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

[Scourged]

And now for something a bit more lighthearted...

 

So, for the last Interview topic I had the amusing idea to do a parody entry in addition to my regular one. I wasn't sure if I was going to do it again, but I came up with something fun last night on a whim and decided to write it out. So yeah, here's my bonus entry:

 

 

 

WKHS Channel 8 Breaking News

*The television programming suddenly cuts away from the regularly scheduled programming and is interrupted with a breaking news update from the local news station. A man and a woman are sitting at a news desk of brass and bone, their casual suits stained with blood.*

“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for some Channel 8 breaking news. We’ve just gotten word in the studio that the Andalus Ragehearts have defeated their long time rival warband, the Chalcion Manflayers!”

“This is very exciting news.”

“It sure is, Tammy. Viewers at home, I don’t have to tell you how exciting it is to know that the home-town heroes have finally triumphed over our neighboring rivals. Such a victory will bring quite the shower of glory upon all of the followers of the Andalus Ragehearts.”

“Blood for the Blood God.”

“And skulls for the Skull Throne, Tammy.”

“For any of our home viewers who are unfamiliar, the Chalcion Manflayers have lorded their winning record over our town since the 4th Black Crusade of Abaddon. Since those days, they have trounced our Ragehearts again and again, no doubt due to their disgustingly aggressive recruiting tactics. But here and now, for the first time in nearly four centuries, we have triumphed over those impudent fools.”

“We sure have, Tammy. We go live now to Chris, our reporter in the field. He’s at the sight of the bloody massacre, speaking with Hurax Skulltaker, the newly ascended daemon prince of the Ragehearts. Chris?”

*The camera cuts to a single shirtless man with sigils and daemonic runes carved into chest and arms leaving bloodied scars, holding a microphone. Standing next to him is a behemoth of a daemon prince, having to crouch and lean down to fit into the camera shot, black horns constantly bumping into the reporter. In the background, countless berzerkers and cultists are ravaging what’s left of the battlefield*

“Thanks, Tom. I’m standing here with Hurax Skulltaker, former lord of the Ragehearts, and just-now promoted daemon prince in light of their victory over the Manflayers. Hurax, you’ve been leading these men for what feels like centuries. What’s been your secret?”

“Well that’s a great question, Chris. I’ve always believed that the strength of a warband is found in your men, down to the very last cultist, and exploiting them to the very last. If they die to serve my purpose, so be it. Khorne cares not from where the blood flows, after all.”

“So long as it flows, yes. And boy, has that blood ever flowed on this battlefield. You and your men have destroyed the competition today. Would you say any member of the warband has stood out in today’s performance?”

“Well, obviously myself. It’s not just anyone that can cleave a pleasure lord with a power axe in a way that he doesn’t enjoy the experience. But if I had to name someone else, it would have to be Fregtoth. He’s really come a long way since his recruitment. Why, he’s become such a powerhouse that I would have feared his inevitable attempt to overthrow my rule, if not for my current ascension.”

“The Manflayers are known for their highly aggressive defense. What was your strategy to break the lines?”

“It was simple. I just overpowered them with wave after wave of human soldiers, choking them with blood and viscera until they could not move. After that, it was a simple matter of maiming, killing, and burning.”

“And it certainly worked. But let’s talk about the truly big story here today: your transcending of humble mortality thanks to the patronage of Khorne and becoming his newest prince. Have you always aspired to apotheosis, or was this an unexpected boon of the battle?”

“You know, Chris, I’ve always believed that if you work hard enough and kill hard enough you’ll reach your dreams. My ascension here today only proves that very belief. Besides, it never hurts to disembowel over 100,000 followers of Slaanesh.”

“It surely doesn’t, Hurax. Any big plans now that you’re an entity of the warp incarnate?

“I figure it’s about time I left the minor leagues of the Materium and joined the professional Great Game. Plenty of daemon worlds are already scouting me for my patronage, so it’s only a matter of time before I move on and join the Eternal Battle.”

“Sounds like a great plan, Hurax. Congratulations on your win here again.”

“Thanks Chris.”

“Back to you in the studio, Tom.”

*As the camera is about to cut back, two Astartes run up holding a giant vat of boiling blood and toss it over the shoulders of Hurax Skulltaker. The daemon prince is shocked and laughs, then turns to chase the two Chaos Marines and pulverize them with his massive daemon axe. The shot returns to the studio.*

“Thanks, Chris. Well, there you have it everyone. It’s a fine day for all those of us here on Andalus. I’m Tom Blacksoul-”

“And I’m Tammy the Desolator.”

“-and this has been WKHS Channel 8 breaking news coverage. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming, Sick with Love: The Diary of a Nurglite, already in progress.”

 

 

[Kierdale]

Satyameva Jayate

Hidden Content

The beast recognized the shape of the axe, the blade of which rested against his neck, and the significance of its shape was not lost upon him. It struck the deepest fear into his dark heart.

“Why do I yet breathe?” He rasped. In speaking these words the blade scratched his vivid pink neck and a trickle of blood flowed. For the first time in centuries he felt no pleasure at the pain of the blade’s thirsty bite.

“Because I would have you tell me of how you became as you are,” the axeman answered, panting. Bringing his foe to its knees had been most taxing.

“Educate you?” the beast could not help but smile wickedly as it looked at its conqueror sidelong.

“More of a cautionary tale, no? For it is you who lies beneath my blade.”

 

 

“I was a prince of men far before one of daemons. Raja Kuldoor,” the cultured voice was at stark odds with the bestial visage from which it emanated, “son of the incestuous communion of Maharaja Nim Kuldoor and his fair daughter the Rani Espelar.” Even prone, multiple limbs splayed upon the marble floor, surrounded by his butchered bodyguards in their gilt armour and gaudy silks, the axeman’s boot upon his back and blade at his neck, the daemon prince spoke as if announcing itself to a waiting crowd of sycophants from upon a high balcony.

“From an early age I had the Sight. I could read a man’s greatest desires as clearly as I heard his voice or saw the expression upon his face. Clearer! For in my father’s court I learned the lies men hid behind their expressions of loyalty. Father did not believe me when I warned him of his majordomo’s schemes and it was but for the skill of his eunuch guards that his life was saved and my prophecy proven true. My twisted body, care of my thick blood, was soon forgotten - to a degree - by father and I sat at his left side. His left...for my elder brother, strong of limb and sharp of mind, son of Rani Espelar’s late mother, sat at his right. The heir.”

“I was his truth-sayer. Off-world merchants, even grand rogue traders, who sought to swindle the ruler of fair Indoista, learned to loath his twisted son. At a glance from me their deceit would be revealed and their lives forfeited lest they even their deals.”

“As my father advanced in age brother Kritanta was groomed for rulership and he hid his loathing for me his twisted sibling, intending to use me as father did. After the third attempt upon father’s life by this rival lord or that, he trusted me enough to believe that his heir meant to take the throne sooner than nature would have it, and I saw my rival’s innocent head tumble across this very marble floor upon my tenth birthday.”

The daemon grinned, lips peeling back from a fang-filled maw, its eyes almost misted over in reverie, hands - those which terminated in fingers - stroking the cool, white stone beneath it.

“Soon I ruled his house and I became his crutch. No decisions could be made without my hearing them. From business to war to taxes and laws to the running of the household and even the zenana. Dear mother’s head joined by brother’s skull by the time I was sixteen, and my decrepit father would not choose a new wife without my judgement. I insisted upon inspecting the finest beauties of all Indoista, verifying their purity and having those I found wanting put to the blade. Thus did I choose my father’s new queen and that my own seed would rule in time.”

The creature tittered and pawed at the ground, its body beginning to writhe and hips undulate, a tongue flicking out from between its lips. The axeman leaned his weight upon his captive more and the movement ceased.

“Countless officials across the planet came to be in my debt, me allowing their lies to wash over dear father in exchange for their fealty and favours. Even members of the priesthood. The Imperial Creed.” It sighed in satisfaction at the memory. “Oh the things pious men will offer to get their way!”

“And as I did them favours so too did they listen to my counsel. Sermons were changed. Masses adapted to better suit the ways of Indoista, as I dictated. Father’s passing was no mere formality, for I threw glorious parties to mourn his death and celebrate my rise. None now looked askance at my form, for I believe at that time the touch of the True Prince was already upon me and I became fairer of form,” it cackled and drooled, “and steadily more twisted of mind.”

“I had to behold the face of a would-be betrayer in order to hear their desires, and when voices came to me in my sleep I began to think my power elevated until I listened. Truly listened...and heard the voices from beyond the veil. They told me of the True Prince, claiming to be his heralds and his maidens. Such things they taught me in my dreams and I learned to enact within my palace during the day. Day by day my mind was expanded and my soul descended.”

The prince’s voice turned melancholic and dropped to a whisper. The axeman did not lessen his pressure upon the daemon’s spine and did not lean in the better to listen. His enhanced hearing picked up every uttered word well enough.

“The pleasures of the flesh became as dust upon my palate, the extremes of human sensation explored to ennui.”

“I yearned to see the True Prince’s handmaidens and dared to dream that one day I would walk the halls of his palace which I had only gazed upon in my nightly visions.”

“As the master of a world I had access to lore my ancestors had locked away in deep vaults generations before. Words men feared to voice. Even tomes from the locked archives of the Imperial fanes were exposed to me in exchange for favours. And soon I brought the True Prince’s damsels into the flesh of my most favoured courtesans.”

The daemon shuddered once more and its baleful eyes stared questioningly at the axeman and his retinue.

“The pleasures…the pains…indivisible. You cannot imagine what they shewed me...or can you?” it smiled once more, only resuming its tale as the axeman let the smile of his weapon caress the beast’s neck once again.

“They became my most precious advisors, tutors...and gifts to my closest allies and enemies alike. Their blood: amrita with which I bought the souls of so, so many.”

“Eventually I became powerful enough to summon them in their true forms; both my skill at such arts and my hold over the masses. The orgiastic slaughter of those who still opposed me was the act which saw my ascension.”

The axeman grunted. “And now your empire lies in flames.”

The daemon prince sighed and slumped. Most human gestures. It looked to him once again, as tearful as a child whose most prized toy had been broken, “Why? Why have you done this?”

Only now did the axeman lean to bring his helmeted face nearer his captive’s bestial features. “You can only see a man’s desires when you see his unmasked face?”

That which was once Raja Kuldoor nodded, its eagerness to see the face of its conqueror evident; its breathing quickened. Even this close to death it wished to gaze into a man’s soul once again.

Sophusar removed the helmet of his astartes armour with his left hand, his right keeping the axe blade against the daemon’s neck.

The prince took sudden breath as all was revealed to him.

“I can assist you! I can shew you the way! The true path!”

At that, lord Sophusar raised the Falx Horrificus, its blade shaped like the mark of Slaanesh which adorned his armour and that of the Psychopomps about him. And as the daemon pushed itself from the floor, strength returning to its four arms, with a roar the former chapter master swung the massive axe down once more, hewing the beast’s horned skull from its shoulders.

For he desired supremacy and he would have no servant, no matter how willing, more favoured by the Dark Prince than he.

[Kierdale]

I thank you all for your dastardly and devious entries in Interview with a Daemon Prince over the last week.

I will make a post with commentary and announcing the winner later.

I hereby close that topic for the purposes of rewards (though, as always, if you have more tales to tell feel free to post them at any time).

And here begins our eighth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Skirmish: Upon Cursed Wings

Tying in with the current Daemon Forge it is the turn of our jump-pack equipped forces: raptors versus assault marines, warp talons versus vanguard...

The main supply route to the capital city was secured in a previous mission. Now the enemy are pushing toward your stronghold (or you theirs). Your jump-pack equipped warriors are tasked with:

Bringing down the bridge over the Iron Gorge to halt the enemy advance.

Or

Defending the bridge over the Iron Gorge so that reinforcements can get to the front line/the offensive can proceed.

Or

Capturing the bridge so that the offensive can proceed.

The squad of raptors or warp talons are opposed by a squad of loyalist assault marines (or vanguard veterans in the case of warp talons). You’re free to add in other forces as necessary, but the jump-packers should be the main focus.

For those who missed the tacticals-on-`tacticals` challenge, feel free to do both.

Inspirational Friday: Skirmish – Upon Cursed Wings runs until the 25th of March and photos of models which feature in your piece (even WIP) are most welcome.

Let us be inspired.

[Kierdale]

Teetengee gave us The Prince of Eyes, charting the daemon prince’s rise from a mere mortal, via the account of one of his minions (or his minion’s minion’s minion...), telling an inquisitor about how the prince gained his power and spread his influence.

I thought the tale was very well told and the path well thought out. The sharing of eyes was a nasty idea, and that a donor could see what the receiver saw via that eye. As I was reading it I almost wondered if Kalthedor was actually the prince, pulling a Kaiser Soze-like move.

Scourged gave us The Final Gem. Any tale of Khorne worshippers getting the sore end of a deal brings a wicked smile to this Slaanesh-devotee’s face. I liked The Marrow’s putting on a shamanic show for his `allies`. And the description of his final transformation, the absorbing of his weapons and his new ‘face’ as Tzek’fluum was born.

Carrack gave us Downcast Eyes. This featured something I wanted to see: why a daemon prince might serve an astartes lord rather than usurping them. The tension between Garaduk One-Eye and prince Cancon-Nagashesha, the latter’s evident desire to slay the former.

Warsmith Aznable gave us Sing To Me. A tale told by Irena the Searcher about a daemon prince (of Malal, if I’m not mistaken), a former Iron Hound who had sacrificed himself to save his warsmith, shunning offers of power from the four Infernal Powers...only for him to be rejected by the warsmith, to have his brethren turned upon him. I found myself feeling sorry for The Forsaken and hope we’ll see more of him in time. Of course, we don’t know if the daemon was a reliable narrator...

Scourged’s second entry, WKHS Channel 8 Breaking News was an excellent piece. A post-battle interview with the daemon prince Hurax Skulltaker after his Andalus Ragehearts defeated their rivals the Chalcion Manflayers.

There were lots of great lines, including:

...It’s not just anyone that can cleave a pleasure lord with a power axe in a way that he doesn’t enjoy the experience...

And finally there was my entry, Satyameva Jayate. I hadn’t actually planned to make an entry this week (I’m sure I’ll have my chaos lord Sophusar ascend eventually but I want to get his non-ascended miniature built before I consider a daemon prince) but on Thursday I had the idea of having a captured Slaansehi prince being interrogated by Sophusar and finally executed by him.

I thoroughly enjoyed all of this theme’s entries and hope to see the characters again in future challenges.

Finally I pronounce Warsmith Aznable our winner this week. The Forsaken showed us a daemon prince who rejected the boon of the chaos gods only to have it thrust upon him and subsequently find himself rejected by the one he had fought so hard to protect.

Step forth and claim your reward:

[Carrack]

Congratulations Warsmith, excellent story, as usual. I see a lot of ideas for this week's challenge, I'll have to pick one and go with it.

[Warsmith Aznable]

Unexpected, but I am happy to claim the prize!

 

The Forsaken is indeed unreliable as a narrator, as he is a daemon prince of Malal with serious acceptance issues. He needs much more than a hug, and his efforts to reconnect with the Warsmith usually look more like attempted murder. I definitely want to explore him as a character in further challenges.

[Captain Malachi]

I wasn't around for the tactical vs tactical challenge but I decided not to write it anyway for two reasons. One, I'm lazy, and two, I decided context wouldn't have made any real difference for the story I wrote this time.

 

 

Zonis almost started as sergeant Gideon touched his shoulder to get his attention. He hadn't realised how deep in thought he had been.

 

“You seem troubled, brother.”

 

“No Sergeant, I was merely thinking.” He paused briefly to look over the bridge he and his brothers were charged with aiding the local guardsmen in defending, in particular the large number of dead traitors. “It is not like the heretics to be so wasteful, and yet they continue to send wave after wave of cultists in to our guns. I admit it confuses me.”

 

Gideon nodded gravely, having had similar thoughts himself. “It is true that the strategy of our enemy confounds me as well brother, but if they wish to die by our hand then I am content to let them. The larger picture of this battle is not ours to wonder, we have been charged with defending this bridge, and that is what we shall do.”

 

As the sergeant clapped him on the shoulder once more and walked off to check on the rest of the squad, Zonis looked around at his surroundings. The bridge was long and wide, funnelling the traitorous forces in a near perfect kill zone for the guns of the imperial guard. Captain Hector had sent Zonis’ own squad, along with another assault squad and a squad of five vanguard veterans from the first company to aid in the defence.

 

While his sergeant’s words had comforted him somewhat, another glance at the bodies of the chaos cultists sent his mind wondering again. The way the blood from the bodies flowed seemed almost unnatural, especially as they had died hours ago and yet, while slow, the blood still seemed to flow.

 

Sudden shouting from the guardsmen shook him from his contemplations, and he looked up to see another assault by the enemy was beginning. This one was different though, rather than another wave of weak cultists, he could see larger bodies shooting in to the sky, fire trailing below them in a disgusting mockery of his own jump pack.

 

A shouted order from sergeant Leucon of the veterans had him and his squad mates jumping to meet this new foe. Below him, the soldiers of the guard opened fire, their las shots bouncing off the armour of the raptors, but distracting them just enough for Zonis and his squad to get the upper hand.

 

The first raptor he came to jinked to the side to dodge a bolt round and then shot towards him, yelling and howling, chainsword screaming and his own pistol seemingly all but forgotten in his bloodlust. Zonis deflected the first strike, and the second bounced off his pauldron. Swinging his chainsword up, he caught the raptor on the chin, not penetrating the armour but knocking him off balance and sending him crashing to the ground. Not wasting any time, Zonis kicked the downed heretic on to his back and jammed his chainsword through the softer armour at his neck.

 

Pushing away from the corpse and ducking behind a burnt out chimera transport, he took a short moment to look over the battlefield. Despite his personal victory, it was instantly clear that the battle was not going well. The raptors outnumbered his brothers almost two to one, and even as he watched he could see the sky ripping open above, even more chaos marines dropping through and tearing in to the other assault marine squad, lightning claws flashing as limbs flew.

 

Worse, he could see that his earlier concerns regarding the blood of the fallen cultists should not have been dismissed. The blood had pooled in one place, a deep crater torn in to the bridge before the guard’s artillery had been destroyed by a sneak attack, and even as he watched he could see some form of daemon rise from the pool. Humanoid in overall shape, but hunched and with large horns on it’s head, and wielding a sword as long as the daemon was tall. Just looking at it made Zonis retch, the utter wrongness of the creature tearing at some primal part of his brain.

 

He was almost relieved as another raptor came at him. This one didn't seem as lost to his bloodlust, and fired his bolt pistol at Zonis, forcing him to duck and weave, preventing him from counter attacking. Their swords bounced off each other, and Zonis had to break off again to dodge another bolt shot. Firing his own pistol, he forced his opponent to the side, and rushed forward to strike while the traitor was off balance. A strike from his chainsword caught the raptor in the wrist of his pistol arm, cutting through the softer armour and into the flesh below. With a howl of pain, he dropped his pistol but the injury only seemed to infuriate him, and his sword swings spend up considerably.

 

It was all Zonis could do to fend off the berserk warriors assault, and even then his armour was getting nicked in places. The weapon of the raptor wasn't strong enough on its own to pierce his power armour, but it was only a matter of time until he got lucky and hit a joint. Taking a chance, Zonis dropped his defence for a moment to jump forward, the blade of the raptor catching the side of his helmet and disorienting him momentarily, but the sudden movement giving him a chance to strike. Not wasting the opportunity, he jammed his pistol under his foe’s shoulder, the bolt round detonating inside and sending the whole arm flying.

 

He didn't get a chance to savour his victory though, as a sudden and excruciating pain erupted from his chest. Choking on his own blood, he looked down in shock at the blade, coated in the tell tale energy field of a power weapon, sticking out of the front of his armour. Before he could react, the sword was ripped back out and he fell to his knees as the new attacker walked around to face him.

 

The new marine wore armour similar to those of the raptors he had been fighting, though both more ornate and more corrupted at the same time. Barely able to move his body at all, he could only watch as the now one armed raptor pushed himself to his feet and picked up his fallen blade before moving to decapitate him, before he was stropped by the new arrival.

 

“Calm yourself, I understand your anger, but our brother here will be dead soon enough. We should comfort him in his final moments.” The speaker sheathed his blade as turned to Zonis, his unhelmeted head letting Zonis see the smile on the face. “Rejoice, my brother, in death you will be freed from the shackles of the corpse god. When you awaken in the warp, give yourself to Khorne and begin an eternity in service to the true Gods.”

 

As much as he tried, Zonis couldn't muster the strength to spit in the traitor’s face, let alone argue, and so he was forced to look in to that smiling face as his life left him.

[Thedarkprincesnun]

Upon Decayed Wings

Mortan stood there his feet on a dead body of a Ultramarines assault marine, which he had slew a few seconds earlier after ripping his way into reality through a hole in the warp. He looked around and saw his brothers ripping through Ultramarines one after another the bright yellow skin and dirty green armour of the Death Guard clashing against the clean shiny blue Ultramarines armour.

As the sergant of this squad of Warp Talons unlike his brothers Mortan hadn't completely gave into the Hunter and still had some self control, he ran forward igniting his jump pack leaping for the ultramarine assault sergant who had just killed one of his brothers. "Now corpse worshipper you die" he said his voice sounding raspy and Daemonic before hitting the ultramarine in the chest with his shoulder. "You will get no further heretic" said the ultramarine as he recovered from the shove the warp talon had gave him "in the name of the Emperor I will slay you".

The Ultramarine swing at Mortan with his power sword which Mortan was only just able to dodge "ha nice try ultramarine but now it's time for you to die" he said as he shoved his lightening claw into the Ultramarines chest puncturing his lungs and ripping his secondary heart out, before slashing the Ultramarines neck and kicking him in the chest. The ultramarine staggered backwards and fell over his injuries quickly stopping bleeding "I will not fall here" he said going back on the attack swinging his power sword trying to slay the warp talon champion who jumped over him before the power sword had a chance to hit him. Mortan grabbed his head from behind and twisted it snapping his neck. "Fighting these Ultramarines is boring" he thought "they are too damn predictable"

Here's a pic of said unit of Warp Talons

[Scourged]

I wrote a thing. You should read the thing.

 

 

 

Unsure Footing

They prey was above. Five of them. Walking in unison. Their steps shook the thick ferrocrete of the bridge, each vibration carrying through the myriad of support structures and beams beneath. It betrayed their position. The paint on their armor smelled new. Fresh gun oil’s saccharine taste hung in the air. These five had not been long away from their home among the stars, not yet experienced in the skirmishes of this world. The hunter gripped the bridge’s underside and let his senses tell him everything necessary about their new prey.

Oh, how the hunter wanted to play with them right now. The prey was unaware of the threats scrambling beneath the bridge. Night had concealed their approach from the depths of the Iron Gorge, climbing the sheer rock face under moonless darkness. The five raptors of the Cult of the Burning Flight had reached the bridge and scurried, their clawed limbs clinging to plasteel structures with ease. While the other four moved to the bridge’s ends, Kheelamet chose to explore the length of the ferrocrete structure, and that’s when he found the prey.

His flock returned to his position with an unnatural silence in their movements. As the Burning Flight did on every hunt, they listened to the local fauna and adopted their languages for their own. Here, in the Iron Gorge, the five raptors spoke with the dulcet sweet tones of tiny songbirds. No prey would ever know the difference. Kheelamet chirped of the enemy above, and all began to salivate at the prospect of a feast. They stalked the underside of the bridge until ahead of the patrolling enemy above.

Kheelamet dug his talons into the ferrocrete and let himself hang upside down, aiming a charging combi-melta in front of him. With a sing-song beauty, he gave the call, and the other four raptors dropped themselves into a freefall, arming themselves as gravity took them away. And there, in the perfect moment, the champion blasted the superheated shot, tearing a wide oval hole in the bridge above, and shearing the torso of a patrolling Astartes away in the resulting blast. The remainder of the Burning Flight charged, their mutated jump packs burning with hunter’s fire and throwing them through the newly opened hole. Once Kheelamet scurried his way on all fours up through the hole, he saw the prey: Angels of Blood, and armed for melee.

Delicious.

Tikaal had fallen as a result of the breech, the Angels gunning him down as the last through the hole before the champion. Their numbers were even now, four-on-four. Angels of Blood now flew through the sky, chasing the birds of prey lashing at them with growling chainswords. Kheelamet found the prey’s champion and lunged, lightning claws scraping the new red armor as the Angel dodged. A power sword was drawn, spearing for the raptor’s neck, but the hunter thrust away, cackling with a crow’s delight, baiting the loyalist to a chase.

The champions darted back and forth, bounding between encampments on the bridge, dueling on feet and on wings. Blow after blow went back and forth, claws deflecting blade, sword parrying claws.The hunt was a good one, offering a great test of skill. The rest of Burning Flight agreed, their birdsong alive over the vox with delight. But the time for fun had run out. With a few authoritative chirps, the four birds of prey convened on the bridge once more, daring the Angels to follow again.

Charging furiously at their position with a rage becoming those belonging to the Blood, the Angels dove with weapons drawn and snarling eagerly for the kill. Kheelamet and his flock feigned a defensive stance, pistols drawn and blades at the ready, until the last moment. Then, once it was too late for the Angels to correct, the raptors fled, dropping back through the very hole they appeared. The four Angels hammered into the pavement, already in pursuit of them, but it was too late.

As they all fell, Kheelamet activated the detonator in his palm. At once, countless melta bombs erupted all along the underside of the bridge, including one at the very hole the Angels were charging. More ferrocrete was vaporized as plasteel infrastructure became useless slag from the heat and concussive force. The bridge was no longer connected to the opposite ends of the Iron Gorge and collapsed under its own weight, the multiple pieces of ruined causeway slamming into one another and the sheer cliffsides before resting forever at the base.

The Cult of the Burning Flight had long since flown away to safety as the charges blew and sat perched on their haunches watching the bridge collapse. Each of them waited for an Angel of Blood to rise from the ruins and charge them, but disappointingly none did. Kheelamet chirped at his men once more, and they flew to the south.They would need to hunt for new prey.

 

 

[Carrack]

Endure

 

 

Kezzer looked back at the rabble behind him. They were destined to die, win or lose, but first they would serve their purpose for the glory of the Black Maw Warband. There were hordes of them, multitudes even, given a las rifle and a few days of training to storm the city of Tulip ahead. But they had been given something else as well, a gift from the Grandfather to secure their fates, to push them to fight as furiously as they could, in order to prove their worth before they died, in the perhaps vain hope that the Grandfather would offer them succor from his most generous gift. Nezzar could hear them now, coughing up phlegm and bloody bits of lung tissue. The Grandfather had blessed them with the Red Lung. Tuberculosis. Consumption. A death sentence that Nurgle had postponed momentarily for the coming assault. They were meat for the grinder, but a valuable, if disposable, resource. That is, if Nezzer and his flock of the Vulture Raptor Cult could clear the last bridge over the Iron Gorge.

 

The bridge was the only way out of the rocky badlands and across the gorge before the plains opened up to expose the city of Tulip. The loyalist, a single assault squad of the Angels of Immolation Chapter, had allowed the hordes to advance into the badlands west of Tulip unimpeded, only for the Black Maw army to over commit to the western route. Then, only minutes ago they had jumped from bridge to bridge, burning each one down. Only one remained, the farthest bridge, Mont Bridge. Nezzer and his flock would race their loyalist counterparts to the bridge, if the slaves of the Corpse God reached Mont bridge first, the invasion would be stalled for days trying to cross the Iron Gorge, a ravine that cut into the ground deep enough to cause the river that formed it to steam with geothermal heat. The sick hordes didn't have days. As one, the Vultures Raptors fired their jump packs, and sped towards Mont Bridge.

 

A ping of a pebble sucked through his jump pack's intake, momentarily distracted Nezzer from his focus on the bridge ahead. His flock was closing fast, the skipping, jump assisted gate ate up ground as fast as any vehicle, and no vehicle could navigate the rough terrain of the badlands. His flock crested a hill that brought the Mont Bridge in sight for the first time. It was a grand suspension bridge, made of steal and its surface covered in ferrocrete. This was good, the thinbloods would have to set the bridge with krak grenades, and melta bombs if they had them, rather than merely burning it down, thought Nezzer. A road went off west, presumably to Tulip, and to the east a short distance to a boarded over mine. Nezzer and his Vultures pushed their jump packs to the limits of what their engines could take. They had a chance to reach the bridge first.

 

Grandfather Nurgle must be testing Nezzer, the rusty liquid coolant that had been slowly leaking out of his jump pack over the last decade or so, washed down over his back and clawed feet in a gush. The coolant had drained completely, forcing him to slow down less his pack overheat. As he slowed, and his flock with him, a cloud of dust became visible moving in from the north, the Angels of Immolation were approaching. Nezzer didn't have to calculate who would get to the bridge first, centuries of fighting the Long War had left him with an intuitive understanding of speeds, angles, and timing. The loyalists would reach the bridge first, but not in enough time to blow it. As he drew closer, he was able to make out the orange and red armored assault marines, they had a full squad, with a pair of flamers, compared to his flock of seven with two meltaguns.

 

The loyalists reached the bridge and split their squad in two, as they were wont to do according to their distant primarch's codex, with half the squad and both flamers heading to Nezzer's side of the bridge, and their sergeant and the rest of the assault marines already setting grenades onto the west side of the bridge. Nezzer had no time to out flank or to draw out the squads so they couldn't support each other, instead he charged with his flock, overheating jump pack be damned.

 

An exchange of fire preceded the clash of cousins, Nezzer and four of his Vultures blasting out bolts from their pistols, some hit, but none found the seams in the red and orange armor. The two Vulture meltagunners however, shot two down with their anti-tank energy weapons, the heat from which slagged their armor, melting it, and their occupants inside down to the popping and crackling ferrocrete beneath them. In return, the slaves of the False Emperor shot their own bolt pistols wildly, not even striking, but their flamers sprayed burning promethium across Nezzer and his flock. The fire came through Nezzer's wrist, elbow, and shoulder joint on his pistol hand. It hurt bad, but some of the nerves in his right arm had decayed back in the 39th Millenium, so it wasn't as bad, he wouldn't be slowed by it for this fight. Most of his flock, all but Azog and Nadu, were hit by the flames, and either their armor held, or they were left with with painful, but not debilitating burns. Shamash however, took a blast of flame to his neck, melting the thinner armor there and dripping the burning fuel down the inside of his chest plate. He missed a step landing and slid onto the road, spinning wild circles as his jump pack continued to fire while he died. The smoke was black and putrid.

 

The Vultures weathered the defensive fire and slammed into the three remaining loyalists. Cruelly hooked chainswords slashed with jump assisted momentum as taloned feet planted on helms and pauldrons. The loyalist were outnumbered 2-1, and the Vultures had the momentum of the charge. Nezzer's flock made short work of the loyalist, beating them down with more blows than they could block, and taking the enemies blows without casualties. Nezzer himself slew one assault marine by landing strike after strike, until he found a weak point in the waist of the Angel of Immolation, and slashed it open with his chainsword, spilling the marine's guts across the Mont Bridge.

 

As they pushed through the slain loyalists, already starting to run up for the next jump, an explosion sounded from the far side of the bridge, followed by a zipping sound as a cut cable lashed by Nezzer's head, forcing him to duck. The vultures fired their packs and hurtled across the bridge as fast as they could go. Nezzer screeched out over the vox for two of his flock to ignore the loyalist and move to remove the demolitions. Nezzer hoped that the first explosion was a mistake, and the other grenades were being daisy chained together to have a greater impact on the sturdy bridge. It didn't really matter though, win or lose the bridge, he still was going to kill the loyalists.

 

Four Angels of Immolation stood ready to die while their Sergeant continued to set grenades. They were born for this, they had survived the crucible of selection and implantation for this, they had trained for this, they were ready to die in the name of the Emperor so they might complete a mission given to them by their chapter. Four Vulture Raptors of the Black Maw came to meet them. They too were ready, ready to kill once again their most hated foes, ready to prove their superiority over Astartes who might wear jump packs, but didn't know what it truly meant to use one, ready to prove themselves worthy before the eyes of their dark god.

 

Nezzer and his flock jumped forwards, firing their weapons in mid air, but the distance was too great to reach the loyalist on the first jump. The loyalists waited, losing one of their brothers to meltagun fire, until the Vultures were at the peak of their jump. Then the Angels of Immolation jumped. Nezzer saw the timing of the loyalists was perfect, and prepared himself to receive the assault marine's charge just as he landed. Just before his taloned feet touched the bridge, he took a shoulder from a rocketing assault marine in his chest, the loyalist scrapping his chainsword along his pistol arm, trying to find purchase. The whirling blade failed to find a seam, but the impact from the assault marine's shoulder sent Nezzer straight to the ferrocrete, making his vision swim briefly as his head jerked back. The loyalist advanced on Nezzer while he was down, taking a two handed grip on his chainsword. As the loyalist swung down, Nezzer scissored his legs, tripping the marine. Nezzer, while still on his back, lashed out with his own chainsword, cutting both legs off his assailant with a hack to the back of the loyalist's knees. With a brief burn from his jump pack, Nezzer propelled himself to his feet and stepped behind the last loyalist beside the sergeant stranding. The assault marine was fighting two Vultures, and holding his own fairly well, butt with Nezzer behind him, he had pivoted to keep eyes on all three Vultures, and created an opening for a point blank pistol shot that destroyed his battered helmet and the skull it protected.

 

Nezzer stepped away from the carnage of the melee, and looked for the sergeant. As he did, another grenade went off snapping a half meter thick cable, that lashed out with the sudden absence of tension, and slammed one of his Vultures into a steel girder, breaking both the girder and the Raptor. The sergeant was no where in sight, and both of his Vultures he had sent to pull the wires from the demolitions were no where to be seen either. As Nezzer called out over the vox for his flock, a third explosion went off close enough to his sword arm to make his blade waver with the concussive force. Another cable snapped next to the explosion, and the Mont Bridge fell, not all the way, but one side was three meters lower than the other.

 

Nezzer jumped clear and fired his pack just as the bridge began to fall on one side. As he jumped, he looked up and saw the sergeant on top of an eye ring beam that suspended the bridge. Nezzer pushed his pack again, feeling the heat of the red-lining engines through the back of his armor as he soared towards the sergeant. The sergeant, using the advantage of high ground, slashed downwards with his chainsword as Nezzer rushed up to meet him. Nezzer parried the slash with his own chainsword, and adamantine teeth showered down as both Astartes' sword arms were jerked violently wide with the pull of the revving motors. Nezzer tried to bring up his bolt pistol for a point blank shot, but the loyalist was faster. Nezzer weaved his head to the side and shrugged his shoulder up to take the loyalist's bolt on his pauldron. His pauldron held, but his right ear was deafened as the exploding bolt blew out his audio pick-up and dampener. More pressing than his ringing ear, was the force of the bolt was enough to overcome his faltering pack's upward momentum. Nezzer began to fall, but he was not going to do so alone. Nezzer dropped both weapons as his pack stuttered out. The loyalist saw his opening and swung his chainsword down onto Nezzer's helm, denting it in and cracking Nezzer's skull above the brow. Nezzer laughed at the pain, and as he fell, he reached out and grabbed both of the loyalist's ankles, taking him with him as he fell down. The loyalist tried to fire his own pack and follow up with another slash, but overcommitted on his strike, allowing Nezzer to thrust up at the sergeant's ankles and angle the loyalist's firing pack downward. Nezzer held on to the sergeant as they were propelled towards the bridge, riding him down like a sled. Nezzer laughed all the way to the bridge as the sergeant tried to right himself so he could use his jump pack to save himself. He failed. Both jump marines, one loyal, one heretic, struck the bridge more or less head first. The loyalist sergeant more, Nezzer less.

 

Nezzer slowly picked himself up, it was difficult with two broken shoulders and the awkward weight of his ruined jump pack, but at least he could get up. He looked down at the loyalist with his neck jerked backwards so far his helmet was pressed against his pack, and knew he had achieved victory. He had endured. The surviving Raptors of his flock came over to him, retrieving his chainsword and picking up the loyalist's bolt pistol and handing him the weapons. The bridge bounced with their steps to the creaking strain of the remaining cables. Nadu asked, "Will the bridge hold for the hordes?" Nezzer shrugged, wincing at the pain it caused, and said, "Maybe, we'll see."

 

 

[Kierdale]

Skirmish II - Upon Cursed Wings

Hidden Content

Since before early Man made his first settlements, even proto-Man found ways to cross rivers and spans too great to leap across. Tree trunks and simple rocks initially and with the invention of tools came planks, shaped stones and structures recognizable as bridges. Movement, by foot or by beast, became far easier. In time came the movement of goods.

And, as is the way of Man, troops.

Bridges became vital. Hold the bridge and your forces can move freely, and behind them comes your supply trains to keep the front line fed and armed. To withdraw casualties and the dead in the other direction. Destroy the enemy’s bridges and deny him this ability. So it had been for thousands of years and even in the dark millennium, when goliath starships could obliterate entire cities from orbit with a barrage of cyclonic torpedoes, bridges were vital to those fighting the ground war.

 

 

The Hemarn Bridge spanned the Iron Gorge, the roar of the river itself muffled by the hundred meter drop. The sun baked the dust covered roads and the scrubland on either side of the gorge, quickly drying it out despite the storm of days earlier. The bridge itself was a bottleneck of roads leading from the south and east northward to the capital of Phioria 7. Years earlier sects of the Imperial Cult on the planet had been infiltrated by the Exalted Fecund and steadily corrupted. Like drops of water heavy with flesh-eating phages the groups, perverted from the worship of He upon the Golden Throne, merged and swelled. When the insurrection had begun a handful of months previously, loyal Phiorians had not known who they could trust, for their society had been permeated by the cult at all levels. Panic had run rampant but initially the rapid redeployment of the 98th Cadian Alpine Guard had seemed like it would stem the madness. Fanatical turncoat garrison troops were as naught compared to the hammer of the Imperial Guard.

Some say that regimental command welcomed the arrival of an astartes warship in orbit and the chance to give their troops relief, to turn over the war to the Imperium’s super soldiers, while others say the lord-general’s pride led him to suggest the marines could serve the Imperium better elsewhere. None know for sure, for the Harbinger of Hades annihilated regimental command with a firestorm of missiles, mass-drivers and laser blasts.

That traitor astartes - those taboos, those unthinkables - had come to Phioria 7 was confirmed with hard contact when a squad of the 98th faced renegade marines at a farm overlooking the Green Way. The encounter also hailed the arrival of Phioria 7’s would-be saviours: a squad of Mentor Legion dropping into the middle of the farmhouse itself to engage the traitors.

 

It was the coming of the 888th chapter which saw the Psychopomps lose control of the skies, the Mentor battleship driving its rival from dominance in low orbit and into a duel in higher space. Thus control of the Hemarn Bridge became paramount once more.

 

 

A full assault upon the bridge with rhinos and predators behind a scouting force of Black Stallion bikers, would likely be spotted too soon and the Psychopomps knew that the Mentors would either rally forces and make the bridge’s taking a hellish ordeal, or blow it and deny both sides the objective. It would have to be taken with guile and stealth. Though the naga sorcerer Holusiax had initially advocated tasking the assassin Jinx with eliminating the bridge defenders, her own reconnaissance indicated that the Mentor Legion had replaced the 98th Alpine and, proud and confident in her abilities though the assassin was, she was not drunk upon her own prowess like the peacock captain Dophesia. It was Dophesia who then proposed his raptors be the ones to take the bridge and thus it was so. A single squad of raptors, the better to hide the warband's true numbers. Little did the renegades know that their foes, also not keen to disclose their numbers, had dispatched a similarly sized force...

 

A scout during the mission to Cyprius III during which the chapter had fallen to the ways of Slaanesh, an assault marine during their raid on the Eldar reavers of Berolar XII, Physes had been promoted to sergeant before the warband’s attack on the maiden world of Mesusid, he found his squad assigned with taking the bridge.

“Flame. Let us take and cleanse the bridge with fire,” advocated brother Nabisea. His words reminded Physes of brother Hastings; the Templar whom he had fought alongside on Nantesi and had murdered on Berolar.

Proniar shook his head and replied with scorn, “And it will wash over the armour of the Mentors as the teachings of your betters wash over your dense brain, brother. Melta,” he said, hefting a fusion gun. “Their armour, be it powered or tank, will be as nothing.” The raptor then shrugged, “And if need be, we can bring down the bridge.”

Physes stepped between them, halting any further argument and handing each a large weapon with a spine of coils which would glow incandescent when charged.

“Plasma,” the raptor sergeant told them. “We must take the bridge quickly. I want you two punching those birds from their nests with these.”

The two nodded as they took the plasma guns and, by rote, began checking the weapons over. While they were now adorned with hooks, barbed bayonets and etched Octeds, the careful tending for arms had not slipped since the chapter’s fall to Chaos.

As he made his way to his own arming chamber Physes nodded to his other two raptors; Stacabri and Gadil. The former was carefully inspecting the teeth of his chainsword before revving its engine and nodding approvingly. The latter coiled a whip and stowed it at his belt. It was no weapon of leather or compound fiber but of daemonic flesh. A gift from one of the Black Stallion bikers who used the weapons all but exclusively. Its tip was a hooked barb, its length dotted with fangs and its hilt a fleshy bag into which one inserted their hand. Physes shook off his mild envy and looked to his own arms.

His rack, devoid of the armour he already wore, was a display of numerous weapons and the trophies he had taken with them. The helms of Swooping Hawks and Scourges, their skulls and weapons. The skulls of the Scourges had proven most interesting, indeed their entire skeletons were artificially hollowed out. Physes could but imagine the agonizing process they must have submitted themselves to. Next to these spoils of war and keepsakes were his weapons: his bolt pistol with its extended magazines, three combi bolters: one of each type, taken from different loyalist marines in one-on-one combat. The combi-plasma he had pried from the dead hands of a Guardian of the Covenant on Elcon IV. The combi-melta from a Flesh Tearer assault sergeant - that had been a most memorable battle - and the combi-flamer from a sister of battle on Hodegetria IV of the Order of the Gilt Hand. He had taken her hands with his chainsword and turned her weapon upon her and she had screamed prayers to the Corpse-Emperor even as he immolated her.

Next to these were three close combat weapons: his chainsword tipped with a vicious stabbing blade and small horns sprouted from the guard, with which he had trapped enemy’s blades several times; then there was his lightning claw, four great curving blades between which arced forks of power when activated, scything through powered armour as if it were not there. The shoulder armour, no mark VII pauldron but a smaller double-plate of armour etched with the icon of the Dark Prince, was a prized possession and gift from the sorcerer Holusiax himself.

Then, between the trophies and the blades was something which fit into both categories: a length of wraithbone. A curved sword - an alien scimitar - with which he had slain his first Swooping Hawk. Rather than an actual weapon it had been part of a statue, back on Mesusid, which had broken his most ungraceful fall. He had subsequently slain his would-be-killer with it. His mouth pulled wide in a grin at the memory and his fingers caressed its blunted, chipped edge. No elegant sword, but a good club and often underestimated. The stains along its length attested to as much. But he would not risk breaking it upon the heads of the Mentors.

He paused before removing his hand from the blade, to glance at another memento hung above the broken piece of statue. A deep crimson gemstone held within a clasp of barbed wire he himself had fashioned. The spiritstone of the Exarch he had slain all those years ago. He had chosen not to consume it - not yet - as his warband’s members often did with the souls of their defeated Eldar enemies. Rather he kept it in his arming chamber. He did not know in what state the Exarch still existed, whether the alien could perceive the world about it, but he feel distress emanating from the gemstone every time he brought back trophies to stack about it.

His combi-plasma in one hand, his lightning claw upon the other, he turned to find his squad armed and ready. Each was breathing rapidly with anticipation at the coming conflict.

 

 

The 888th chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, the Mentor Legion specialized in seconding units to other marine chapters and Imperial forces, thus they rapidly learned not only the tactics of enemies of Humanity but also about the strengths and weaknesses of their allies, while also teaching their expertise to their battle brothers. Here on Phioria 7 they found themselves teaching the Cadian 89th the best ways to counter the insurgencies ignited by the Chaos cults which had infiltrated the planet, and how to handle fallen Astartes.

The Hemarn Bridge, however, had been deemed so vital as to be best guarded directly by the Mentors themselves, a task which Legion sergeant Vicet found challenging. His assault squad was trained in all manner of missions, but the vast majority of their experience lay in lightning-fast attack. Thus, as was the Mentor way, they called upon the chapter’s vast knowledge and their ability to adapt tactics to new situations. They lay an ambush.

 

The Hemarn Bridge was a vast suspension bridge and its towers, capped with huge gilt Aquila, not only anchored the thick cables which held up the structure, but also afforded guards with a good view of the bridge, the canyon and the road stretching off to the north and south. In each tower Vicet stationed one of his warriors, the one in the northern tower ordered to ensure he mucked up his camouflage and could be spotted by a trained eye. He wanted the enemy’s eyes high.

 

 

The autosenses of Astartes powered armour provided the wearer with multi-spectrum vision which could filter all but the thickest smoke, the darkness of night and other interference and audio enhancements that enabled him to hear the slightest of noises, and dampen the most deafening. The roar of the river was thus dampened and the five raptors made their way along the river bed in near blindness, glowing icons on their HUDs indicating the position and range to squad mates. The view out of their lenses was clouded with mud despite the quick current. They backed their way down the river, the claws of their boots digging into the mud and rocks, occasionally activating their jump packs, fuel lines disengaged, to steady themselves. It was disorientating even for one used to rocketing across battlefields. As if one were abseiling horizontally. Proniar looked up occasionally, more out of habit, as the dozen or so meters of water above shrouded the world beyond. Likewise he checked and rechecked the plasma gun clamped to his thigh before taking another careful step backwards. Should any of them lose their footing and be swept away by the current likely they would not die, but the squad would be a man down, putting the odds in the enemy’s favour (if they weren’t already) and raising the risk of exposing the squad early.

”Ten meters,” came Physes’ voice in the ears of his squad and they began to crab-crawl, still bent forward against the current, to the sides of the river.

”Five.”

Stacabri risked a look to his right, toward the river bank and, as they had seen in recon images, there were large ferrocrete foundations extending down from the bridge towers into the river itself. In their lee the waters would be comparatively calmer. It was then, in that moment of relief, that the raptor’s clawed foot slipped and the current took him. He automatically fired his jump pack, the turbines roaring to life and he threw himself downward, ensuring the pack aqua-jetted him toward the river bed rather than the surface.

Various expletives were barked over the vox at him and he dug his fingers and boots into the mud and rocks, cutting his jump pack as quickly as he could. Hands found him and dragged him into the lee of the foundations.

 

 

Vicet and the other two members of his squad were perched, like the scarlet birds of prey which formed their chapter iconography, atop girders and pipes which hung along the underside of the bridge. The Mentors had been busy: det cable snaked across the underside of the bridge, following the bridge’s own wiring in order to hide it, connecting carefully placed charges. None large enough to bring down the bridge itself, but enough to halt vehicular traffic and ignite suspicion that the bridge might fall. The assault squad had become ambushers, and sappers. The Mentor to Vicet’s left was armed with a flamer and the one to his right with a plasma pistol, he himself with another of the latter. Knowing they were facing traitor Astartes he would have preferred his squad to have a pair of grav-guns, but apparently the armoury didn’t stretch that far this mission. Typical.

 

 

Physes was the first to climb to the surface of the river, the shadow of the bridge making his pastel pink helm seem like livid, greying flesh. His autosenses immediately picked up and highlighted a white and green armoured form crouched a hundred meters overhead on one of the bridge’s support girders. He motioned for the rest of the squad to surface. When Nabisea raised his plasma gun to sight through the scope up at the underside of the bridge, Physes knew they too had spotted the Mentor. They quickly set about reengaging each other’s jump pack fuel lines and flushing the engines’ systems of water.

The minutes agonizingly slowly.

 

 

The three Mentors beneath the bridge were using line of sight, short range comms. Vicet had ordered the squad to only use squad-wide comms once hard contact was made. The marines in the towers were to make use of the emplaced weapons to pin the enemy between them while he and the two with special weapons would jet up and engage the enemy from the sides.

“No intel on the enemy’s ID,” Icais, the assault marine with the flamer, repeated to himself in irritation. Such they had been informed during their briefing. That the renegades had employed sonic weapons at the battle of the farm had caused supposition that it was the Emperor’s Children or an offshoot warband, but the Mentors did not act on supposition. Whoever they were, they who had slain the Mentors who podded into that farmhouse, Vicet and his squad would have vengeance.

 

 

Proniar held up two fingers, not taking his plasma gun off one of the Mentors far above. He had spotted two, and via hand gestures had ensured that Nabisea targeted the other. They only awaited Physes’ order.

Once he had the ready signal from Stacabri and Gadil, Physes carefully grabbed a rung embedded in the ferrocrete with his hand and began to raise himself from the river. That was the signal.

Bolts of plasma shot forth from the raptors’ guns, their reports drowned out by the firing of engines as Physes, Stacabri and Gadil shot from the water on pillars of fire.

 

 

Icais and Vicet watched in horror as their comrade was struck from below by plasma, the bolt blowing clear through his right leg and up into his body before knocking him from his perch, his corpse tumbling toward the river’s surface. More bolts hit the metalwork about them sending sparks and gobs of molten metal spraying about.

“Hard contact below!” Icais voxed over the squad comm. Impatient he might have been, but his reactions were fast. Pointing his flamer over the edge of his gantry he triggered it and waved it back and forth. He correctly assumed the enemy was far out of range, but the gout of flame obscured both him and his sergeant momentarily.

 

No sooner had their squadmates jumped to the superstructure half way up the bridge tower than the two plasma gunners fired their own packs and rocketed upwards. Stacabri and Gadil played their bolt pistols back and forth over the crisscrossing gantries and pipes searching for targets, averting their eyes from the blast of flame as their autosenses darkened their lenses.

 

At a nod from Vicet, Icais let up on the flamer’s trigger and ducked back, his left hand retrieving another promethium tank from his webbing. His weapon wasn’t empty but he figured this would be the last chance to reload before the enemy made it to their position. As soon as the cloud of flames dissipated, Vicet dropped two fistfuls of grenades, one a second after the other.

“Eat this!”

 

“GRENADE!” screamed Proniar as the half dozen bomblets dropped toward them.

His sergeant, Stacabri and Gadil shot upwards on their jump packs, taking them above the explosions, but his and Nabisea’s packs hadn’t cycled ready yet. Holding onto the cracked ferrocrete as best he could Prioniar tried to swing himself around to the other side of the foundation block, only half successfully as the frags went off and pelted him with slivers of metal which would have shredded an unarmoured man. Nabisea had been too slow to act and his torn body fell to be swallowed by the river below.

 

For the next few minutes the Psychopomp raptors leap-frogged their way up the girders between the bridge’s foundations, exchanging fire with the two Mentors beneath the bridge, Physes loosing plasma from his combi-bolter to push the loyalist back and make room for the raptors to jump up. Proniar almost fell to his death when jumping, ready to ignite his pack’s engines, he found it unresponsive, the right turbine having eaten too much debris from the frag grenades. He desperately grabbed onto the wall, digging in his claws and saving himself. He found himself stranded half way up, providing what covering fire he could with the squad’s remaining plasma gun.

 

Gadil was the first of the raptors to make it to the Mentors’ position, landing with a clang and scrape of taloned boots, raising his pistol to sweep it back and forth, only to find a ceramite boot planted in his chest before he could raise his weapon, and Vicet sent him off the edge of the gantry, his pistol spinning out of his hand. It was only his quick reflexes which sent his whip arcing out to wrap itself about a stanchion, arresting his fall and leaving him dangling under the gantries.

 

Stacabri dove through a blast from the Mentor’s flamer, knocking the barrel aside and swinging his roaring blade at the loyalist’s head. Likewise Physes rose up to engage the Mentor sergeant. He took a moment to examine his foe: while the Psychopomps were clad in armour of pastel hues, rosy pinks and pale greens and blues marked with the icon of Slaanesh and other glyphs of the Dark Tongue, the Mentors wore armour of the purest white, their bodies, helms and backpacks a dark green. Where the Psychopomps adorned their armour with talismans and trophies, that of the Mentors was functional: webbing with ammunition pouches, grenades, knives and other gear.

He pointed to his counterpart with his claw, powering arcing from blade to blade, and beckoned him to attack.

 

The renegade was confident, and well-armed, Vicet evaluated immediately. To engage him in close combat would be a dangerous gamble...but they were covered by the plasma gunner below. If he kept his distance likely he would be hit by that marine sooner or later. Nodding to himself, Vicet triggered a double blast from his pistol, forcing the raptor champion to duck low, and the Mentor charged in, his knee rising to catch the other in the face. Oh but his foe was fast! Pain lanced through his leg as he drew his knee back after the strike, the enemy’s lightning claws having raked his calf even as he attacked. Vicet hobbled backwards, putting that leg behind him and raising his chainsword in his left hand.

 

It took less than a minute for the two Mentors stationed in the towers to descend on their own jump packs and, carefully controlling their thrust, jump down to the underbridge gantries on each side. Thus they caught the raptors in a pincer. Stacabri kept Icais between him and one of them, forcing the newcomer to hold his fire, but the other nailed him with shots into his side, the bolts punching through his ceramite plating and toppling him as blood poured from his body.

 

Vicet dueled the leader back and forth across slender girders and pipes, his attention divided between his footing and his foe’s attacks, sparks erupting from their weapons as blades clashed. The renegade feinted with his claw only to boot Vicet in his chest - as he himself had to the first renegade to ascend! - and only a blast of his jump pack’s engines kept him from falling.

But the raptor did not press the attack. There then came a crack and the Mentor sergeant knew why his foe had not pressed the advantage as a cord of unnatural flesh fastened about his wounded leg, barbed horns thirstily driving themselves into the cracked ceramite. The raptor he had kicked from his perch had evidently not fallen. That renegade fired his own engines and shot out from under the gantries, yanking Vicet’s feet from under him and dragging him out, out into open air.

The whip loosened and the Mentor sergeant plummeted, watching his jump pack’s readout on the HUD in horror as it cycled all too slowly.

 

Physes’ laughter was cut short as his armour was pummeled with bolts and a blast of fire drove him backwards. Though they had killed one of the loyalists and most amusingly dropped their leader to an uncertain fate in the river below, Nabisea and Stacabri were gone, Proniar was stranded and Gadil’s jump had taken him to the cliff face adjacent to the bridge itself. Which left Physes with three Mentors hungry for his blood.

Was it worth a bridge?

What did it matter if the war ground on a few more months? If the Psychopomps had to find another way to the capital?

It mattered naught either way if he were dead. He and Gadil could get away. Proniar could take his chances with a dive into the river.

Yes, there was yet glory to be won.

“Raptors! Take flight!”

With a mock salute to his foes Physes dove from the gantry.

[Scourged]

Fellow aspiring champions of the written word, rejoice!

 

Don't know if all of you have seen yet, but Black Library is doing another casting call for short story writers. The details are in the News and Rumors thread. So anyone who can crank out a 10,000 word short story should give it an entry and see what happens. The only catch? Imperium-centric. Blegh.

[Kierdale]

I was going to mention it in the next update :D but you beat me to it. :tu:

The very best of luck to any and all who enter.

[Scourged]

Hah, couldn't help myself Kierdale. I'm too enthused about it. I didn't make the cut for the one done a while back for GW proper, so I'm eager to give it another go.

[Thedarkprincesnun]

Id be tempted to give it a go but i cant stand writing imperium cemtric stories :p

[Teetengee]

Fell Pinions

Hidden Content

“Keep your weapons ready!” I heard the commissar’s voice over even the thunder of artillery and the slap of on rockcrete from thick drops from an angry sky. For a hundredth time I wiped the sight of my lasgun. Three months we had been fighting on this blasted planet. They didn’t even tell us the name, no point I guess if we aren’t expected to survive. The enemy wore the armour of angels, but possessed the wrath of hell itself.

The vox had come through two days ago. Apparently the 37th Armoured Company had overwhelmed the enemy rearguard and pushed a pincer move hard through the enemy lines, cutting a whole swath apart from their supplies. They had retreated towards the Iron Gorge. So that’s our job; kill them when they get here. I hope the seven hundred of us that remain will be enough. Maybe if I repeat it enough it will come true. Maybe we can sell our lives for victory here on this nameless rock.

A scream from the command tents interrupted my reverie. I kept my eyes forward, the shadow of the commissar’s pistol visible on the end of my gun. But then it wasn’t. I turned my head to the commissar, and he was staring backwards, transfixed. I turned, even though I knew whatever I saw would only bring back the nightmares.

Commander Dathner’s pet astropath stood in the middle of the bridge clutching his head, screaming. Over the din I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I could recognize the pain. He doubled over, body shaking, convulsing. Suddenly he exploded. Two glowing sets of claws tore the body asunder, viscera and flaps of skin flying through the air for several meters. The being that had clawed its way out of the astropath’s skin was huge. And he was gone before the last chunks of flesh smacked wetly at our feet and the feathers of skin twirled in the wind off the edge of the bridge.

It took ten seconds for the commissar to respond. It took less than half that for whatever creature that stood there to butcher the rest of the high command. I couldn’t look away. It wore baroque bronze and gold armour crisscrossed with red. On its back was a singular engine, a monstrous gaping jaw that spat flame to throw this monster through the sky in lethal corkscrews, two great power claws carving through our discipline with our leaders.

I don’t remember how many fled, how many jumped to their death in the raging river rather than face that beast. I don’t remember why I stayed. But when Commissar Portia gave the order, we fired. Beam after beam reflected off the hissing creature, seeming to do it no great trouble but driving it into cover behind the smouldering wreck of a chimera.

Driven forward by the officers that remained, we rushed over the center support of the bridge towards the command tents while the smell of ozone and the a tickling in the back of our minds increased in intensity. It wasn’t until we rounded the chimera that the depths of our stupidity was revealed.

On the ground was the bones of the command squad, arranged in a great angular icon that I had seen upon the enemy before. But above it was something far worse. A swirling nexus of wrong, an opening into the void, a vision straight into the warp itself. And out of it, came more.

Each enemy burst forth at full speed, careening through rank upon rank of guardsmen with not a care for any of our fire. First the officers and commissars were slain, then those who dared to fight back. I fired again and again, but they didn’t even seem to care about me. Each monster was different, and each was horrible uniquely.

The first through the gate flew on batlike wings or leapt on legs like a bird, it’s slick tail cracking ribs with every twitch. One clawed hand held a sword burning with warpfire, the other was armoured and held a chainsword of heretical design. It’s beaked mockery of an astartes helm screeched murder at the skies as it butchered our ranks. When it came I leapt under the chimera, firing my impotent lasgun even as pools of acid rain and motor oil were splashed in my eyes.

The second wore nothing from waist to neck, its legs garbed in power armour and some sort of jump jets and its head in a helm that covered a mane of wires fused with flesh all along its back. It held a giant harpoon, chain links hanging from the end, and lay about itself with abandon, yelling with joy in words I was unhappy to understand. Each triumphant shout was punctuated with another of the 165th getting painted along the ground.

The third through screamed out aboard a xenos skyboard, launching rounds of poisoned flechettes into the battle lines as his scythe like arm lopped off heads. His long tongue snapped in the air with his laughter.

At some point my power pack ran out. I don’t know when, it had happened far before I had stopped pulling the trigger. I saw one of my friends fall in the filth in front of me. They were bleeding, but still breathing. I reached out, pulled them under the chimera with me. I pushed the chimeras still smoking exhaust into his wound to stop the flow. He didn’t wake up, but he didn’t stop breathing either. I couldn’t see anything except the gaping wound in reality to my left, dead bodies filled my frame of vision in every other direction. So I closed my eyes. I prayed. They preyed.

At some point, the noises died down. I felt something come out of the portal to my left. I wanted to scream, to flee, but I held fast. I knew sound would mean my death. I heard them speaking:

“Thank you for opening the door, Casius.” An affirmative grunt followed. “Zcosk, corale Shaddeck please, we need him to prep the charges for after the Screamers come through. Gamor! Heel! Good boy, keep watch, I don’t want any surprises.” There was a screech and a flapping of wings that followed that order. I heard the sounds of crunching bones and dragging bodies as they continued their foul works. I just lay there, trying not to move, to breathe, to think.

Eventually I heard the scritch of metal on pavement from behind me. My heart leapt into my throat, I knew the end was coming now. I contorted around reading a combat knife and battle cry. I dropped the knife at what I saw. A white and blue armoured marine, climbing from under the bridge, jump pack off, finger at his lips to silence me. The Lycean Sons had come. I had hope for the first time in hours as his holy aquilla snuck its way past my sliver of vision. I scooted forward, risking ever so slightly being seen so that I could view the enemy’s erasure.

The winged enemy, I suppose it must have been Gamor pounced on my position, I just managed to pull back under in time, it’s clawed hand reaching out and tearing off my friend’s head as it grasped for me. It’s claws scraped and slammed against the chimera, now rocking slightly at the side of the bridge. Cruel laughter rang out, congratulating this hound on its catch. I stared as the claws began to bend back my metal hovel before a glowing green blade burst out through the monster’s chest. It writhed and then burst into flame, before its body distended and stretched back into the portal, getting sucked back in with the sound of a reversed explosion.

The marine atop my chimera boosted off, shunting it over the edge and uncovering me. Four more of the Emperor’s angels, festooned in purity seals and armed with all range of close assault weaponry boosted up over the edge, landing between me and the enemy.

Their sergeant shouted out “I am Metrocles, and you will meet your end on the tips of our blades warp-spawned traitors!”

The being I had not seen before, stepped forward before his unit. His armour was ancient and twisted, but clearly that of an assault marine. On his left arm was a large shield, emblazoned with runes that hurt to see. His right arm held a many headed flail, each ending in a metal skull, and the whole flail glowing with an evil aura. “Fancy words corpse worshipper. My name is Moloc, and you will taste my lash. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!”

The Lycean Sons rushed to meet them with cries of ‘For the Emperor,’ and ‘By the Throne.’

Titans clashed before my eyes, and all I could do was gape. The naked chested traitor boosted forward and smashed his makeshift hammer into the jump pack of one of the Sons, causing an explosion that knocked him the Son of the edge of the bridge and him through a damaged basilisk. Two sons knocked the scythe armed enemy from his board. But as he went flying his arm lashed out and took off the head of one of my saviors. His tongue snapped out to hold onto the other. They tumbled behind a defense line but I saw chunks of blood spattered white armour begin to fly through the air. The clawed monster who summoned the others launched claw after claw into a marine armed with shield and hammer, but no attack could find purchase.behind the Son’s bulwark. A blow from the hammer caved in the monster’s chest, and another enemy was dragged screaming back into the warp.

Moloc and Metrocles circled each other, trading feints and parries, but neither seeing an opening. I saw the two remaining daemon marines stalking forward towards the shield-bearing Son. I realized things weren’t going to end well for me even if Metrocles could find victory, the fleeing enemy would be here soon. I turned and fled. I looked back twice on my flight. The first time Metrocles and Moloc had begun trading blows in earnest. The second, each had lost their weapons, and the were grappling in the sky, jump packs boosting higher and higher until Moloc put a fist through the other’s engine. Metrocles grabbed hold and they both shot over the edge.

***

Three months later I returned to the bridge, I had hoped there would be rations left for me there, since my scavenging had failed to prove fruitful recently. As I picked across the bridge I saw nothing useful, only the corpses of man and machine. When I reached ten yards from the central support I stopped. The bridge stopped jaggedly at the edge of the support, beyond just a yawning chasm howling with wind and based with blackened shattered debris. In the center was a figure, strung up to a chair made of bones. I inched forward and saw my savior. On his chest was carved “Metrocles, Pride before the Fall.” It wasn’t until I saw his restraints that I understood how he hadn’t rotted yet. His boots and gauntlets had been fused to structure underlying the bones. His wrists were rubbed raw. His skin sagged, all the fat and muscle was gone. Still, better one than two, and roasting certainly makes it crispier.

 

 

I want to, for the record, mention that I had planned a model for Casius well before Kierdale's first story about Warp Talons, and as such, didn't exactly steal his idea. Great minds I guess ;).

 

[Kierdale]

I thank you all for your entries in Skirmish: Upon Cursed Wings over the last week.

Captain Malachi gave us the tale of loyalist assault marines defending a bridge against the forces of Khorne. In the wake of a wave of cultists mown down by the combined forces of marines and guardsmen came the raptors. I really enjoyed your descriptions of the close combat between the assault marines and raptors, the brutality, the precise targeting of weak spots like joints in foe’s armour.

TheDarkPrince’sNun’s entry this time wasUpon Decayed Wings. A gory tale of Death Guard warp talons fighting an Ultramarine assault squad. It did bring to mind one thing, not a criticism per se, but I often see the Ultramarines written as being fixed in their tactics, staid and predictable. Personally I prefer to think of them as having compiled so many tactics and strategies for every situation, and practiced them to a T, that they are formidable.

Unsure Footing was Scourged’s entry this week. It seems I wasn’t the only one who had his raptors go up from under the bridge! The squad’s adopting of fauna sounds to communicate was particularly inspired! And the trap at the end...delicious.

Carrack’s Endure told us of Vulture raptor cult marines of the Black Maw warband fighting a full-sized assault squad of Angels of Immolation. Like Captain Malachi’s, I liked the gritty fighting and the description of the bridge as it was damaged more and more (that added a good bit of tension to the story).

I brought back a raptor champion, Physes, from a couple of my older entries, having he and his squad infiltrate through the river itself (of course jump packs can work like that ) and then up the bridge. I also chose to have the renegades fail their mission this time as we can’t win them all (I hope I communicated Physes’ self-serving reasons for doing so too).

And Teetengee gave us Fell Pinions. Shenanigans! Shenanigans! Just kidding. Great minds do indeed think alike. This week Teetengee gave us an excellent tale of Khornate warp talons clashing with loyalist vanguard. I loved the variety in the talons: extremely original and something I simply hadn’t thought of. Of course such powerful champions of chaos should not be uniform. Certainly something to think about when I get around to making some warp talons. Consider me inspired (I may not be able to resist shamelessly stealing that idea when we get around to part two of the campaign series).

I hereby close that topic for the purposes of rewards (though, as always, if you have more tales to tell feel free to post them at any time).

And here begins our ninth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Lost In Space (and Time?)

A little something special - and not so serious - for this event as it ends on April 1st. Back when Warhammer 40,000 and Warhammer Fantasy Battle shared rules, back in the Rogue Trader days of 40k, occasionally Games Workshop stores would run games in which, due to a teleportation malfunction, a squad of terminators found themselves upon a Fantasy Battle battlefield.

And this week a squad of your terminators has found itself accidentally teleported to the Old World (of WHFB), the Mortal Realms (of AoS), a Bloodbowl pitch...Middle Earth…or some other fantasy or SciFi planet.

Inspirational Friday: Lost In Space (and Time?) runs until the 1st of April.

Let your imagination run wild.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Warsmith Aznable. And to the victor chosen by Warsmith Aznable, step forward to claim your Octed Amulet:

[Teetengee]

Yeah, I always think that chaos should be full of variety! (Actually, I am working on making those all a reality in model form, Moloc, Shaddek, and Gamor all have models already (will probably see paint for ETL) the others have some work done but aren't complete.)

I'm looking forward to reading everyone's stuff, this week sounds exciting!

[Warsmith Aznable]

I need some time to decide. I will reread them all and think about it, then sleep on it. I will pronounce judgment Saturday.

[Warsmith Aznable]

This is most difficult, and even as I begin to type this I'm still not sure what I am about to say. Two entries stood out to me, though I enjoyed reading them all, and I have struggled to determine which of them I like best.

 

There is a part of me that wants to proclaim that this Octet is shared by two frater for the difficulty I am having making a choice between them, but there is another part of me says, "there can be only one!"

 

So here I say that Teetengee's story Fell Pinions must stand as the victor, though Scourged comes a very close second. The deciding factor was the ending: I loved the image of the defeated loyalist sergeant burned in his mocked throne and left as an altar to victory, and the grim desperation of the survivor who finds him. It's just a lovely grimdark image to go out on.

 

And with that having been proclaimed, I present to you my own rather long entry for the continuation of the war series.

 

The Iron Warriors Invasion of Sicarus: Operation Iron Gorge

Hidden Content

The Well of Enlightenment was just one of the innumerable wonders upon the Word Bearers homeworld of Sicarus that pilgrims from all over the domains of the Warmaster spent entire lifetimes of travel for the chance to experience. It was a circular shaft wide enough that a man standing on one side could not clearly see a man standing directly opposite. For the Word Bearers themselves and their many legions of mortal servants who called Sicarus home, the Well was but another arterial junction, a cross roads connecting dozens of major highways and transport tracks. A multitude of bridges spanned the chasm of the Well, crisscrossing back and forth, rising and falling as necessary, and the outer wall was lined with its own systems of switchbacks and ramps and stairs that wound around it. The Well descended to depths unknown, to the original layers of cathedrals and well beyond. It did not, however, rise near the surface. The Well had been capped long ago, and was buried under many layers of chapels, vaults, and fortresses.

To the millions of devout that came on their humble pilgrimages to honour the True Gods, the Well of Enlightenment was much more than a convenient junction. Arriving in droves they were herded into a particular vault, and there they cast off all of their worldly possessions and donned hooded robes that marked their dedication to the Well’s ordeal. Thereafter they joined the endless procession of devotees who entered at a lower point from which they could see but a glimpse of the golden shrine near the top before they began their downward journey.

The Ordeal of the Well was a special path, and once one was upon it there was no going backward or getting off of one’s own free will. Its bridges, spans, ramps, platforms, and stairways did not connect to any of the many others of the Well. It was no easy task, but for this it was held in high esteem by many of those arriving on Sicarus seeking to further their connection to the True Gods.

Blandus stood and stared across the abyss of the Well at the Gates of Humility, the archway through which pilgrims first enter the Well of Enlightenment. Blandus stared at the thousands of pilgrims in their fresh robes, each too enraptured at having finally made it Sicarus and begun their devotions to pay any mind to the miserable, crowded conditions. Some, he could see, were even smiling, genuine joy writ clear and honest across their faces.

He almost envied them.

Almost, but not. Blandus could not remember when he had been one of them, though he firmly believed it was many years ago. He believed, because time somehow ceased to have real meaning when performing the Ordeal. His robes were tattered, mere rags really. The cloth upon his back hand long since infused into his mortified flesh. He had been young and ambitious once, believing that this pilgrimage would raise his status in his coven and its army. He had paid many favours and much treasure to bypass the long lines and waiting, to make it to Sicarus ahead of the rabble and trash and take his place in the Ordeal. He had wanted to get it over with, to return quickly and lord his devotion over those he had left behind.

But now Blandus was an old man with withered hands and yellowed nails. He was very tired, and had paused after exiting the last chapel when he had realized he had finally, after years of painful devotions, come far enough of the path that it had led him even to the level on which he had started.

The Chapel of Tears was an appropriate name, and Blandus wept at the railing with several others at the sight of the Gate of Humility. Once, thousands had walked alongside him, pressing upon him from all directions and carrying him along like a strong ocean current. Now the path was lonely, for many had fallen along the way. The pilgrims no longer talked to one another, made alliances with one another, or preyed upon one another. They simply shambled painfully forward, ignoring those around them except when they gathered at the now infrequent chapels.

Blandus strained his aged eyes to make out the golden glow of the shrine many levels still above him. He then saw a peculiar thing. Sliding out from seemingly nowhere, a long blade began to pierce the air as if that which Blandus beheld was merely a painted vignette falling victim to a vandals knife.

There were many signs and wonders when performing the Ordeal of the Well, and this was Sicarus, after all. Blandus merely watched at first, uncertain of what it was he was witnessing. He was too tired to feel either excitement or fear, and merely bore witness to this strange thing as it unfolded.

As the blade slid through reality before him an otherworldly light began to shine forth from the tear. Blandus did not know what this meant, but the light was both painful and mesmerising. As he watched, a second, and then a third, and then a fourth blade appeared beside the first as it pushed deeper into this reality from wherever it was coming.

A claw.

Blandus grunted in confusion, unable to find words. He tottered backward on ragged, bleeding feet. The few that had gathered beside him at the rail turned to look at him, unaware of the nightmare emerging from beyond just above their heads.

Reality tore as if it were not three dimensional, but merely a flat image, and into this world a power armoured form violated its way into existence. The deep blood red of the Word Bearers Legion was what Blandus expected, for he had seen their kind nearly every day since he began the Ordeal, usually from very far away on one of the non-Ordeal spans. He had on occasion been much closer; sometimes they came to lead prayers, other times to punish the unfaithful. But this was not a Word Bearers space marine, not in that garish orange and black.

Blandus did not know what it meant until the space marine, then nearly completely emerged from the tear and stepping down onto the rail, turned to look at the open abyss of the Well behind him. Upon the shoulder pad it bore an iron skull design with a High Gothic numeral IV. Blandus, once a well educated and highly respected lore master of his coven, did not know what those colours represented, but he understood the symbol on the shoulder pad all too well: there were Iron Warriors on Sicarus.

“Im-mposs-ssible!” Blandus finally managed to croak the useless denial. The words were followed by the inarticulate screaming of his fellow pilgrims as they finally saw what he saw.

The space marine casually swiped out with crackling Lightning Claws, silencing the screams closest to him with a spray of blood. He dropped from his precarious perch on the rail even as the tear in reality mended itself. The leering skull helmet of the offspring of Perturabo surveyed the scene before finally making a triumphant declaration.

“FIRST!”

Even as the Warp Talon raised its claws and roared in satisfaction, Blandus saw more flashes of light begin to appear throughout the Well of Enlightenment.  He fell backward in astonishment and despair as the air in the Well crackled and tore and burst, with first a handful and then dozens of jump pack equipped Iron Warriors of this strange cult of orange and black ripped their way into the sacred space of the Word Bearers own homeworld.

Blandus howled in terror, but the Warp Talon did not bother to look his way. Instead the space marine ignited his jump pack and crossed the expanse to land among the throng of fresh Ordealists still pushing through the Gates of Humility. It ripped into the wall of flesh and blood and bone with relish, the terrified masses unable to escape its wrath.

+++++++++

Ardorach was bored.

The slaves were docile, almost pleasant, as they marched along. Their spirits were apparently high, as they chanted a rhythmic devotional that helped them keep in step. It was in their own, simple language, but Ardorach understood their vulgate well enough to understand there was a certain humour to the slaves’ song, and he himself might have been the target of whatever nonsense it was they sang. It did not bother him as it was not blasphemous, and he was humble enough to be glad of their ready cooperation. Time spent lashing slaves over ones ego was work wasted to no good end.

But Ardorach was bored, and he contemplated choosing a weak slave and sending him over the edge of the span and counting how many levels it fell before it hit something. The thought was usually enough to keep his mind occupied, but it had been awhile since he had actually demonstrated his authority in a visceral way. Because Ardorach was looking at the work party so intently, sifting through the candidates for his planned motivational murder, that he did not hear the screams when they first began.

Screams were not uncommon in the public areas. There was always a slave being beaten or worse, it seemed. Sometimes, usually even, it was simply a lack of faith causing one’s mind to crack. The slaves, after all, were slaves because they were weak, not necessarily in body but in spirit.

But the screaming did not stop, it raised in voices and volume. They were not wails of despair or hysteria, but the terror of stampeding cattle.

Ardorach blinked and emerged from his thoughts, walking over to the edge of the bridge to look down upon where the commotion was coming from. What he saw astonished him.

“Hostile incursion at Deep Junction 13A.” Ardorach reported to the vox open security channel, even as he leveled his bolter. The vox returned nothing but tortured static, and soon the sound of screaming was replaced with the hammerbang of boltgun fire and the crack of plasma rounds and frag grenades.

Ardorach loosed bolt after bolt at the Warp Talons and Raptors of the unknown assailants as they arced through the air. He suddenly had a target rich environment, and the confusion of the situation caused him to fixate on those jump pack equipped enemies moving below.

The melta blast took him by complete surprise.

Ardorach slumped over, his body failing to respond to his commands. He rolled off the railing and landed on the slagged remains of his power pack, which thudded wetly and sizzled against the grit on the stone bridge. His head felt heavy, but he strained hard enough with his last bit of energy to get a good look at his attacker.

Space marines enemies, he did not recognize their orange and black livery, establishing a protective formation around a tear in reality.  Through this weirdly glowing, ragged tear was now marching the first of many platoons of mortal infantry. They tramped over the few fallen slaves that the enemy had punched, kicked, and bashed with bolters to death as the rest of Ardorach’s work party fled screaming back the way they had come.

Ardorach found himself surprisingly glad that none of the invaders bothered to chase them with bolter shell or lasbolts.

They were among the Faithful, after all, however lowly their position.

As far as final thoughts go, he mused as he distantly watched his killer’s boot approaching his face in what seemed like slow motion, piety is surely the way to go.

+++++++++

“There they are!” Naram’sin heard one of his space marines declare, anger tinged with disbelief. “Slave soldiers!”

His squad pounded down the vaulted corridor, bolters in hand. Though very wide, the way was still choked with slaves, servants, and ferals fleeing the junction shaft in maddened panic. It beggared belief: the homeworld of the Word Bearers Legion, the seat of the Primarch Lorgar himself, under enemy invasion. Who could be so suicidal?

“Get out of the way!” Naram’sin pushed at a terrified slave and waved his arm in a vain effort to direct those still rushing toward his squad. He could see the enemy soldiers helmets over the heads of the slaves as they pushed their way out of the junction. He heard the snap of lasbolts and saw the violet after images begin to gather in his sight. Cursing, he paused to unhook his helmet from his belt, relying on the panicked mortals to shield him from the poorly directed volley.

The sound of bolter fire rang out as his squad began to return fire, and by the time Naram’sin snapped the neck catch and shook his head to settle to settle his helmet, the few hundred meters between his squad and the approaching enemy was mostly cleared of those still alive. He gave no orders, but drew his chainsword and roared his anger, plunging headlong across the remaining distance.

He knew when he hit their lines that he had lost two of his squad to their disciplined, concentrated fire, but he also knew that those left alive would be as wolves among the sheep. With so many mortals to kill and with no allowance for honourable or even reasonable retreat while upon their own homeworld, Naram’sin willingly gave himself over to the bloodlust that always pushed against the corners of his mind.

Naram’sin was dimly aware of the massed bolter fire that thinned the enemy soldiers around him. In the back of his mind he knew that support had come from some quarter and that they were driving the enemy back, but with so much blood and bone to reap he denied all his conscious thought.

There was only the glory of the Blood God and the Word Bearers Legion.

+++++++++

“There, Sister?”

Antigone did not answer, and continued to survey the scene below. Her half open, placid eyes observed the Word Bearers counter attack upon the Utgaard Rangers Regiment, but immediately dismissed it. They were, after all, meant as a distraction; let the Word Bearers expend their fury in vain.

The fallen former Seraphim hung underneath the Golden Shrine that hung from the zenith of the Well of Enlightenment, her feet jammed into gaps in the stone work and her left hand gripping a the underside of a sturdy piece of decorative carving. Her right hand hung down, her finger tips thoughtlessly turning the end of her power axe’s haft, which dangled loosely from a wrist strap.

Her “sisters” were much more tense, as they usually were. Not true Sisters of Battle, but genetic abominations of the female form created, the rumours said, by a rogue Ecclesiarch jealous of the space marines power within the Imperium. Now they served her with the same blind devotion with which she served the Warsmith, but with no understanding of the uniform and traditions of the Order Antigone continued to mock. Each of the brutish women hung much as she did, restrained in their lust for violence only in their perfect trust in Antigone as a leader.

Antigone closed her eyes. Smaller, calmer, and with her decorative skull war paint the serene warrior could have passed for one of the bizarre pieces of statuary among which they crouched. She seemed for a while to be asleep, and her squad growled quietly in distress and tension. Down below, as the battle unfolded on multiple platforms and bridges, the crack of lasbolt and hammer of bolt shells was joined by the thunder of big guns as the bulk of the Grand Company tore the wounds of reality even further and the first waves of armour and mobile artillery made their presence felt.

“Not yet, but soon.” Antigone whispered. “I can see them in my mind...

Soon...”

+++++++++

Kurigalzu scraped the last bit of succulent meat from the thigh bone with his jagged teeth. His hunt-brothers hunched in the darkness around him, silently feeding on the remains of a wayward group of Ordealists of the Well. They did not know that the pilgrims saw their random attacks as the hand of the Gods culling the weak of faith from their midst, only that this was a convenient feeding ground, and turf for them to protect from other Raptors. The Rule said that only one squad could feed in the Well, and Kurigalzu and his hunt-brothers had slain many would-be usurpers of his feeding ground rights.

Kurigalzu heard the rush of air a moment before the impact. The body broke wetly across the platform’s stonework ground, and there was a great splash of offal. The feral Raptor hopped on crooked legs to inspect the corpse; it was not unusual for the occasional pilgrim to fall or even jump from the great heights above. The despair and pain of the lower levels of the Ordeal of the Well drove a steady number of them to seek an end to their suffering. More food for his hunt-brothers; easy food.

One of his hunt-brothers crawled awkwardly over to the opposite side of the corpse from Kurigalzu and took a tentative mouthful of flesh from the remains. An odd smell tickled Kurigalzu’s nose, and he batted his hunt-brother away with a screech. The chastened hunt-brother screeched back at him, baring fangs in his direction, but hopping out the reach of his Lightning Claws.

Kurigalzu carefully turned the human remains over with the flat edges of his Lightning Claws. The rest of his hunt-brothers, curiosity aroused by his interest in the body as something other than food, gathered around to watch.

The smell was stronger when the flesh underneath was exposed, and a familiar sight made Kurigalzu draw back and hiss in displeasure. As the feral Raptors took turns poking at the slash marks and sniffing the burnt flesh around them, Kurigalzu heard a tinkling sound. And then another.

A shiny brass spent bolter shell bounced across the platform to roll to a stop near Kurigalzu’s claw-footed boots. And then another. And then a few more. Kurigalzu, slow to comprehend but inexorably arriving at the truth, turned his pale face and yellowed eyes upward, just as another body plummeted past the platform, disappearing into the untold depths below. His senses strained upward, Kurigalzu saw the tell-tale flashes of light and the rising sound of distant thunder.

Kurigalzu roared with anger as the implication of the evidence broke through his simple mind to form understanding. The turbines of his jump pack sputtered, belching black smoke before the power plant hit its stride and green warp-flame erupted in a steady stream, rocketing him into the air. His hunt-brothers screeched for blood and followed him into the dark sky.

The feral Raptors ascended in long, arcing bounds, their jump packs redlining dangerously from the furious effort. Kurigalzu shielded his face from the fragments of one of his hunt-brothers pushing his jump pack too hard and exploding. He did not know, or care, who it had been; only the blood of the invaders mattered.

They landed heavily, shattering the paving stones beneath their clawed feet. In a flash Kurigalzu was airborne again, the white skull helm of an invader gripped in one of his claws. He savored the spray of blood as he crushed it, and in an instant was again among the foe. Heavy bolters traced desperate arcs in his direction, but he was too close and too fast for them, and the enemy Havocs bled and tumbled. His hunt-brothers surrounding him, he howled into the face of an enemy sergeant as he tore out the spine.

It had been so long since he had left the vaults and shafts of the daemon world’s dark labyrinths to make proper war. Kurigalzu screamed in exultation, taking immense satisfaction from the war cries of his hunt-brothers as they dove into another group of enemy space marines.

+++++++++

Antigone did not give a command. Her eyes snapped open and she simply released her grip on the underside of the hanging chapel. She fell freely, confidant that her squad followed her while at the same time indifferent to the fact. She did not ignite her jump pack’s engine, guiding her fall only by expertly angling her body into the rushing wind.

She heard a heavy impact close behind her as she whipped perilously close by a bridge. She knew that one of her rare “sisters” had failed in an attempt to emulate her careless grace, but felt neither pity nor contempt for her. She knew the Warsmith would let her make more if she wanted them, as uncomfortable as he seemed to be around them.

Acting on instinct, daring, and luck, Antigone finally spun around and placed her feet downward, then ignited her jump pack at full power. She impacted feet first into the chest of a thoroughly surprised and disgustingly mutated Word Bearers Raptor. The creature only had time to express astonishment before Antigone’s power axe sunk deeply into its skull.

Time slowed for Antigone. The arcing jet of blood seemed to hang motionless in the air, sparkling in the light of one of her squad’s handflamers immolating another surprised feral Raptor behind her. She smiled, imagining each of the sparkling drops of red blood to be a precious and rare ruby. Broken teeth and fragments of bone, shining white like precious pearls, spun through the air as she pulled her power axe out of her victim’s skull, and the headless corpse spiraled slowly away on a bed of green flame as she pushed off with her feet and rocketed horizontally.

There, a few levels higher now, the alpha hunter of this malformed pack of Raptors was crouched upon a bridge rail, chest out, claws outstretched, screeching out an enraged challenge.

Antigone smiled, then jumped to gain high ground before answering the challenge.

+++++++++

“My lord, why are you constraining my hand?” The Coryphaus shook with anger, as close as he had ever been to insubordination. “These Iron Warriors are practically upon our very doorstep, defiling the Primarch’s sacred world! Release me to lead the Host to war!”

“That pompous ass Harnak brought this trouble to our home.” The Dark Apostle ignored his furious war leader, straightening his black robes and relighting a few random candles in his private chapel that had blown out when the Coryphaus stormed into the room. “His own Host can bear the brunt of their single minded assault. When their fury has broken like waves upon the shore, we will send aid to our friend Harnak.”

“Personal politics?” The Coryphaus said with unmasked distaste in his voice. “That they are here upon our homeworld is an insult we must not countenance, whatever grudges you may hold with your fellow Dark Apostle, whatever power you may gain from his Host being attacked! To hesitate to act is... immoral!”

The Dark Apostle’s shadow grew in length, snaking across the chapel’s floor like black lightning, rising up in a clawed hand to grip the Coryphaus’ throat. The war commander’s boots scrambled to find purchase, but he was lifted well above the floor by the spectral hand.

“I did not appoint you to lecture me on matters of faith and morals.” The Dark Apostle said calmly. He had not even turned his back, and now knelt before a small, simple altar. “I serve the will of the Gods... all of the gods.”

The Dark Apostle drew a silver athame from his sleeve as the spectral hand fractured and spread out to grip the Coryphaus by the wrists and ankles as well. The struggling Word Bearers war commander was turned upside and drifted over to hang above the small altar of the Dark Apostle’s.

“Tell me it is not the hand of Providence that my most trusted friend and advisor should come here, at this time, and challenge me?” The Dark Apostle smiled beneath his hood. “My beloved brother... pray with me:

And he that went before now came last, and that which was white and black and all direction was thrown against itself...”

Eleven times the silver athame flashed in the candlelight, and horrified understanding was gained at last.

+++++++++

“Where are our reinforcements?” The Naram’sin pulled the armoured corpse of one of his own squad members toward him as a makeshift cover to fire from. “There are two Host-cathedrals not five kilometers from this junction!”

“No one answers the vox anymore, my lord!” Came the answer from an unidentified voice of his squad.

“We are running out of bolter shells!” Came another grim reminder.

Naram’sin sent a burst of bolter fire into a group of soldiers attempting to advance from their cover to flank his desperate position. Several of them stumbled, two of them badly wounded, and their running advance was broken. More of them died as they scrambled back to their previous position, but Naram'sin could feel a turn in the battle coming against them.

Then he could feel the vibration of heavy treads.

An Iron Warriors predator slowly ground its way from the junction shaft bridge into the vaulted corridor where Naram'sin had stalled the mortal infantry. Actual space marines marched alongside it, the mortals clearing the way for their advance. He weighed the situation, then made his decision.

“Word Bearers,” Naram’sin announced grimly. “Prepare for glory.”

+++++++++

Watching from the eves of a temple that jutted into the airspace of the Well of Enlightment high above the majority of the battle, Enusat tapped his the handle of his whip against the rock edge of the small access tunnel in which the rest of his squad had pushed themselves into. Normally reserved for mortal slaves to give them access to clean and repair the many devotional statues lining the temple’s outer walls, the tunnel was barely large enough for the Assault squad to fit, even after taking their jump packs off and dragging them behind them.

“There is a clear path,” Enusat whispered to his nearest squad member. “The ledge is dangerous, but there is space behind this slave-fain where we may gather. Space out and pass the jump packs out, then follow.”

Using the statuary, icons, and ragged banners for concealment the assault squad passed their jump packs out one by one, then scrambled across the temple face to gather behind a large, yet fairly flat depiction of Papa Nurgle. A favorite among the menials, the slaves who had crafted this area had included a small space for their own private devotions away from the critical eyes and driving whips of their Word Bearers masters. There was evidence in the accumulated trash that this space was also used for simple loafing, as well, but Enusat would not have cared even if here were not preparing an assuredly suicidal attack upon the invaders.

“There,” Enusat pointed from behind the cover of decorative crenelations after his whole squad had reattached their jump packs and armed themselves for the coming fight. He indicated the figures gathered on a large, central platform where two bridges connected in the middle of the Well. “That looks like a command group, or at least someone important.”

“A sorcerer.” Enusat’s second in command gave his own appraisal. “Or several, but at least, I think, that one in the middle.”

“Whatever the case, and we shall find out soon enough, I think that he is playing a central role to however it is that these bastards are using the Warp to gain access to the subsurface of Sicarus.” Enusat said.

“You think if we can take him out or disrupt whatever ritual they are doing they won’t get their full forces through?”

“Maybe.” Enusat was a straightforward warrior of the line, valued by his commanders more for his obedience than his thinking, which he knew and accepted, but he believed there was worth in doing something rather than nothing. There had been some initial coordination on the vox after the first few minutes of the invasion, but the number of Word Bearers units responding was an inexplicable trickle. No large, organised counter-attack had taken place excepting against the initial column of mortal infantry who had pushed toward a main underground rail station.

“If nothing else,” Enusat told his squad in earnest, “it will not be said that we stood idle. I don’t know what else may be holding the nearby Hosts back, but perhaps we can at least trap the enemy forces on Sicarus so that they can be punished as is best fit.”

“We are with you.” Enusat’s second confirmed. “And we are ready.”

“There is no point in waiting for a better opportunity.” Enusat stood, loosening the coil of his power whip and checking the strap securing his plasma pistol in its holster. “Follow me.”

Enusat felt the powerplant of his jump jets tick over and catch, then leapt out into the air to descend into the heart of the enemy.

+++++++++

Hrafnir stalked restlessly, testing the movement of his jump pack’s turbines for the tenth time in the past five minutes. He was not normally an impatient man, but the battle ranging around, above, and below called to him. This was a battle made for his kind, and it was unfolding with epic intensity. The Word Bearers response was relatively small and sluggish, but those who had arrived were supremely zealous, and were putting up a fanatically stubborn defense.

Sergeant Hrafnir longed to dive over the side of the platform and lose himself in the battle that raged in all directions, but his duty was to the Sorcerer.

Forn Grimnir stood with the renegade Farseer and their assortment of lessers and specialists. They channeled power that Hrafnir could never, and would never want to, understand into the unnatural and incredibly ancient devices Hrafnir’s squad had been forced to carry and assemble. He knew it was stabilising the tunnels they had punched through reality itself, ripping through corrupt and wild corners of the webway into this weak and insignificant corner of the daemon world, but anyone would have guessed that.

His Storm Crows often served as the mechanical winged Sorcerers bodyguard on the battle field, but Forn Grimnir was often in the thick of bloodshed. To be tied to mere logistics operations was frustrating for Hrafnir.

“Incoming!”

Hrafnir’s modified MkVI helmet’s advanced autosenses suddenly flared warning runes across his vision which he dismissed with an annoyed thought, but he had not been fast enough to see the enemy Raptor squad begin to land. A warrior who was obviously their champion lashed out with a power whip, ensnaring one of the Eldar psykers with a flick of his hand, and then bisecting the hapless xenos with a quick tug.

“Protect the Old Man!” Sergeant Hrafnir called out, using his already primed jump pack to blast himself forward. He landed directly between the Sorcerer and the Word Bearers aspiring champion, just in time to lower his shoulder and take a white hot bolt of plasma from the enemy’s plasma pistol.

A flurry of plasma shots from the aspiring champion and a partner who had landed beside him with a plasma rifle forced Sergeant Hrafnir to his knees as he hunkered forward to protect his head and torso with his arms. He fumbled for his power sword with shaking hands as adrenaline overloaded his system and his heart rates spiked.

Hrafnir dared look up in the moment that the fusillade relented, and watched the crackling power whip snake past him. He turned to watch in horror as the Sorcerer Forn Grimnir was yanked off his feet and cast over the edge of the platform. Screaming in rage and shame, Hrafnir gunned his jump pack’s engines and hurtled head first into the Word Bearers aspiring champion before he had a chance to crack the whip again and potentially sever the ensnared leg of the flailing Sorcerer.

The three of them tumbled crazily through the air, with Hrafnir concentrating on grappling with the Word Bearer. He was at least successful in spoiling the enemy’s attack on the Sorcerer, and he heard the Word Bearer curse. The Word Bearer twisted mid air, and Hrafnir found himself underneath him right as the pair of them crashed into a smaller bridge below with bone crunching, stone shattering force.

“Welcome to Sicarus.” The Word Bearer surged to his feet, looming above Hrafnir. Hrafnir thought he might have a chance to act during some further attempt at wit, but surprisingly enough (or rather unsurprisingly for a zealot) the Word Bearer stepped back  and made to lash Hrafnir in the face with his power whip without further comment.

In a flash the Word Bearers hand holding the whip dropped from his wrist. Forn Grimnir’s Force Scythe sang as it whirled again, this time aiming for the Word Bearer’s neck. Without hesitation the Word Bearers squad leader used his other hand to quickdraw his plasma pistol and snap off a hasty shot.

Forn Grimnir shielded himself with one of his mechanical wings, but the white hot plasma bolt burned through the thin, blade-like ends of the metal feathers. The shot burned through the Sorcerer’s cybernetic eye implant, leaving seared, charred flesh alongside the left of his head. Had Forn Grimnr not turned his face away at the last second the shot would have burned a hole through his head.

“Die already!” Sergeant Hrafnir had dropped his own plasma pistol in the fall, but rose to  his knees and drew his power sword in one swift motion. The blade left the sheath, the power field activating a hair too soon and burning its way out of the end of the sheath instead of coming all the way out. From there the sword described a perfect horizontal line, entering the Word Bearer’s body just under the edge of the power armour’s plastron. The sword bit deep, then slashed straight across the exposed power cables just above the belt buckle. A severed chunk of armour swung out while the sputtering power cable ends sparked and flailed, and the dark ropey entrails of the Word Bearer erupted outward to pile around his feet.

“The True Gods take you!” The Word Bear, defiant of the fatal wound, turned his pistol directly into Hrafnir’s face.

A word of power was spoken that knifed its way through Hrafnir’s ears and stabbed his brain. Through pain clouded eyes he watched as Forn Grimnir pushed a palm out flat toward the Word Bearer, and the Word Bearer was propelled backward as if he had been struck by a speeding, invisible Land Raider.

“Bastard burned out my eye.” Forn Grimnir spat, wiping thick blood from his nose that matted in his normally well groomed and fairly impressive beard. “I should replace it with one of yours, bodyguard.”

“If you like,” Hrafnir dragged himself to his feet and picked up the Word Bearers dropped plasma pistol to replace his own lost one. “But you should know they have been performing suboptimal in the past few hours.”

“Cute.” Forn Grimnir reached back and pulled his deep hood back over his head. “Release the Storm Crows to hunt; it was already too late for that one to have stopped the ritual’s effects anyway.”

“With pleasure, my lord.” Hrafnir replied.

“With effectiveness, sergeant.” Forn Grimnir said without any hint of humour before flexing his metal wings and stepping over the side to catch the wind.

+++++++++

Naram’sin felt himself being carried, or dragged rather. Long, spindly fingers wrapped his broken body from strange angles, and he smelled the stench of the mutant. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and he saw that he was in a low ceiling maintenance tunnel. Pressing close by were breathless, ragged shambles, the dregs of the Sicarus planetary hierarchy clothed in crusted rags and makeshift armour, or protected instead by mutant carapaces and unnaturally toughened skin.

These beings had the stench of the mutant and the oily spiritual feel of the near spawn.

“Master.” One breathed the word over and over like a mantra, and occasionally the others would repeat the word in chorus. Perhaps, Naram’sin thought, it was the only word they knew, or dared to say in the presence of a Legionnaire. “Master. Master.”

He had no strength, and little will left. He did not remember exactly what had happened, but he somehow doubted it resembled the glory he had promised his squad.

But he was alive, and that in itself was an opportunity. One did not truly fail the True Gods unless one died in their failure. He was alive, and somehow he would continue to fight.

And, Naram’sin promised himself before letting his consciousness slip back into foggy recession again, he would kill the person responsible for the failure of his Legion to respond appropriately to the Iron Warriors invasion, no matter who it turned out to be.

+++++++++

“Need food.” The twisted creature seemed apologetic, but Enusat had no capacity for indulging in understanding or forgiveness. He had one good hand left, and somehow found the strength to grip the feral Raptor by the neck when it leaned in to try and tear into his flesh.

“Brother!” The creature screeched, feebly pushing at Enusat’s hand. It was somehow more injured than even the thoroughly broken Enusat, and the superiority Enusat enjoyed caused him to mindlessly continue to throttle the feral Raptor.

“Master! Master!” The creature stopped struggling and lay limp in submission, and Enusat eventually let loose his grip.

He lay there next to the exhausted feral for what seemed like hours. Eventually he slept.

“Hunt-master.” Enusat awoke to the creature’s prodding. He was surprised to see that several other equally as defeated feral Raptors had gathered around them.

“Hunt-master.” The creature prodded him again, and Enusat saw the desperate need to follow in the feral space marine’s eyes.

“First thing’s first.” Enusat groaned as he hauled him to a sitting position. They would need food, loads of protein to regain their strength and rebuild their bodies. And gear, especially parts for damaged jump packs.

He wasn’t going back to his Host. These ferals had at least shared his fight with the Iron Warriors, and that made them far more pious and worthy than the cowards who had refused to join the battle or worse, had stood by to see what they could gain from the chaos these invaders were sure to sow.

“Hunt-brothers,” He reached out and touched the broken shoulder pad of the feral Raptor he had earlier throttled. “We are the Revenants. We will rise.”

The small band of feral Raptors came together and touched helmets, and a new warband was affirmed.

+++++++++

Blandus cowered behind one of the decorative columns of the Chapel of Tears. He had wept his eyes dry and soiled himself in every imaginable way in the past hour, but finally the sounds of battle had faded. Simple, powerful human curiosity drove him to timidly crawl back to the railing, clinging to the floor and moving as slowly as he felt was safe.

Several shimmering holes connected the Well of Enlightenment to some weirdly shining and twisted vision of a place beyond remained, and had become large and stable. A seemingly endless line of space marines, mortal infantry, artillery, tanks, and a myriad of bizarre walking war machines marched forth in an orderly fashion to disappear down three large transit corridors. Several of the bridges had collapsed, the platforms were littered with the dead, drenched in blood and spent brass, and many of the buildings jutting out from the walls of the Well were spewing forth bright flame and black, choking smoke.

Blandus bit down on his hand to keep himself from crying out in despair. He turned his face toward the surface of the planet above to beseech the True Gods for an answer to this horrible crime of invasion. Above, he caught a glimpse of the shining gold temple at the zenith of the Well of Enlightenment that was the Ordeal’s final destination. It remained unravaged, unspoiled by the brief but terrible battle. The vision gave him hope.

The Ordeal remained, and Blandus began a slow, painful crawl toward the ramp leading up to the next level, occasionally turning his head to confirm that the Golden Temple was still, in fact, there.

[Teetengee]

Thank you! although I feel bad now, since I failed to properly imply what I had intended to about what had been done to Metrocles.

I.e. left to starve to death, and the soldier was planning to cook his skin, rather than burned to death in the first place.

. Still, I am stoked you liked it, I need to get all caught up again before next week!

[Kierdale]

Congratulations, Teetengee. I did get that the trooper intended to eat the marine. And loved it.

 

Just a quick word to draw members' attention to Liberalia Martiale. The Chaos one has only had input from myself and Darkprincesnun beyond the OP. Surely us IF-regulars can keep the ball rolling? :)

[Carrack]

The Vilest Village

 

 

Alces felt this teleport more severely than normal. His bulky terminator plate normally prevented the worse of the effects of teleportation from afflicting him, but this one was bad. He fought to hold back the gorge rising from his stomach as waves of nausea assailed him. As he went through the mental exercises he had learned so long ago to overcome the stunning sensation of a harsh teleport, the blips of Bargon and Faal establishing a vox link, informed him of his squad mates proximity. The stars in his vision faded revealing his position. Alces was supposed to have arrived in the heart of Fortress Dominique, on a hill overlooking the Imperial city of Hammish. He was on a hill, that was the only similarity between his targeted harbor zone and the place he was actually standing. That conniving sorcerer must have betrayed Alces, and cast his squad blindly into the Sea of Souls. He couldn't have castaway onto a more retched world.

 

Alces was supposed to have materialized in the heart of a formidable bastion, atop a commanding hill. Instead he materialized on a clover covered hill, so small, it was barely worthy of the name. Alces was supposed to have materialized in a fortress overlooking an industrial city, smog ridden and scarred from centuries of heavy manufacturing. He overlooked a garden of colorful flowers. Alces was supposed to have materialized amidst the acrid smoke of Imperial cannon. Instead the only smoke in the summer air, was that of rings of lho being puffed out of a pair of pipes at the bottom of the hill. Alces was supposed to have materialized in the fires of war, but all he saw was a disgustingly peaceful village, comprised of modest dwellings tunnled into the sides of hills. Small dwellings, suitable to the hairy footed ratlings loafing about unproductively. The very aura of the village shined with a lazy, carefree attitude. It smacked of weakness. It shown with the most horrific of human conditions, peace. It was anathema to Alces, a veteran of 10,000 years of war. It must burn.

 

Bargon and Faal must have come to the same conclusions as Alces, because as one, the trio of terminators opened fire on the horrid little village and it's worthless, deviant, inhabitants. The village must be taught the error of its ways, taught the truth of the galaxy and human condition. There was no peace, there was only war, and the laughter of thirsting gods. Alces screamed out to the most primal of the gods, the most potent, screaming for the blood and skulls of the vile villagers. He charged down the hill, Bargon and Faal charging with him, screaming to Khorne as well.

 

At the bottom of the hill, sat two figures puffing away on long stem pipes, one on old man, in robes of grey, with the slightest hint of the xenos Eldar about him, and the other a diminutive ratling, who disappeared at the sight of Alces and his squad. Sorcery and xenophilia on top of their other sins, disgusting wretches. As Alces lifted his axe, shimmering with energy from its blade, the old man leapt to his feet, snatching up a staff that rested against the round door at his back. The old man shouted, "Go back to the shadow!" With a gut wrenching flash of energy Alces and his squad were sent spiraling back through the warp, to reappear at their original, intended destination, the fury of what they had witnessed maddening them into a rage that the defenders of Fortress Dominique would feel.

 

[Captain Malachi]

Achaeus shifted in mild discomfort as the sorcerer Karkinos continued his rituals. Already, seven weakly psychic slaves had been killed and their blood drained, the inherent power within being prepared by a number of lesser magicians, soon to be used to open a portal between their ship and the orbital defence station in orbit around the agri-world Lord Tyrranion had decided to attack. Achaeus, and his squad of terminators, would be the ones to silence the orbital defences before the main assault began.

 

A nod from the sorcerer, and one of his thrall-wizards dragged over the last captured psyker. Stronger and more experienced than the previous sacrifices, they had been forced to drug this one in to a near catatonic state. Achaeus couldn't help but think that she had been the lucky one though, the last seven had been all too aware of what was happening as the sorcerous coven slowly drained them of their life.

 

As Achaeus watched, Karkinos took up his knife and opened up a small cut in the psyker’s left leg, another on her right, and then moved to the arms. Soon, she was bleeding from dozens of small wounds over her body, her lifeblood draining in to the symbol of Khorne etched in to the floor below her. Karkinos began to chant in a guttural, brutish tongue, one that Achaeus had never heard before but somehow felt he could understand if he just kept listening.

 

Knowing from prior experience that doing so would be a very bad idea, he turned his attention from the sorcerer’s ritual and turned to his squad, gesturing at them to get ready for the attack. With each of them checking over each other's weapons and armour one last time, they missed the last part of the ritual, only half-hearing the whimpers and chanting. Soon though, a bright light appeared in the middle of the room above the symbol of Khorne, the blood gathered below lifting from the ground and forming in to a ring around the light, which expanded to fill the space before dimming, forming a pitch black plane bordered by bight red blood.

 

Karkinos called out to Achaeus and his terminators then, yelling at them to hurry up before the portal destabilized. Achaeus took the lead, raising his axe and combi-bolter before rushing though, knowing his squad would follow behind him.

 

**********

 

Centuries of combat experience kicking in and sending him immediately rushing to the left as he left the warp and tracking his gun around for enemies, it took a moment for Achaeus to realise that he was clearly not on an orbital station. Snowcapped mountains surrounded him, and in the distance he could see a city of some kind, the architecture making him think of the Eldar ruins he had fought through in the past. His squad tore out of the portal behind him, each of them having a similar reaction and simply standing in shock for a moment.

 

That moment was just a little too long though, and they snapped back to themselves as the portal vanished with a crack behind them. Several of them immediately began cursing about ‘foolish wizards’, while others simply continued to scan the area for potential enemies.

 

“Hey!” Achaeus yelled, the sharp shout getting the attention of the few terminators who were still yelling to themselves, “Obviously, something went wrong with the portal and we've ended up somewhere we shouldn't be.” There were a few chuckles at that. “We can’t have gone that far though, it’s likely we’re on the planet we were supposed to be attacking, so let’s just go looking for a space port or communications system so we can get in touch with-” He never got to finish his orders, as the planet exploded.

 

 

**********

 

Far away, on a small ship flying through the void, an old man, in the midst of training a youngster he had recently become acquainted with, suddenly felt weak and half stumbled over to a nearby seat.

 

“Are you all right? What’s wrong?” The youngster asked, shutting off his weapon and hurrying over to check on his friend.

 

“I felt a great disturbance in the force,” The old man began, “as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened.”

 

 

or some other fantasy or SciFi planet.

So many options. I actually didn't go with my first few ideas though because they were way too obscure.

 

Obviously this piece is non-canon to my other stories, so the characters may well reappear later.

[Kierdale]

Thelemic Leap

Hidden Content

The Thelemic Brotherhood, that once proud and loyal chapter who had fallen by a thirst for knowledge, was upon the cusp of success. Centuries of scouring libraries - Imperial, Xenos and even those of rival warbands in the Eye both via treaties and via stealth - were at last to bear fruit. The journal of a half-mythical rogue inquisitor had been the final key. An account not only of the Eldar webway, that network which allowed one to pass through the sea of souls in near-safety, but of a nexus point within that arcane labyrinth at which the very flow of time stopped or, if the mad prophet’s scrawling could be believed, could even be reversed.

Such knowledge had been revealed to them at last by the Architect of Fate and Ba’cula, one of the Brotherhood’s most senior sorcerers, had immediately volunteered.

Admiral Calavicci, one of the few humans still alive in the Brotherhood’s nomadic fleet, oversees the operation in the main teleport chamber, for it was his ship despite that much of the ritual was far beyond his ken. The teleport pad and chamber walls were now decorated with intricate iconography which tricked the eyes. One could not help but begin to follow the lines and graceful curves, inexplicably drawing one’s gaze away from the center of the pad, no matter how determinedly one tried to look at it. The aged naval officer gave up and lit one of his thick cigars. Here was something real, something sane, something he could focus upon.

Under the gaze of his brethren, both comrades in arms and rivals for power at the same time, Ba’cula stepped forth onto the pad, Ahl fluttering at his shoulder. The imp, his familiar, would accompany him upon his journey. At times a guide and at times a test of his concentration, the minor daemon flew about him on creamy, feathered wings, its body that of a small blue-skinned child akin to the caryatid of Necromunda. It was not the only form Ahl had ever taken and the familiar often changed its shape according to its whims.

Wending his way about the sacred path laid out on the teleport pad, Ba’cula made his eventual way to its center and turned to face the rest of the chapter’s fallen librarius. He nodded and admiral Calavicci, pulling his eyes from the curls of smoke which had begun to imitate the fell iconography upon the walls, activated the machine.

Darkness. The sound of filtered breathing, but curiously it is not his own. His hands reached up to his face, checking his helm was still in place. It was. He looked about, instinctively realizing this dark room of girders and gantries was not the alien webway. The thrum of atmospheric generators told him it was a spaceship of some kind, but the design was not that of the Imperium of Man. Dark, somber in tone, but distinctly different. He reached for his weapons: his combi-bolter and his force sword, only to find his firearm was missing and no longer was a glyph-etched sword sheathed at his belt, rather he found naught but a metal cylinder of buttons and vanes.

He felt a presence in his mind, pushing into his psyche. More powerful than the greatest Thelemic sorcerers, he was unable to resist it, though he felt it lock onto one of the misty, ephemerous half memories which now blot his scrambled mind.

“Sister! So...you have a twin sister. Your feelings have now betrayed her, too. Obi-Wan was wise to hide her from me. Now his failure is complete. If you will not turn to the dark side, then perhaps she will!”

Inexplicable rage cut through his confusion and his hands automatically ignited the laser sword in his hands, a length of jade fire appearing with a snap-hiss as he darted out from his hiding place, swinging his curious weapon at an intimidating figure almost as tall as a space marine, clad in gleaming black armour.

Training that was not his own enabled him to push back the armoured, elder warrior, rage powering his arms. At one point his jade blade locked with the scarlet of the others’ and for the first time he saw his reflection in the eye lenses of the black mask.

It was not the image of one of the Emperor’s Angels of Death, twisted by the favour of Tzeentch. It was not an Astartes, but a youth. A human male, light brown of hair, with a scarred face, anger burning in his eyes.

What has happened to me?! Ba’cula’s mind screamed and his enemy took advantage of his faltering, driving him back with powerful blows of his red laser sword. Ba’cula could feel something feeding power to both of them, and in turn feeding off of their fury. Had he somehow come to possess a worshipper of Khorne?

Pushing such thoughts, such unanswerable questions from his mind, he took the initiative once more, quickly adapting to the use of the energy weapon and putting the black-clad warrior on the back foot once more. He soon realized that his foe was both man and machine, and a warrior past his prime, as he battered the cyborg to its knees, knocked it's weapon aside and severedits sword hand at the wrist.

“Good! Your hate has made you powerful. Now, fulfill your destiny and take your father's place at my side!”

A voice dripping with both raw power and the essence of purest evil.

He glanced behind, up the stairs of the chamber, noticing for the first time the circular window and the space battle taking place beyond, and the high-backed throne before the window. A decrepit, withered husk of a man was the one who addressed him.

He could feel the power contained within that man. Far more powerful than the broken cyborg now kneeling, wheezing feebly before him. More powerful than any of the Brotherhood. Only in princes of daemons had he seen such magnificence. Here was a true master of Chaos. And an offer of power.

He knew not in what state he now existed, but as a disciple of Tzeentch, he thirsted for power and knowledge above all else.

His jade blade swept down, cleaving the cyborg from crown to groin and the Emperor cackled with satisfaction.

And all dissolved into light.

The blinding radiance receded and he found himself in the damp darkness of a cave, a blade in his hand once more but this was a simpler weapon of cold, inert metal. Its point was at the throat of a ratling, pinning a small golden ring there.

“So…this is the answer to all the riddles. Here in the wild I have you. Two halflings and a host of men at my call. The Ring of power within my grasp,” the words...strange words he barely understood, flowed from his mouth before he could begin to ponder their meaning.

Then Ahl was there, the imp popping into reality at his shoulder. The ratling and its lighter haired companion looked at Ba’cula fearfully, seemingly unable to perceive the daemon even as it appeared from thin air.

“There you are!” it cackled, “It took me a while to track you down!”

Seeing that the reflection in his blade was again not his own but rather that of a young but noble warrior in armour of mail and leather, a face framed by dirty blonde hair, he spoke under his breath so that only the imp might hear.

“By our Lord’s great Maze, what has happened, Ahl?!”

The little gremlin pulled a scroll of parchment from behind it and read intently from it.

“A mistake in the ritual seems to have cast you adrift not in the warp but into different dimensions and times.”

“What is this madness?”

The two ratlings exchanged a look. Evidently they were aware he was muttering. Ba’cula put more pressure on the sword, pressing the point harder against the neck of the dark-haired runt.

“You appear to have been swapped with one Faramir, a captain of Gondor. A good man,” the imp quickly shuffled the scroll as it read, “whose empire is on the brink of destruction.”

“And how does that concern me? How am I to return to my own body?”

“This is not your first leap, no?”

He frowned then. No, it was not. He vividly remembered the duel with the black-clad cyborg and his mind played tricks with him that even that might not have been his first `leap` from body to body.

“I am to seize opportunity then? Seize power?”

The imp read intently, cuneiform script appearing upon the scroll even as it read.

“You have been sent to a far off time, a time far ago. To right wrongs?” this last was phrased as a question.

“I shall help this captain Faramir then.” The words that had fallen from his lips as soon as he had entered this realm came back to his mind. The ring of power within my grasp.

“A chance for Faramir, captain of Gondor, to show his quality.”

He slid his sword into the chest of the ratling, choking the life from the other with his bare hand, before taking the ring from the neck of the first and slipping it onto his finger.

The world he had been dumped into scant minutes earlier was stripped away, a veil torn aside as he was plunged into an fog-filled astral version of it. It was not the Warp as he knew it, but exceedingly close.

A greater power then espied him, focusing its considerable will upon him. The ring. It was the ring it saw and sought. He immediately felt the panic-born urge to remove it, but the power, that huge burning eye off in the East, it called to him, it promised him power beyond the ken of a mere captain of the city guard.

All he need do was to slay his half-mad father and join his banner to that of the great darkness in the East.

Hours later Faramir of Gondor stood over the bloody corpse of his sire, his blade in one hand and the palantir in the other while chaos reigned in the city streets. Those who had trusted him either fought now against those who had rightfully doubted him or were already dead as the monstrous hordes of the great Eye bore down upon the city walls.

Ba’cula grinned, only for the brilliance of the watching eye in the palantir to grow, eclipsing all and signaling yet another leap...

Darkness once again, slowly resolving into a city at night. He found himself crouched atop a partially constructed building, looking out over a bay, two ships drifting abreast...and a black-clad, masked warrior hanging over the edge before him. Filled with irritation at plans gone wrong he felt the urge to gloat to his nemesis, confident that further plans already in motion would give him victory in the end - Ba’cula mind reeled as the memories and thoughts of the individual he replaced imprinted themselves upon his own mind. He pushed the badly-dyed green hair of his host from his face with his hand - how could this even be happening as he still felt the terminator armour he wore? - and grabbed for a knife. He resisted the urge, resisted his host’s lingering desire to play with its prey longer...perhaps forever…but Ba’cula could feel how dangerous this caped foe was, and he drove his blade down into the cowled head again and again, the blade scraping against the armoured surface until it found its way into the flesh of the man’s face. Again and again, his blows driven by the strength of his terminator armour, far stronger than any man.

Crazed, a mind torn beyond all reason, the clown stood and screamed hysterically as the bat plummeted to its doom.

Another leap.

“I've seen horrors... horrors that you've seen. But you have no right to call me a murderer. You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that... but you have no right to judge me. It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror... Horror has a face... and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies! I remember when I was with Special Forces... seems a thousand centuries ago. We went into a camp to inoculate some children. We left the camp after we had inoculated the children for polio, and this old man came running after us and he was crying. He couldn't see. We went back there, and they had come and hacked off every inoculated arm. There they were in a pile. A pile of little arms. And I remember... I... I... I cried, I wept like some grandmother. I wanted to tear my teeth out; I didn't know what I wanted to do! And I want to remember it. I never want to forget it... I never want to forget. And then I realized... like I was shot... like I was shot with a diamond... a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought, my God... the genius of that! The genius! The will to do that! Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. And then I realized they were stronger than we, because they could stand that these were not monsters, these were men... trained cadres. These men who fought with their hearts, who had families, who had children, who were filled with love... but they had the strength... the strength... to do that. If I had ten divisions of those men, our troubles here would be over very quickly. You have to have men who are moral... and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling... without passion... without judgment... without judgment! Because it's judgment that defeats us.”

He stood behind the man, the obese remnant of a once great warrior. His machete raised, his mission all but complete. All that remained was to bring the blade down upon the madman. The heretic.

But there was truth in the madman’s words.

There was power there.

He laid his blade before him and knelt in supplication.

Another flash, another body.

“Oh boy.”

Kierdale's note: it seems I wasn't the only one to go with SW and LotR