not the situation as he had imagined it. He felt ashamed, then angry. He meant to gallantly refuse her outstretched hand, but barely in control of his emotions ended up batting it away.

 

“I’m fine.” Jorus immediately regretted the harsh tone of his voice. Leta, whom he could not save from their assailant, was too understanding. Jorus did not want to be looked upon with pity, least of all from her, and grit his teeth while turning his attention to the filthy deck. When he looked up again to begin his apology, Leta was already looking back at Dibe.

 

“Don’t kill him!” Leta gasped as Dibe raised the bent section of pipe for another blow. His opponent, Balk, was from a different juve gang, but they were still from the same clan group. Jorus could not imagine how that mattered to Leta considering what Balk had meant to do with her, what Jorus had taken a beating for interrupting, but it did.

 

“You hear that, scutzo?” Dibe laughed as he waved the rusty pipe over Balk’s prostrate body. “You get to live!”

 

Jorus painfully levered himself up and limped over to where Balk lay cowering.

 

“Jorus!” Leta objected as Jorus directed a savage kick into Balk’s ribs.

 

“Just the one good lick is justice, babe.” Dibe thoughtfully tapped his fighting pipe into his palm. “But still, one’s enough, Jorus. Knock it off.”

 

Jorus let loose another kick, taking satisfaction at defying Dibe as much as he did Balk’s startled yelp.

 

“You’re not the boss of me.” Jorus said bitterly, turning quickly to stalk off further from the main pump junction where their clan settlement was.

 

“Where are you going?” Leta called after him.

 

“Aw, let him alone, will you?” Dibe told her.

 

Jorus fumed, and turned around to tell his best friend just exactly where he could put that pipe. Instead, however, he turned away, saying nothing, face hot with anger and jealousy at the sight of Leta nestled into Dibe’s already broad chest as they shared a clumsy yet youthfully passionate kiss.

 

Jorus limped into the dark, well away from any of his clansmen or the traders, to be alone and think.

 

*********

 

He should have been the one to save Leta.

 

He had noticed her taking too long to come back when Dibe said she could take as long as she wanted.

 

He had been worried when Dibe said she could take care of herself.

 

He had gone to look for her when Dibe wanted to stay and hangout with the gang.

 

He had rushed to her aid when he saw what Balk was trying.

 

He had also taken a good licking from Balk.

 

If only you had been given more time…

 

“I was about to get him.” Jorus said out loud. For a second he allowed himself to believe it.

 

He felt uneasy of a sudden. Looking around he found that he had wandered much further afield than previously he ever had. This section of the lower hive was a maze of dead ends and collapsed tunnels. It was taboo, ghost tunnels, scary places where the electricity did not reach. Strange, colourful signs like those of the uphivers warned people away with simple, easy to understand pictures implying several kinds of bodily danger that even the illiterate sump scum could reckon the general meanings of. It was exactly why Jorus started going there; nobody else would be around.

 

Now, though, he wasn’t sure where he was anymore. There was a meager light, an eerie green like from glow-fungus or firefly-jars, but Jorus realized with a start that he could not pinpoint its origin. Jorus noticed that there was a chill in the air that hadn’t been there before. His settlement was sandwiched between two pumping stations primarily for the warmth that radiated from the machinery. The sharp chill was unusual to Jorus. It felt like danger to him, but an insatiable curiosity gripped him, and he wanted to see what was around the next corner.

 

Always something interesting to learn…

 

He found it in the rubble of a collapsed section of tunnel. He had been attracted to the corroding bits of metal littered in small heaps here and there. Good scrap meant good trading, and his mind raced with possibilities at what such quantities of loose scrap metals, easy for the taking, could gain him.

 

Easy for the taking…

 

But when he saw it his desperate collection of scrap went tumbling to the floor in a tinkling, hollow symphony. He worked hours to free it. His hands tore and his fingers bled. His muscles burned and ached, but still he toiled to free it. He didn’t know why or what exactly he was going to do with it, but he knew it was the most important thing he, or anyone else he knew of, had ever found in the underhive.

 

Easy for the taking, yours to command, child…

 

*********

 

“Why are you doing this?” Leta lay on the floor of Jorus’ bed chamber. The ragged scrap of sheet could not cover ever her small, bruised body, but she was too dispirited to protect what modesty she might have left. “We were friends. What did I do? Why?”

 

For a brief, panicked moment, Jorus felt truly guilty, horrified by what he had done.

 

Yours to command, master…

 

Jorus, sitting on the edge of the filthy sack stuffed with discarded paper and rags that served as his mattress, looked upon Leta as if he had never truly seen her before. His gaze was cold, haughty, and highly critical.

 

“You have thin legs.” Jorus said. “Narrow hips. Bony ribs. Stringy hair. A dirty face.”

 

Leta turned her face away and was silent.

 

“I don’t know what I ever saw in you.” Jorus said, standing up. “I could have any woman in the settlement, what did I ever see in you?”

 

“Jorus, please-”

 

“Take her away, I’m done with her.” Jorus commanded. “I don’t want her anymore.”

 

The metal giant, his unburied treasure from the tunnels, so silent and still it might have been mistaken for a statue, suddenly moved. Not with lurching, shambling steps, but with fluid, deliberate motion. Still perfectly silent, the metal giant grasped one of Leta’s frail arms in its enormous hand and without effort dragged her to her feet, then to the door of Jorus’ dwelling. It hesitated at the door, turning its glowing green eyes to Jorus as if seeking more specific instructions.

 

“Into the street!” Irritated, Jorus waved a dismissive hand at the giant. He did not want Leta looking at him anymore, and he focused his own attention elsewhere while the metal giant tossed her down the short steps that led to his dwelling.

 

Only the strong deserve to command…

 

Jorus busied himself dressing. His reign of terror had lasted for three months this far, and it had been that long since he had worn simple rags and leathers. An old officer’s great coat, with most of the brass buttons still attached, served as his robes of office. He had fashioned a headdress that mimicked the ornate decorations of the metal giant’s gold-chased head, and he now donned it proudly. The final piece of his boss costume was his staff, made of a rusty spar topped with the most colourful danger signs he could salvage from the area had made his important discovery.

 

Thus attired, he finally deigned to notice that there were noises of discontentment coming from people outside of his home.

 

“Attend me.”

 

The metal giant moved into position behind him, matching his pace and projecting menace and majesty. The metal giant had been dull gunmetal and rust, but now stood proudly in Jorus’ own personal heraldry: neon spray paint in wildly clashing colours highlighted by what Jorus fancied to be arcane symbols of might, which were in fact random scribbles in his own hand.

 

The pair emerged from the dwelling and Jorus was surprised to find a crowd gathering. Traders wouldn’t come near the settlement since Jorus’ metal giant began robbing and beating them, but his clansmen had nowhere to run, a fact that he had often reminded them of. But it was unusual for them to gather in large numbers in the open anymore, least of all in front of his home.

 

“What do you all think you’re doing?” Jorus demanded to know. He frowned when he saw that Leta was at the center of the crowd. “Go home or I will have you beaten.”

 

Only the strong have the will to power…

 

Jorus heard a sound that made his skin crawl.

 

Leta was laughing.

 

He had known her all his life. Jorus, Leta, and Dibe did everything together. Their mothers had all been close friends, and the three of them had practically been raised together as family. Jorus had loved Leta’s laugh then, and then he had loved her.

 

Now the sound made his skin crawl, and sent an eerie chill corkscrewing up his spine.

 

“You couldn’t do it yourself!” Leta cackled, and Jorus was startled to see the pure hatred in her eyes. “You could never do anything on your own!”

 

“I have been chosen by the gods!” Jorus screamed at the crowd, face hot with hate and shame. “Anyone who doesn’t do as I say gets beat by the metal giant! MY metal giant!”

 

“You think there would only be one?” Leta sneered at him. “You think you’re so damn special?”

 

Jorus forced himself to look at her. She seemed odd standing there without one of the gang with her. Without Dibe. Looking around the crowd, Jorus saw that Dibe was nowhere to be found.

 

Only the strongest may command…

 

Jorus suddenly felt cold. If Dibe found another metal giant of his own it would be trouble. If Dibe found several metal giants of his own it would be a disaster.

 

“With me!” Jorus commanded, setting off through the parting crowd. But the metal giant did not move to follow. Jorus stopped, feeling the crowd’s agitation, and turned back to look at the metal giant. He concentrated on the command again. “With! Me!”

 

Someone in the crowd screamed, and was soon joined by others as dread gripped all of the underhive clanners assembled. Dark figures were moving out of the shadows surrounding the settlement. Stumbling before them was a ragged, desperate figure.

 

“Dibe?” Jorus asked, momentarily forgetting that he had betrayed his best friend and rained selfish, horrid abuse upon the girl they both loved.

 

“Run.” Dibe gasped as he collapsed, but there was nowhere to run.

 

The looming giants closed in, herding the gathered clanners closer together, toward Jorus’ dwelling. They were towering shadows, with coldly glowing green eyes.

 

“I command you to obey me!” Jorus desperately waved his makeshift staff at the metal giants. When that did not avail, he turned once again to the metal giant he had used to terrorize his clansmen. “Defend us! I will it!”

 

“Oh, this will not do.”

 

The voice was smooth, melodious, refined, and utterly dispassionate. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Jorus felt it vibrate deep in his bones, and it made his soul feel sick. There was a slowly growing pressure against his mind, pushing in from one of the metal giants in particular. This one raised a staff, and in a blinding whirl of pink and blue mist the gaudy spray paint that Jorus had applied burned away. Instead of the dull, pitted metal he had pulled from the rubble, the metal giant now gleamed with burnished gold and a shockingly blue lapis lazuli.

 

“NO!” Jorus became irrationally angry. “That is MINE!”

 

Only the strongest, child…

 

“What a bizarre collection of human trash.” The sorcerer stepped into the light, and finally deigned to look upon the underhivers. His helmeted gaze lingered for a moment over Leta, then finally settled onto Jorus. The glowing green eyes scanned slowly up the length of Jorus’ repurposed greatcoat. The ornate helm cocked to one side while he considered Jorus’ homemade headdress. Finally the sorcerer’s intense gaze met Jorus’ frightened staring, and Jorus felt the spiraling vertigo of mental violation as the sorcerer peered directly into his soul.

 

“Aren’t you the plucky one?” The sorcerer sounded amused. “The tiniest measure of psychic power was enough to spark a sadistic coup d’etat.”

 

The sorcerer stepped closer, and Jorus shrank back into the unyielding grasp of his former servant, which placed its iron grip on his shoulders and held him there.

 

“Tell me, boy,” The sorcerer stood directly before Jorus, peering down haughtily at the small, cowering mortal. “What did you learn?”

 

Jorus was taken aback. He stammered for a moment, but then the pain of the Rubricae tightening its grip on his shoulders forced him to focus. Still, he could not find his voice.

 

“Disappointing.” The sorcerer said. He turned his back to the assembly and set off with a purposeful stride. The Rubricae released Jorus and the group of them smoothly fell in step to follow the sorcerer.

 

“That I don’t know anything, not even what I thought I did.” Jorus blurted this answer out. He frightened himself with this outburst, but he felt a burning need to answer the sorcerer.

 

The sorcerer stopped in his tracks, but did not turn around. The Rubricae dutifully stopped in unison, and the sorcerer turned his head ever so slightly toward Jorus in expectation.

 

“I never wanted to know anything before, I just wanted to have things.” Jorus continued, not really knowing where the words were coming from. They seemed to flow from his subconscious unbidden. “But now I want to know everything.”

 

The sorcerer stood silently for a moment, and Jorus felt endless possibilities converging and branching out, stretching forever and backward to nothing.

 

“Attend me.” The sorcerer commanded, and Jorus rushed to his side.

 

Blazing soul fire consumed the darkness in their wake, but Jorus did not look backward, only forward.

 

I hope you like it.

[Carrack]

Remembering Prospero

 

 

Barbican Station 31 was the key to the orbital defense of the 30's series defense sectors for the fortress world of Tancrea. Keep Station 30 was only a command and control station, and while important to a coordinated defense, lacked real teeth of its own. The small Turret Stations 32-36, along with their even smaller substations, were point defense stations designed to keep drop craft from landing on the world below. Tower Stations 37 and 38 were lance platforms, and were to keep enemy vessels far enough away to prevent bombardment. While Sally Station 39 was a launch station, and boasted a squadron of interceptors and one of bombers, which helped project the oribital defense and offense of the 30's beyond even the reach of the lances. Barbican 31 however, was a gun station. Batteries of macrocannon protruded from three gun decks, and they kept the orbit clear of any enemies that sought to overcome the other stations. Barbican 31 was larger than the other stations, and the only one in the 30's that was built on the peak of one of the atmosphere breaching mountains known as the Pillars of Fortitude.

 

In recent weeks and months, Barbican 31 had endured a harrowing time. The Arch-Enemy had invaded out of the nearby Eye of Terror, and opened the war on the Aspis Sub by assaulting three nearby stations with vile traitor marines. By seizing the stations, they opened a hole in Tancrea's orbital defenses and forced a beachhead on the world beneath them. They had landed hordes of renegades, mutants, and cultists onto the fortress world, and if rumors were to be believed, monsters worse than these as well. All of the defenders of Tancrea, reinforced by regiments from across the Subsector, had fought the heretics to a standstill, keeping the strategically important world from falling from the Light of the Emperor, but kept in turn from projecting power out into the system, and thus allowing the heretics a line of supply from the hells of the Eye into the Aspis Subsector.

 

The Emperor Protects. In their darkest hour, He had sent His wrathful Angels of the Space Wolves to Tancrea to cut the heretics' supply line, and take back the areas of the fortress world lost to the enemy. The Wolves were out prowling now, with their fleet at the edges of the system, and their valiant warriors in the mountains, hunting down heretics both.

 

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

 

Apepi Ha Namen let the strands unravel as the airlock opened. The spell he had woven to disguise his ship, frayed into quickly fading memories and confusion for the spells victims. The defense station's auspex and auger crew had scanned a Battlefleet Obscuras tender approaching for the scheduled rearm and resupply shipment. The station's vox ensemble had broadcasted and received the correct codes and idents from the tender, and the commander of naval operations had ordered Barbican Station 31 to prepare to dock the tender.

 

All the crew of the station were fooled by Apepi's spell. Their minds had knitted reality to the illusions that he wove, and when he released the strings of the spell he held tethered within his mind, they were confronted with a reality violently at odds with what they had perceived. The ship docked to the defense station was no feeble support vessel, but an Infidel class raider, Feather of Maat. The idents were not of Battlefleet Obscuras, but of a vessel labeled "tratoris extremus". The passwords transmitted were not the prescribed codes, but the words, "All is Dust."

 

The airlock opened and out of Feather of Maat's hold poured Apepi's herds of Tzaangor. The bestial mutants were eager to prove themselves worthy of serving Apepi Ha Namen, and savagely attacked the naval work gangs that had been detailed to offload the supposed tender. The Tzaanagor made short work of the unarmed crew, then without pause, continued their assault on the defense station, each herd choosing a different corridor, lift, or service tunnel to penetrate further into the defense station. The nervous and quiet wait in the hold of Feather of Maat, abruptly ended by the violent and bloody seizing of the station's dock, had driven the temperamental beasts wild. Screams soon rang out across the station. However, the stampeding Tzaanagor were but a diversion.

 

Apepi strode onto the deck of the defense station, the spirits of his brothers behind him. Spirits animating ancient armor, slaved to the will of Apepi's apprentices, and by extension, Apepi. Methodically, they marched to the central fire-control shrine of the defense station, cutting down crew with ensorcelled bolts as they went. Apepi contributed to his ever-silent brothers' fire with his own bolt pistol, and occasionally cut loose with storms of sorcerous flames when the defenders managed to form a hasty strongpoint, but these were absent gestures, deadly, but not requiring his full attention. The majority of his focus was on weaving the strands of a new spell.

 

This spell was not a delicate tapestry of illusions, each thread touching his mind to one of the station's crew. Instead it was a crude fisherman's net, course, inelegant, but strong and quickly wove. He cast the net wide and far, where even it's simple weave was a taxing strain on his considerable will.

 

Once the spell was complete, Apepi allowed his apprentices to lead the spirits of their brothers to the fore. Apepi tended his psychic net, strengthening a knot of denial here, and lengthening a cord of silence there. Soon, his net would be tested.

 

As if on cue, one of his apprentices, Babu, struck asunder the door to the fire-control shrine with his force staff. Immediately, the station's commander sent out a duress call across the vox. Signals were being sent to the other stations, the guardsmen and Space Wolves on the ground, and to the Space Wolves' fleet out in the system. Apepi's net snared all the transmissions, entangling them in sorcery, and prevented them from reaching their destinations.

 

With the fire control shrine siezed. Apepi's apprentices began divining new firing solutions for the batteries of cannon aboard the station. These solutions were sent with fire orders to all three gun decks. Some were received by Apepi's blooded herds of Tzaanagor, and the beast began laying rounds and sighting guns as directed. Other batteries unaware of what was transpiring outside their gun pits, simply obeyed their commands and did the same. Many guns crewed by the brave men and women of His Holy Fleet remained silent. Apepi directed his apprentices and cursed brothers to remove these stubborn gun crews, or persuade them of the error of their defiance. Shells streaked out into the silent void on flat trajectories. They struck the other 30's defense stations by surprise, and within minutes, had most burning. Apepi had punched a hole in the orbital defenses of Tancrea.

 

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

The hole in the orbital defenses would not go unnoticed for long. The Wolves might not hear the calls for help, but they would notice the burning stations before long. Apepi pulled a scroll from his robes, and began to read its eldritch symbols. As he did, he let loose the spell he had cast to silence the orbital stations. The net of silence started to drift away and break up, absent any current or pressure. If the Master of Fortune was willing, the loose spell would still block vox traffic, and delay the Wolves' fleet. If not, Apepi was ever prepared to battle his most hated enemy. Meanwhile, he read the scroll, its papyrus igniting strip by strip as he read.

 

The scroll was an impossible map. It drew a path through the raw emotion of the warp, from the scroll in Apepi's armored gauntlet, to its sole copy, aboard a fleet of troop ships above the Black Legion controlled Daemon World of Vassa, within the Eye of Terror. The troop ships left their moorings, their holds filled with hoards of clan warriors from the world below.

 

The normally imprecise, and often dangerous travel through the Sea of Souls, was made instantaneous and certain by Apepi's scrolls. However, in spite of the sorcery's success, the warp took its due from Apepi for cheating his way through its ebbs and tides. He knew it would, daemons aligned to other gods than his own would not want Epepi to accomplish anything, worse were his victims, people he had sent to the warp himself, and they were many, ghosts that he had made through his own actions and inactions. They were out there in the warp, ready to haunt Apepi and harm him in whatever way they could. Apepi, mind strained from three powerful sorceries performed in succession, was not prepared for these attacks from the warp.

 

Yet the warp was the source of Apepi's strength, it was the substance he manipulated through spells and rituals. He opened himself to it, taking in all the spite and jealousy from the minions of the other gods. He breathed in the vengeance of the petty ghosts. Apepi could feel his power swell with warp energy given him by beings who sought to overload him with it. Apepi took it all in, and screamed it out. The daemons were repelled from Apepi, burnt and shaken for their audacity to strike at him. The ghosts fled or were consumed by Apepi's scream. Apepi himself though, was not immune to his own explosive scream, he was forced to a knee, bleeding from his nose, his crested helm was somehow heavy on his muscled neck, and his vision started tunneling. Fortunately his apprentices were elsewhere during his moment of weakness. One of them might be tempted to usurp Apepi's leadership of the war coven.

 

Apepi went trough several mental exercises to focus his will as his super human physiology combatted his slipping consciousness. He tried mathematical calculations, reciting ancient mantras, and translating texts to dead languages from memory, anything that would keep him focused and his mind engaged. Yet neither his mind nor his body was winning the battle against passing out. He couldn't afford a lapse of consciousness now. His plans rested on this moment.

 

Apepi had made a pact with the Black Legion sorcerer Enasyor. He would assist his rival in reopening the supply lines for the conquest of this subsector, in return for the recovery of a powerful book that Enasyor's legion had stolen long ago. Enasyor had been sent to the Black Maw warband conquering the Aspis subsector to assume the position of Equerry from the now dead thief, Lythane the Black. Apepi was to reopen the supply lines so that the fate of the invasion would be held in the hands of an ally to Enasyor, rather than Black Legionaries that could be swayed to the allegiance of the warband's lord, Carrack, thus insuring Apepi's position and importance to the Black Maw warband. In return, Apepi would be given back the dreaded Liber Apocal, stolen from the Thousand Sons by Lythane. The Liber Apocal would grant Apepi the power to rise to eminence within his own legion. His life had been measured in mysteries learnt, and the Liber Apocal would propel him to the next plateau. However, if he failed here, his plans would be forfeit, and likely so would his life. Consciousness was fading.

 

Apepi's considerable mental and physical strength was not strong enough to overcome the overwhelming intrusion of the warp on his soul. As he felt himself slip away, as he felt his dreams slip away, he gave up. Yet he would not go with what could be his last thoughts, those of pondering dry knowledge. He turned his mind back to the happiest time of his life, when he was young, optimistic, and before he had felt the consequences of what would become an all consuming quest for knowledge. He remembered walking the streets of gleaming Tizca, the smell of salt coming in from the sea, the glory of the shining pyramids. He remembered the last days of Prospero. The memories were so sweet he hung on as his breathing and hearts slowed and he hit the deck with a clang. He hung on till his memories, and their subject, the world he had been born to, reached their fiery conclusion at the barbaric hands of the Emperor's Wolves. His pulse picked up. His breathing quickened. His vision came into focus. His hands trembled with rage remembered. Apepi's blood thirsted with vengeance not yet satisfied. Apepi picked himself up from the floor and finished reading the scroll.

 

The troop ships, guided by Apepi's sorcery, translated a short distance from Barbican 31. He gave the order to immediately land the warriors in their holds. Then he used the vox to hail the Wolves' fleet. He told them he was waiting for their arrival. He told them he remembered Prospero.

 

[Scourged]

Hey all... 

 

So, glad to see you've all been up to the same fantastic storytelling I came to enjoy. Kudos to you all. Things for me have... changed. Appropriate, right? Who better to appreciate change than the disciples of Tzeentch, yeah? Heh... Change is never good, nor bad - it just is.

 

Anyway, I haven't had the means to add much to our inspirational proceedings for... a while. Though, I do check in on the B&C forums... mostly lately for the end of the Call of Chaos and my own meager dabblings on my workbench. Maybe you've noticed, maybe you haven't. No worries. But I miss writing. I miss the freedom. I miss the creativity. And I miss the escapism, above all else. And, though it may be corny, I kinda miss a bit of the Brotherhood that this particular thread provided.

 

While I don't have the time I once did to weave my elaborate tapestries on the life and times of the Scourged and Changemongers, the itch has never subsided. I've been cooking up something in the little bit of time I have nowadays. Nothing great, nothing as wondrous as what you all provide, but it's a little something. The aim to inspire us all has never faded, after all. Can't fight you're own nature, yeah? Besides... this place has always been a wonderful outlet for the Aspiring Champion within me. 

 

So, here's what bring me here tonight: I have noticed a small trend lately, or I think I have noticed one at least: the topics for the weeks have been adhering to the various Legions. I'm sure that's in no small part due to Traitor Legions, glory that it may be. So I pose my question to our glorious leader, Kierdale: have I successfully identified the trend, and if so will it continue? If so, I'll hold of on posting what I'm working on until the XXth Legion gets its due. The many Heads of the Hydra is what brought me into this hobby long ago. I heard the stories of the infiltrators and the cultists in the 3.5 days, but I never did get to experience them. Still, the flavor lingered on my tongue, even after I was Gifted by Tzeentch to hear the lies of all men. So it's no surprise that in the wake of the supplement I've worked my brain to reconcile the two. 

 

Anyway... enough of my prattling. Just wanted to pose my question, and check in after months of no submissions. If the Winds of Fate change, perhaps I'll be contributing more in the coming weeks. If not, well... We shall see, Brothers. 

 

Hope for the Hope God,

Scourged

 

P.S.: Have you seen that new Lord of Change?! Holy Hell... gorgeous!

[Kierdale]

You presume correctly! :)

Each traitor legion will in turn have an IF topic, though we won't only be doing Legion-topics (at the end of this week we'll be starting a non-legion one), and I have not yet set which order to do them in. That's one vote for the Alpha Legion to be done soon though ;)

 

Likely once all four big new Greatwr Daemon models are out, we'll have a 'Greater Daemons' IF too.

 

Recently I've been too busy too. I'm catching up on everyone's entries slowly.

[Zhaharek]

(My entry for Thousand Sons. Whoo, my favourite Legion. Hope you like it all.)

 

The Dreams of Warriors

 

+Recovered from the journal of Inquisitor Muldrekh Nichan.

Nichan used his journal to detail a number of dream-visions he experience after exposure to [CLASSIFIED]

Subject Status: EXCOMMUNICATUS

Journal Entry Designation: 0003

Pertinence to [CLASSIFIED]: High, Exercise Extreme Caution+

 

 

Entry beings:

Can you hear me? Whoever you are, listen to me. Listen to the word of the one known as The Sandman. Listen to a Son of Magnus. Listen to the Dreams of Warriors.

This galaxy is bloodied. Tainted. The music of the spheres is distorted by the cold light of the False Emperor's blasted gaze and the empty space between doomed stars screams with the almighty power of the Empyrean, an eternal duality that bleeds the galaxy dry. This is the realm of myself, Nesuru Mel Kadith. It is the realm of my brothers.

 

I sit in my chambers, an old, scratchy vox playing in the corner. An ancient Terran tune that shares my nick-name. I cannot hear it. Not a note. After my brothers and I fled to the Eye of Terror, I learned an arcane tongue that blasted my tongue and teeth from my mouth and burst my eardrums like overfilled boils. A price worth paying. Can you hear the music, listener?

 

My chambers are a small space, with a floor of spiralling beads and a low vaulted ceiling. A desk sits in the corner, a scroll drying upon it. Beyond my subtle space is the madness of my Silver Tower. It is a place of noise and chaos. Externally a geometrically nonsensical spire: a battle-barge sized helix flickering with emerald light that drifts through the void spitting yellow lightning. Bizarre apertures split and seal, split and seal, again again and again, all across its surface. Another craft hangs in space, a few hours journey away, leaking into the blackness of space. Things crawl across its surface. Soon I will be within boarding distance. Till then listener, let us continue,

To step within my tower is to feel my power. I have never seen the value of humility. I've spent centuries mastering sorcerous power. I am essentially a demigod. To some, I AM a demigod. My home, my Silver Tower, reflects this. My brother Rasanadan has mastered the art of transcending simple physical space, but I am no stranger to it. A sigil marked skull sit in the third drawer of my desk, like a memento mori. It's black sigils taught me of The 45th Fractal of The Norn Gate. With that knowledge, I rendered my Silver Tower into a dimensionally transcendental space. Once one crosses one of its shifting thresholds, they find themselves upon a landscape of desert, dotted with crystals that tower higher than the astronomical rift between Sol and Terra, monoliths disappearing beyond mortal sight. When my choler rises, as does the sand, in a great storm, a great storm that polishes the crystals to a glimmering finish. One of two reasons my brothers elected to call me Sandman. My mortal servants think the crystals reflect the truth behind reality. Laughable, isn't it, listener?

As I sit in my chambers, I focus my power. Some render their will in force or fire. I need no such channel. My willpower is like another limb. My thoughts as under my command as my twitching muscles. I can command the suicide of Tyranid bioforms. I can drive the pilots of great war-machines insane with a flick of my wrist. I can infiltrate a fortress, striding past sentinels and warriors undetected, as I command their minds to ignore the 8 foot armoured sorcerer before them, and their weak minds obey. But in this moment, I have no desire for violence. No, in this moment I just wish to hear the dreams of my brothers. Wherever they may be.

 

I rise, but my body does not.

 

In the realm of thought, in the warp, in the astral plane, I am neither deaf nor mute. I am more alive than you, or any you meet, will ever be, listener. I am empowered. I am power. So as I step into that realm, a tide of experience strikes me. I lean against the tide, my thought form, a rune filled silhouette, flickers and shifts in the onslaught. The errant thoughts of mortals. They are all sound and fury, signifying nothing. A billion tales told by a trillion idiots. The thoughts of my brothers are islands in the storm. Their dreams call me. They call me as threads of metaphor and light that shift and whip through the noise.

My thought form obeys few rules of moment, so I leave my tower with a gesture. I drift through the void, following a thread that sprouts jagged tendrils where the gaze of my thoughts touches it. The threads of my closest brothers are not far from me, but I have travelled their paths and seen their dreams often enough. I ignore Baal Sin's bone crafted chain of a thread, and sweep past Rasanadan's esoteric lure, in favour of this newer thread.

 

It leads me to a ship. An abominable wedge marked with a visored skull. My thought form ghosts past the jutting prow, a vast spine reminiscent of the thrust jaw of a braggart. I sink through a forest of spines and antenna, then hurtle through bulkheads and level after level of ship, following the thread.

I slow, finding myself within an iron cavern. My brother is surrounded by Rubricae. Silent. Ever-watchful. Ever a reminder of our failures as a Legion. As a brotherhood, as warriors and philosophers. I once knew the names of each of the fifteen warriors in the room. Now, their names are all that is left of them, and after ten thousand years, I can barely remember one.

The sole living being in the room is unarmored. The thread disappears into his aura. I have no trouble remembering his name. He is Kharamesec. His other names forgone over the millenia, his enemies know him as The Thief of Night, and the Dragon of The Third Gate. He lies upon a thin sheet of silk. It is not for comfort. Before he wakes, it shall crumble to dust, and he shall daub sigils of that dust upon his forearms. An old custom of his, and his alone. I would have scoffed at its superstitious edge, if not for it's effectiveness. Like me, he is a clear son of Prospero. Dusky skinned, and marked with a grey runes, scars and burst veins that all knotted their way around the ports of his carapace. I am fortunate to have maintained an eerie semblance of youth, in part due to my implants, and in part due to a fusion of great power, and great vanity. The only mark of war upon me is the star shaped scar that dominates my mouth and jaw. The price I paid for speaking words that were never meant to be spoken. Kharamesec wears his millenia with pride. A great beard of silver falls to the centre of his chest, and his eyes are marred by the same scar, a horizontal slash, a brutal blindfold. Both eyes are elegant cybernetics, their nature hidden by their craftsmanship.

A hand falls from chest, where they were crossed like an ancient king in repose, and rests upon the iron beside his silk. The metal shivers. The metal buckles, forms a mouth that retches and recoils from my brothers touch.

I step forward, and place a hand against Kharamesec's brow. I see his dreams. Listen.

 

 

"Blood bounces on snow. Red turned to black in the the harsh light. Bouncing across the pure white. Everything is moving so slowly as I watch the droplets bounce, then pool. My blood. My blood on the snow.

Wet strings of red swing between his fist and my lips as he pulls back for another punch.

Time returns.

My forearm crunches against his, the impact shattering the frost on both our vambraces. His strike stops an inch short from my jaw. I follow through, my free right fist hurtling towards his gut. Caught, an iron grip around my wrist. The fight enters a tense, blood pounding stasis as neither of us can find an opening. He pulls on the rim of my pauldron, so I drop my weight, foiling his grapple. Between us, fully armoured, we weigh at least half a ton. Our scuffle scatters handspan chips of ice. I try to lock his arm. He backpedals, almost knocking me off my feet. We stand there, locked in a strained grapple.

"Look into my eyes, Night Thief." His voice is a slur of heavy Fenrisian consonants, guttural through his vox-grille, inlaid as it is is with lupine teeth.

"I will pluck them from your barbarous skull, dog!" I coalesce my will and-"

 

 

 

 

He dreams of fighting Wolves. A noble pursuit of the mind, don't you think, listener? I leave Kharamesec to his dreams of war, and journey out once more into the void.

 

I follow another thread, or rather a thread that is an absence. It is a tendril of draining, a strand of blacker than black inward momentum. Silhouetted against the white fire of a lonely star, the not-thread whips and curls as I circle it. It is a thousand light years long, yet has no length at all, so in a moment, I am at its source. It leads me to another, another of my lost brothers.

 

The world is empty save for him, and I know in a moment that this is his doing. My thought form, with my name flickering in yellow across its surface, pierces the atmosphere and coasts over a thousand miles of frozen sea. Then over golden sand turned to dirty silver. The sounds and cacophony of the material rarely pierce into the astral, though this makes little difference to me. It is peaceful, not that I would know. But while sound does not violate the space between realms, silence does, and the stillness of this world's air turns the peace of the thought realm to an audial oppression. As I dart through the icicle hung arches of a dead city, I am a deaf man disturbed by silence.

 

Imperial edifice gives way to structures born of the true earth, and I fly over the green fields of an agri-world. Green no longer. A swell of dreaming touches my thought-senses, and I know at I am near my brother. I slow, the speed of thought becoming what one might call a walking pace. The fields stop, and a forest rises before me. Ice rules here. The coniferous trees are like ghostly replicas of a circulatory system, age old black trucks surrounded by veils of frosted branches. I pass the threshold, touching down upon the stiff undergrowth, hesitating before contact like a sin-fearing Angel of old earth. My thought form is little more than an unquiet spirit, so not a crystal of snow is shed from the white branches I brush past. The snow-shrouded forest is vast, and the sheer scope of its frigid nature draws countless parallels in my mind. The silvered hair of an elder. Fine Prosperan marble, matte from a distance but sparkling like diamond when close to the eye. The maiden-robes of Ancient Terra. Bone.

 

All is ghostly branches as far as the eye can see. Beyond that are cities turned to sub-zero crystal, glass shattered by the radical temperature shift. Sentinel towers among the fields disappear into low clouds, the lights at their tops shining through the cumulus like winking stars. The seas are black, churning slowly with glaciers and the preserved corpses of great leviathans.

This world has died a wintry death. Why? Good question listener.

One of my brothers is breathing in.

 

He kneels in a clearing. His inhalation would be deafening to one so enabled, or to a weaker thought form. I am neither. The cold here, at the epicentre, is so complete that it has transcended mundane temperature. Rock and pine hang in the glittering air, all still, but with the fragile impression that they could be moved by a infant's breath. An insect, it's wings turned to crystal mid-beat, directly at the height of my false eyes. It is utterly still. In this place, time and momentum are as obedient to the whims of my brother as his bolter or blade, freezing in place as if they were little more than water vapour.

 

His armour, like mine, was once red and gold. Where I replaced gold with a greasy bone trim, his plate now bears the purple and gold of the Sectai Prosperine. His helm is the Jackal of the Tizcan Catacombs, it's eyes the emerald lenses through which he saw the glalaxy, it's stylised snarling grin the vox grille that threw his intonations across the battlefield, it's ears flowing into his Khletaran crest. His vambraces and his greaves are chipped gold, swaddled in writhing, flaming cobras of bronze, their presence denoting his cult. Pyrae. The vents of his backpack are hung with the Bones of The Rharhaash Conclave, each one a ring of gilded scrimshaw. A concentric pattern of runes dominate his breastplate, surrounding a woman's deathmask. The mantle that holds the mask is a silver imitation of a twisting fire.

He is not free of the damage he inflicted on his surroundings. The vibrant colours of his armour were dusted the winter colours he had brought upon the rest of this world.

His name is Ozahr Khrosis, and he is ascending. Many would call what he is on the cusp of becoming godhood. Other would call it an eternal torment. What do you think listener?

 

I step closer to him, and as I do I realise that the vortex of his breath is reaching its apex. Darkness spreads in the air, jagged ink in water. The light is freezing. Shadow envelops my thought form. In this state, I do not need eyes to see. I reach out to Ozahr, and I touch his mind. I hear, not with my long useless ears, but with my mind.

 

Laughter. Clawing hands, rippling pink flesh, gnashing teeth. My brother is not dreaming. His mind is open to something awful. I pull away, but as I do I feel something.... break... within his mind.

 

He exhales.

 

The light of the eruption blasts the forest to ash. Snow is steam in a less than a second, wood exploding into a fine ash in its wake. I throw both my hands forth, a multiplanar kineshield forming instantly. The force of the blast smashes a shower of formulae from my conjuration, runes and sigils vaporised along with the stone beneath the forest. The explosion of my brother's exhalation transcends the walls of reality, and I am forced to one knee behind my shield. I hear screaming, and I realise that it is me. I am burning, my thought form is burning, my soul is starting to char. I strengthen the shield, and a million lightyears away blood leaks from my nose. The warpfire splits. A small patch of earth beneath my feet survives the onslaught. The annihilation punches past the forest and lifts melting rock in a wave that turns the agri-fields to infernal smog. The adamantium sentinel towers explode into jet black smog and molten slag, swept along in the deluge. The oceans do not have time to scream as they boil, turned steam heralding the wave of magma. Destruction. A sonic boom hits as a thousand mile migh wall of burning matter breaks the sound barrier. The cities quake and shiver as it nears. The first towers slam into the next, the force hitting them before the heat. The whole megatropolis become a single mass, that disappears like a drowning man in the cataclysmic wave.

 

The world burns.

 

My brother is standing, as my thought form staggers. Even with the sight of the soul, the warpborn senses of my thought form, the burning world is obscured by the shimmer of heat. I see only Ozahr's silhouette. I stand a few feet behind him. He is awake now. I know not how long his metamorphosis will take. He tilts his head. He cannot see me, he lacks this power, even now, there is no way he can see me.

He turns and looks right at me. "Kadith?"

I am gone before the last unheard syllable leaves his lips.

 

 

A moment later, and wth a telepathic sigh, I settle back into my corporeal form. Little time has passed since I went journeying, but much has changed. Alarms flare with cerulean light, and although I cannot wolves howling in my corporeal form, I do not need ears to sense my enemy. I stand, and with a gesture, my armour orbits me as if I were a sun and my plate a solar system. First my greaves lock in place. Vambraces, chest plate, pauldron and my serpent wreathed backpack follow. The Nine Serpents of Semihaza adorn my armour and staff, and their brass carved beaks let out an impossible hiss as they are reunited with me. My helmet closes over my head, data and targeting sigils dominating my sight.

Clad in crimson and bone, I descend to the sands of my tower. A rift is burning its way through the transcendent reality of my demesne, it's other side within the bowells of the besieged enemy ship. As the rift opens wider and wider, I call my dead brothers to me, and they obey my call, rising from their catacombs in the sand.

I cannot hear the wolves howling listener, but you can. You have been most receptive. Perhaps I shall visit you again. Know that I do this, know that I go into bloody battle armed with staff and sorcery not for cruelty or vengeance. I do this so that my brothers can dream once more of the future, rather than the past, rather than The Laughter of Thirsting Gods.

 

As I step through the rift and into war, I intend to make dreams come true.

Sleep well, listener.

 

Entry end

[Kierdale]

And a 5th entry! Excellent!

Will there be any more before I close the topic (around this time tomorrow)?

Please note that I have started the IF2017 thread HERE but ask that no one post entries in there yet. I'll make a post to close the current topic here, and will post the first topic of 2017 in the new thread (the title's already in there if you look ) tomorrow.

After that, if Carrack posts his judgement here that will be a good end to the 2016 thread and I'll ask a mod to close the thread.

[Kierdale]

I hereby call an end to Inspirational Friday: Legion – Thousand Sons and indeed Inspirational Friday 2016!

I thank you all for your entries over the 35 topics we covered, and all that’s left is for Carrack to announce the winner.

 

I’ll see you all over in the 2017 thread where you will hear a Call To Arms...

[Carrack]

First off, thanks Kierdale for running IF for another year. It has been a pleasure to read, write, and even occasionally judge these contests, and I owe that to you. Each topic has been, well, inspiring, some just to read and write, but some even to model and paint the characters you have set us to create. I'm even thinking about stealing a few characters created by other frater, and with brushes and green stuff, get them ready to wage war on my kitchen table alongside the Black Maw Warband of the Black Legion.

 

Secondly, Scourged, you are missed. Get writing! There are lies being told in the Domains of Man that must be silenced, or heard by all. Your long stories are great, but I bet you could maintain your quality with a short tale too, and that might fit your busy schedule better. In any event, please start writing again.

 

Thirdly, the winner for the final contest of 2016 is Zhaharek. This week had good stories, but he was head and tentacle above

 

Fourthly, I'm taking my family on a Black Crusade in the Caribbean, and / or vacationing on a cruise ship ;) this coming week, and won't be able to offer feedback. Sorry. If you would like me to, pm me and I will when we get back home in a week.

 

Thanks again Kierdale.