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

[Teetengee]

Yeah, I didn't get a chance to come up with anything for the obliterators, ETL prep and trying to finish off the Liber Cluster Caecus story are on the top of my plate right now hobbytimewise. No particular inspiration struck :/

However, for this one I have a couple ideas. Will counts as lesser daemons be fine that are just different? (As in nurgle counts as plaguebearers that aren't plaguebearers?)

[Kierdale]

Will counts as lesser daemons be fine that are just different? (As in nurgle counts as plaguebearers that aren't plaguebearers?)

That would be fine, Teetengee. In fact, the point of IF is of course to inspire one another. Original takes on fluff/models are something I'd really like to see. :tu:

 

And on a similar point, my judging of IF: Obliterators...

Carrack, I liked your piece and the marine's despair at what had become him. It would have been better, in my opinion, to have that inner monologue interspersed throughout the piece rather than all at the end. A bit longer too, though I know you've been busy.

Thedarkprincesnun, you gave us an entry on the creation of your obliterators. It was original, possession-based. I do feel that running it through a word processing program's grammar/spell checker would have helped before posting it.

 

This time I'm going to be a harsh judge and declare that there is no winner. I liked all the entries, but none struck me as being truly inspirational; none worthy of the gift of the Infernal Powers: the Octed amulet.

And so I shall request of Carrack (when he's back from his hols) that he judge the current IF's entries instead.

[Captain Malachi]

I started writing something up for the obliterator challenge, but then stuff happened and I never finished it. I've saved what I had written so I might come back to it though. As for the current challenge, I have ideas, but the aforementioned 'stuff' is still happening, so who knows if I'll actually get anything written.

[Scourged]

Eh, couldn't really come up with anything for the last challenge. Oblits really aren't my thing. I've got nothing against them, mind you. Just... never really felt the vibe for them. Hard to say. But this week? Oh yeah, I was all over this. I had a story idea before I finished reading the description of the topic. I do love me some little pink gribblies. Enjoy.

 

The Horror

 

 

The Horror

An’shwar cast light to the final pillar candle strategically placed, careful not to trail the ends of her loose robe across the open flames. The irregular columns of wax were strewn about the room, each of the hundred candles tossing flickered shadows throughout the pews and walls of the ruined church. She made sure to meticulously connect them all with lines of chalk scrawled onto the moldy wooden floor. The lines beneath her feet intersected and wove around themselves, intertwining like the very skeins of Fate she sought to understand. And from the chaotic tapestry of the woven chalk threads was crafted a symbol of a magical eye, staring up into the heavens.

An’shwar needed to hurry; lighting each candle with a prayer to the Dark Gods had taken her the better part of an hour. Now that the rite of the candles was completed, she would need to present her offering. The Voice in her Dreams had told her so. She once more grabbed her chalk and wove her way amongst the candles, leaning down to scribe incantations onto the floor in a language she did not know.

The scribbles making words carried a familiarity An’shwar could not understand, becoming more foreign the longer she focused on them. In one moment they were the filigree around her mother’s pendant. In another though they resembled the language of the holy text. Maybe it was the ritualistic scarring her brother had done to his arm. Or the lines in the tree bark from the seasonal floods. Or the splatters on the stone wall when she gutted her three younger sisters in their sleep. Or it was all pure abstraction.

A final stroke of An’shwar’s wrist wrote the last of the impossible letters, and the small peg of chalk was reduced to nothingness. It was the perfect amount, just as the Voice in her Dreams had promised. Finished with her labor, she wished to climb the decrepit stairs and crawl onto the rafters that she may view her art, but there was no time. No, the time had come for the moment she dreaded most. An'shwar turned to the pulpit and pulled open the folds of a blue silk scarf, hefting a long blade.

Father never approved of the Voice in her Dreams. He said such nasty things about it. And upon her protestations, father would call An’shwar even nastier names. Even mother and brother had begun to side with father. She hated to upset them, but they could never understand! The Voice in her Dreams taught her so much while she slept. It showed her visions of times long past and eras never began. She learned so much, and it promised her so much more! Clarity only came in her sleep now.

Father and mother were so angry and sad when she brought peace to her sisters. They couldn’t understand. The Voice in her Dreams had shown her the truth: An’dell was doomed to a crippling illness in seven years, An’fluhm was already selling her body and was destined for slavery, and An’kael was going to suffer for months on end after abduction by wicked xenos in twenty seven years time. Opening their flesh and spilling their viscera was not a crime, but a mercy! But father and mother couldn’t understand.

The Voice in her Dreams had told her they would be unhappy, but she wanted to disbelieve. She had hope she could persuade them. But the Voice in her Dreams was right. She came to finally realize that fact, in the very moment father tried to take the dripping kris from her hand. And that meant father had to die, too. He was still gasping on the floor, pawing at his intestines to try and push them back in, when mother began to wail. She didn’t want to kill mother, but the Voice in her Dreams knew what was best.

Brother ran. An’shwar wanted to chase him, to free him from his doomed fate as well, but the Voice in her Dreams told her no. She would listen. Brother would be the one who killed the family, after all. He took the kris and drew their blood. He fled from them all after mother’s piercing screams. An’shwar would be spared only because of luck, she would tell the town. Yes, of course. She would hide the kris from everyone, and only return to it when the time was right. Yes, that is what the Voice in her Dreams told her, and it knew all.

And so she held the kris once again, a full decade after “brother” killed her family on the eve of her eighth birthday. The blade was clean, but An’shwar could still feel the sanguine liquid dripping down the kris and across her hand. It had tickled. Now, to finish the last rite of the summoning, it would have to spill blood once more. Holding the silver kris aloft, she held her breath and prepared for the pain. With a swift motion, she cut herself open in a single swipe and it was over.

The little red slit in her finger was already beginning to drip, so she needed to move fast. Kneeling down as before, she worked her opened digit to trace the chalk incantations around the webwork candle eye. The milky white powder absorbed the crimson fluid and was forever stained, leaving an eerie pink aura around the runic scribbles. She moved quickly, but her finger would nevertheless clot. Again and again An’shwar would grab the kris and cut herself open, having severed the tips of all ten fingers many times over before finishing her work. Just as the Voice in her Dreams had said.

In that penultimate moment An’shwar hastily rose to her feet and stood at the iris of the webwork eye drawn on the floor. Pulling the large hood away from her face she spoke with a lyrical fluency in a language she could not have known. It was an ancient tongue, a dialect reserved only for those who dwell outside of reality. The words were whispered and yet filled the room with sound. Each syllable spoken caused a series of glowing blood runes on the floor to ignite in green-white flames. Once the last word was spoken An’shwar was standing inside a ring of magical fire that did not singe the dirty wood floor.

And nothing happened. The fire crackled but didn’t burn, the candles still flickered, but nothing else happened. Two minutes, then five, then ten, and still nothing. What had she done wrong? Everything was performed exactly as instructed. Time and again her dreams showed this moment ending perfectly, and the dreams never lied! What was missing? An’shwar spent her thoughts attempting to understand what had gone wrong, fretting over her failure, until the Voice in her Dreams broke the silence and spoke:

More.

More? More what? She didn’t understand. An’shwar would have spent just as many moments fretting about this new riddle had pink smoke not started to pour from and pool at the base of one of the candles. The new cloud grew and grew, shimmering with an aetherial iridescence. Then, at once, the flame was snuffed and the cloud burst apart to explode into a sentient being, and the broken cathedral at once echoed with raucous laughter.

It was beautifully hideous. An’shwar watched the creature - nearly as large as she - bound across the vast chamber with lighting speed, gleefully screaming and laughing as it bounced and swung and climbed and rolled. It was an amorphous puddle of shifting flesh amassed with legs and tails and arms. Just as she thought she knew the anatomy of the bright pink being it changed again, never staying the same. Its entire torso was but one large smiling maw of irregular teeth and tongues, chittering and giggling while it played. As she watched, the five bright green eyes of the adorable monstrosity looked at An’shwar and it came bounding toward her.

The little creature climbed all along her little body, hands and suckers and claws grabbing and tearing at her robe as it finally nestled itself on her shoulder. It was never still, always bouncing from one shoulder to the other, tousling her hair and poking at her face exploratorily. And it was always laughing. It did not breath, but it always laughed. For whatever reason, the creature had decided it was going to stay put on top of An’shwar as a little familiar.

More.

She understood now. An’shwar needed to bring more of these lovable terrors into this realm. She looked at the candle that birthed it, remembering how the flame extinguished with her companion’s birth. Perhaps that was the key? Must that be why she was told to light so many candles here? She would try. An’shwar turned to stare at one of the many still-lit pillars and focused her thoughts on it. She concentrated her mind on the flame, letting the flickering light tempt and hypnotize her, draining her will through the air and into the wax. Slowly, a light amount of pink smoke began to ooze from it.

The little beast on her shoulders began to bounce and laugh with far more energy and excitement. She must be doing it right then, yes? Encouraged by the flailing sprite accompanying her, An’shwar focused her thoughts once more, doubling down on the effort, stretching out her open palm at the candle to channel it even further. A new sensation built within her mind and she could truly feel the power flowing out of her. It was subtle, and weak, but it was there. The effort drained her, and nearly brought her to collapse, but eventually the second flame burnt out and another pink daemon burst into reality.

Just like the first one, this new loveable hellspawn began to run and play within the abandoned building, hooting and hollering with an annoyingly cute cacophony of cries. Yes, this was it. This was what the Voice in her Dreams had wanted. She finally understood. She would make more. She would drain her will until every candle was snuffed. She would bring about her final destiny. As before, An’shwar thrust an open palm at an untouched candle and focused. This time, though, it was easier. That new feeling of power in her mind felt just a bit bigger, and the amount of energy she needed to expend was that much smaller. In only two-thirds the time it took to summon the second beast, the third was popping itself into existence.

And so the cosmic game within the abandoned church continued. One after the next, candles lost their little lights and gave rise to multi-limbed creatures of impossible description. Their ranks grew and grew, their little pink bodies easily starting to fill the vast chamber of the holy site. They bounced and played and teased and climbed all over, investigating every nook and cranny of the ruins, flinging harmless magicks at one another, always welcoming the next birth of their kin to the party. Only the firstborn of the lot stayed still, keen with perching on the shoulders of An’shwar.

She was laughing with the creatures, now. It was impossible not to. Their joy was insanely infectious. She tittered and giggled and chuckled as the scores of adorable daemons tore through the room to their own amusement. The sounds they made were awful and irritating but impossible to ever hate. She felt their joy and zeal revive her drained will time and again, each time giving her more strength. The greater the number of little creatures, the stronger she became. An’shwar gave herself into the happy madness of laughter as both hands now gestured at the still-lit candles, new playmates bursting forth from the smoke almost instantly. Such had her powers grown that barely a thought was spared and she could make more.

Sadly, the fun seemed as though it might end. With two final flicks of her wrists the last of the candles were extinguished, bringing life to the last of the daemons with the fires’ deaths. An’shwar was happy to be surrounded by so many loveable monstrosities, but did not want the joy to cease. She wanted it to go on. She wanted more. She had to have more. It wasn’t just the Voice in her Dreams telling her what to do anymore. No, she had to have more of this power, more of this fun, more of her new family. And she would get it.

The mind of An’shwar - now quite the dominating presence - called out to all one hundred of the dancing pink minions she had created, save for the single familiar on her shoulders. She thrust her will upon them all, using the very power their presence granted her to control their wild frenzy. The beautiful horrors all obeyed and formed three concentric circles around the summoner, each rotating opposite the one around it. They ran faster and faster in their circles, creating a whirlwind in the broken church. The final summoning was at hand.

An’shwar felt herself rise in the room, bolts of aetheric energy swimming through the whirlwind and striking her weak human flesh. For as long as she could, she focused her will on the minions dancing below to keep her aloft, but that was no longer necessary. Her part had been played, and fulfilled, and her Fate was no longer in her hands. The bolts and beams striking her came with more fury, and more pain, inspiring a new sensation within her core. The Voice in her Dreams never spoke of this…

Where once she had been laughing, now An’shwar was screaming. Her jaw was dropped and her mouth was agape, lounging expelling a hideous wail lost in the cacophonous sea of the swirling daemons. The more she screamed, the wider her mouth became. More and more her face stretched until the jagged teeth in multiple rows could no longer close and the twin blue tongues forever hung low. Her soft brown eyes shook in their sockets, twisted her face around as they glowed a brilliant green and divided with a distorted mitosis. As her eyes doubled her blonde hair became animated, twisting itself into braided tendrils flowing out the back of her skull. Quickly the skin of her scalp oozed down each of the tendrils, leaving them all the same rubbery flesh as the rest of her face, now all slowly turning pink.

More and more her body shifted, leaving behind the pointless husk of humanity. The scream-laughs continued through her massive mouth as her spine began to add over a dozen extra vertebrae, painfully growing them from nothing as they burst out from her pelvis, the flesh and sinew healing over it just like the tendrils on her head. Hands and feet grew larger, the digits splaying out a growing hooked talons and suckers. Green warpfire danced in her palms as bubbling cysts formed in the pits of each arm, swelling rapidly, before bursting with new new limbs to mirror the prior.

As the changes stopped so did the aetheric whirlwind, letting the tortured teen girl slowly drift back to the floor of the church. Though she was a teen girl no longer. Seeing with eyes that weren’t hers, An’shwar looked upon her body and saw it a new reality: in so many ways, she resembled the little daemons that once again danced throughout the room, but she was the largest among them, a resplendent beast adorned with her robes and gold. Facing this new Fate, the girl inside screamed, the horror of reality being too much to bear. But she had done as instructed. She made more. She became more.

The desecrated kris lifted from the floor and drifted to the waiting hand of the herald. Connecting itself to the psychic gestalt of the assembled minions, Tzan’shwariz’zzl, the Voice of the Dream, commanded its Warpflame Host out of the abandoned church and into the unsuspecting town.

 

 

[Kierdale]

Q’tlah’itsu’aksho

Hidden Content

Thoughts and the whims of mortals are all but ephemeral. Even the life’s work of a genius, one with the sagacity to perceive matters at a depth beyond the ken of their would-be peers, dies in time. Time so short as to be easily forgotten by their race but for their work, which is all too often soon distorted, half-forgotten and perverted. Perhaps best that those visionaries do not see, from the great beyond, that which becomes of the fruits of their labours in the hands of lesser men.

Their life is but a blink to the great powers of empyrean. But their soul...grist for great mills of malice, succor for malevolent beings, they themselves emotion given astral form. While some of the neverborn coalesce naturally - as antithetical as the word `natural` might be within in the realm of Chaos - kindred souls drawn together by mutual spite, sorrow, desire or despair to give birth to daemonic sentience, few such creatures survive long if they do not swear fealty to one of the Four and join the ranks of those hellions, imps, fiends and devils formed from the whims of the gods of Chaos.

Nurgle, lord of contagion, life and death, with his armies of plaguebearers: shambling bloated bastard-corpses with single, rheumy eyes, about whom clouds of flies hang like a terrible pall. Tenders of his gardens and reapers of souls.

Tzeentch, the changer of ways and architect of fate. His legions are no more set in form than are the plans of their inscrutable master. Mobs of capering, cackling Pink Horrors, fell magicks cast from their crooked fingers. Blue Horrors spring from their corpses, as bitter, vengeful and morose as the Pink was jubilant and mad.

The wrath of the Blood God could no clearer be embodied than in the hate-born beings known as Khak’ahamshy’y in the dark tongue, or in the human tongue the Takers of Skulls, Teeth of Death, Naked Slayers, Khorne’s Chosen...the Bloodletters.

And that youngest of the pantheon, born of the decadence of the children of Isha, Slaanesh too has his coterie of bondservants: caprices, impulses, fancies and vagaries given form. The Q’tlah’itsu’aksho, maidens of ecstasy, children of Slaanesh, bringers of joyous degradation, givers of indescribable delight, the debauched ones, the seekers of decadence.

Daemonettes.

Servants to the dark prince in myriad ways, from pleasing his every sensual hunger to the flensing and vivisection of whoever might have earned his scorn at that moment or whose existence no longer entertained his fickle predilections. Though varying to a degree in form, all were possessed of lithe bodies, long of limb and with a perverse, androgynous beauty which induced loathing as much as arousement.

There were, amongst these devils who fought alongside (and indeed cavorted with as much as they aided) the renegade astartes chapter known as the Psychopomps, two distinct groups of Slaanesh’s maidens. There were those clad in black, silver-studded leathers and thigh-high stiletto heeled boots no creature of flesh and blood could ever move so fast in. These fought bare-headed, their brightly coloured locks trailing behind them as they dove, cartwheeled and pranced across the battlefield. The wrist of one hand terminated in an oversized claw with which these lissome temptresses could cleave through armoured ceramite with ease. And the other arm ended in a most human-like hand. It was in these innocent hands, capable of the most tender of caresses, which they wielded blade-tipped whips. Not the daemonic flesh weapons of the chapter’s bikers but seemingly innocuous lengths of braided hair. Aye, the hair of their peers and rivals, for to be a courtesan in the seraglio of the Dark Prince is to subject to his capricious will. What is once beautiful is soon ugly, ugly is soon beautiful and the heights of passion and pain are all too soon surmounted, turning to ennui. Only those who can hold their master’s attention...those who would do the most debased of acts in order to propel themselves into his glory...are those who thrive. For a time.

It is said that two troupes of his fairest maidens were pitted against each other in a game of spite for the pleasure of their lord. A great contest spanning millennia, to rival the magnificence of the ancient Grecian games, and like those games in Zeus’ name there was wrestling and pankration, the riding of and dueling from the backs of their lords’ best steeds (and from upon the backs of slaves from the palace pits, reins tantalizingly piercing their very flesh). The wildest rumours speak of daemons of rival gods being summoned into the palace itself for sport. Not their mere slaying, such brought naught but scorn from their fair father, no: the pawns of Slaanesh’s brothers had to be degraded in the most befitting and twisted ways. Thus did daemonettes dance about enraged bloodletters, taking their life cut by agonizingly small cut. They were wrestled, straddled and ridden, pitted against each other...each event discarded as soon the seated deity emitted a sigh of satisfaction turning to languor. On and on the two cliques fought for the dark prince’s favour until a finale was called for: maidens against maidens in open combat.

Panting and sheened in sweat from their ordeals, for even a daemon may tire in games eons-long, they set about each other with their claws and knives.

That some now stalk upon feet of claws rather than clad in the finest of boots, their faces hidden behind cruel-faced masks of jade, their scalps hairless...while others gambol unmasked with whips woven from their hair...is said to shew who won their master’s favour.

 

This week I offer an explanation, of a kind (for who can trust the words of the neverborn?), for the two kinds of daemonettes in my warband.

[Warsmith Aznable]

My entry this week for lesser daemons. I hope you like it.

 

Hidden Content

Quartus moved silently through the shadows of the spacehulk's corridor. The Alpha Legionnaire guessed it had been weeks since he had slipped through the Iron Warriors security, successfully escaping the bulk freighter's cargo holds unnoticed. He had wandered through forgotten and abandoned access tunnels, killing the occasional feral humans or unlucky maintenance workers when he had to. Weeks of cautious movements, laying still in hiding places for days at a time to avoid being seen, slowly working his way deeper toward the heart of the infamous Child of Calamity.

 

He paused.

 

Quartus knew he was at the edge of a different area. There was a subtle change in the designs and structures, a different style to the numbers and letters marking the hatches and panels, and, if he could admit it to himself, something approaching strange in the very atmosphere.

 

Up ahead there was the warm glow of an exit sign and the soft light of the few and far between fixtures. A cool breeze was coming from somewhere, bringing a stale smell with it. There were muffled voices. He tasted the air, catching the faint traces of human fear.

 

Slowly, as quietly as he could, he hugged the shadows and inched forward to see who was talking.

 

Children, those of station crew by their dress, stood in a loose circle chanting a simple rhyme. It was difficult, even with his super human hearing, to make out what the heavily accented words meant. He understood only a few words here and there.

 

One child, a mournful looking boy, stood apart from the others. At the conclusion of their childish ritual this one pulled a white papier mache mask over his face, a grotesquely grinning caricature of a long-eared rabbit, and reluctantly approached the open hatchway. It was the hatch that Quartus needed to go through to enter the next layer, the one with the breath like a tomb.

 

Had they been feral children Quartus would have simply cut their necks and stashed their bodies in the tangle of pipes and wires that ran along the ceiling and walls. But the children of crew would be missed by someone, and the extra scrutiny of his activities might travel to more capable ears. Quartus did not want to find himself hunted by Iron Warriors in their own territory, even those only suspicious. Suspicion and paranoia was a given with this lot anyway, so Quartus simply watched and waited.

 

It seemed an eternity, though it couldn't have been more than half an hour. Much to the surprise of the Alpha Legionnaire, the children, after quietly waiting, abruptly left without the rabbit-masked buy having returned to them. Quartus waited a further hour, passing the time by counting to ten in as many different languages as he could think of, and when he was sure that the children were well away he emerged from the shadows and approached the lonely bulkhead hatch.

 

Quartus hesitated at the hatch. The corridor beyond was empty, and it did not look at all much different from the ones he had recently passed along, but he had a very firm feeling of otherness when he looked through the door.

 

Quartus looked above the hatch, noted the number in case he needed to return this way, and willed himself to take the step over the threshold.

 

Hatch 42

 

+++++++++

 

There was someone following him, Quartus was certain this time.

 

This time it was not just a feeling.

 

This time it wasn't just shadows or a flickering light.

 

It was not a low frequency electrical hum making his hackles rise.

 

There was definitely someone following him.

 

Quartus back tracked down several side corridors, found his own trail, and lay in ambush for whoever was following him.

 

He waited.

 

Nothing.

 

+++++++++

 

Quartus noticed he was bleeding.

 

A cut above his eye.

 

Probably a scrape from climbing down an old set of twisted catwalks.

 

But that was a while ago, and it should have stopped by now.

 

+++++++++

 

There was definitely someone else ahead of him.

 

He could hear their footsteps, light and small like a child.

 

Quartus rubbed absently at the thin cut above his eye that wouldn't seem to completely close. His fingers were sticky and smelled strongly of the blood.

 

He wasn't sure how he got behind whoever had been following him, but Quartus would get the drop on him.

 

The Alpha Legionnaire clutched at his combat knife and limped forward, awkwardly dragging his benumbed left foot behind.

 

When had that happened?

 

+++++++++

 

The corridor was long and dark, but there was a light up ahead through an open hatchway.

 

Quartus knew instinctively that if he could get to the light then the children would not follow him.

 

He crept as quietly as he could, dragging his useless left leg, pulling himself along in a semi-crouch, one hand grasping his combat knife tightly.

 

Quartus stumbled, a jolt pain in his elbow, and his combat knife clattered noisily to the ground. He sucked in his breath, listening intently for the sounds of pursuit. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and Quartus risked a glance backward.

 

The Monkey was there with her razor sharp scalpel. So was the Old Man, the blood covered ball-pien hammer gripped tightly in his little fists.

 

Both of the short, emaciated figures stood at the very end of the corridor, the paper masks grinning and frowning at him respectively.

 

Quartus forgot his combat knife, pushing his pain-wracked body to scramble the rest of the way as fast as he could.

 

He had to reach the light.

 

+++++++++

 

He could see their faint outlines gathered in the shadows around him.

Quartus sat with his back to the wall, sticky blood closing one eye, his left leg missing from the knee down, his right forearm jutting at an unnatural angle from the broken elbow. He could not remember how he had received any of those injuries.

 

The room had been empty, a dead end.

 

The light, so warm and bright and inviting, had only been a single, weak trouble light dangling from a cord looped over an old water pipe. Dust covered hand tools spilled from an small, upset tool box, abandoned a very long time ago in this obscure, lonely mechanical room.

 

He could see their faint outlines gathered in the shadows around him. Just out of the light, but close enough that he would know they were there.

 

The Monkey was there. So was the Old Man. The Unicorn. The Comical Robot. The Crying Clown. Quartus could feel many others in the gloomy void beyond them, but he felt like he somehow knew those who were nearest the light.

 

The Rabbit was there now too.

 

The Rabbit held the Alpha Legionnaire's dropped combat knife limply in his little hand, the tip just reaching the metal deck.

 

+++++++++

 

The brightly glowing coil of the trouble light began to fade into a deep orange, and the small pool of light that Quartus took refuge in began to shrink and to fade.

 

The Monkey moved to step forward, but the Old Man grabbed her dress holding her back.

 

The Rabbit reluctantly followed the edge of the dying light, dragging the point of the combat knife along the metal deck with each hesitant step.

 

"Emperor, preserve me."

[Teetengee]

I'm not going to finish mine before the deadline, but I will have a story of lesser daemons for you in the (near) future.

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in Minor Daemons I over the last week. Get yours in when you can, Teetengee :)

I'm sure we'll be seeing more of Scourged's Tzan'shwariz'zzl when we get around to Inspiration Friday: Daemon Heralds!

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 Thirteenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:

Tales of Honour

Nobility of soul, magnanimity, and a scorn of meanness. Many are the definitions of honour and equally numerous are the results of it: brotherhood, victory, glory, jealousy and betrayal, war, death and destruction.

Honour. Something held in high respect by the majority of the legions astartes before the great betrayal. But what, ten millennia on, of those who fell during the Heresy? Or those whose turn from the light of the Emperor came closer to the darkness of the 41st millennium? And what of those who still hold true to the Golden Throne, though much changed is the Imperium from the Emperor’s vision for it?

Whether it be that of the renegades or those who still kneel before the corpse-Emperor, give us this week a tale of honour.

Inspirational Friday: Tales of Honour runs until the 6th of May.

Let us be inspired.

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

Additionally I will let you know the topic for the fourteenth Inspiration Friday of 2016, as you may wish to tie the 13thand 14th challenges together (though the victor chosen by Carrack will judge only the 13th challenge. The winner of the 13th chooses the winner of the 14th).

The 14th Inspiration Friday will be Tales of Dishonour

[Carrack]

Gifts and Music

 

 

Distemper trudged down the mountain with his rotten troop. The mountain was gigantic, it reached all the way to the void above this Imperial World, in fact Distemper was still so high up, the air was too thin to breath by mortal lungs. That didn't hinder Distemper or his troop, no mortal concern hindered the Bearers of the Grandfather's Plagues, but it did bother him. How was he supposed to give some of his Grandfather's gifts, if no one could breath them in? The gifts, like Distemper's troop, were there in spite of the lack of atmosphere, hanging around them in a yellowish cloud, the sickly miasma was of supernatural origins, same as the Plague Bearers. Distemper continued to descend the great mountain, called a Pillar of Fortitude by the mortals who fought for control of this world. While he climbed down, an image and an idea flashed across his conscience. The image was of this titanic mountain, chiseled away over the eons, until nothing remained. The idea, closely related to the image, was that everything and everyone would suffer the same fate, no matter what heights they achieved. All would bow to Nurgle, if they had the strength to endure everything else.

 

Some of the mortals fighting for this mountain and this world were just a little further down the Pillar, garbed in rebreather masks and digging a trench into the steep slope. Distemper smiled, he would lead his troop of nine Plague Bearers to go and meet these mortals, and generously bring them his Grandfather's gifts, even if they were trying to be unreceptive by wearing rebreather masks. Distemper loved sharing with mortals so much. He hoped he could stay here in reality long enough to share with all of the enemy guardsmen. Distemper was so use to such short and unsatisfying giving sprees in the realms of man, but he could feel this time would be different. He was going to get to stick around and spread his master's love, Nurgle's love. As if reassuring him that his long holiday in reality was for certain, he felt the presence of Nagashesha, the Serpent Prince of Rot.

 

Nagashesha commanded Distemper and his troop. He had been the Prince of Daemons that had summoned seven times seven troops of Nurgle's Bearers of Plagues. His presence on this world weakened the veil between reality and the realms of the gods. The warp stormed and raged at his call, reeking havoc in the enemy lines with delightful explosions of pus. Distemper descended the mountain, closer and closer to the enemy lines.

 

The guardsmen began firing on Distemper's troop with a score of lasguns, their whizzing cracks accompanied by the thuds and booms of launched grenades and the heavy rat-a-tat-tat of auto cannons. The music of war that Distemper associated with fighting Imperial Guardsmen. They always played the same couple of tunes, he had heard this one a thousand times before. The effect of the music was minimal at this point, the rocky terrain, along with his troop's clinging miasma, fouled most of the guardsmen's shots. The few lasguns that added wet splats to the soundtrack, only struck intestines, stomachs, livers, and other unimportant targets. Distemper and his troop kept climbing down to meet the guardsmen, they wanted the mortals to feel the blessings of the Grandfather, and they would have to be up close to do so.

 

The music of war grew louder, and increased in tempo. Some of Distemper's troop were blown apart in showers of bile and gore, which dissipated back to the aether. The losses were not disheartening, Distemper was getting closer and closer to the guardsmen, in fact he was joyous at the prospect of spreading his patron's blessing. He ran his troop down the last stretch of slope to reach the trench. He didn't quite make it, his enthusiasm had betrayed him.

 

Although he was still short of the trench, he could feel the enthusiasm of his troop spreading like glorious rot to the guardsmen. Their fire was so inaccurate as they ran, that they must have been a excited about receiving the gifts Distemper was bringing them. However, one of the guardsmen must have been a spoilsport, for after the wild volley, he cursed his men and told them to fire by ranks. The music of war grew deafening, the guardsmen opened fire at a blistering rate from close range. Distemper took to many las shots and some cannon fire. It was too much, sadly, he was sent back to the warp before he could give his Grandfather's gifts to the deserving guardsmen.

 

*******

 

Distemper was in the blood and intestinal track of some great beast, hunting across a savannah of bluish grass. The beast gave up on the chase, allowing the ruminant to escape, even though the beast would normally catch such prey. But not today, the beast didn't have the energy, it simply collapsed, tired and hungry, unwilling to complete the chase. The beast wallowed in the gift Distemper had brought.

 

As happy as Distemper was, enjoying the gift he was sharing with the beast, he wanted more. He wanted his physical form, he wanted to finish giving Nurgle's gifts to those guardsmen on the mountain, or those manufactorum drones in that hive world, or even those sailors on that three masted frigate so long ago. While he longed, and wallowed in missed opportunities, he heard music. It wasn't the harsh music of war with guardsmen, it was the joyous sound of a snotty, wet trumpet, rusted and holed. It was the call of his troop's Instrument. He left the beast, the gift having blessed the beast about as much could be enjoyed, and followed the sound of the Instrument.

 

*******

 

Distemper was back with his troop on the same mountain, it hadn't yet been worn down. In fact no time had passed at all. He oozed into reality just behind the trench of the mortals who had last banished him. Another troop was in front of the trench, listening to the guardsmen's music. Now was his opportunity, he ran up the mountain the few meters and jumped into the trench with the guardsmen. Distemper and his troop brought the unreceptive guardsmen the gifts of Nurgle with their twisted and pitted swords. Some still tried to deny their blessings with bayonets and buts of lasguns, but in the end, they all were given the gifts they deserved. It was glorious. Distemper was so ecstatic at the occasion, that he immediately looked around for more guardsmen to share more of his generous Grandfather's gifts.

 

 

I've had too much fun, sun, and rum, I'm back for a little grimness and darkness. I'll make my decision soon.

[Son of Carnelian]

Perfect Mistake

 

The wound on the back of Agholor's head still had not yet healed. Despite his blood clotting instantly as it should have, new flesh had not yet taken hold. It remained there, a scab cast dark purple by the ichor in his blood. He spit on the floor of his isolation chamber, the acidic nature of the fluid leaving a tiny mark on the floor that nearly matched his scab for size. 

 

Agholor kept this room free of any decoration. In stark contrast to the rest of his ship, which held a riot of sound and color and other sensations, this room offered nothing. The floor had practically no temperature, neither hot nor cold. No sound, no matter how loud, could penetrate this island of silence. Even the seam of the door barely stood out from the pale grey of the walls. 

 

Some of the more insubordinate of Agholor's brothers in the Flawless Host had questioned this practice, in rare moments of clarity brought about by an absence of drugs in their system or afforded to some by fasting. He had never answered them. He kept his own council on the matter and those that persisted in asking felt the keen touch of his blade.

 

But he knew what brought him here, and anyone with any perspective could have easily discerned it as well. Agholor came here only after battles in which he had received a wound at the hands of the enemy. Here, he could think. Without sensation or passion driving his body as it did in war, he could focus on the mistakes he had made. This particular mistake that had brought him today came from a surprising source. Surprising, not only because the blow had come from behind his head, but because its source had been a mere Guardsmen who erroneously thought he could bash Agholor's skull in with the butt of his lasrifle. Agholor had thanked him for this illuminating wound by flaying the young man with one of his more pleasurable knives, making sure that he never lost conciousness until the end of Agholor's attentions.

 

He focused on the moment in his mind. The point of impact, ringing his skull like a bell and bursting open a small section of his skin. He felt the pull of temptation, to focus his memory only on the sweet sensation of that pain, but doing so would corrupt this practice and this space. No, further. He sought for the mistake he had made, the sign he had missed, the sound he had not heard. There. With the nearly-perfect memory afforded to him as an Astartes, he found the sound of sliding rubble in his memory of that day. He had ignored it, unconsciously writing it off as nothing more than the masonry beneath his feet shifting from the weight of his armored form. Wrong. A base human, crawling to where Agholor roared in pleasure, had made the sound as he approached. There. The sound of a lasrifle, swung through the air. Wind whistling just behind. Idle noise thrown up from the battlefield? Wrong. The lasrifle hit home and burst apart upon meeting Agholor's reinforced skull, but not before dealing him his latest wound.

 

He replayed the moment for hours. Every time he made himself feel the wound again and again, but denying himself the pleasure. In a way, he honored that nameless Guardsman who had struck. He would never forget that wound now, the errors that had brought it to him, and the face of the young man who had bequeathed it. Agholor considered that somehow, someway, perhaps the young man lived on in his memory, with the scene playing again with such frequency inside his brain. 

 

Agholor ended his ritual and stood. Feeling the back of his head, he grinned with satisfaction upon finding the wound gone.  He left the chamber with a laugh on his lips, and delved into the infinite pleasures his life offered him, made all the sweeter by his temporary abstinence. 

[Carrack]

Lesser Daemons

 

 

The Horror, by Scourged

 

Excellent story. What really jumped out at me was the impact you gave the word "more", by its repeated use. It felt like you incorporated the very rhythm of the story to aid in its telling. Another thing I liked, was how you explained An'shwar's reasoning behind murdering her family. There was enough justification for it to seem believable to me, but not too much to take away from her evil and insane character. I also liked the sheer madness of the events you described, the candles, lines, laughing hordes of daemons, such fun. :)

 

 

Q’tlah’itsu’aksho, by Kierdale

 

Your descriptions are excellent, even before you got to your stables of daemonettes, your descriptions of the other three gods' lesser servants truly captured their essence, in but a few lines. I think that writing good descriptions is especially important when you write an encyclopedia style bit of background. (I'm not sure what's the literary term for this kind of writing.) The part of the story I enjoyed the most was the relationship between the two groups of daemonettes, it was very original. The opening of your story was quite good as well.

 

Untitled, by Warsmith.

 

Goosebumps. The Child of Calamity is such a good setting, particularly the scale of it, the fact that your Grand Company, not a small warband, inhabits just a small portion of it shows some of this scale, as does having an Alpha Legionary infiltrate the hulk for weeks. My favorite part of your story was its tone. It was creepy. For me, horror is like shooting mortars over a hill, it's impossible to know yourself whether you hit the target. I think you did. I also like how you built on an idea from a previous story. For this contest, I didn't reread the story, I just went with my recollections of the previous story, they were more than enough, the story was good on its own, not that that matters.

 

So I am left with the task of choosing a winner. I'm not sure how to do that, they all were really good. I've considered rolling dice, printing them out and taping them to a door as I search for my darts, consulting a magic 8 ball, and breaking a wishbone, but those methods all have their drawbacks.

 

The winner is Warsmith Aznable.

[Warsmith Aznable]

Untitled, by Warsmith.

 

Goosebumps. The Child of Calamity is such a good setting, particularly the scale of it, the fact that your Grand Company, not a small warband, inhabits just a small portion of it shows some of this scale, as does having an Alpha Legionary infiltrate the hulk for weeks. My favorite part of your story was its tone. It was creepy. For me, horror is like shooting mortars over a hill, it's impossible to know yourself whether you hit the target. I think you did. I also like how you built on an idea from a previous story. For this contest, I didn't reread the story, I just went with my recollections of the previous story, they were more than enough, the story was good on its own, not that that matters.

 

The winner is Warsmith Aznable.

I am honoured to be chosen again, and also that someone actually remembered "Three Ladies". When I wrote that entry I felt like it didn't go over well at all, since no mentioned it at the time.

 

With this one I was worried the "missing time" wouldn't work, leaving readers confused as to what was actually going on. Horror is super hard, a tightrope between boring and campy. I don't try it often, but I was mostly happy with how this one turned out.

 

I look forward to judging Tales of Honour, and reading all the entries!

[Carrack]

The Martyrdom of Captain Valedor

 

Tancrea, The Pillars of Fortitude

 

 

Part 1

Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

 

 

Captain Valedor took a brief moment to calm his nerves, snatching a lho stick from his Master Voxman. Under normal circumstances, he never smoked in front of his men, it was not fitting of an officer he had always felt. Instead, he saved the guilty pleasure for after hours, in the privacy of his own quarters. Now was not a time of normal circumstances, and if his men saw him engage in an enlisted habit during the last moments of their lives, he doubted it would have any effect on their discipline. So he smoked away, and told his Master Voxman to try for Commissar Halen again.

 

He hadn't heard from his commissar, or any of his 1st platoon, since they had reported back that they had successfully sent off the distress signal. He had heard the heavy reports of bolter fire in the background of their last communication. His station was being overrun.

 

They had known that attack was imminent. The fleet of the Arch-Enemy had taken days to fully translate, enough time to put the world on fullest alert, and send out warning to sub-sector command. Where exactly the attack would come was the question. They had chosen the three defense stations of sector 27 for a teleport strike, of which Captain Valedor commanded 27A. How long the enemy held them would determine the size of the army they could land on Tancrea. If they managed to land a large enough force, they could create a wider opening, make a beachhead from which they could land enough forces to neutralize the fortress world, and freely attack the Imperium beyond. Commissar Halen had achieved their first priority of defense, and gotten word to command that the Arch-Enemy was pushing through their defense sector. It saved the time command would have taken to ascertain their status after the next scheduled communication. Reinforcements were likely speeding out to bolster their sector now. It was up to Valedor to keep the guns of his station firing as long as possible, and delay the start of the heretics landing for as long as possible. A successful defense of the station was not a realistic possibility. The enemy had struck with traitor marines, the most vile, and the most deadly of assailants.

 

Captain Valedor was well aware of the strengths of traitor marines, and the best tactics to use against them. He commanded a company of Tancrean Guard, and their fortress world was right at the edge of Imperial space before the Eye of Terror. It wasn't near the Gate of Cadia, not near the only stable path out of the hellish warp storm, but it was close enough to the Eye to be a frequent target of raiders using less stable exits to escape their damnation and plunder humanity. He knew enough of the enemy, to know that they couldn't be beaten by the forces he had available. Yet his family was on this world, and the families of his men, they wouldn't sell their lives cheap.

 

Valedor finished the lho stick and made ready for his next move. His commissar and first platoon were gone. His third platoon had made the initial contact with the enemy near the main magazine for the station's guns, but they had been quickly defeated. Fortunately, the remnants of two squads had gotten away and regrouped with his second, and last infantry platoon. His fourth platoon, the weapons platoon, had been repurposed to main the AAA turrets when they had rotated to this station from field patrols. That was a serious misfortune. Their missiles and autocanons would have been a greater threat to the traitor marines then the shotguns that had been issued upon assuming the defenses of this station. Captain Valedor quickly formulated a plan, and grabbed the master vox headset to start issuing out orders. He was frank about the situation with his sergeants and 2nd platoon's young lieutenant. The sergeants in return were stoic in the face of bleak orders, Captain Valedor couldn't help but feel pride in their steadfastness. The young LT, on the other hand, was clearly emotional, not cowardly so, but full of equal measures of anger and sorrow. Captain Valedor preferred the stoic responses of his sergeants.

 

 

Part 2

Red Smile

 

 

 

Sergeant Red ran his men down the tracks of the ammo rail to alpha macrocannon. It would have been difficult for many to run over the metal ties, and avoid the middle rail that held a charge from the station's generators, but for the Tancrean Guard who were used to the treacherous footing of mountain slopes, for them, it was easygoing. They reached the blast door to alpha macrocannon's gun pit. Sergeant Red sent forward Designated Marksman Wallo to check the door. He had the best eyes, and could be quiet when he needed to be. Carefully, DM Wallo crawled up to the door, making a quick sign of the Aquilla, then signaled to Sergeant Red. He began manually cranking the door as slow and smooth as he could. The crank kept sticking and noisily freeing itself, the human flotsam of the navy that manned the station's guns must have neglected to perform the Rites of Lubrication upon the cranking mechanism. They tended to neglect quite a bit, personal hygiene, and regulations pertaining to sobriety being the most commonly noted. Finally, the door slid open enough for DM Wallo to poke his head out into the gun pit at deck level. It didn't get shot off. Sergeant Red led his squad into the gun pit.

 

It was a charnel house. They had known the enemy had silenced the gun, and suspected they did it by killing the crew, but they were not prepared for the atrocity they found. Blood was everywhere, so were intestines and brains, scattered across the wreckage of the gun, which had been spiked with a krak grenade. Disturbingly, there were no skulls to be found amongst the dozen or so crew. Sergeant Red had always disliked the Navy. They all did, the troopers of the guard. The men and women of the navy were all ne'er do wells who had been taken up by press gangs to continue their lives of petty crime in His Holy Fleet, and their mates all tried real hard to act like the worse sort of commissars. Their officers were never seen. In spite of his poor view of the navy, he was appalled at the gruesome manner in which they were killed, and he felt a kinship with them when he saw the makeshift weapons laying about that they had used to defend themselves with. They had gone down fighting. Sgt Red would make them pay.

 

Each gun in the batteries of macrocannons were connected by a narrow corridor that could be used by runners to relay the commands of the battery's gunners mate. They were also connected by the ammo rail that Red had used to reach alpha macrocannon, but the enemy was going from gun to gun using the corridor, otherwise they would have made contact on the rail. It was time to move forward, Sergeant Red had paused in the gun pit only long enough for his squad to get a good glimpse at what the heretics were all about. They made a mad rush to beta macrocannon, and found a similar scene, but they could hear the revving of chainswords, the fire of boltguns, and the maddened screams of the enemy from the next gun in the battery. Screams for more skulls for the skull throne. At his orders, his men took up defensive positions using the gun and an ammo cart as cover. He and Wallo went up to the edge of the corridor, Wallo once again going prone, this time with his long las readied with its bipod extended, and the blade of Sgt Red's chainsword held up in the high guard. Wallo eased forward on the deck, exposing as little of himself as possible out into the corridor, and immediately fired.

 

Wallo slotted another shot pack into the sniper rifle with the speed of a well drilled trooper, and sent another high powered blast down the corridor. Then repeated. After the third shot he called out, "Nine traitor marines coming this way!" Then he shot off another round. As he went to reload a fresh shot pack, his shoulder blew apart with the fatal detonation of a mass reactive bolt that struck the stock of his rifle and exploded. Sgt Red thumbed his chainsword, on and began reciting the Pledge of Hatred. His men joined in.

 

The first of the enemy rushed into the gun pit. Whether it was blind luck, or the traitor marine's superhuman reflexes, was difficult to tell, but the ambushing hack that Sgt Red took was blocked by an iron spear topped with a brass rune. The marine didn't pause, but continued rushing towards the waiting squad, firing off bolts from his pistol held in the other hand, and lashing out at Sgt Red with the but spike of his spear. Sgt Red tried to step inside the swing, but the strike was too quick, and the spike pierced his thigh, coming out the other side. Just as quickly, the spike was withdrawn, taking a bloody chunk of meat with it. More marines followed into the gun pit. They, along with the first, met a hail of scatter shot. The tiny flechettes that would have shredded exposed flesh, bounced off their black power armor harmlessly. Sgt Red shouted out the prearranged command, surprised by his weakened voice, "Fall back to B Company's heavy weapons!" The two men who had drawn the face cards out of the deck before they started their suicide mission ran back to alpha macrocannon. The others, including himself, fought their hardest to cover their withdrawal. They died to a man. Sgt Red, managed to fight off the stronger, faster, and better armed chaos marines, but the initial wound had punctured the big artery in his thigh. He fell before the enemy could land another blow, his vision tunneling out from blood loss. Before he died, he heard the heretics shouting across their vox that there was another company aboard the station. Captain Valedor's plan had worked. Sgt Red died with a proud smile on his face.

 

 

 

Part 3

Martyrdom

 

 

 

 

The situation was bleak. Captain Valedor was low on ammunition, and was down to but a handful of men. Yet he still had fight in him, the traitor marines had not yet secured his defense station, the other two stations in Defense Sector 27 had already fallen. Captain Valedor crouched low in the service tunnel, drawing his pistol for the first time since earning his second bar, outside of the practice range, of course. Even in the simplest of training exercises, he was too busy directing his men to get personally involved in the action, but now, he had so few troops left that his pistol was needed more than his commands. His men had done him proud, each and every one of them. His 2nd platoon had gone down, almost taking the enemy with them. Their LT especially had lived up to the honor of the Tancrean Guard. The young man had moved his platoon into the genetorum to hold it from the enemy's assault, on his orders. However, instead of merely holding the power plant, he had taken two minutes to address the naval crew that worked, ate, and slept there. Whatever he had said, had moved the disreputable men and women of His Holy Fleet so much, that they had followed him out to attack their invaders, armed with nothing but wrenches, makeshift knives, and the occasional zip gun. They had charged terminators. If Captain Valedor had two minutes left in his short life to do whatever he wanted, it would be spent with his family, but if he had two minutes after that, it would have been spent hearing what the young man had said in the genetorum. The surviving men of 2nd platoon had said that they had taken two of the heretics down with them.

 

Captain Valedor duck walked down the service tunnel, leading a band of about 30, half his own men, and most of those walking wounded, and the other half a gang of naval ratings and the naval operations officer of the station. It was the first time he had seen his naval counterpart in person. The pompous fool had tried to assume authority, only to balk when Captain Valedor calmly, and easily, disarmed him and took his power saber for himself, he was sure he would make better use of it then the dress uniformed Lieutenant Commander with the pudgy physique. They reached their destination, gun pit omega, the last of the station's macrocannon, and found it unoccupied. Captain Valedor dropped to the gantry surrounding the pit, spraining an ankle and jarring his back with the fall. He would feel that in the morning, he thought, than laughed heartily at that absurdity. Much of the overwhelming stress dissipated with the laughter. He helped the rest of the men down more easily. His laughter was infectious.

 

They couldn't stop themselves if they wanted to, they were laughing in the face of death. They all kept it up as they took their positions. Captain Valedor's men divided into two teams, guarding the communication corridor to psi gun pit, and the ammo rail to the magazine. The naval crew took manual control of the gun, and began loading it while it was traversed to the extreme left and lowered to its lowest setting. The Lieutenant Commander, still chuckling with the rest of them, finally said, "Captain Valedor, we are ready to say hello to the traitors on 27B. You have the honor." Captain Valedor took off his helmet and commanded, "Fire!" A firing chain was pulled by the Lieutenant Commander himself, and the propellant was ignited. The gun rocked. It shook the floor of the pit and the bones and teeth of the brave men present. The gun boomed. It blasted out the eardrums of the same men. They would never hear again. Gunners helmets had not been available. The shell launched. The gun crew was all over omega, hoisting another shell, and cleaning the opened breech with an oversized version of what Captain Valedor used to clean his ears after climbing up and down the mountains of his home. Staring down the manual targeting reticle, the Lieutenant Commander jumped up and started mouthing something in excitement. Everyone stared until he regained his cool and made a few broad gestures with both arms. The crew started piling in more propellant into the breech. The officer glanced over at Captain Valedor and gave him a big grin and a thumbs up. Captain Valedor started laughing again, but nobody heard it. Nobody heard the enemy rushing down the ammo rail firing boltguns. Nobody heard the defenders standing their ground firing off the last of their ammunition in the face of their impending doom. Nobody heard, but Captain Valedor saw, and grabbed the other team to bolster the ammo rail. Their shotguns were scattering flechette into two chaos terminators. It might as well have been a light rain for all the damage it did. The enemy was upon them.

 

Captain Valedor did not even register the second terminator. The first was too terrible to allow him to comprehend more. The enemy charged like a beast, a third simian arm scraping its claws on the rails like a beast that could barely walk upright. Racks of spikes crested the terminator's power plant, each holding a skull or a helm. Spikes protruded from its great helm as well, holding aloft a brass rune that caused reality to shimmer, like it was at war with the rune's presence. The armor of the beast was thick, slab plates and huge pauldrons. But the worst was the axe. The axe was evil. It radiated evil that Captain Valedor could feel in his very soul. Captain Valedor had made his peace as soon as they had been invaded. He knew he was going to die fighting, he was no coward. The sight of the axe weakened his resolve. Not enough though. He stepped forward, shooting his pistol off to no effect, and brought the power saber up to the high guard. He tried to slash down on the helmet of the beast, but the enemy was way too fast. Before he had swung more than a few inches, the cursed axe swept horizontally under his guard, taking his head from his shoulders. For a brief moment, as his head flew to the floor, his brain still had enough fluid and oxygen to function. In that gruesome moment, Captain Valedor saw omega gun fire again.

 

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

 

The two shells fired during the Martyrdom of Captain Valedor struck Defense Station 27B below its protective dome of void shields. The shells exploded into the small but elite Black Legion assault force that had just captured the station, inflicting significant casualties. The lucky shots allowed the survivors on 27B to briefly resume firing on the encroaching invasion army of the Black Maw Warband, delaying planetstrike by 13 minutes. This delay cut the window of time the invaders had to land their army, before orbital superiority was regained after the collapse of Defense Sector 27, and may prove to be pivotal in the defense of the Pillars of Fortitude, should the fortress world, and all that it guards, stand.

 

 

 

[BitsHammer]

I felt a little inspired last night and managed to scribble up a short little thing:
 

Champion's Blade

The stink of blood was ever present as the sound of the dead and dying was everywhere around him, a maelstrom of noise that seemed to exist in a storm around him and for a moment Sergeant Gleff Hantim wondered who they were fighting this time, and as the storm of violence began to reach him he decided that it didn't matter.

What did matter to him was that the enemy was attempting their charge again, to break their lines with their lasguns and gas masked clad faces, the rubber masks hiding the mysteries of their foe's faces. He didn't try to imagine their faces though, and instead met them with his power sword and laspistol, a rallying cry on his lips as he lept into the fray, tearing into the enemy with the brutal efficiency that only a soldier could manage.

Blood sprayed as he hacked left and right, the gun in his hand finishing anyone the sword didn't immediately kill. There was no point in taking prisoners from their attackers, and even less in having them needlessly suffer. He only stopped easing their suffering when the power cell in the pistol ran dry and the enemy wouldn't relent long enough to allow him to reload. So the pistol went back into the holster as the sword continued its bloody work, the power field angrily growling as it continued to bite into the people he'd been sent to this world to kill. Some tried to block the crackling blade with their rifles only to have the power field reduce the weapon to mess of burning metal.

Almost as quickly as the wave of men had pounded into his line they drew back, breaking to let someone through. While the man's rank insignia was unfamiliar to Hantim he could tell that whomever had come to see what had stopped the advance was important. Part of it was the way the man carried himself, almost as if he wasn't in a hurry despite being in the middle of a battlefield, the other was the impressive looking blade that he was aiming at Hantim's weary face, the masked face barking something at him in a language he didn't speak.

The body language he did speak though. The newcomer clearly wanted to fight him, and he was more than willing to oblige. Let these dogs see the truth of who truly owned this world the old fashioned way. Mirroring the challenger's body language Hantim's blade now ran parallel to the one pointed at him, their hands almost meeting in the middle, the challenge accepted despite neither side knowing what the other was saying.

Eternity seemed to stretch on as neither moved, each trying to judge the other's action and prepare to counter-act first. Eternity exploded as the blades began to flash, the power fields sparking as they collided, the men meeting on equal terms at first as they attacked and blocked in rapid succession. Both men had considerable talent and experience with their blades, but the challenger wasn't as fluid in his movements, as if his body was at its limits before they had even started.

Hantim almost wanted to give the man a reprieve in the name of fair competition but without having the words to discuss things he decided to instead allow the man seek eternal rest. His blade began to strike faster and faster, drawing blood each time it struck, the shallow cuts beginning to strike deeper and deeper into his opponent's flesh, the power field searing the wounds shut before they had a chance to drain the other man. The challenger was faltering under the onslaught now, unable to keep up with the fury at which the sword was striking and finally look the crackling blade through the shoulder, the power sword tumbling out of his gloved hand.

Hantim saluted the man, and prepared to strike a clean killing stroke when his back exploded into a rain of pain and heat, the snapping sound of a number of lasguns opening fire catching him off guard. As his body lost control of his legs thanks to a shot severing his spine his eyes looked up at his foe and he spit in hatred as the man drew a laspistol of his own.

"Leave it to the followers of the Corpse-God to not know the honor of a fair contest. May Khorne damn you for all time."

If the Guardsman understood Hantim's cursing he didn't react as he pulled the trigger, a bolt of energy lancing from the muzzle of the weapon and through the traitor sergeant's face, silencing his curses forever.

[Son of Carnelian]

Love the story, Fulkes. People speak often of Khorne as possibly a god of martial honor, but I have never seen anyone execute that concept in a narrative. 

[BitsHammer]

Love the story, Fulkes. People speak often of Khorne as possibly a god of martial honor, but I have never seen anyone execute that concept in a narrative.

Thanks! The idea snuck up onto me rather quickly after reading the prompt and I was rather pleased in being able to convey it properly. I'm always glad to bring new facets out of the lore.

[Scourged]

I struggled for a bit to get something going, but then I thought of a fun way to play with an old character for a bit. Enjoy.

 

 

 

Gift Giver

The congregation of vermin had grown larger since he last visited this place. Mortals of all ages and races had taken up residence in this forsaken section of the armory in even greater numbers. Looking throughout the supplicated crowd, there was not one singular defining trait among them, save for their devoted reverence. As he walked, careful footing was necessary to avoid a misstep that would shatter the leg or arm of some feeble creature.

The sound of the crowd mimicked the ever-present murmur from the plasmic engines powering Deception’s Call. Their endless chanting and prayers in languages of a hundred different origins created a white noise that filled the high-ceilinged chamber. Though he could not understand their words, the inflections of their individual voices made it very clear that this had become a room of honor and worship. These were, after all, the same reasons which brought him to these depths as well.

There, at the chamber’s core, rested the idol they’d all come to observe. The beast of flesh and metal stood motionless atop a dais of thickly veined marble. It was a captive of this place, every part of its limbs and weapons tightly bound by massive iron chains, holding it in place while it rested. He looked upon the creature, as he always did, and stared at every seamless blend of red-warped sinew and blue ceramite plates. Millennia of service to the True Master had rendered the beast an amalgamation of flesh and metal, just as contradictory as the mutated ship in which they all resided.

Finally close enough to appease his motivations, he slowly descended to the floor to rest on his knees and bow his head. Were it not for his size and silence, he would look no different than the decrepit mortals that gathered en masse. In truth, perhaps he wasn’t so different from them. He did come here to pay his respects and worship just as they did. And rightfully so, as this was the lone holy place aboard their damned vessel.

Wordlessly, he joined the cult in communion to Gallus the Deceived. Though he did not speak with words, his thoughts and gestures showed praise to the chained brute at his forefront. This was the entity that truly gave him his new life, and it deserved all of his reverence for it. It was through the actions of fallen chapter master - long before his internment - that the Scourged found their power and knowledge. Were it not for this beast, none would have received the Gift. That alone was reason enough for him to bestow honored prayers upon Gallus the Deceived.

Before the Gift, he had been a slave. He had not known it at the time, but serving the Imperium so blindly had been a disservice to his existence. All he had known had been a falsehood! The glories of his chapter, and of his lineage, were tainted with lies. He hadn’t wanted to believe it at first, no, but the truth cannot be denied.  Acceptance had taken time and meditation, but he finally embraced the Gift.

Silence was his atonement for past sins. After having wasted so many words repeating the insipid deceptions of the Imperium, not another syllable would be spoken. This was a self-imposed penance that Salazar enforced even now, in the presence of the Gift-giver. And he would continue to do so, until such time as the entire galaxy burned. Only then would he speak again, confident that no more lies could be spoken by man.

 

 

[Warsmith Aznable]

This is a story that's been rattling around inside my head for ages. Since I'm out of competition this time I think I can get away with finally having a go at it since I don't need to worry about winning.

Part One - Founding a New Chapter.

scene: deep in the bowels of a decrepit bulk freighter's secondary storage units, a makeshift squad bay with two small rooms attached, well separated from the crew and the levies of second rate Guard conscripts and volunteers, a group of five space marines awaits the final passage to their next war zone.

Hidden Content

"When I said crimson and blue, I didn't mean blue and crimson." The space marine known as Primus sighed. For what felt like the ten thousandth time since he had left the Emperor's service he didn't know whether he should scream or cry, so he laughed instead. And for what felt like the ten thousandth time since he had left the Emperor's service he stopped himself short of uncontrollable hysteria, choking down his emotions.

"I don't see how your lack of clear directions is anybody's problem but your own." The space marine known as Tertius frowned at Primus, noting the difference in their power armours freshly applied new colour schemes. They were both crimson and blue, only as they stood face to face they were a mirror of each other, with Primus wearing the red on his right and Tertius wearing the red on his left.

"Goddamit." Quintus emerged from the back room of their makeshift lodgings. Like Tertius, his power armour was also red on the left. Quintus looked around the room, and saw that Secundus and Quartus matched Primus. He hesitated, then spoke up. "There isn't any paint left. Not enough to do two sets over again, anyway."

Primus bit his lower lip, closed his eyes, turned his face to the low ceiling and blew out a long, weary breath.

"Fine," Primus said after a long moment of contemplation. "You two are special weapons, on loan from one of our chapters reserve companies. Quintus, you take the meltagun; Tertius, you're humping the heavy flamer."

"Ha!" Quartus, the former designated heavy flamer carrier, made a rude gesture toward Tertius. "Enjoy your promotion."

"Shut up." Primus snapped. The voyage had been long, and he was near his limit with this group's incessant bickering. "Shut up or I will definitely kill at least one of you."

The anger in the air lingered for another hour, as each space marine lost himself in his own private thoughts and activities.

+++++++++

"What the hell is this?" Tertius asked, nonplussed by the strange design.

"It's a hawk." Secundus said defensively.

"Why has it got boots on?" Tertius took the cardboard stencil gingerly from Secundus' hands and held it up to the room's one bare light bulb to get a better look.

"Claws are deceptively hard to draw." Secundus snatched the stencil back from Tertius. "They kept coming out wrong."

"I like the boots." Quintus peered over Secundus' shoulder at the stencil. "Boots are good for kicking."

"It doesn't matter." Primus growled. "The damn thing could be on roller skates for all I care. The point is how it looks from a distance."

"Are you sure?" Tertius asked.

"Yes, dammit!" Primus snapped. "Now sit your foolish blue and crimson carcass on the floor and let Secundus apply our new Chapter logo."

"Where did you ever read these statistics on chapter colours, anyhow?" Quartus asked, coming over to watch.

"It's too late to back out now," Primus told him. "So just believe it and stop thinking about anything that's not got to do with your part in this mission."

The squad was blessedly quiet for a long time, gathered around Secundus as he applied the poorly drawn bird wearing boots to the white insets of their shoulder pads each in turn.

"What are roller skates?" Quartus eventually asked.

Part Two - Planetfall

scene - A vast port, shipping containers of various shapes and sizes stacked several layers high and arranged in a labyrinthine manner. The constant rumble of arriving and departing transports filling the air, thousands upon thousands of humans milling about by group: guard troops, frateris militia, pilgrims, civilians, port workers. Five space marines were making their way as far away from the crowds as they could possibly get.

Hidden Content

"You never said anything about the Ecclesiarchy." Tertius spoke in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. He eyed the fleur-de-lis markings stenciled on the nearest containers, then glanced about nervously. "You should have said, but you didn't."

"Quit your whinging." Primus scowled, adjusting his power sword in its scabbard all the same as he eyed the same markings. "I didn't know, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway."

"It would have mattered to me." Tertius insisted, but made no further argument, instead concentrated on covering upcoming corners with the heavy flamer.

"Calm down." Secundus chided him. "This is well to the rear, yet. You'll draw attention to us if you keep acting like we're not supposed to be here."

"You calm down." Tertius said tersely. "How can you calm down when there's enough of those harpies on this planet to warrant this level of resupply?"

"What do you know about the ground situation?" Quartus asked. "We're here. We're committed. You might as well share anything you haven't yet told us."

"This place is a classic ." Primus answered. "Local politics turned violent, dragged some nearby systems into the fighting making it a matter of Imperial Law, portions of the Sector Fleet got involved, then an ork Waagh came sniffing around because they heard there was a big fight."

"And?" Quartus prompted him.

"And maybe this whole thing was started by a Genestealer cult." Primus finally admitted to his group this detail.

"Fantastic." Secundus said bitterly.

"You two go back to the transport," Quintus said, slapping Tertius on the shoulder pad with aggressive cheerfulness. "I already know what I can do with your portions of the treasure."

"Put a lid on your banter." Primus barked just a bit too quickly, not looking at the squad. "We're soon to be out in the open anyway, so shut your mouths and let me be the one to talk if anyone approaches us."

Quartus exchanged a concerned look with Quintus, but the squad plodded on.

Part Three - Into the Fray

scene - a platoon of mechanized Imperial Guard rumbled down the lonely highway: four Chimeras, two Leman Russ tanks, and a supply truck bringing up the rear. The earth was blasted and pockmarked in every direction, and the remains of a burnt forest reached out of the ground like grasping, skeletal hands. The sepia haze of recent wildfires hung heavily in the air, obscuring vision and making breathing difficult. The muffled crump of artillery and chatter of stubbers drifted through the haze from all directions, and looming ahead were the broken outlines of a ruined Imperial city. Five space marines rode uneasily on the tops of two of the Chimeras, weapons at the ready, taking cover as best as they could among the piles of ruck sacks, sand bags, and bundles of equipment.

Hidden Content

"What chapter did you say you were from?" The young lieutenant had been pestering Primus nearly the entire ride. He rode up in the turret of the Chimera, and over the past three hours had made many attempts at conversation with the sergeant of the strike squad who he had graciously and eagerly offered a lift to the front to.

Primus couldn't remember what he had told him their name was, if he had bothered to at all. The closer he got to his destination the more distracted he had become.

"Space Hawks." Primus answered after he decided that it didn't matter anymore anyway.

"Astral Raptors." Secundus answered at the same time, earning a withering glance from Primus.

"Oh yeah," The starry eyed lieutenant smiled, then told them proudly "I can speak a little High Gothic."

Primus felt uncomfortable as the Guard officer openly stared at the poorly conceived logo Secundus had painted onto their shoulder pads. He watched as the lieutenant's eyes traced down to the hawk's feet, and saw them slightly widen as he noticed the boots for the first time.

Primus was in the middle of thinking of how to make his sudden murder seem like an accident to the Guardsmen inside the Chimera, the lieutenant's head exploded in a shower of gore. Primus, startled, looked to Secundus for an answer.

"It wasn't me!" Secundus wiped his face clean of blood, just as surprised as Primus was.

Their answer came when the lasgun arrays on the Chimeras began to snap and chatter. Hard rounds began taking chunks out of the their cover and spanging off their power armour in glancing shots.

"There!" Quartus indicated the direction with a three round burst from his bolter. In the thickening haze and choking dust the silhouette of an ork on a warbike tumbled to the ground, but was quickly replaced by several more.

The supply truck in the rear exploded, sending a strong shockwave and a rain of debris over the Chimera. A huge gout of flame erupted from the top of the Chimera directly behind the one that Primus rode upon. Tertius cried triumphantly as a warbuggy's gas tanks erupted and the would-be boarders howled in agony as the vehicle veered sharply away.

"We're almost to the city!" Primus snapped off a carefully aimed plasma pistol shot, then grunted in frustration when it missed.

"Will it be any better in the city?" Secundus asked, replacing a bolter magazine before loosing a burst into the ork mob that was bearing down on them.

"More cover, anyway." The most current tactical information that Primus possessed had come from the now deceased lieutenant, who had happily informed him that the fighting had moved deeper into the city and that the highway should have been safe.

"Hang on, what's this?" Quartus pointed at smoking hulk in the middle of the road up ahead. It had once been a ork war machine, some kind of walker but now it lay torn open and smoking. As the space marines watched, the drivers of the Guard convoy chose different directions to go around it.

" ! ! !" Primus banged on the hatch of the Chimera to try and get the driver's attention, while Secundus and Quartus watched as the Chimera that Tertius and Quintus rode broke to the left and moved down and further away from them. "That was a highway off-ramp you pack of clowns!"

+++++++++

Tertius swore an unimaginable blue streak as the Chimera he was upon swerved left and he watched the bulk of the small convoy disappear up an overpass and then behind some buildings. They had inadvertently ended up on surface streets in a neighborhood with one of the platoon's Leman Russ tanks up ahead, while the rest of the platoon continued on a raised highway.

"What now?" Tertius asked to the unseen sky above. "What now you miserable ? Haven't I suffered enough?"

Part Four - Continue Mission

scene - a broken and ruined palatial complex. Three space marines crept through the shattered remains, keeping to the shadows and moving silently. Scrawled on the walls in a biolumenescent paint were strange, alien symbols and drawings.

Hidden Content

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Quartus whispered into the vox.

"It's as obvious as a powerfist to the face, yes." Secundus answered, looking up at the large graffiti of the Emperor of Mankind embracing a foul bioform in His four powerful arms. "Your rumours were definitely true, sergeant."

"Primus." Primus reminded him. They had agreed that there would be no names or ranks, but Secundus had worked with him before and knew who he was. Had been, Primus reminded himself at the errant thought. "And it doesn't change anything. They all die the same."

"Do they?" Quartus asked, then made the gesture to stop movement and wait. Primus and Secundus watched as he crept forward to the edge of their current cover and disappeared around the corner. After some time the vox beads in their ears clicked twice, and the moved up to meet him.

"These died perhaps a bit differently." Secundus observed as Quartus showed them the bodies he had found. Two ork Boyz, each sliced cleanly in long, crosswise cuts.

"A bit precise for Genestealers or the mutants that surround them." Quartus said, nervously scanning the high spots in the cavernous room.

"What do you know about it?" Primus asked, irritated.

"I come from the Eastern Fringe." Quartus answered quietly, eyes searching the shadows. "I've been on more than one planet facing a Tyranid invasion."

"Let's get moving." Primus ordered, and Quartus scurried off silently to take point again.

"Hang back and watch our trail." Primus told Secundus before following.

" ." Secundus said to himself, thinking, not for the first time, that he should have gone along with the Red Corsairs when they came recruting through Alexei IV. After watching Primus disappear into a side corridor he waited several minutes and then began to track them, alert for ambush.

+++++++++

"We're never going to find them again." Tertius said. "We should have stayed with the Guardsmen."

"And then what?" Quintus asked, checking the canister on his meltagun.

"Hitched a ride back to the port and found our way onto any transport leaving this forsaken rock." Tertius knocked on the tank of his heavy flamer, dismayed by the hollow sound it made. "I'm damn near out of juice."

"It doesn't matter." Quintus said.

"It damn well does matter." Tertius protested. "I can't make the fire without promethium, and the only other weapon I've got is a bolt pistol."

"Not that." Quintus said. "I mean Primus."

The two of them were hunkered in cover on the second floor of an apartment building. Over the last two hours they had killed orks and humans alike, the humans coming at them in disorganized waves of screaming, purple-robed fanatics. It had taken lots of running and indiscriminate violence to extract themselves from the middle of the battle they had wandered into by accident, and had lost contact with the Guard squad they had ridden with before that.

"Well, no, I suppose it doesn't anymore." Tertius scowled at the thought. "We won't get our share of whatever Primus is really after, and probably never would have."

"Not even that." Quintus said with a faraway look in his eyes. "I mean, none of this matters, you know?"

"No, I don't know." Tertius eyed Quintus as if for the first time. All that Quintus had ever talked about was how much he wanted his share in the spoils and what he could do to upraise himself with the funds. This new attitude of his did not sit well with Tertius. "What are you on about of a sudden, Quintus?"

"My name," Quintus said with a lightness in his voice, "Is Alessandro."

"Fine, Alessandro." The space marine known as Tertius said. "Call me Rifat, if that makes you feel better."

"Come, Rifat." Alessandro hefted his meltagun, a serene smile on his face. "Let us go."

"Go?" Rifat awkwardly stood under the weight of the heavy flamer. "Go where?"

Alessandro did not answer or even look back, but set off at a brisk pace, making his way downstairs and out of the back of the building.

" ." Rifat hurried to follow him, uncertain what had come over the space marine formerly known as Quintus, yet certain he did not want to be left to die alone on this planet. " ."

Part Five - In the Darkness

scene - several layers below the surface, in the bowels of a genetorum, three marines move through the dark, abandoned access tunnels.

Hidden Content

The vox bead in Primus' ear clicked, and he paused. Moments later Secundus approached him from the rear and squatted next to him.

"Sign?" Primus asked.

"Definitely." Secundus whispered the affirmative. "Parallel to us, and closing off the rear."

"Eyes on?"

"Humans with purple sashes or robes." Secundus informed him, glancing off into the shadows again. "Some of them big. Maybe Ogryn, but probably half-breeds given our tactical context."

"Contact?"

"No, they fall back when I approach, but will not clear a path." Secundus told him. "I pushed them as far as I dared without letting myself get cut off, then moved up to report."

"It doesn't matter, we're almost there." Primus said, almost to himself.

"And then what?" Secundus asked. "We get there and we're still cut off from the way we came. Is there a way forward from there?"

"Of course." Primus answered without looking Secundus in the face. "We're moving again, stay close this time."

+++++++++

Quartus froze when he heard the click. Then he heard another one and realized that the sound was not coming from his vox bead.

"Possible contact." He mouthed the words, activating the subvocalizers in his neck ring with a thought.

A third click, this time definitely in his vox bead, a signal that Primus acknowledged his message.

Quartus heard a series of clicks again, but could not discern the location the sounds came from. He crouched near an iron I-beam pillar and a cluster of wiring and pipes. It was pitiful cover, but might provide concealment. Up head there was an opening in the tunnel, and he caught the smell of a breeze. Probably a relay pit; it would be the fourth such they had traversed. He hoped that this one had an intact bridge.

Quartus edged forward. Through the subliminal feedback of his power armour's bio-integrated circuits he could feel Primus and Secundus moving to his position, and was glad for it. Their presence bolstered his courage, and he moved forward to the opening of the access tunnel. It did indeed open to another relay pit. The circular shaft was perhaps 100 meters across, and a catwalk extended outward toward the other side, with a circular platform in the middle that embraced the main discharge conduit that disappeared in both directions into the darkness. Small lights pulsed lazily from various control panels and catwalks that crisscrossed the pit at all levels, but there was not other light.

"I'm going ahead." Quartus voxed to Primus. Primus and Secundus would have been there momentarily, but Quartus suddenly felt exposed and wanted to get to the cover of the far access tunnel.

+++++++++

"Shouldn't he wait for us?" Secundus asked, a tinge of worry in his voice. "Didn't he say there was possible contact?"

"He's spooked." Primus guessed after wondering the same thing. "Let's hurry, I don't want him getting too far ahead of us. We're close to the next change of direction."

The two hurried down the corridor, moving more confidently for Quartus having preceded them, and not without some haste for the enemy that they knew herded around them in the darkness.

That last thought, caught hold in Primus' mind and he became filled with a dread certainty.

"Herding us..." He whispered as he and Secundus took up kneeling positions at the tunnel's exit and scanned the relay pit.

"There he is..." Secundus pointed at Quartus, who had made his way out onto the catwalk and now squatted near the cover of the main discharge conduit, scanning the way ahead with his bolter at the ready.

Primus heard a succession of clicks, and spent a few precious moments trying to decipher their meaning in standard low noise vox comm protocol. The moment their lack of coherent meaning dawned on him, he looked up to see a flash of green, glowing eyes and a beastly, spectral form moving in the space above Quartus' head.

"DOWN!" Primus called out, while he and Secundus fired wildly at the visual distortion, similar to the shimmering air above tarmac on hot worlds.

Quartus was lifted in the air by an invisible hand, and carried upward. The hapless space marine fired his own bolter repeatedly, the mass reactive rounds all going wide and exploding at various random points along the relay pit's walls.

The noise of pursuit swelled up from the tunnel behind Primus and Secundus.

"Down! We go down!" Primus hauled on Secundus' shoulder pad, pulling him toward a welded steel ladder.

"But-"

"We can't help him!" Primus cut off Secundus' objection before it was fully formed.

And down they went.

Part Six - Lost and Found

scene - the ruins of a once large Imperial city. Fires were burning, choking the streets with smoke. Civilians and PDF were streaming through the streets in a panic, and the sound of warfare surrounded them. A large plaza with a cathedral caught some of the fleeing mobs who surged to and fro against the tide of humanity in an attempt to gain entrance to the spiritual sanctuary of the structure, but those were held at bay by a squad of power armoured human females in red and black livery, backed by an ornate Immolator parked upon the steps directly in front of the main entrance. Two space marines emerge into the plaza, swept up by the maddened crowd.

Hidden Content

"Alessandro! Alessandro where are we going?" Rifat called out to the space marine he had known for months as Quintus. Rifat caught sight of the Sisters of Battle surrounding the cathedral and felt a chill corkscrew along his spine. The sensation made the brand in the shape of a stylized skull hidden under his power armour on the skin over his heart burn with agony.

"Come, brother!" Alessandro called back to Rifat over the heads of the crush of humanity that surrounded them. "We will find redemption together!"

"No!" Rifat began to panic, doing his best to move in the opposite direction from the cathedral and its stern faced protectors. "No no no no no!"

The two were caught up in the crush of the fleeing populace, and Rifat began to violently push against the mortals closest to him, trying desperately to make a way for himself at their expense. Blood was spilled and bones were broken, but those who fell were replaced just as quickly, and their pitiful cries as they were trampled to death went unheeded.

"Come with me, brother!" Alessandro smiled a beatific smile at the terrified renegade space marine. This strange site picture of the usually private and uncommitted Quintus was the last that Rifat ever saw of him. A sudden buzzing drone sound screamed overhead, and the plaza erupted in a spray of stone, dust, and body parts.

+++++++++

"We have you, brother." Rifat stared blearily in the direction the voice had come from. He felt hands grasping his power armour and dragging him. His eyes came into focus and he saw that he was in the back of a Rhino, laying on the deck while surrounded by Sisters of Battle. The Rhino lurched forward, and Rifat stifled the yelp of terror that escaped lips. The Rhino had no ramp, and Rifat seriously contemplated flinging himself out of the back of the APC, but the Sisters nearest the rear opening began firing their bolters toward their rear, indicating pursuit by the enemy.

"Your wounds are not severe, brother." Rifat twisted to look behind him, and his eyes widened at the sight of the Sister Hospitaller who tended his wounds. The Hospitaller looked at him with terrifying directness and said to him. "You are merely disoriented; you will fully recover your senses soon. This will help."

Rifat was too terrified to scream as the woman leaned in and injected his neck with an enormous syringe. The ample amount of the drugs cocktail, many times an overdose for a normal human, surged through his veins. It quickly filled his brain with a fiery feeling, and despite the chemical discomfort Rifat found himself keenly aware of his surroundings.

"That was the last of my supply of that, enough for several of my Sisters." The Hospitaller informed him tersely. "You are an asset worthy of that sacrifice."

"Here brother," Another Sister helped him to sit upright and handed him a recharge cylinder of promethium. "We have plenty of promethium reserves to refill your heavy flamer. Put it to good use."

Rifat, awakened to find himself living out a surreal version of one of his lifelong recurring nightmares, began to laugh hysterically.

Part Seven - The Treasure Vault

scene - a secure vault, deep, deep below the planet's surface. Two space marines stand before a blast door, working feverishly on the electronic lock. The bodies of purple-sashed humans lay in a semi circle around them, having died in a mad rush trying to reach them with their crude, makeshift weapons.

Hidden Content

"There is no telling if that was a random group or part of the search for us." Secundus reminded Primus, who stood with a specialized dataslate and hand tools concentrating on getting the door open.

"Almost there." Primus sounded calm. Secundus found this remarkable not only given their present situation and uncertain future, but in the many months he had known Primus, the former sergeant of the Black Legion had never been anything but tense and prone to violence.

"And our miraculous escape is just beyond that door?" Secundus asked without any real expectation of the truth anymore. "And the wondrous treasure we will carry with us?"

"Yes." Primus said simply.

"I have half a mind to kill you right here." Secundus said.

"But then you'll never see it for yourself." Primus said, still concentrating on his task but the dangerous edge creeping back into his voice.

"Then impress me, sergeant." Secundus mocked him, but did not turn his bolter away from the unknown threats in the direction they had come.

Before Primus could say anything, a series of lights on his dataslate turned green, and the great gears of the ancient blast doors groaned with effort.

+++++++++

+COMING ONLINE................+

+CHRONOMETER MALFUNCTION.............................+

+POWER PLANT AT 35% AND RISING...................+

+SYSTEMS CHECK...............+

+PLASMA CANNON INOPERABLE, COMBI-BOLTER OUT OF AMMO, FLAMER OUT OF PROMETHIUM, POWERFIST..... OPERATIONAL.............+

+++++++++

" !" Secundus raised his weapon to fire, but Primus slapped the bolter down, causing the bolt round to ricochet off the floor and detonate against the wall.

++WEAPONS DISCHARGE DETECTED++

++UNKNOWN HERALDRY++

++IDENTIFY YOUR LEGION OF ORIGIN++

"Lamech!" Primus stepped in front of the ancient, rusted Contemptor Dreadnought and raised his arms out to the side in a display of non-aggression. "Lamech it's me! Nabadias! I came back for you, just like I said I would!"

++NABADIAS?++

The Contemptor did not move for a long stretch of time. Sergeant Nabadias of the Black Legion approached so that the ancient, long un-used sensors could get a better look at him. Secundus merely stood and watched, confused. The Contemptor finally spoke again.

++YOU LEFT ME TO DIE++

"I know, brother." Nabadias lowered his hands and his head. Secundus was shocked to see that he openly wept. "You have no idea how long I've looked for you, brother."

++WHY ARE YOU NOT IN THE COLOURS OF OUR LEGION?++

"I don't care anymore, Nabadias." Secundus spat the name. "But what now?"

++LIFE FORMS APPROACHING++

"What now?" Nabadias turned to look at Secundus. "There is no what now. This is it, Secundus. This is all there ever was."

Secundus raised his bolter to shoot Nabadias, a scream of rage bursting forth from his twisted features. The Contemptor lurched forward and batted the furious space marine aside. Secundus' body hit the far wall and crumpled to the deck and did not move again.

++WHERE IS THE LEGION? WHERE IS LUPERCAL? WHAT IS GOING ON NABADIAS?++

"I left you to die." Nabadias admitted to the ancient. "I could not save you. I could never save you."

++APPROACHING LIFE FORMS REGISTER AS XENOS++

The Contemptor's power fist crackled to life.

"I could not save you, and I left you to die, Lamech." Nabadias checked the magazine of his bolter, then inserted a full replacement and racked home a round.

++XENOS LIFE FORMS 100 METERS++

"I should never have left you, brother." Sergeant Nabadias took up a defensive position in the shadow of the large machine that housed the last remnants of his honour, and probably the last shread of honour the Luna Wolves Legion itself had left in this whole, rotten galaxy. "It took me ten-thousand years, but I'm ready to stand or fall with you brother."

A horde of gibbering, slavering monsters burst forth from the darkness, and the two Luna Wolves faced the xenos onslaught together, as they had countless times before, in a brighter, more hopeful age.

PART EIGHT - Skulls for the Golden Throne

scene - A vast space port, visibility nearly zero, the air choked with spores and noxious gases. A Sisters of Battle Rhino lies overturned, piled beneath upset shipping containers. An Immolator sits nearby, laying down covering fire with its twin-linked heavy bolters. A lone space marine stands with the survivors of the squad of Sisters of Battle who rescued him after the Ork air raid. Surrounding them for miles around are scattered bands of the Tyranid second wave.

Hidden Content

Rifat laughed again. He loosed another burst of flame and swept away the latest attempt of the scurrying creatures to reach their position.

"Brother!" The Sister Superior called out to him from near the Immolator. "We have made vox contact with an Arvus! We can be on board in five minutes, but we have to get through to the far side!"

"Go, Sister!" Rifat laughed again and sprayed another long stream of fire at the crawling horrors.

"MY NAME IS RIFAT, SISTER!" The space marine swung the heavy barrels of the heavy flamer to crush the skull of a skittering creature who had slipped under his last blast, then sprayed another short blast knocking a leaping xenos out of the air to lay burning on the ground in alien agony. "REMEMBER ME!"

With seven Sisters of Battle hanging off the sides and clinging to the top, the overloaded Immolator did not hesitate and waste his offer of sacrifice. The Sister Superior, last to allow herself to be pulled to the dubious safety of the vehicle's top deck, performed the Sign of the Aquila at Rifat as the APC disappeared into the obscuring clouds of xenos terraforming.

"THIS IS ALL THAT MATTERS!" Rifat, finally alone on this planet, bellowed to nobody but the xenos. "THIS IS ALL THAT EVER MATTERED!"

"MY NAME IS RIFAT AND I AM NOT AFRAID ANYMORE! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

Epilogue

Hidden Content

Sister Superior Adora looked out of the small window on the side of the transport. Less than half of those that mysterious space marine had made a final stand to save had actually made it to the Arvus, but she was grateful for every precious life the Emperor's Angel of Death had saved. As the bombardment began to crack the surface of the planet, she turned her face away from the necessary abomination of Exterminatus and called for the attention of those in the passenger compartment.

"Sisters, among all those we knew and held dear, we will also forever honour the name of Brother Rifat of the Space Hawks."

I don't know if it works, but it's been in my head too long and had to come out.

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your excellent entries in Tales of Honour over the last week.

Son of Carnelian gave us Perfect Mistake. We don’t get a lot of Slaaneshi entries but this was a really good one. I loved that Agholor had a form of sensory deprivation chamber in which he could focus on things counter to the call of the Dark Prince, his focusing on the injury he had received and in this way his honouring of the mortal who had dealt him it.

Carrack gave us The Martyrdom of Captain Valedor. An excellent entry from the point of view of Imperial Guard selling their lives as dearly as possible in the face of a traitor astartes assault. In my mind I could picture it all and that the final scene took place in deafened silence was very fitting indeed for a last stand. Bravo!

Fulkes’s Champion's Blade told us the tale of a Khornate champion embodying The Lord of Blood’s respect of martial honour. As Son of Carnelian said, it was great to see someone write about this seldom seen yet so interesting aspect of Khorne.

Scourged’s entry this week was Gift Giver, the tale of one of the Scourged joining a communion of mortals aboard his starship, in worship of the fallen chapter master - now a hellbrute - Gallus the Deceived, who had been responsible for the chapter being granted `The Gift`.

Warsmith Aznable, this week’s judge, gave us a mammoth entry!..which I must admit I am still part way through reading.

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 fourteenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016, the other side of the coin:

Tales of Dishonour

“Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lusts of their own hearts, to dishonour their own bodies between themselves: / Who changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator, who is blessed for ever. ”

“So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption: / It is sown in dishonour; it is raised in glory: it is sown in weakness; it is raised in power: / It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body. There is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body.”

“But in a great house there are not only vessels of gold and of silver, but also of wood and of earth; and some to honour, and some to dishonour.”

– ancient Terran text

In the 13th challenge of IF 2016 we looked at tales of honour. In the 14th challenge I ask for you to give us tales of vilest villainy, betrayal, heresy, bonds broken and oaths trampled upon, daggers plunged into the backs of brothers. Tales of dishonour.

Inspirational Friday: Tales of Dishonour runs until the 13th of May.

Let us be inspired.

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

[Warsmith Aznable]

I will reread all the entries again, and post my decision after I've slept on it. Announcement tomorrow afternoon.

[Warsmith Aznable]

I choose Son of Carnelian's "Perfect Mistake."

 

A very good characterization of a difficult subject (cultic chaos lord's private mind.)

[Son of Carnelian]

I choose Son of Carnelian's "Perfect Mistake."

 

A very good characterization of a difficult subject (cultic chaos lord's private mind.)

 

My thanks, Warsmith Aznable! I look forward to seeing what next week brings and judging the entries. 

[Carrack]

The Sparks of Rose

 

 

Lavam, the Voice of the Black Maw and dark apostle, unsealed his helm and tucked it into the crook of his arm, to better take in the doom of the city of Rose. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils, unfiltered by his helm's rebreather. The heat from the burning city bathed his unprotected face in warmth. The contrast between the bright flames, and the black smoke of its filth encrusted fuel, was unmitigated by the lenses of his helm. The cries of women sounded natural in his ears, not dampened by the protection of his ancient helm. Lavam still relished the doom of an Imperial city, even after he had long lost count of how many cities he had destroyed.

 

Lavam glanced over at the instrument he had used in orchestrating the doom of Rose, Zanizar the Younger, heir apparent to the rogue trader dynasty of his father, a truly "rogue" dynasty. The young man looked distraught, troubled by the indiscriminate carnage of the sacking. Where had the rogue picked up morals? Certainly not from his father, or any of the pirates in his employ, and certainly not from the legionnaires of the Black Maw. Lavam chuckled to himself, perhaps he would have to reassess his view on the baseness of human nature with the revelation of the moral anguish written upon the face of Zanizar the Younger. Unlikely though, he had come across a few shining lights in the blackness that was men's souls before, and on a whim, tortured the confessions of their morality out of them. They had always learned morality from somewhere or someone, it never sprang forth unbidden from their souls. Considering what he knew of Zanizar the Younger's ways, which was considerable, the young man had likely been influenced by one of his paramours. Lavam would have to put a stop to that, but not today. Today he would enjoy the fall of yet another city.

 

It was beautifully orchestrated. Lavam had known, long before the storming of Rose, that it would be a target of the Black Maw's invasion. As he seeded cults to give him the disposable warriors he would need for the battle, he set Zanizar the Younger on the task of weakening the city's defenses. Long before the first howling cultist scaled Rose's walls, Zanizar had worked his way in with the petty munitorium officials that supplied the city's defenders. The officials were all corrupt, in the way that petty officials always were. Zanizar had offered to see to the provender of the regiments garrisoning Rose, at a substantial discount that could easily be pocketed. His only request, was that the providence of his rations not be looked at too closely. Of course they agreed.

 

The first shipments were sent, and though the fare was perhaps a bit coarse, nobody important complained. The next shipments were tainted. The gruel was laced with a cheap derivative of obscura plundered from Calebra Hive. The quantity of the narcotic was small, barely noticeable to a few of the guardsmen who were more sensitive to such things. Still nobody complained. The dosage was gradually increased, shipment after shipment. When guard officers complained, and the munitorium official demanded such tampering stop, Zanizar the Younger cut them an even greater discount. A few officials had had enough, their corruption was petty, and this tampering with the guardsmen food was beyond what even they could stomach. They were silenced, in some cases permanently, by their increasingly wealthy peers. The guardsmen themselves had no other recourse than to dine on rations, Rose was an industrial city, far from self sustaining, and already experiencing shortages from the Black Maw invasion of the subsector. Most guardsmen didn't care.

 

One week before the invasion, Zanizar stopped the shipments. By the time Lavam's hordes of cultists were at the walls of Rose, it's defenders were puking and defecating their guts out in the throws of withdrawal, unable to lift themselves out of their bunks, much less lift a lasrifle. The hordes of cultists poured into the city uncontested. They were now trying to win the favor of the gods with their brutal sacking of the city, just as Lavam had commanded. Thus the doom of Rose, and perhaps the doom of a spark of light in the soul of Zanizar the Younger. Lavam's soul, as always, was the blackest of the black. A smile crossed his unhelmed face.

 

 

Not quite John Locke, The Book of Common Prayer, or 2 Timothy, but I tried for a bit of moralizing, in grim and dark fashion, of course.

[Scourged]

An entry running unopposed? Not on my watch! Anyway, check out Among Thieves

 

 

 

Among Thieves

There was no reason that a fully-armed Astartes battle barge should find itself waiting impotently in a literally empty sector of space. The reactors of the ship still hummed with energy while the weapons were primed and ready for an threat yet unseen, but there was nary even a mote of dust to fire upon. The coordinates for this destination did not belong to any established routes of trade or travel through any territory, Imperial or otherwise. By all accounts, this place was one of the few sections of the galaxy that was truly empty.

Despite the apparent pointlessness, quite nearly the entirety of the Scourged and their thralls sat in wait. None of the obedient subordinates knew the reason, though they dared not question the motives of their lord; his orders were resolute and not to be questioned. Yeteven the lord did not truly understand the exact purpose of his orders. Though he governed totalitarily over his men, Rahaund’ul Dhelmas was still  a servant to a higher master - the same as all those aboard Deception’s Call - and it was from that master that the orders came. “Shatter a gem, forge a bond,” were the only instructions provided by the Architect as to the warband’s purpose.  

“Lord, we’re being hailed. An incoming transmission from the Flawless Host vessel Impeccable is marked as mayday. They demand an audience with us. Shall I accept?”

Sure enough, looking at the vid feeds of the barge’s starboard flank, an outlandishly-painted vessel of Chaos was tearing through a hole in realspace. The escort ship poured into the vast emptiness around them as if on cue from the deformed comms officer. Knowing the True Master - well, knowing him as much as a mortal could, at least - Lord Dhelmas expected to hover alone in the void for days, rather than only three hours, before the purpose of this quest was known. That being said, a forced encounter with the Flawless Host was not within anyone’s expectations. Was it already time to pay their debts? Only one way to find out.

“Fine. Let’s hear what they have to say.”

Rahaund’ul Dhelmas did not care much for those of the Flawless Host. Of the few Slaanesh cults that he had met, yes, Rahaund’ul would admit they were among the more tolerable. But like the rest of their ilk, in their fervent praise of their lesser god, the Flawless Host all carried an insufferable pride, and adorned themselves with such garish colors and designs. Were it not for promises made long ago, he would have ignored their desperate hails.

“Oh thank the Perfect Prince that you’re here! Scourged, we need your help, and we need it now!”

“Who is speaking, and what do you want?”

“I am Draezius the Untouchable and I’m calling in a debt to be paid, Lord Dhelmas. Favors are owed from the days served together at Persico Tertius. I the name of perfection, I demand that you take up arms and defend our ship.”

“That’s not your demand to make of me, Draezius.The deal between our warbands was forged with Eleaxus, from a time long before you ascended to anything resembling rank amongst your kind. Most assuredly, you were scant but a zygote within a cloning vat during campaign that forged this bond. I owe your leader plenty, but you nothing.”

“Lord Dhelmas, there isn’t time for this! Were I able to contact my own lord, I assure you he’d command you the same as I do. Whilst our fleet was in transit, webway raiders ambushed us within the Immaterium. They targeted our Gellar fields and forced us into realspace, separating the fleet, culling the weak to hunt. Eleaxus still fights without us, but we are fleeing for our lives. It is by the grace of the Dark Prince that we found you so soon!”

Quaint, but it was not the Dark Prince that orchestrated this chance encounter. Dhelmas knew that, and by now the entirety of his warband realized it too. This chance encounter is the very reason the True Master ordered them to this exact location. But that, no doubt, did not matter to Draezius. His frantic demands made it quite clear he cared not for the reason. Shallow minds always demand action instead of understanding.

“By luck or not, Draezius, it appears you were not lying. A smart move. You have three Torture Cruisers on your rear, and they seem to have done considerable damage to your ship.”

The Sorcerer Lord had verified the story of Draezius after glancing at the hololith auspex in front of him. A cadre of three void hunters chasing the battered Impeccable, all four of them racing directly toward the Call. Primary shielding of the Impeccable was gone, with secondary barely holding. The three cruisers were maneuvering for final firing solutions. Without intervention, all those aboard the escort ship would die to void fire, or worse. The Champion of Slaanesh had not exaggerated his claims.

“All the more reason to act quickly, sorcerer! They won’t anticipate your presence and together we can turn the tide on these twisted Eldar filth, all for the glory of Slaanesh! Once you have a direct line of sight, open fire, and we shall unleash our payloads from safety once you’ve drawn their fire. Our debts will be squared and our alliance will shine like a diamond in the night!”

Rahaund’ul nodded curtly once and ordered the link between the vessels closed. The sorcerer contemplated the warfare quickly drawing near to Deception’s Call. The three cruisers were closing the gap on the badly damaged Chaos escort, and would no doubt rend it to shreds if left alone. By now, they were sure to have noticed the imposing battle barge in their path and would react accordingly. The fight would be brutal, but the Call would emerge the victor, if badly damaged in the process. All things considered, the decision on how to proceed was an easy one.

“Initiate full bombardment with dorsal cannons until shields are overloaded. After shield failure concentrate all cannon fire on the engines until they’re dead in the void. Disable all communications via the fusion beams, but leave any life support intact.”

“Uh… Lord…?”

“Do it. Now.”

***

The attack was swift and decisive, seeing only a handful of retaliatory shots fired. It had gone better than envisioned, actually. The vast array of weaponry fitted to the battle barge was overkill when compared to any smaller vessel. Almost boringly, the skirmish had succeeded exactly as the Sorcerer Lord expected, devoid of any complications. In the face of such impossible odds, the Impeccable never stood a chance. It was defenseless and motionless between the Call and the three cruisers, a gaudy prize caught in a deadly stalemate between the opposing parties.

Rather than the flesh and purple of Draezius upon his screen from before, a lithe figure with pallid skin was staring back at Rahaund’ul. It’s deceptively frail figure was clad in chitin-like armor plating adorned with jagged edges and barbs. It’s apparently-feminine face greeted him without a helmet, offering an amused-but-confused look to the Astartes. No doubt this was the leader of the trio of cruisers, waiting for an explanation of the supposed betrayal she just witnessed.

“I am the Sorcerer Lord Rahaund’ul Dhelmas of the Scourged. I trust you can speak High Gothic, eldar?”

“Of course, Mon-keigh. I am Archon Yaelindra of the Blackened Tear. Your actions were… unexpected. Why turn on your allies to aid us?”

She spoke slowly, and with a very forced tone. Human language was never easy for the xenos, but the Sorcerer Lord appreciated her effort. Direct conversation would be much better than relying on any form of translation.

“I have my reasons. In light of that, I’m here to offer you a deal: the crew is yours, Astartes and mortals alike. Take them all and do what your kind does best. No doubt those on board deserve every unspeakable horror you will force upon them.  In return, I ask that you leave the ship and supplies for us, as I’m sure you have no use for them. We’ll each take what we want, and leave each other in peace.”

Yaelindra stayed quiet for some time. Soon enough, though, she waved a hand dismissively at her side, and the warning chimes of multiple weapon locks ceased their echoing on the bridge of Deception’s Call. The crew all shared a relieved sigh, dropping their own weapon locks on the three enemy cruisers. A deal, it seemed, had been struck.

“Accepted, Dhel-mas of Scourged. Your generosity this day will not be forgotten. Consider a tenuous friendship earned with the Blackened Tear.”

The Sorcerer Lord was satisfied, for the moment. Sure, he did not truly believe the xenos filth would honor this new ‘friendship’ she proclaimed, but only time would tell. Still, the three cruisers were dormant, even as boarding shuttles began to crash into the sides of Impeccable. And yes, a debt to the Flawless Host still needed to be paid, but at least he managed to gain something out of the arrangement. Before ending the transmission, he offered Yaelindra one final thought:

“Oh, and Archon… when you drag their leader, Draezius, into your pits, be sure to tell him my debt is paid.”

 

 

 

[Warsmith Aznable]

A prequel to my most recent story!

 

I hope you like it.

 

Hidden Content

"Brother, are you sure about this?" Rifat asked of Asil.

 

"How many times do you plan to ask me?" Asil answered, and concentrated on working the crude bellows of their makeshift forge.

 

The two armourless space marines were crowded into the ancient, rusted shipping container that had served as their home since they had jumped ship what they believed was several months before. Their temporary home was one of thousands in the shanty town surrounding the unnamed space port on the ludicrously named New Terra. It was night, and bands of multi-hued arouras undulated between the surface and the stars that shone above, along with a million tiny points of light from the home fires of the countless hovels. The two lived in what was considered the "quiet" part of the shanty town, though the night was still filled with the chattering of late night revels, worship, brawling, and terror.

 

"To give ourselves to a God when we have only recently won freedom..." Rifat stared at the glowing hot brand that Asil moved about the bright coals.

 

Asil turned the brand over a few more times before answering him.

 

"This is more than freedom," Asil gestured toward Rifat with the white hot brand. "This is power. We choose this path, and if we are worthy we will be Chosen. But in the meantime none will dare to attempt enslave us again."

 

There was more that Rifat wanted to say, but he saw the determination in his brother's eyes. Asil had always been stronger, smarter, and luckier than Rifat. Asil had never acknowledged this, but Rifat knew that without Asil he would have never been selected to be a space marine, nor would he have survived the trials, and he would have been dead many times over since their so-called ascension to the status of post-human warrior-slaves of the Dread Lord Batuqan.

 

"Steady your hand if you cannot steady your heart." Asil smiled at his younger brother, offering him the handle of the brand. As Rifat took up the brand and held it at ready, Asil ran his hand over his bare chest to make sure it was clean. "Do it right the first time. I want a collection of skulls, just not on my skin."

 

Rifat seared the stylized skull of Khorne into the skin of his brother, directly over his primary heart. Asil startled Rifat by snatching the brand from his hand and immediately plunging the still red hot brand into the flesh of Rifat's chest.

 

"There!" Asil clapped Rifat on the shoulder and discarded the brand. "I saved you the trouble of worrying about it even a second longer!"

 

"So what, do we chant about blood and skulls or something?" Rifat, newly made warrior of the Blood God, was very uncertain as to how he had should feel or what he should be doing. He had thought he might feel different after it was done, but he did not.

 

"Chanting is for those who are not uplifted." Asil said after a quiet moment of consideration. "Let's just go kill some people."

 

"With what?" Rifat asked. "All we were able to make it off the ship with were a pair of dull knives and a bolt pistol with no bolts."

 

"We rise from nothing; that is good I think." Asil said, looking around their hovel, finding their knives and handing one to Rifat. "First we find someone with sword or an axe, then we use those to find chain weapons, and maybe those to find power weapons. We can do this."

 

"Well then, blood for the Blood God, I guess." Rifat said with an uncertain smile.

 

"Skulls for the Skull Throne, brother." Asil said gravely, then used his old combat knife to slash a deep gash across one side of his chest.

 

Rifat, seeing a different look in his brother's eyes already and afraid to be left behind, immediately copied Asil's slashing gesture, spilling his own blood in kind.

 

+++++++++

 

Asil and Rifat had never been on an Imperial world before Auriga Prime. A sleepy backwater with nothing of note, Auriga simply had the misfortune to be a necessary stop for fuel for the so-called Black Corsairs, the hodge-podge of a warband that the two brothers had joined in order to get off New Terra and find a proper war to participate in. Asil now led a squad of 8 space marines, including himself and his brother Rifat. They wore red power armour and chased their victims with an assortment of homemade axes, only Asil having a working chainaxe.

 

"Where are their warriors?" Rifat asked Asil. The would-be Berserkers strolled through what looked like a market area. The cleanliness and permanence of the buildings caused Rifat to stare, especially at the strange goods in the shattered shop windows. "Of what use is this place or these things to anyone?"

 

"Can you imagine a people so decadent in their obscene safety?" Asil sneered. "I see now why the Legions of Old turned against these weaklings."

 

The sounds of bolter fire echoed through the streets from a distant firefight, causing the Khornate space marines to stop and look to Asil for guidance.

 

"Who would waste bolts on slave stock?" Rifat asked.

 

"No one in their right mind." Asil said, looking above the line of roofs at the spire of an unknown structure less than a kilometer away. "I have heard from the other war leaders that Imperials gather at fanes to their dead Emperor to stand and fight. Perhaps there is a fight worth having on this planet after all."

 

Asil needed to issue no orders, but simply picked up his pace to a quick trot. The others, eager to follow a leader with strength and conviction, simply followed.

 

++++++++

 

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" Asil's chainaxe roared as the space marine waded into the panicked crowd.

 

"SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!" His squad answered, following him into the herd of prey.

 

Rifat followed, lashing out with his homemade axe to the left and right. He cleaved great wounds into those who strayed near him as he followed his brother and the squad, but he did not chase down and end his victims. Rifat did enjoy the scent of blood and terror, but he did not feel the passion for slaughtering these weak, pathetic Imperials that his brother and the others obviously felt. This did not seem like a worthwhile use of their time. There was, perhaps, treasures or great weapons and artefacts to loot, something useful to take that would make their lives and positions easier to maintain among the Black Corairs.

 

"Get out of the way, idiot!" Rifat shoved a particularly slow old woman to the side as he made his way into the temple of the Imperial's Corpse Emperor.

 

A sudden crescendo of bolter fire erupted, and the mass of humanity suddenly surged away. Rifat ducked behind a stone pew, but the heavy bolter rounds were chewing through a group of people several rows ahead of him. Rifat was not sure he understood the situation.

 

"Kill! Kill! Kill!" Rifat heard the voice of his brother Asil above the crashing din of combat. The sound of Asil's voice inspired confidence in him, and Rifat scrambled to his feet to locate and rally to his brother.

 

A spiritu dominatus,

Domine, libra nos,

From the lighting and the tempest,

Our Emperor, deliver us.

 

A lone voice, somewhere through the smoke and dust ahead, rang out. It was quickly joined with several others.

 

From the blasphemy of the Fallen,

Our Emperor, deliver us,

From the begetting of daemons,

Our Emperor, deliver us,

From the curse of the mutant,

Our Emperor, deliver us,

A morte perpetua,

Domine, libra nos.

 

The rattle and bang of bolter fire continued, joined by the revving of chainswords, and past Asil and his surviving warriors of Khorne, Rifat beheld the warriors of the Emperor for the first time in his life.

Rifat had never seen anything like these females, these small, pale imitations of space marines. He laughed and raised his bloodied axe, eager to join his brother's assault on their position around the altar. Rifat saw Asil raise his chainaxe in defiance and prepare to charge, and then in horrifying slow motion, Rifat saw his brother's shoulder explode in a shower of gore, his precious and hard won chainaxe spinning away. In those few horrid moments, Asil's squad was gunned down to a man. All except Rifat, who stood in the back of the Imperial temple, disbelieving his eyes.

 

"Sic haeretici." Intoned the older woman who had fired the shot from her bolt pistol that had laid low Asil. Asil, rasping for breath through blood filled lungs, struggling on one knee to stand, retched a gob of blood and growled.

 

"Asil." Rifat whispered, taking a step toward his brother, anguish in his heart. The brand of Khorne upon his chest began to itch.

 

"We welcome with open arms all who would repent their sins." The elder Sister of Battle stepped down from the dias, leveled her chainsword in Rifat's direction, her eyes meeting with his and transfixing the would-be Berserker with their malevolent zealotry.

 

Rifat's head swam and his vision was suddenly vivid and sharp. The air burned his lungs in short, ragged gasps, and his hearts painfully hammered the walls of his ribs. He looked at each of the power armoured women in turn, the looks of haughty, pitiless scorn searing into his brain forever.

 

"Ecce perfidiae." The elder woman sneered at Rifat, striding to stand before the still struggling Asil. With a swift motion, the Superior gunned the throttle on her chainsword and flicked her wrist, never once looking away from Rifat.

 

"Asil." Rifat moaned, feeling his blood run cold as he watched the head of his brother roll toward him down the aisle.

 

Rifat dropped his axe and ran, unsure if he would ever be able to stop.