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

[Scourged]

So... I'm not sure my entry quite qualifies for the topic this week. I'll let you all determine that yourselves. Still, once I had the idea I couldn't resist.

 

 

 

Tainted Paradox

As fast as their decrepit Terminator plate would allow, the three tormented Astartes shuffled toward their stations within the ritual grounds. Each moved to stand within one of the three neighboring circles beneath their feet. Ritualistically, each marine carved a pointed arrow outward from the tangential intersections of the circles: the two subordinates bending down with rusted axes, and their leader tipping the curved blade of his scythe.

They stood upon the scorched and salted earth - long since made barren by their presence on this world - and turned to face the mortal sorcerer chanting in an impossible language while his mouth oozed bile. Though the amassed fluid muddled the enchanter’s voice with burbling dissonance, the words were still decipherably clear to the three warriors in rotting ceramite plate. The decayed servant waved his staff of gnarled root and horns in wide circles, his pustules dripping further effluence as the ritual reached it’s unholy peak.

The hand-carved rune within the barren soil came alive with a pale green glow. Had the ancient plating of the warriors’ armor had any sense of polish or upkeep, the light would have danced along the rounded edges and glinted off of the sterling trim of jagged points and arrows. No, since their fall, the warband’s armaments suffered from entropy’s rot. Now they wore plate stained black from the death of all things organic, that sterling trip impossibly oxidized. And as the runic glow grew brighter with the sorcery’s crescendo is could not pierce the shadowed veil that surrounded them all, their bodies eternally cast in a black shroud of light’s absence.

The leader of the trio gripped his powered scythe tightly, anticipating the jarring transportation through a fickle Immaterium. The journey would be painful, but it bothered him not. Long ago had he shed his fear for pain and death, all thanks to the Father. Even now, seconds before translation through space and time, he could feel the slow cascade of fleas and mites dripping from the holes and sores in his armor’s plates. They would die, surely, but there would always be more to come. The bulbous leader chuckled to himself knowing the fate of such insignificant creatures, and knowing his own would be as pointless. But his thoughts could not linger there, because reality was soon stripped away from all perceptions as the three Terminators were cast into the Warp.

It was a journey no soul should have to undertake. To travel here was to traverse a realm of the abstract and irrational. Those corporeal in form found this dimension anathema, and yet necessary for their meager ambitions within realspace. The leader wailed in anguish, as did his men, but it came from a physical impulse more than a conscious acknowledgement of pain. What reason could there be to despair? This was the home of the Father! This was an occasion for joy, to be so close to that which loved them so. But as within the Materium, happiness found within the Warp is just as fleeting, and their translation to their destination was over.

Frost and vapor sublimated along their armor as they stood upon cobbled stone streets. Gentle smoke was billowing from meager chimneys on humble rooftops. Save for their presence, the street was bare, no doubt from the black sky and brilliant moon hanging high overhead. The three men scanned their horizons, looking for any landmark or indication of their intended destination. To their surprise, none could be found. But more perplexing was the complete lack of any discernible technology.

The galaxy was filled with all manner of feudal and backwater planets, but even they would possess the rudimentary framework for interstellar communication. The lingering presence of an Astropath’s psychic resonance would linger, vox signals and channels would be open and accessible in the atmosphere, and even the beacons of stations and bastions within the subsector would be detected. But upon this world? Nothing. Perplexed, the three armored warriors moved forward to investigate, the stream of parasites pouring out from the leader’s form scurrying off in all directions.

Their sorcerer thrall had obviously failed in its incantations. But it didn’t matter; they would bring the love of the Father to this world instead. Yes, they would search for a comms relay to locate the rest of their warband, but in the meantime they would spread the joy of rot. The leader of the trio was chuckling quietly once again, admiring the instinctual drive of his diseased pets, seeing and feeling them running off to find food and hosts on this yet untainted world. Oh, how happy they will all be to feast upon this life.

There, finally, an inhabitant of this world, wandering the street with the unsteady gate of inhibition. This man would become their herald, they all decided together. He would announce their arrival, and speak of the wondrous gifts to be brought. In his drunken stupor, the man approached the three Terminators with little hesitation, curiosity trumping fear. He stared them down, his enfeebled mind boggled, and spoke to them with slurred speech, batting away the few parasites that leapt upon him searching for a new host.

It was not a dialect the leader knew. The auto senses within his armor scanned the speech, running it through lengthy archives of information, before returning with a positive result: ancient Talian. On what world would the native language resort to a tongue so old? The answer hardly mattered, sure, but it was still a curious mystery. With a translation now feeding through his helm, the leader heard the little man asking where they came from, and what form of knight wore armor such as this, and why did the insects pour from him so. Like a child, he was.

The commanding Astartes was about to twist his scythe and disembowel the little mortal, tired of his prattling, when he saw it. There, upon his rosy flesh were pustules and sores of black, spreading along his body, stemming from the bites of the diseased fleas. The leader laughed with more vigor now, coughing on his own phlegm at times, watching panic and malaise flood the poor man’s expression. He would become a herald, indeed: the first to succumb to the terrible rot coursing through the warband’s veins. In his dying weakness, the man once more asked who these dark and decrepit daemons were. It was time to tell him.

“I am the Chaos Lord Yersinia Pestis, and I lead the Black Plague. Embrace our disease, mortal, because we will bring death to you and your lands.”

 

 

[Warsmith Aznable]

An idea that I wish I had more time to work on:

 

Hidden Content

The Warsmith sat in his Garden upon the white marble bench. Peeking around the hedge Geiri said to Freiki, "He sits there for hours, sometimes days. What do you suppose he's thinking about?"

 

Freiki said to Geiri, "Who knows? Big things, complicated things, things far beyond our ken. He is the Warsmith, after all. It is not for us to speculate, but to be inspired by his example."

 

"Still, though," Geiri said to Freiki. "I do wonder. What grand thoughts our Master must have."

 

+++++++++

 

"I am lost again." Said the Warsmith to himself. "It's a maze in this overgrown old head of mine."

 

He looked around his mental landscape, but the path he was on was gone, and now there were four leading away from him into the dark, overgrown forest in his mind's eye. Suddenly he beheld a bird like creature with great bony hooks instead of wings, and the empty skull of a bird for a head. Somehow it seemed to be smiling at him, but its hooks were very large and its beak looked very sharp, so the Warsmith decided that this was a creature that ought to be treated with care.

 

"Oi! Hooked Daemon." Said the Warsmith. "You look like you live here. Which way do I go? I am lost again."

 

"That depends a good deal on where you want to go," said the Hooked Daemon, and somehow it's beak seemed to smile even bigger.

 

"I don't much care-" Started the Warsmith.

 

"Then I suppose it doesn't matter which way you go." Said the Hooked Daemon.

 

"-so long as I get out of this maze." Finished the Warsmith.

 

"Oh, you're sure to do that. Just pick one of these four paths and stick with it." Said the Hooked Daemon.

 

The Warsmith was certain he didn't like that answer, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

 

"What sort of people live around here?" The Warsmith asked.

 

"In that direction," The Hooked Daemon waved one of its ungaily hooked arms. "Lives Cackling Bird. In that direction lives the Howling Dog. Over there is the Laughing Fly, and in that direction is the, well, it's a bit naughty. But visit whichever you like, they're all Chaos."

 

"But I don't want to go among the Chaotic people." Said the Warsmith.

 

"Oh, you can't help that." Said the Hooked Daemon. "We're all Chaotic here. I'm Chaotic. You're Chaotic."

 

"How do you know I'm Chaotic?" The Warsmith asked, irritated.

 

"You must be," Said the Hooked Daemon, "or you wouldn't have come here."

 

The Warsmith didn't think that was proof of anything.

 

+++++++++

 

"It doesn't look like he's coming out of it anytime soon," Said Freiki to Geiri.

 

"No, it doesn't." Said Geiri to Freiki.

 

"The Garden is the safest place on the Child, you agree?" Said Freiki to Geiri.

 

"Safe as houses," Said Geiri to Freiki, though the ancient Terminator had no idea where the phrase came from.

 

"Let's lock the Garden gate and go into the City," Said Freiki to Geiri. "There's a new holovid down at the Metrovid 12 I've been wanting to see."

 

"I know the one." Said Geiri to Freiki. "Let's go, then. There are more dangerous things in this Garden than us watching the Warsmith anyway."

 

"Quite so." Said Freiki to Geiri, and the two Terminators trundled off at their plodding pace, leaving the Warsmith to think his deep, enlightening thoughts alone.

[Thedarkprincesnun]

Ok heres my attempt

Syen stood there his ancient suit of terminator armour covered in rust. "How long must we wait" he said sounding rather impatient. "However long it takes brother, you know the sorceror must not be rushed" said his brother Karkov. "Very well Karkov" said Syen. He looked around in his left hand he wielded a power scythe of ancient design and in his right a combi flamer. He stared ahead and saw the sorceror chanting away as he usually did his bloated form surronded by a haze of flies.

 

From wh"at syen could see the sorceror was killing cultists with a rusted dagger which he claimed was infested with 1000 plagues. "It is ready" he said. Suddenly the flies rushed around him and then the terminators were gone.

 

They appeared in a cloud of flies each onw slightly dazed but quickly recovering. "Where the hell are we" syen said clearly agitated. "I dont know" karkov said. Suddenly a human rushed towards them and screamed. "Wait human" said Syen with a commanding voice "where are we". "Your in spira" was all the human managed to say before he killed him

[Kierdale]

I thank you all for your most amusing entries in Lost in Space (and Time) over the last week. I haven’t yet finished reading them all but might put up some comments 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 tenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016, a topic suggested by one of you!

Imperfect Beings

So often the source of inspiration is the achievements and success of a warband, but their faults and defeats can prove just as inspirational. What weakness(es) or flaw(s) have led to such a defeat for your warband? It could be a flaw in the personality, or a weakness of the flesh, or a failing in the mind. Is it an imperfection of a single warrior, or does it manifest throughout every member of the warband? Is it of minor consequence, or does it greatly affect every campaign?

Is stubbornness so ingrained within your gene-seed that you will never surrender, even when obliteration is certain? Maybe your champion cannot survive without feasting on Astartes flesh and has become a liability. Does ambition drive your subordinates to backstab and usurp their leadership at the first hint of weakness? Perhaps your warband is cursed with rampant mutation, or a necrotic touch that rapidly decays weapons and armor to uselessness.

Inspirational Friday: Imperfect Beings runs until the 8th of April.

Let us be inspired.

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

[Teetengee]

This is for last week's: It isn't great, but I wasn't really sure how to end it.

A Disturbance in the Warp

Hidden Content

The jagged horns of Ull’s helmet swept through a thick fog as he examined his surroundings. Instead of a ship’s bridge he found himself in a dense forest, the cries of unfamiliar birds mixing with the sounds of his unit’s terminator armour.

 

“Jaggath, Polem, are your intact and functional?”

 

“Yes sir,” Jaggath said, punctuating the sentence with a wildlife silencing rev of the chainweapons embedded in his fleshly right arm.

 

“Affirmative, servos and weapons systems all reporting as online,” replied Polem, as he stomped forward into the mists. The gold eye crawled across the black of his armour as his warp-beetle infestation poured down his greaves into virgin earth. A salivating reaper autocannon lead the way.

 

A small sprite popped out of the top right corner of Ull’s armour, connected by four cable into where his spotlight used to be. Ull ushered his brethren forward as he adjusted to the second set of eyes more accustomed to such darkness. “Clearly the portal was misaligned. We need to find our bearings, look for landmarks, high ground.”

 

Ull, Jaggath, and Polem stalked through the unknown wilderness, making their way higher in the hopes of a hill with a view that could ascertain their position. Jaggath most among them was uneasy, the whispers of the gods were not so strong in this jungle they had found themselves, and their lack showed what a comfort he had found them.

 

Eventually they came to a hilltop clearing; scorch marks gave some hint as to what had cleared it. Over the rolling terrain they could make out little of importance as the trees were tall and thick. To the North (as best as they could tell direction) they could see a tall tower, similar in base design to many imperial edifices, but covered in no devotions to either the Emperor or the dark gods. “Jaggath, what do They tell you?”

 

“Little, unfortunately. However, Khorne suggest there is blood to be spilt soon there,” he motioned with his chainbladed claw toward the tower, “so it seems that direction holds our best hope of getting off this rock.”

 

The three terminators made their way down the hill toward the tower, even as Jaggath began to complain of a feint music at the back of his mind. Their treck continued until Jaggath stopped dead, biomechanical ears swiveling to identify the source of an increasing whine. “It’s coming from the Northwest, stand behind the trees for ambush.”

 

They moved with a speed belying their enourmous bulk behind the large trees just in time for several white armoured humanoids to stream past them on small jetbikes, shouting warnings of unidentified targets into their comms. Ull raised his combi-plasma in time to loose a bolt into the engine of the last, sending the rider in several directions at once even as the others fled. “Damned gods! They know were here! We need to move at double pace, go ahead, I’ll catch up when I know what manner of xenos we are dealing with.”

 

Ull stooped and shook out the blood covered helmet of his prey. A human head rolled along the jungle floor.

 

***

 

Ull caught up to the others as they stared over the enemy camp from a rocky outcropping. Sentinels of unfamiliar mark paced in and out of the central gates every few minutes. Hundreds of white armoured human soldiers spread out in marching drills or went about business amongst almost as many grey and black clothed support personnel. Scouting jetbikes left and returned frequently; their presence was surely known by now.

 

Jaggath crouched trying to catch his breath, “I sense a powerful warp presence from our East. I can feel none of the gods’ blessings though, I fear it is an astartes librarian of significant power.” He moved to keep an eye on all Eastern approaches while Ull and Polem continued their surveillance of the camp, trying to make sense of the six spoked cog that was emblazoned upon many of these strange machines.

 

After about a half hour, Jaggath tapped the others and pointed through the trees. Several figures were sneaking toward the camp. They appeared to be a mixed group of both humans and xenos, wearing everything from military fatigues to robes. They had small arms at their waists, but not much to speak of for armour. Jaggath complained again of invasive music. A robed figure amongst them turned their hood towards the three terminators, motioning their band to hide.

 

 

“They’ve seen us, but they are lightly armed and on foot, we need to eliminate them before they warn these others of our presence. We need to kill them quickly so that we can move before a scouting party can reach the commotion.” At Ull’s words they began picking up speed down the hill, a mass of ceramite and activating weapons barrelling through trees and bush like wheat.

 

Lasfire met their approach, reflecting harmlessly of their thick and twisted armour. Polem laughed as autocannon fire rendered an overgrown brown jokaero into an explosion of gore. Jaggath’s slow bladed fist inexorably tore through two human fighters that attempted to hold his assault. Ull’s armour streamed green with the blood of some kroot like being that had made the mistake of being in his way.

 

Jaggath’s scream stopped Ull’s advance towards another of the advisaries. Ull and Polem turned to see the robed figure standing on Jaggath’s severed chainbladed arm, a bladeless power sword in his hand. Before either could react, the figure spun the weapon in an underhanded strike through a gap in Jaggath’s neck armour. Lifeless, Jaggath fell with a wet thud in the muddy ground.

 

Polem’s autocannon spun up as Ull rushed the adversary, his own powersword gleaming violet in the darkening air.

 

“Stop right there, servants of the dark side!” Shouted the figure, as he raised his hand. A wave of force sped back from it, lifting Ull from his feet and slamming him into a nearby tree before jamming Polem’s autocannon.

 

Ull struggled to his feet under the bulk of his armour as Polem approached the figure with his power axe high. Polem’s slow blows could not touch his adversary, and several strikes to power cables in his armour quickly left him unable to move. Ull finally found his feet and closed the distance to the target in time to parry a deathblow from the enemy’s glowing blue sword.

 

“I’ll put you down, Imperial Filth, for what you have done to my men, psyker or no.”

 

Matching each other blow for blow, Ull and the robed figure continued a dance where even one misstep could be their last. Sliding between Ull’s legs, the figure lashed out, destroying knee servos and sending Ull once more crashing to the ground.

 

The figure through back his hood to reveal a young man with no apparent gene-hancements, just as the sound of jetbikes approaching began to be heard. “I’ll leave you here for the Empire to deal with Sith, as by your words you clearly are no friend of theirs anymore. Mark my words, I will have vengeance for what you have done should you survive theirs.”

 

Ull felt the world began to flicker between the jungle and his ship’s teleportarium as the white armoured soldiers surrounded Polem and himself. His last sight before snapping back to his own ship was of a black armoured individual carrying a glowing red blade approaching slowly. Looking around, he saw the sorcerer who had so abysmally failed to transport his unit to their original target.

 

“You cost us time and Jaggath, and you have failed in your duty, sorcerer, any last words?” The sorcerer opened his mouth just in time for the white hot orb of death from Ull’s combi-plasma to enter it.

I'll have judgment up later.

[Kierdale]

Since no one did a WHFB entry for last week, I put one together as an extra.

Not Our Battle

Hidden Content

The teleport chamber vanished in a flash of distended photons and with a bang of displaced air the terminator squad were reconstituted at their destination. Smoke curled from extremities: the tips of blades and horns, wide-bore muzzles and spike-topped trophy racks. As with every such transition one felt that something had been lost in the journey. Not physically – though it was not unknown for such accidents to happen, teleported individuals simply not reappearing with their comrades, or even coalescing within brothers, forming hideous twisted amalgams of tortured flesh – no, more common was the feeling that something had been taken from one’s soul. Starships upon the sea of souls were protected by their Geller fields but those transported by teleportation were not and despite the near instantaneous transit it was not actually instantaneous and one often heard the voices of the neverborn whisper, scream and roar at them in that moment. Felt the touch of the devil upon their soul.

Terminator armour was, like its smaller cousins the various marks of powered armour, equipped with autosenses. These not only enhanced one’s senses but also protected them: eye lenses both filtered darkness, smoke and countless other mediums but also darkened to protect the Astartes’ eyes against blinding flashes. Likewise the audio sensors enhanced the range of a marine’s hearing and protected him against deafening noise. No sooner had the terminators’ hearing begun to return after the teleportation than external pick ups cut once more as Terui opened fire with his reaper autocannon.

That they had appeared upon a grassy plain had immediately alerted the squad to the fact that something had gone wrong with the teleport. They found themselves not within the bowels of the Templar battleship but rather under a blue sky, grass beneath their iron shod feet...and armies arrayed to each side.

To their left hundreds of humans were ranked up behind brightly coloured shield walls. The muzzles of firearms poked out between shields. Flags and banners fluttered in the wind and behind the front lines a forest of spear and pike-tips could be seen ready to be brought to the fore should the enemy close range.

And the enemy.

The Psychopomp terminators had never seen the likes of them.

Since the age of sail rodents had infested ships and in the Dark Millennium it was no different. Radiation from unshielded reactors could mutate rats to the size of dogs...but not to the size of men.

A massed, screeching horde sprawled across the lands to their right. To the front were hundreds of rag-clad rodent-men with rusted and ramshackle weapons. Behind these came larger specimens both better armed and armoured. The terminators’ threat sensors highlighted monstrosities twice the height of an Astarte, larger even than Ogryns, scattered throughout the horde. And then there were the engines of war. Wooden-framed contraptions with brass fittings, pipes and crystals which glowed a baleful green. A vast bell swung from its mount atop a cart pulled by slaves.

The terminators automatically formed a circle as forces from both armies took notice of the five heavily armoured warriors who had appeared by some sorcery in the middle of their battlefield. Terui’s opening salvo had mown down a pair of lightly-armoured men and their horse-mounts. Some kind of rough riders who had been scouting for the human army. Too close for comfort, Terui had slain two and sent the rest running.

“Where in the Dark Prince’s name are we!?”

Fausio did not spare time to answer his comrade’s question. His eyes were upon the two armies. It was clear that they had been about to declare charges. He could see instruments held to the lips of musicians, mounted warriors with lances all but levelled...and then the terminators had appeared. Terui’s slaying of two of the humans would not have bought them any favour with the humans, but neither did the rat-men seem any more likely to offer an alliance...not if the turning of war machines to face the newcomers was any indication.

A grin split his face.

What need had a devotee of Slaanesh to make treaties with men or mutants?

The men were clad in armour from history texts and armed with weapons from the most backwards of Imperial worlds. The rat-mutants were filth and though their machines sparked his interest, he would simply take from them what he wanted and study it at his leisure.

The ricocheting of a musket ball of his pauldron, shot from the human lines, shook all present from their pause.

“Fire at will, Psychopomps.”

The ground shook as cannons pounded the ratmen and the hooves of dozens of knights charged, tearing up the once beautiful turf. Likewise the mutants drove on their slave hordes, aiming to drown the army of men in screeching, clawing bodies, while globes of arcane wizardry were lobbed overhead, noxious fumes and warpfire vomiting forth where projectiles hit their targets. And not a small portion of each army was directed at the trespassers in this pitched battle. Bolters kept up a steady rhythm, their shots punching through even the platemail of knights with ease, detonating within to disastrous effect. The reaper autocannon chugged and chugged, shells tearing through rank upon rank of men and rats alike.

Chula cried out and his comrades thought him lost as a cannon ball flattened him into the turf, cracking his plastron. Only seconds later did his foul cursing indicate that he still lived, but it took two of the other terminators to haul him to his feet. In that brief lessening of their fire the ratmen managed to close to melee range. A blast of flame from Fausio’s combi-bolter incinerated the first half dozen and gave the squad chance to prepare themselves. Power fists punched through three bodies at a time. Axes tossed heads aloft and claws raked clean through mutant limbs.

To those observing from the lines of the human army the five hulking warriors, bastards from the north if the symbols upon their armour were any guide, spirited to the battlefield by some form of warp majik no doubt, disappeared under a swarm of skaven. First slaves then clanrats and soon even stormvermin were diverted from fighting the Empire in order to bring down the five. The Empire general stroked his beard and signaled to pull back forces from that flank. Redirect the cannons and handgunners to take on the main bulk of the skaven. He nodded to himself. Let bastard kill bastard, and he’d mop up what remained.

Fausio stood atop a mountain of flea-bitten flesh and blood-matted fur. There would be no trophies worth taking here. The five had slain their way through the mass sent against them though there were far from unharmed. Blades had found joints in their armour, cut pipes and cables. All were bleeding. Terui yanked a cursed blade from his hip join, examining the blade of ensorcelled jade and stopping himself from casting it aside. Still, it was clear that the wound troubled him deeply and it had not ceased bleeding, despite his Astartes constitution.

They took a moment to reload their bolters with what ammunition remained before turning their attention to the battle once more.

One of the ratmen engines had been turned upon them. A great crystal like a speartip upon the end of a crane arm was now pointed at them and a low hum of power grew. Those injured rats and men who littered the battlefield about them dragged themselves away from the terminators as best they could.

This doesn’t look goo-,” Chula managed.

[Carrack]

A Falling Star

 

 

 

Ramone eased back down the knife edge of the ridge line. It wasn't looking promising, but he once again held the blessings of the Dark Prince, a fickle patroness, but at times, a generous one. She had allowed his fighters to climb the mountain swiftly, but in subtle ways. He lead his squad of Fewoodians, and his mortar teams up the mountain along with two squads of Vaskan warriors. Before he had started his climb, he had sealed a covenant with Slannesh in a dark ritual of pain and pleasure, at the expense of the Guardsmen he had overrun atop the last mountain. The memories of the ritual were lost in a haze of psychedelic moss tea. The glimpses he remembered were of pleasure so intense, it was painful, like a desert so sweet, it sickened the stomach. Ramone longed for the sensation, maybe he would do the same with the next guardsmen. The Vaskans had been seconded to his command after the fell ritual. They did no have the blessings of The Dark Prince. Thus during the climb, Ramone found ibex trails, patches of bare ground on the icy slopes, and bypasses around the more treacherous cliffs, while the Vaskans did not. Even now, they were still well short of the ridge. Ramone smiled with pride, basking in the grace of his goddess.

 

As he prepared his report to his commander, War Chief Mocus, his smile faded, some. He contacted the mutant warlord and laid out what he saw. A company of light infantry had dug in across Low Road 27, supported by a squad of tanks, also dug in to hull down positions. The Imperials already had squads moving out off either side of the road, a ways up the mountains that formed the valley. They were advancing on the terminus of Low Road 27. The base of the Pillar of Fortitude, a mountain so tall, it's peak breeched the very atmosphere, and was crowned with the guns of Defense Station 27C. The station had been seized by the Black Legionnaires of the warband, and was now serving as a beachhead, from which the mortal fighters of the warband, the Teeth of the Black Maw, were landing regiments upon regiments, to invade this world of slaves to the Corpse God. Ramone could see the station was under assault, flashing stars shown out, even brighter than the daylight. The longer the Black Maw held the station, the larger the invasion force would be. Ramone offered up a silent prayer, asking Slannesh to quicken the arrival of the invasion force, while Mocus took in the report. His reply was quick and concise, he would be coming down the road, right down the middle, and when he signaled Ramone with a green flare, Ramone was to fire down on the Imperials. A red flare would signal Ramone to stop firing, and advance down the valley.

 

Ramone waited. The Vaskans finally made it up the mountain, huffing and puffing, on the verge of complete collapse. Ramone's fighters had been given time to rest and prepare, all because they followed the Dark Prince's favored servant, Ramone. A streak of green light launched out of Mocus's end of the valley, followed by sporadic small arms fire, as his mutants dealt with the advancing Imperial squads. Ramone led his fighters up the ridge, taking cover behind snow covered rocks or their own packs.

 

Ramon Felt thrills of ecstasy as he looked down on the tiny guardsmen. They outnumbered him 4 or 5 to 1, and outclassed his warriors in training and equipment, but Slannesh had given him the high ground. She would give him the glory. He shouted out the sacred words of the Black Legion, "We are returned!", and opened fire on the Imperials below. His fighters joined in. The trenches were exposed to his elevated position. However, the range was extreme, only really suitable for his two autocannons, but it was down a steep sloping mountain, the bullets from their autoguns, and the fat bolts from the Vaskans' heavy bolters, added the momentum of gravity on their descent into the guardsmen's lines. Their accuracy was horrible, but they put out enough fire, into a concentrated area to still have an effect. The mortars did little more than add noise to the fight with their opening fire, striking halfway up the far mountain. The guardsmen below, were quick to return fire, but they had to shoot against the gravity that was assisting Ramone. Their lasguns shot well short of the ridge, and a salvo of missiles sputtered out and exploded, also short of the Black Maw position. Truly Ramone was blessed.

 

Ramone left the side of autocannon #1 to go to his other autocannon down the line. As instructed, #1 began firing into the tops of the tanks, with the second joining in at Ramone's direction. They only scored one hit in their first bursts, and the turret seemed to weather the strike. Ramone was hoping to score a tank kill before they either moved out, or Mocus reached the Imperial lines. The guard armor responded to the fire defensively, their barrels couldn't elevate high enough to hit the ridge, so instead, each tank spit out a cluster of grenades in a wide arc. The grenades started spewing out thick, white smoke, obscuring the tanks. Ramone told his #2 autocannon crew to hold their fire, and start shooting again after #1 finished its burst, then alternate turns firing and resting to keep a steady stream of autocannon fire on the enemy. He had witnessed the Astartes use this practice on the tactica deck while training. He looked over at the Vaskan heavy bolter teams, one of which was already clearing a jam, and decided to let them fire as they saw fit. Hopefully they would save a few bolts for the eventual counter attack. Ramone looked down into the valley, he wasn't wiping out the larger force, but he was whittling away at them, and not taking fire in return. He reveled in the favor of Slannesh, who has clearly blessed him with such inspired tactics.

 

Ramone remembered poaching game back on Fewood. He had a favorite tree to hunt red bottom monkeys at. It was a large tree in the middle of the ceremonial yard of the parish church. On days that mass wasn't being called, the yard and the church were empty. The priest was a lecherous old man known to have taken multiple mistresses that he spent his days visiting in sequence. The red bottom monkeys had grown accustomed to the deserted church, and would occasionally brave the open yard and the artifice of man, to rob na fruit from the tree. Ramone would hide in the forest at the edge of the yard and shoot these monkeys with his rusty autogun. It was a long shot for the ancient rifle, and the monkeys were agile dodgers, so Ramone missed most shots. But the monkeys never left the tree, instinctively, they feared the open ground, where most of their predation occurred, and the other trees were just too far away for them to run to when the sound of the autogun fired kicked in their survival instincts. So Ramone would patiently shoot away at the forest edge, until he either ran out of ammo, or enough monkeys fell to the ground. Then he would walk up to the base of the tree, weathering the hisses and thrown feces from the survivors of the troop, and pick up his meat. This is how he saw the battle going. The guardsmen would not leave their trenches, and his fighters were shooting them down, missing more than they hit for sure, but shooting them down all the same. All was going well. The Dark Prince must have been smiling upon her favored Ranone. Then a star fell on the ridge.

 

The star came from the north, from the fight for Defense Station 27C. Ramone knew it wasn't really a star. It was one of the Imperial voidcraft fighting the seized station. It was but a single star coming his way out of many flashing by the station. It was more than enough.

 

As the star grew larger, it's shape became more distinct than merely the light of its engines. As it roared its way along the ridge, the star revealed itself to be a large aircraft, with four engines blazing under forward swept wings. Ramone recognized it as a marauder bomber, a heavy bomber capable of both atmospheric and void flight. It came in firing out its nose turret, strafing the ridge line. Lascannons flashed, each shot incinerating a warrior. Ramone shouted out over the top of his lungs to fall back. Only the #2 autocannon crew, and his sniper, both on either side of him, heard his cry. They hesitated at first, but after seeing Ramone grab a pack and jump on it belly-first, to slide wildly and dangerously fast down the mountainside they had climbed up, they followed suit. The cannon crew used boxes of bolted ammunition to slide down, dragging their weapon behind them. Ramone looked back, seeing the bomber flying low over the ridge, shooting its tail guns as well as its nose. He was thrown off his pack when the marauder dropped a single bomb, directly centered over Ramone's former position. His ears rang with the thundering blast. His bones and teeth shook. He landed on the snowy slope and rolled a ways down the mountain, bruising ribs, spraining an ankle, and finally bashing his skull into a rock outcropping that cut open his forehead, but arrested his fall. Ramone lay bleeding in the snow, dazed and dizzy from the roll down the mountainside, but just as bewildered how his fortune had changed so rapidly. Had Slannesh once again abandoned him?

 

 

 

[Captain Malachi]

Xirian smiled beneath his helmet as he led his squad through the small village they had been assigned to. A young cultist, no more than fourteen by the looks of him, plunged a dagger in to another youth under the approving gaze of one of the cult leaders. In the village centre, a group of worshippers called out on loud speakers to the villagers, beseeching them to give themselves to Chaos in their next life.

 

A scuffling to his left brought Xirian’s bolter up, the ancient weapon barking once as a scared woman panicked and tried to flee the house she had been hiding in. As her body fell in to the snow, Xirian’s vox chirped with a message from the Qetesh in orbit.

 

“Procles to all ground units, the forces of the False Emperor have broken through our blockade and will be making planetfall soon. Return to your extraction points as soon as possible, we’re leaving.” Xirian sent a quick confirmation and glanced around the village again. Despite his orders to leave, he knew the surviving villagers still needed his help. They would never willingly leave the side of the Corpse God in this life, His influence was too strong, and so only in the next life would they be free.

 

“Continue the mission, but hurry, we don’t have long.” His squad all nodded, and rushed off to find more villagers to save. Bolters and chainswords howled, the screams of the villagers not lasting long under the renewed assault of the chaos marines. The cultists, too, redoubled their efforts, and soon the village appeared to be cleansed of the corpse worshippers.

 

As Xirian made his way to the village square, he could see the tell tale fire trail of a drop pod on it’s way to land just outside the village. Speeding up even more, he soon made his way to the square to see all of the cultists and his squadmates gathered together. He didn't need to speak, a nod in the direction of their transport sending them all scurrying to escape.

 

They made it out of the village unopposed, but before they could reach the waiting thunderhawk, bolter fire suddenly rained down upon them from a nearby hilltop. Xirian’s armour protected him more than long enough to reach the cover of a great fallen tree, but the cultists, with no protection to speak of, fared far worse, twelve of the twenty-three that left the village were killed in the first few moments.

 

Ordering his squad to return fire, Xirian sent the remaining cultists hurrying to the thunderhawk under the cover of their guns. Briefly looking over the tree, he saw that they were only dealing with a single combat squad of five marines, though the plasma gun worried him. Carefully taking aim, he fired at that marine, the bolt bouncing off his armour but sending him back in to cover.

 

The exchange of fire lasted longer than Xirian would have thought, the loyalist marines seemingly in no rush to push forwards, content to simply keep him and his squad pinned down. Xirian grinned as he heard the rumble of the thunderhawk engines, and soon the great aircraft rose over the treeline, turning towards their hiding hole and unleashing it’s mighty firepower on the marines pinning them down. The elation he felt died as the first missile impacted with the engines of the thunderhawk.

 

Turning to where the missile had come from, he saw two lightning fighters flying in low, and even as he watched, they both launched more missiles, that a moment later struck the thunderhawk, tearing it in two and sending the pieces crashing to the ground below.

 

He snapped back to himself as a bolt round glanced off his pauldron, and saw that in his moment of distraction more marines had surrounded his squad. Before he could even think to react, a huge ball of plasma from a plasma cannon struck the chaos marine standing next to him, the explosion tearing him apart and splashing on to Xirian as well. He fell to the ground, blind and in agony, as the marines swarmed down on his squad.

 

 

Not overly happy with that one but I'll post it anyway.

[Carrack]

Death of a Champion

 

Note: this is a long one, but it's in parts for easier digestion. I'd like this to be my counting submission, but if the judge doesn't want to read 3790 words, I understand.

 

1.

 

Not One Step Back

 

 

 

 

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

The main element of the Black Maw had invaded the Lemish System, a prosperous Imperial World grown rich off of trade and banking. There have long been rumors of some mysterious, but valuable treasure stored in vaults beneath one of its cities, but nothing had ever been found by numerous digs. However, there may be something to these rumors, for the Emperor's Finest of the Angels of Immolation Chapter, had deployed a Strike Cruiser to the system, and when the strike cruiser was forced to flee in the face of a vastly superior fleet, they first deployed a contingent of space marines to defend the city of Hammish.

 

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

 

Vinno jumped the last trench and slid down the far embankment, tossing a frag over his head into the trench behind him. He was fairly sure it was clear, judging by what he saw as he leapt it, but an extra frag would make sure. He didn't want guardsmen shooting into his back while they breeched the void shielded fortress ahead. Vinno quickly glanced to either side, ensuring his squad and the others made it over the trench as well. As the grenade exploded behind him, he rushed the nearest rain washed gulley that was suitably large enough to let him pass. That was the weakness of the fortress. Rain. It was otherwise well built. The fortress boasted slanted and angled walls, covered a by a thick layer of absorbing soft dirt, and protected by anti-tank and anti-personnel gun emplacements. But the walls and guns were but secondary defenses, a dome of void shields was crackled with barely understood energy a hundred meters out from the walls. Layers of trench works extended beyond that, all the way to the base of the hill Fortress Dominique sat upon. The fortress had enough artillery to blanket the entire city of Hammish below, and enough ship wrecker cannons to keep the orbit clear from bombardment. But rain had opened a crack in the fortress's formidable defenses. The years, decades, Vinno neither knew nor cared how long, of precipitation had eroded the hillside beneath the void shield dome, to the point that numerous gullies, big enough for an Astartes to walk under and slip underneath the void shields. He did so now, along with his squad, the Chosen of Lord Carrack.

 

Vinno ducked under the dome of shields, feeling the powerful energy raise the hairs on his neck underneath his armor, and stepped into a wall of bolter fire. The last stretch of ground to cover was going to be hell, but there was no turning back. They had teleported down to the hillside just in front of the last trench, and would not be able to be extracted until they silenced the ship wrecker cannons. But Vinno had not survived the Long War by being timid, and he would freely admit that he hadn't survived it with his sanity intact either. The bolter fire, coming from a hurricane emplacement directly ahead, only maddened him, well maddened him further than he usually was. He screamed out for blood and skulls, he would take both from the bastard sons of Guiliman defending the fortress. Angels of Immolation, he spit at the thought of the name. A bolt struck him center mass, slowing his stride a half step and defacing some of the gold octed star on his chest plate, he continued. A few steps later, a better placed bolt took out one of the Chosen, Marbas the Revenant, the insufferable whiner lit up like a green bonfire, as hell flames announced his soul's return to the warp. Vinno's icon bearer, Saint Tiam, swept Marbas's legs with the butt of his standard's lance as he passed, served him right, let him go to hell on his back rather than his feet, Vinno thought.

 

Vinno reached the wall, directly under the hurricane bolter, too close to be fired on. The rest of his squad, minus Marbas, made it as well, without mission effecting wounds. Vinno slapped a melta bomb onto the wall, latching it onto the hurricane bolter emplacement in a way that prevented its barrels fully traversing. As he ducked down and left, he saw Casper shove a bunch of dirt into a grenade tube with his boot, just in time. The dirt blew out with force as heat started pouring out of the melta bomb, enough heat to slag the front armor on a tank, and enough to open up the emplacement. He tried to charge in, but the damage from the melta bomb and the exploded grenade tube had made his footing unsafe. The weight from him and his armor caused his foot to drop a half meter with the rubble he had stepped on, and his momentum tripped him up, causing him to fall face down. His squad didn't care apparently, Vinno indigently felt the crushing weight of eight Astartes run up his back to slay the loyalist marine and some guardsmen loader who were manning the hurricane bolter. They were in.

 

 

2.

 

Skull

 

 

 

 

Paimun stepped on his champion's backpack as he rushed through the breeched wall, being sure to grind his foot in a little as he stomped down. Up ahead, Casper was making short work of the red and orange armored marine who had manned the hurricane emplacement. With a snap kick, Paimun launched the mortal loader who was cowering behind an ammo drum in the corner. It was a reflexive kick, lighting quick, but not with his weight behind it. Still, it was enough to bounce the worm against the wall, and on his rebound, Paimun punched him with an uppercut with his powerfist, obliterating the loaders ribcage and vital organs inside it. Gore splattered the remains of the gun emplacement and Paimun's black armor. Paimun could hear his masters in His Inquisition speaking through his communication node, telling him this collateral damage was acceptable. He had to maintain his cover while he was with the traitors. His unseen masters must be preparing a major mission for Paimun, for they had been speaking to him nonstop for days. For effect only, Paimun screamed out, "Blood for the Blood God!", and wiped his visor clear of gore. The Chosen of Lord Carrack charged on, determined to exploit their breech as much as possible.

 

Paimun found himself momentarily left behind with his champion, Vinno, who was picking himself up after his inglorious stumble. Paimun's secret masters shouted at him, telling him this was the time. They told him that the Emperor needed him to slay his champion, so he would be in a better position to take over the Black Maw Warband, should Lord Carrack die or loose control during this campaign. Vinno got to his feet, and took a moment to reignite his red glowing power sword. Vinno looked over Paimun, and said, "That thing inside you is talking nonsense again isn't it brother?"

 

Paimun rocked back, visibly shaken. Had his cover been blown? No, Vinno would have tried to kill him, not talk to him with genuine concern in his voice. No, Vinno must have uncovered the heretical lies from the chirurgeons. Like most veterans of the Long War, Paimun had been in medical bays more times than he could remember. But the medical bays, like the rest of the facilities of the Black Maw, were tainted with heresy. At various times after surgeries, heretical chirurgeons had lied to Paimun, saying his communication node with the Inquisition was actually a mutant cyst on his spleen. A cyst that had a face, and that they had heard talking. He knew the lies for what they were, an attack on his faith, and had always slain everyone who spoke or heard such blasphemy. Somehow Vinno must have heard the same lies. He couldn't be allowed to live.

 

Vinno was dangerous though, he had been Paimun's champion for most of the Long War, and was now the champion of the chosen. But Paimun had learned to be clever over the ages. He had to in order to keep his mission of wresting control of the Black Maw, and leading it into the light of the Golden Throne, a secret. So Paimun pointed the way the rest of the chosen had gone as they advanced into the fortress. Vinno nodded thanks, then took off running, trying to catch up. As Vinno passed, Paimun punched his powerfist into the back of Vinno's helm, bashing through the ceramite to crush the skull underneath, and tear out a chunk of brain and spinal cord. Vinno, Champion of the Chosen of Lord Carrack, a Black Legionnaire that had massacred thousands on Terra, a Nightmare of Humanity's past, fell to the ground, dead. Paimun picked up what was left of Vinno's skull, and held it aloft in honor of the Emperor. The "Emperor" always demanded skulls and more skulls for His Golden Throne.

 

 

3.

Murder

 

 

 

 

Copil followed through with a downward slash of his chainsword. He was shadowing Casper, exploiting the openings the cannibal was creating as he carved his way through the loyalists with his lightning claw. 8 millennia of fighting the Long War, and Copil was still playing clean up for the other Chosen of Lord Carrack. Copil was chosen too, he deserved better.

 

The last of the loyalist fell as Obbo snuck in an underhanded cut that drove up through the waist seam of the Angel of Immolation's armor, cutting through organs, than leaving a gaping wound with a twist and withdrawal of the meter long blade. Saint Tiam planted the squad's standard into the neck of a fallen loyalist, and looked over the Chosen of Lord Carrack. Copil reached down and picked up the loyalist sergeant's plasma pistol and a few spare cells. Casper looked over, disapprovingly, saying, "Scavenging are we now, young Copil, and plasma at that." Plasma weapons had long been regulated to thinbloods grasping for glory in the Black Maw, but Copil didn't care, he was treated virtually as a thinblood anyway, and the pistol had incinerated Mavak, the latest of the chosen to have spewed out a hate filled diatribe about the dilution of the legion with the inclusion of those who did not fight at the Siege of Terra, all at Copil's expense. Copil just wanted the damned pistol to keep as a reminder next time the same speech was made by another of the chosen. It happened with great regularity.

 

The thunder of guns started sounding from the bailey of Fort Dominique, followed by the distinctive bass rumble of subterranean munitions. Copil also noticed the sudden absence of the metallic taste in his mouth that accompanied close proximity to void shielding. Although it was possible one of the other squads had destroyed a shield generator, the timing of the outgoing rounds was too coincidental. The loyalists had dropped the fortress's shields to lay down a barrage of ground penetrating rounds on the city below. This must have something to do with what Lord Carrack was after on this planet. The tempo of the mission just increased. Whatever the loyalists were doing that required them to compromise their fortifications, must be stopped. The loyalist were deluded fools, blindly following a collection of their lessors who interpreted the will of a corpse, but they were not stupid, not tactically stupid anyway.

 

Copil wasn't the only chosen to come to this conclusion, Saint Tiam, the de facto leader with Vinno yet to make his appearance, ordered Copil, "Go get Paimun and our champion, Obbo and Poll will begin breaching out to the bailey." Copil rushed back to the site of their first breech, the last known location of their champion. As he made his way down the hall, Saint Tiam added, "And be quick about your errand, boy." To the laughter of the rest of the Chosen. Copil seethed at yet another indigently heaped upon him, and unknowingly fired off the plasma pistol into the floor a few meters from his feet. The ferrocrete cracked and popped with the destructive energy, satisfyingly so. The laughter stopped abruptly, for the first time in a long time, Copil had shut them up. He chuckled a little himself.

 

The chuckling stopped when Copil reached the bloody remains of the hurricane emplacement. Paimun was there, holding aloft the front of Vinno's skull in offering to the Skull King. The back half of the champion of the chosen was obliterated. Paimun saw Copil and dropped the offering, exclaiming, "It was self defense, Vinno was enraged by us stepping on his back after he fell." Copil leveled his new pistol at Paimun and said nothing. Challenges for leadership amongst squads were acceptable means of promotion, and important for weeding out the weak, but they were not allowed during campaign, and when they were, they were formal duels that took place with witnesses, seconds, and all the trappings of legality to ensure the winner rightfully assumed command of the squad. This was not that, and it wasn't self defense either, Vinno's head had been caved in from the back. This was murder. Copil didn't really care about the murder personally, Vinno set the example with the hazing that Copil went through, but at least Vinno was competent as a champion. Paimun was a raving madman plagued by a familiar daemon attached to his stomach or something. Copil wasn't about to shoot the murderer though, when Lord Carrack investigated, it might come down to the long legacy of Paimun, who had been at Terra with Lord Careack, and held the same geneseed as their lord, against Copil's word, who was created by the infamous fleshsmith Fabious Bile, 2,000 years after the Siege of Terra. Instead, Copil backed away keeping his new plasma pistol aimed at Paimun. Before he reached the hall, Copil told him, "My lips are sealed, but you must make your way on your own, the chosen will never accept you as the leader, or even as a member of our squad now, and you have to stop listening to that thing inside you, it will be your death." Paimun staggered at Copil's words, gripping the wall for support. Copil turned and ran back to his squad.

 

 

4.

Burning Hatred

 

 

 

 

Saint Tiam heard young Copil report that the loyalist Angels of Immolation had come into the breech, after they had advanced into the fortress, and slain their champion, Vinno. He cursed himself for allowing his champion to be left behind. It was the call of the Blood God at work. Saint Tiam felt it more than the rest of the chosen, because he carried the Wrathful Standard. When there was blood to be shed, and skulls to be taken, the standard pulled him, led him even, to go spill the blood and take the skulls. The rest of the chosen felt the same way, but with Saint Tiam, the pull was stronger. It had been tactical necessity that had made the chosen walk across Vinno's back when he stumbled at the breech, but then the pull of the standard drove him on into the next squad of the Emperor's lap dogs. He had failed to wait for the squad to consolidate after wetting his appetite for blood on the first loyalist. He had left his champion behind. The champion who had led the squad for thousands of years, and led it well had died at the hands of some bastard offspring of Guiliman. Part of Saint Tiam wanted to go back, and track down his champion's killer. Vengeance was always dominating his mind, but Saint Tiam had to thrust his desire for revenge to the side. The Chosen of Lord Carrack were about to breech into the bailey of Fortress Dominique, and they must silence the Imperial Guns. Until the assault was over, Saint Tiam would lead the chosen, now down to six with Marbas, Mavak, and Vinno dead, and Paimun missing.

 

Obbo and Poll had been shooting their meltaguns into an armored and locked door out to the bailey since the Imperials had cut the shields and started firing subterranean munitions into the city of Hammish, below the fortress. Whatever they had opened their void shields to destroy, the Black Maw wanted to preserve. It was a desperate move, a suicidal move even, for the loyalist to figuratively open the door to the fortress, just to fire rounds designed to penetrate into the earth and explode. There was something buried in the city that they were willing to die to destroy. Saint Tiam hoped it was something actually useful, and not merely the bones of some thinblooded chapter master. He knew that the Imperium placed a great value on its superstitions, he was an Imperial Saint after all.

 

It was back in the early 37th millienium, on the most holy shrine world of Ophelia VII, a Ministorim movement had taken hold with the aim to canonize all individuals known to have performed a personal service to the Emperor, prior to his ascension to the Golden Throne. This movement was called the "Famulanati", and was responsible for canonizing several hundred saints. One researcher found record of such a service during the Great Crusade At a planet now called Maroon. Luna Wolves and Blood Angels had quickly brought the world into compliance, while being lead personally by the Emperor, a rare, but not unheard of occurrence at that stage of the Great Crusade. Following the victory, the fleet command voxed down to relay a message to the Emperor. Tiam took that message and delivered it personally to the Emperor. The careless remembrancer who record the incident incorrectly recorded Tiam as a Blood Angel, and thus Tiam, an Icon Bearer of the the Black Legion, was made an Imperial Saint.

 

The door took one to many melta blasts, and clanged to the floor as its armored hinges liquified with the intense heat. Saint Tiam charged out into the open bailey, once more thirsting for Imperial blood. The chosen charged with him, thoughts of who would replace Vinno put on hold in sight of their hated foes. They were met by disciplined boltgun fire from a squad of loyalist protecting a battery of Thunderfire cannons. The techmarines manning the cannons paid the chosen no heed, continuing to fire the artillery down on the city. Mass reactive bolts rocked Tiam back, hitting his chest plate and vambrace, but he kept rushing in. Before he could get to grips with the squad, he was overcome with a hazy, incoherent, sensation, as if he had lost blood or just drunk a potent intoxicant. He staggered and stumbled, reeling with his vision blurry. It left him faltering before the squad of loyalists. The other chosen had felt it too, Harold had tripped, but instinctively rolled out of his fall. Saint Tiam could hear him vomiting into his helm over the vox. The loyalists opened fire at close range.

 

Two things saved Tiam from certain death at the wall of bolts and burning promethium pouring into the chosen from the loyalists' weapons. The first was the sensation he had felt, had afflicted the Angels of Immolation as well. The normally superb marksmanship of Astartes was wild and undisciplined. The second thing that saves him was the cause of the sensation that spread through the open bailey. Three of the abominations created by the Black Maw's Warpsmith, the Chain Maker, had materialized next to the loyalists defending the artillery, flickering into reality from the turmoil of the warp. Saint Tiam knew only one of the abominations, though they all were once his brothers. Now they were giant monstrosities of warping flesh and guns, covered in boils and rust. They were Obliterators, and their limbs burst forth flamer nozzles in showers of pus and rot.

 

The boltgun fire from the loyalists, and the pistol fire from the chosen, had little effect on the two squads of marines. It was too badly effected by the aftermath of the Obliterators teleport, but the loyalists' flamer, and the flamers from the Obliterators didn't need to be accurate. The Angels of Immolation's flamer hosed the chosen down with burning, sticky gel. Power armor was usually proof against the effects of a flamer, but if the gel found a compromise in the armor's protection, such as damage or an exposed seam not covered by ceramite plating, then the promethium could burn through Astartes flesh and bone. The loyalist flamer washed over Saint Tiam's armor, and seeped into a crack in his pistol arm's vambrace. The pain was intense as his armor's systems and his own physiology fought the fire, but the wound was sustainable, although nerves and muscle had been burnt out. Poll took the fire harder, a glob of the sticky flames burning through his dented helm, cooking his brain in his skull.

 

In turn, the Obliterators' flamers absolutely blanketed the loyalists in flames. For a moment, the loyalist disappeared with their orange and red armor matching the color of the flames perfectly. Few were standing when Saint Tiam and the chosen came within blade's length. Those that did, didn't stand long.

 

The Obliterators weren't the only monstrosities to teleport to the bailey of Fortress Dominique. The wide open ground, unprotected by void shields, was perfectly suited for such a strike. Lord Carrack himself, along with his retinue, flashed into existence opposite of the guns from Saint Tiam. They slagged two of the guns with their meltas, then charged. Witnessing the charge of his lord, with all of the fury that embodied his bloody god, emboldened Saint Tiam and heightened his already overwhelming rage. He blacked out from the fury of the emotion, his mind not able to comprehend such levels of hatred. When he came to, he would have to tell his lord of Vinno's death. He hoped he would survive delivering the message.

 

 

Author notes.

In my fan fiction project, The Shield, http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/topic/319223-the-shield/page-2?do=findComment&comment=4353251 I recently killed off Vinno, Champion of the Chosen. He had appeared in 21 stories I wrote, 11 of which as the main character. I did it on a whim. Such is fate in the grim dark future. :) I included this collection of the stories that surrounded his death, both for continuity for those who read my IF stories, and for this challenge. The defeat is personal, as opposed to warband wide, as are the flaws of the various chosen. Thanks for reading.

 

[Warsmith Aznable]

Well done, Carrack, very enjoyable read.

[Kierdale]

I haven't yet read it but hope to soon.

 

Teetengee, have you chosen this week's judge? :)

[Scourged]

Another tenuous connection to the weekly topic, but I think it works.

 

 

 

To Err is Human

“After everything we have achieved together, after every promise to one another, this is what you do to me?!”

The bare-knuckled blows of the genetically-enhanced superhuman pounded against an unguarded face and torso. Skin would split and re-heal, bones would fracture but soon seal themselves, but the enraged warrior was nonetheless determined to vent his bottomless anger. If his fists could not be the beacon of his anger, his words would do the damage instead. Nothing cuts deeper than truth’s betrayal.

“Brother, it’s not like that. You… you’re just…”

“I’m what, brother? I’m overreacting? Yes, that’s right, amidst all of your failings, I am the one who’s acting irrationally. You and our disgraced brotherhood seem to so willingly enforce your beliefs upon me. I should just embrace our rapid decline into heresy. Yes, because I don’t view this curse as a Gift, I’m the one who is in the wrong, who needs to calm down, who just needs to understand. Is that about right, brother?”

Ever still the closed fists of the martial champion pounded against the psyker, the rage that powered each strike unrelenting. Yet the psyker did not recoil from the blows. He took them all in stride, never shying away from an impending strike. In some masochistic part of his mind, he knew he deserved the beating. Every single painful hit and caustic insult thrown his way was the penance for his failure. But that acceptance did not make them all hurt any less.

“That’s not what I’m saying…”

“You made me a promise, Raha. Do you remember that? I sure do. For as long as we’ve been brothers, you have known how I am, how I get, and just how little I trust this universe. You have always been the one thing and one person I can rely on. The one and only. And you promised me that would never change. You promised me that you would never give me reason to lose my faith in you. You promised me!”

“I know.”

“Then why, Raha? Why, in the name of all we’ve done, would you turn your back on everything we stood for?”

Rahaund’ul had tried, again and again, to answer his brother, but Scindus was having none of it. Thanks to the folly of the chapter master, the Gift had been disseminated among the Seekers of Truth. The effects were profound, but initially appealing. Finally, they would no longer doubt the veracity of their actions, or those of their Inquisition masters. But the Gift soon revealed its sinister origins, and destroyed more than it provided. What had started as a limitless boon was becoming a terrible burden to some, and a death sentence to others.

Despite the gene-seed and multitude of auxiliary organs, an Astartes was still a human. Any human can only bear so much when it comes to pressures within the mind. Some may resist, but almost all will inevitably break. But the burden of the Gift cut even deeper than the mortal cost. The Seekers of Truth were not immune to the effects, and so their own lies were beginning to spread. And now, at least to his brother, Rahaund’ul could no longer hide his own.

“Why’d you do it, Raha? And spare me the reasons you’ve already tried to force upon me. I want your honesty for once, for apparently the first time. Tell me why you felt you could decide what was best for me. Tell me why you felt it so necessary to shatter my faith in you. Tell me why!”

“It was a harmless-”

“Harmless? In what possible way could you think that it was harmless?! Do you not see the damage you’ve done to me? Nevermind the damage you have wrought upon the chapter, your actions have forever tarnished my existence. Oh, no, that’s right, I forgot: I’m the one who’s wrong again. I’m the one who doesn’t understand, I’m the one who’s overreacting. I should accept this macabre fate like the rest of you and be happy.”

Finally, the rain of violent strikes had ceased to beat upon Rahaund’ul’s face and chest. His body should have been a heap of bruises and sores from the broken bones and damaged tissues, but Astartes physiology saw to it that he appeared untouched.

“No, Scindus,  you’re not wrong. But I did what I had to do, for you. You don’t have the psyker’s touch like I do. The Gift would have torn your mind apart. I had to save you, Scindus. And I did everything I had to do to make that happen.”

“So that is why you sacrificed the entirety of my chapter? You let the daemonic feast upon their flesh and souls, that I might survive the Warp-taint of this curse? To you, the sacrifice of a hundred of our brothers, in the most vile and heinous of rituals, was worth the life of one. You promised them salvation and they lined up willingly for their ruination at your hands. You made pacts with dark voices within the Warp and sold your soul just to ensure I am cursed with this new life. Thank you so much, brother.”

Could he not see that this was the only way? Rahaund’ul had spent days watching his brother lose more and more of his sanity, thanks to the touch of the Gift. Scindus, like many others in the chapter, didn’t possess the natural power to resist. The psyker had hoped against all odds that his brother held even some latent power, a residual genetic gift from their parents, but no. The Gift was going to kill him.

“So you would die? You would have continued letting your mind fester and rot in endless pain until your death?”

“Better that than to know I owe my life to your betrayals. Better that than to know I’m only strong enough to live because of your pity. Yes, Raha - I would have chosen death over the truth that you view me in such a pathetic light. If watching you so willingly accept the corruption of your soul is the price to pay, then yes, let me die. I am better than such a fate.”

“Do you truly value your pride so much that you would have chosen death?”

“My pride? Is it not your own pride that makes you blind now, Raha? Your pride is what falsely led you to believe I would want this new life at all. And what of your machinations to replace our fallen leader, your overconfidence in your powers, or your unerring belief that my life was worth a hundred of our brothers? Do not lecture me on boastful arrogance when you are further drenched in sin that I ever will be.”

“I have no machinations-”

The mere utterance of those initial words was all that was necessary to trigger the new reflex in Scindus’ mind. As his brother spoke, the former chapter master felt his mind tormented with the stinging truth of Rahaund’ul’s motives. There were a blaring siren against the ever-buzzing cacophony of lies that now hummed forever in the background of his mind.

“Gah, of course you do! You still stand here, lying to my face, knowing I can hear and feel the stabs of your planned betrayals. Can’t you see what you’re becoming, Raha? All thanks to this “gift” you’re becoming a damnable heretic, just as irredeemable as those we hunted under the Imperium’s false banner. You may have saved my life, but in doing so you’ve damned my soul.”

Having tired of the angry lecture, Scindus turned toward the bulkhead door to leave the chambers of his brother. He was done. Done with this conversation, done with this new life, and done with his brother. And worst of all? He was now well and truly alone.

“You can’t hide inside your own head anymore, Raha. I’ve heard your thoughts and lies, along with everyone else's. I know now there is not a soul in the galaxy I can ever trust. All because of this curse. You and everyone else might see this as some gateway toward ultimate power and gain, but I’m telling you here and now: this new power of ours with damn us all, brother.”

 

 

[Teetengee]

Carrack: The Vilest Village

Start with nitpicks, because I am a :cuss: Worst not worse, it is minor, but whenever I run into a typo early on in a work it always throws me off for the rest of it, there were a couple other errors throughout, but like the first most would be caught by a spell/grammar checker. (Actually many of us could benefit from such, myself included, on occasion, so I am not going to repeat it throughout, but if in doubt everyone, use a spellcheck ;)!)

 

Good stuff: I was grinning like an idiot during your second paragraph, well done.

 

Malachai: [untitled]

I am amused

for obvious reasons

 

Kierdale: Thelemic Leap

I am still amused

for yet more obvious reasons. The jumping around was unexpected but interesting. I also liked the mental/physical divide and the subversions of basically every result.

I admit I cannot place the last one though.

 

Scourged: [untitled]

Well done.

I particularly like the implications left unsaid.

 

Warsmith Aznable: [untitled]

It seemed incomplete to me, but I did like where it was going.

 

Thedarkprincesnun: [untitled]

I felt like this could have used more development, there was very little that happened to show the juxtaposition of your Terminators in this new land.

 

Teetengee: A Disturbance in the Warp (Unscored)

The beginning was stronger than the end, unfortunately.

 

Kierdale: Not Our Battle (Unscored)

 

(haven’t gotten to this yet, will replace with stuff when I do)

 

 

The victor is Scourged, although several were in contention.

[Scourged]

My thanks for the honor, Teetengee. Seems I have a bit of extra reading to do over the weekend.

[Warsmith Aznable]

 

Warsmith Aznable: [untitled]

It seemed incomplete to me, but I did like where it was going.

 

Yep. It took me forever to come up with an inspiration to go off of, and when I found it it was already Friday and I was at work. I knew what I wanted to be the core (The Warsmith in 40k Wonderland parodying the Cheshire Cat scene) but I didn't quite know how to frame it or how I wanted it to end. So I just started writing to see where it would take me, then published what I managed in the time I had to work on it.

[Thedarkprincesnun]

 

Thedarkprincesnun: [untitled]

I felt like this could have used more development, there was very little that happened to show the juxtaposition of your Terminators in this new land.

 

 

I will be honest my story was kind of rushed as I had many ideas lol. I actually nearly had them teleport into the kingdom hearts universe at one point haha

[Kierdale]

I thank you all for your entries in Imperfect Beings over the last week. Not many but those we did get were of good quality.

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 eleventh challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Obliterators

Techmarines and others who fell foul of the Obliterator Virus, mutated and/or modified terminators (or even Centurions) or perhaps teams of elite marines hauling about personal arsenals, who are these technologically obsessed walking cannonades? Was their transformation entered into willingly? How have they coped both mentally and physically? How are they used by their commanders?

We turn out gaze this time to Obliterators (a theme shared with the current Daemon Forge so by all means take part in both and show us your models over there ).

Inspirational Friday: Obliterators runs until the 22th of April.

Let us be inspired.

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

Oh, and Teetengee, the final quantum leap of my `Lost In Space` piece was from Apocalypse Now.

[Carrack]

I noticed the Apocalypse Now reference, both in your story and your Raptor. Great movie.

[Carrack]

Obliterated

 

 

 

Target identified: 5 Loyalist Astartes. Mark VII power armor. Markings and designations of Tactical Squad 3, 4th company, Angels of Immolation Chapter, successors to XIII Legion.

 

Range: 28.2 meters, closing at 12.16 MPS

 

Advanced ballistics: Delta Grade atmosphere (variance +.09 PPM Oxygen -.08 PPM Nitrogen -006 PPM Sulfur Dioxide -003 PPM Heavy Metals). Humidity 77.4%. Barometric Pressure 30.00. Wind speed negligible (indoors).

 

Warnings: Plasma Multiblaster Cooling. Armor compromised lower left greave, left calf piston unresponsive. Autonomic nerve damage unsustainable, lung degeneration total, primary and secondary hearts non-functioning.....

 

Weapon Selected: Helveti II pattern bifurcated fire projector.

 

Method of Engagement: Direct +++What has become of me? Is this all that I care for, endless and meaningless data? What memories were ripped from my mind to be replaced with the ability to use this data? Were they memories of love, of brotherhood, of anything of real value? Where is the passion that once drove me to conquer and burn? Gone are my fires of vengeance, they have been doused with this logical, analytical, infusion of apathy and rot. I should be dead from it all, there are 17 fatal conditions that plague my once perfect form, and that is just my body. My armor, once a relic worshipped by my thralls, is no longer recognizable. It is a mass of tumors and warp-damned mutation. Where it ends and I begin is no longer even discernible. Did I even have a choice in this horrible transformation? Why?+++Fire

 

[Scourged]

Huh. I thought there were more entries for this week, but it seems I was mistakenly including the late entries for the prior topic. Still, good reading nonetheless.

The winner is Carrack, for Death of a Champion. Oh, and don't worry about the 3.7k word count - I and many others have submitted much longer entries, much to the chagrin of the judges then, I'm sure. A few thoughts that I had:

The tale had a great flow, and I liked each section focusing on a different Chosen. It helped highlight the individual flaws in each Chosen to tie it to our weekly topic. It worked well. Oh, and Paimun is a blast to read about. But then, pt. 4 happens and it felt disconnected from the rest of the story; Vinno and Paimun aren't mentioned once. It was a good ending, but just felt like it was from a different story to me.

Regarding your entry, Captain Malachai:

I really liked it. You painted a great scene with it all. I would have just liked a little bit more about what compelled Xirian to disobey his orders like he did.

Oh, and Scourged had a story too:

Hah! No, I'm not really providing feedback to myself. Gotcha!

[Carrack]

Thanks! Your right about part 4 being different, the only tenative ties to the rest of the story was Copil lying to the other chosen, saying that the enemy killed Vinno, I should have added that in at the end of part 3 and left it at that.

[Scourged]

Thanks! Your right about part 4 being different, the only tenative ties to the rest of the story was Copil lying to the other chosen, saying that the enemy killed Vinno, I should have added that in at the end of part 3 and left it at that.

Or, you could have ended it with the fate of Paimun. Did he decide to try his hand at leading the rest of the Chosen, only to join them after being so brutally roasted? Or maybe he stayed behind to watch from afar, the Inquisition in his head telling him to let them burn, that he may more easily ascend in the ranks of the Black Maw. I would hate to have the whole fourth part cut - all it would need would be a couple extra lines or a paragraph, and bam, you've got yourself a great finale to it.

[Thedarkprincesnun]

The 3 Brothers of Plague

Andronius had once been a fertile agri world within the imperium story tellers would say but that all change when the Angels of Despair arrived. Led by Lord Morbidrax they assaulted in quick rapid strikes. It was unknown why they attacked this world until they reached one of the world's many shrines to the Emperor. "So this is it" said Morbidrax. He turned to the sorceror who was named arkhos. "Arkhos you better have a good reason for dragging me and my warband here" said Morbidrax not bothering to keep the disdain out of his voice. "My lord" said Arkhos "as you may know I have been searching the fates for a way to provide us with a weapon that will give us the edge over the rest of the warbands of the Death Guard, and I believe I have. I believe on this world lies something the imperials like to call the fountain of radiance they believe that the Emperor blessed it with healing powers before horus slew him. Now while it obviously dosent have healing powers and wasn't blessed by the Emperor it does contain a powerful warp energy" said Arkhos. "And how will this warp energy help us" said Morbidrax it annoyed him how the sorceror seemed to speak in riddles. "Well my lord if I can tap into the warp energies within this waters I may be able to fill 3 chosen warriors with the power and armour of the warp" said Arkhos.

 

Within a day they took the temple and following the directions the sorceror had gave him Morbidrax had his men place the surviving defenders in a certain pattern then one by one ech of them was killed each one seeming to fill the sorceror with more energy. He stared at the 3 men next to him each one of them a veteran of many campaigns against the corpse Emperor he had gained a great respect for them. As the sorceror continued to chant in the gutteral language the air around them seemed to shiver as the sorceror drew in the power of the warp, he then made a motion for the 3 to step forward and enter the water. As they did they felt a power start to flow through them it felt as if they had become one with the warp they could feel ut running through their flesh and armour almost as if the warp energy was replacing their blood. New pain wracked their body and even though the blessings of nurgle had numbed the pain they still felt it and it only became worse as the sorceror kept on chanting using the blood of the slain to draw archaic symbols on the ground.

 

This would continue for over a hour until their vision had begun to blur almost as if they were about to pass out from the pain when suddenly it felt like their blood flesh and armour was on fire. They began to scream a unearthly unnatural scream that pierced even lord Morbidrax throwing him and all those within the exception of the sorceror who was close to the ritual backwards. Morbidrax grunted as he fell over in pain, he wanted to help his warriors but he couldn't and as he looked upon them he saw the changes being wrought their armour and necrotic looking flesh running like water with their blood mixed in. All of a sudden they arched back and flew into the air the warp wrapping itself around them wracking their bodies with constant spasms. As suddenly as it begun it stopped and the one in the middle was the first to speak. "Hasssss it worked" he said in a low raspy tone. "Just think of a weapon and it will be yours" said the voice in their head "reach out with your mind to the weapons the enemy wielded and they shall be yours". He did as the voice said and the enemy's guns flew into the air but instead of landing in front of him they turned into energy which all 3 of them absorbed. The first one turned to Lord Morbidrax "My lord it was as the sorceror promised we are a weapon unlike any other"

[Kierdale]

As I’ve said, I have no idea how I want to model my eventual Obliterators, so I’ve done two versions! Perhaps you can help me choose

First up, the `Gemini of Genocide` version...

Hidden Content

The loss of the majority of the chapter’s suits of tactical dreadnought armour on Cyprius IV - they having been worn by the veteran first company, whom had fallen to the worship of the Lord of Wrath on that fateful world - had been a terrible blow to the Stygian Guard who later became known as the Psychopomps. Years later their flight from their homeworld, invaded by a crusade of the Black Templars seeking vengeance, again forced the renegades to rethink and remold their tactics. Gone were most of their battle tanks and big guns. While they adapted to reaver tactics utilizing bikes, speeders and jump packs it became evident that they still needed a way to deploy their heavier weapons and, as if in answer to this dilemma - some say it was not chance but rather at the order of captain Castor -, there arose the cult of destruction amongst the former devastator squads. The chapter’s nomadic, raider nature saw them utilize whatever weapons they could seize for example many former devastators turned to calling themselves havocs and wielded autocannons: trophies taken from clashes with the Imperial Guard. Then there were those whose dedication to destruction, be it with extreme precision or the all-out unleashing of awful firepower, who fought as if possessed - and indeed some claimed that these pairs of warriors were indeed possessed by servants of the Dark Prince. Pairs, for these walking arsenals naturally bonded so, each weighed down with caches of arms which only the suspensors built into their reinforced armour allowed them to bear. And pairs for no single man nor Astarte nor even terminator could heft such collections of arms single handedly. Assault, plasma and laser cannons, multi meltas, heavy flamers and more, one would carry arms to compliment the other, covering one another as they dealt out death in perfect harmony. Aye, how could such beings not be possessed, and likely not by two neverborn but one divided across two Astarte minds, puppeteering them? Their armour too shewed the touch of the daemonic: fell sigils etched into its roseate surfaces alongside gaping devilish maws. Blasts which would have cut through the powered armour of a marine were turned aside by this protection and hexes wrought into it.

And what name was given to these fraternal destructors, these gemini of genocide?

Obliterators.

Hidden Content

I’m rather keen on modelling them this way, painting up two marines tooled up with heavy weapons, the paint scheme of each a mirror of the other, fighting back to back.

Second the Fiendish version...

Hidden Content

The loss of the majority of the chapter’s suits of tactical dreadnought armour on Cyprius IV - they having been worn by the veteran first company, whom had fallen to the worship of the Lord of Wrath on that fateful world - had been a terrible blow to the Stygian Guard who later became known as the Psychopomps. Years later their flight from their homeworld, invaded by a crusade of the Black Templars seeking vengeance, again forced the renegades to rethink and remold their tactics. Gone were most of their battle tanks and big guns. While they adapted to reaver tactics utilizing bikes, speeders and jump packs it became evident that they still needed a way to deploy their heavier weapons and in answer to this dilemma, at the order of captain Castor and by the dark craft of both the naga sorcerer Holisiax and the warpsmith Thenaros a cadre of bastard creatures were made; fiends from the pleasure pits of the Lord of Dark Delight’s palace summoned and bound into wanton astartes flesh. From the waist up they resembled terminators yet their roseate armour was covered in fell sigils and gaping daemonic visages which ran like hot wax, exuding armament as the possessed, half-crazed Astarte willed it. How such vast arsenals - greater than those bore by the strongest wolf guard of Fenris or the elite of Caliban’s death wing - were carried by one individual, even one wearing one of the chapter’s remaining suits of tactical dreadnought armour could only be explained by witchcraft, and such was evident in the observation of the monster’s lower half, for their waist flowed not into a pair of strong, ceramite-clad legs but into the huge arachnid-like bodies of those fiends of Slaaneshi which attended the warband, ululating madly. Only by daemonic pacts could such weight be borne by such spindly legs. And these baseborn amalgams of post-man and Q’qha’shy’ythlis were fearsomely strong, shrugging off wounds which would have lain low either of their original forms.

These abominations were not only armed and armoured beyond that of terminators, but similarly were able to appear upon the battlefield at will. Some claimed they teleported in just as loyalists did, whereas other surviving witnesses attested to the aberrations having stepped from glowing portals, maws and orifices linking this world to the madness which lay beyond.

And those pitiful few souls who did escape the barrages of these monstrosities - for surely it was kinder to have perished rather than have such imagery, such horror burned forever into one’s soul - gibbered forth a single name from trembling, drooling lips when asked the nature of their foe.

Obliterators.

Hidden Content

As I’m currently making some fiends (daemonette torsos upon goblin forest spider bodies)...

Hidden Content

...I had the idea of mounting terminator bodies, tooled up, atop more spider bodies. As I wouldn’t be making so many of these I’d take the extra step of repositioning the legs (so they’re not all belly-down).

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in Obliterators over the last two weeks. Not as many as I had hoped for to be honest :( but perhaps people will have a chance to tell us about their obliterators another time as part of a different IF topic.

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 Twelfth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Lesser Daemons

This time the neverborn take the spotlight once more. Bloodletters, Daemonettes, Plaguebearers and Horrors, whether the protagonists or antagonists, give us a tale about these lesser servants, these foot soldiers of the Dark Gods.

I want to save the other daemons (flesh hounds, fiends, beasts of Nurgle, screamers and the like) for another IF so please keep it to the four 'basic' daemon types...though that doesn't rule out 'counts as'...Slaaneshi versions of plaguebearers who feed off the pain inflicted upon them, etc.

Inspirational Friday: Lesser Daemons runs until the 29th of Apr.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Carrack...or it would but I happen to know he's away on holiday until the end of next week. I'll choose a winner and make a post later.