The Shield

[Carrack]

Feast of Excess

Part 2.14

Tancrea, Pillars of Fortitude

 

 

The computer-drug dispensers ripped from the Imperial Cyber Horses, had an effect much like the terrain of this world, thought Ramone. It was all up and down. He would shoot the tranquilizers into his veins, and it was like walking downhill. Everything became easier, he cared less about the pressures of command and pleasing his patron god, but then he reached the bottom. The bottom of the valleys of horse tranquilizers were as dangerous as the valley floors of Tancrea. The floors were often filled with rushing waters of barely melted snow, or hid ambushers in the thick vegetation. The valleys of the tranquilizers were dangerous because his heart and breathing would slow to near lethal levels. So when he hit the valleys, he climbed. He climbed with the combat stims. They boosted his heart rate, along with his awareness, strength, everything needed to climb. But like the mountains of Tancrea, he could climb the combat stims too high. The real mountains soared into the thinning atmosphere, and some of them went even beyond that. While the stims would overload his body, not meant to be operating under such peak performance, so back down the tranquilizer valley, to repeat over and over.

 

Ramone was currently on high ground, both literally and figuratively. He was just below another ridge, as he made his way to High Road 27, to hopefully resupply. The valley beyond the ridge was dangerous. It was occupied by the enemy. But Slannesh continued to bless Ramone, there was an opportunity in the valley even greater than another victory. His disciple, Hector, had seen it first, then motioned Ramone up to the ridge to see for himself.

 

The loyalists were in the desperate of states. Their was about 40 of them, none armed with anything but a lasrifle and a few grenades. They were emaciated, dirty, and none had on clothing warm enough to climb out of the valley. There had originally been more guardsmen, that was obvious. Six lay dead on the ground in a row, executed from bolts to the head. Their executioner, and their commander also lay dead, shot to ribbons, apparently by their own men. Two more headless guardsmen were being butchered, while the rest were trying to build a fire. Hector asked, "Hetman, what are the insignia on those guardsmen? They are different then the ones we have seen before." Ramone looked through his stolen field glasses and saw three R's above the usual squad designations. He didn't know what to make of it, but of all the Fewoodians, him and his four disciples, he was the only one who could read, having learnt the basics in the temples to the true gods constructed after his world's conquest. Ramone had expanded his literacy on his own, when he had lost Slannesh's favor, and lived as a slave aboard a Black Maw ship. Reading, like the rituals he had also learned in the temples, was something of a mystery to the primitive na fruit pickers from the world of his birth. He would capitalize on that mystery, elevating his stature among his disciples even more. He replied, "It means little, other than another designation to the Imperials, but what they don't know, is that the symbol is the same as the symbol that starts my name, an unusual symbol when repeated three times." He paused to sketch an "R" in the snow, then said, "The triple arrangement of these symbols is a message from the spirits to me. The spirits have offered these guardsmen to assist me, I mean us, but we must tempt them over to the true spirits."

 

Ramone walked down to his squad, still hauling strips of horse steak taken from the Imperial Cavalry. He ordered them to cook the steaks, and set their fires just below the ridge line. He then went up to the ridge with a few handfuls of scrub brush, to start the fire, while those hauling horse flesh went up the slope, and those not, went down the slope to gather more substantial firewood from the taller trees that grew at lower elevations. Both Ramone and his men moved fast, the grace of their god giving them speed beyond those of other men and women. For Ramone was held higher in his god's eyes than other men and women, he was certain of it.

 

Ramone waited at the top of the ridge on his belly, looking down on the Imperials. He couldn't get comfortable, his body was still flushed with stimulants designed to motivate horses at least 6 times his mass. He began to worry that his fidgeting would attract the Imperials. He dialed a dispenser to tranquilizers, and pumped a dose into his veins and immediately calmed down. Slannesh smiled upon Ramone, he was certain he could feel it.

 

The Imperials were having a hard time cannibalizing their comrades. Some of their trouble was the wet, green, wood at the valley floor was slow to light, but most of it was their own unwillingness to eat human flesh. Ramone remembered fighting in Calebra Hive, where the overpopulated mega-city had systematically turned men into meat, ration paste it was

called, these guardsmen must have come from less pragmatic worlds. They clearly had no other option left, but they were still hesitant. Ramone would have to overcome their morals if he was to add these guardsmen to his forces.

 

Ramone got his fires going and his meat cooking before the guardsmen. He let the wind carry the smell of roasting horse flesh down the valley. The scent reached their noses, and their bellies. They started climbing the ridge, driven by starvation up the steep slopes. Ramone took the pins out of one of the computer-drug dispensers and glazed the meat with its contents. He told his disciples to have his fighters come down after him, but only after he had feasted with the guardsmen. As he slung his weapons and hoisted the drugged meat, he added, "Avenge my death, should they kill me." They looked bewildered at his smile as he said it, and in awe of his courage, but in truth, he was really too doped to care about what might happen. They took it as courage and faith. Ramone was mildly pleased with their awe, but mostly didn't care.

 

Ramone stopped his descent just out of range of the guardsmen's lasrifles. They had been watching him for the last couple hundred meters, putting aside their yet unused cooking fires and warily picking up their weapons. They were cautious, Ramone had opened his greatcoat with the defaced Aquilla, and displayed a chest of blasphemous tattoos, and a medallion of the Chaos Octed, but he also had slabs of cooked meat over his shoulders, and the guardsmen were the hungriest they had ever been in their lives. They signaled for Ramone to wait with lasrifles still trained on him standing tall in the open, while they talked among themselves. It didn't take long. Ramone was invited down. He would need his wits about him though, so before he accepted their invitation, he stimmed up.

 

As he approached the starving guardsmen, he called out, "I am Ramone, from the Imperial world of Fewood. I was once like you, a slave to an uncaring Imperium who would not be bothered in the least if I starved." He slung the drugged horse steaks onto some flat rocks the guardsmen had gathered for cooking, and continued, "To be honest, I was going to kill you all, but I just couldn't do it, no man or woman should be treated like you have been. My fighters were in agreement, we decided that we would throw you a feast, then go our separate ways. We want nothing from you other than for you to consider us friends, and even though we may have to fight each other later, know that we are kind, compassionate people, and treat us with respect on the battlefield." He had them. They were expecting him to make awful demands, and renounce their allegiance to the False Emperor, and they may have done so, but they definitely had no problems agreeing to a truce and sharing a meal. Ramone had other ideas. He said, "I would gladly give you more than these two horse flanks, but you are on the verge of starving, you need to start with small bites and some water, if you eat to much now, you will get sick, and maybe die. So everybody take a few bites, share my first gifts, and then if you agree, we will have a true meal after your food had settled."

 

The guardsmen tore into the drugged horse steaks like rabid dogs, but they did share. Everyone partook in the drugged meat. Ramone signaled his fighters to bring the rest down. By the time his fighters made it to the valley floor, the guardsmen were reeling from the drugged meat, giggling, and out of their minds. As they feasted on the meat his fighters had brought, they didn't even recognize the ritual Ramone had started. By the time they did, it was too late, they had already participated enough to forfeit their souls. The ritual feast continued, eating all the horse flesh, and in the end, the two butchered guardsmen. They gluttonously ate and ate, till it was all gone, and they belonged to Slannesh, and Ramone.

 

[Carrack]

Eighth Catacomb

Part 7.3

The top deck of the Blood Eye, Garland System

 

 

The mob at Gisco's back was growing larger. It was as if someone was pushing a great broom behind them, collecting dirt in a pile as the broom swept, some drifting off to the sides, but the pile of dirt generally getting larger. The dirt was the heretic thralls that crewed the Blood Eye. They weren't honorable chapter serfs, highly skilled in their assigned duties, and tenacious enough to at one time be considered for the Tempering, the process that turned the very best mortals into space marines. The dirt, the thralls, were slaves taken in raids, and forced to survive on the violent decks of the Black Legion Strike Cruiser. Wretches fighting like dogs over the tidbits thrown to them by their uncaring masters. But they were dangerous in sufficient numbers, even to the Angels of Immolation, yet Gisco couldn't afford to stop and thin their ranks down. If he did he would lose momentum. The loss of momentum was a fatal condition during boarding actions. They must keep moving forward, less the defenders be allowed to fix them in place, and destroy them with their superior numbers.

 

Brother Bomlicar was up ahead, with his multimelta aimed at the door to squad Mago's right, waiting to see if the forward door would hold. Two strikes in rapid succession from Brother Chaplain Hamilax blew open the far door, the Angels of Immolation followed their chaplain into the next compartment, with Brother Bomlicar peeling off of the alternate door to take his next position. Gisco rushed to the fore, flamer ready to burn any heretics that might be present.

 

Gisco found no heretics to burn in the compartment, none living anyway. The compartment was another blasphemous catacomb, with racks stacked floor to ceiling with niches. In each niche was a skull. The room was filled with more than mere skulls, it was filled with rage and hatred. It was a vile temple to the daemonic, and it clearly attracted attention from the warp. It was the third such catacomb he had entered since boarding the ship.

 

There was but one exit on the far side of the catacomb, so Brother Bomlicar rushed past Gisco as he turned to guard the ruined door they had entered. Another two strikes from Brother Chaplain Hamilax's crozius sounded against the door, but this time the far door held. The skull-helmed chaplain immediately stepped aside as Brother Bomlicar brought his multimelta up for a breeching shot. The briefest of hisses was followed by a loud clap as the weapon fired into the door. The shot failed to breech. Gisco stole a quick glance over his shoulder before looking back out the squad's entrance for the mobs that had been trailing them. The multimelta had slagged the front of the door, causing a wide circle of metal to liquidate and run to the floor, but beneath the metal was another layer of ceramite, unscarred by the heat of the armor piercing weapon. Two more strikes from the crozius were followed by Brother Sergeant Mago's command for Bomlicar to try to breech the walls. Another hiss of the weapon was met with similar results, as were following blasts to the floor and the ceiling. Then the first of the hordes of thralls came into sight at the end of the corridor.

 

They were not entirely human. Horns of bulls and goats sprouted out of some skulls, while others had feet that had fused into hooves. Some were hunched over with curved spines that extended into barbed tails, and some even had fingers fused together into hardened blades of bone. Brother Chaplain Hamilax moved behind Gisco, resting a reassuring gauntlet on his shoulder. Gisco knew that he would fire into the advancing hordes until they reached the blasted door, then step to the side for the chaplain to hold the entrance until he fell, and Gisco would step into the narrow doorway. Meanwhile, Brother Sergeant Mago was directing the other surviving members of his squad to place krak grenades at various points in the catacomb, to hopefully find an unshielded section that could be breeched, while he placed melta bombs, and Brother Bomlicar continued to fire his multimelta. They had stayed to long on the top deck of the Blood Eye, they should have tried to return to the surface of the hull, thought Gisco. They had advanced to close to their primary objective on a predictable route. The heretics had ensnared them in a trap. Even over the noise of his squad trying to force a breech, and the hordes of thralls braying out their war cries, Gisco realized he could hear the ship's engines growling out a throaty call, proclaiming their territory to Gisco, and any other rival predators, the engines Gisco had been sent to cripple. Gisco, like all his brothers present in the catacomb, stood defiant in the face of the coming onslaught, not in the least concerned with his own safety. His only concern was that they all might perish, or otherwise be delayed too long to complete their mission.

 

The hordes started down the corridor with cries of blood on their mutant lips. Before they came into range, several of the skulls in the top niches hummed to life and floated out overhead. They were fitted with micro propulsion drives and weird, forked rods that extended out of their mouths. They were some heretical version of servo skulls. Light shined out from the rods, forming the image of the eight-legged Warpsmith that had forced the Angels of Immolation off the surface of the hull. The image spoke in a robotic voice, both mechanical and sinister, "Prey, I am coming for you. While you amuse yourselves with my thralls, take time to remove six of the most decayed skulls from my eighth catacomb. They will soon be replaced with your own."

 

[Carrack]

Apocrypha

 

These are stories that I have submitted for Inspirational Friday challenges on the CSM board. They are part of the Invasion of the Aspis Subsector, but don't easily fit into the narrative, which isn't exactly a straight line narrative anyway. I name them apocrypha, not in the cannon of this story, but perhaps mildly interesting :) they both take place on Lemish, in cities away from Fortress Dominique, the city of Hammish, and the Magellous Vaults. They take place in the early stages of the invasion of Lemish, while the Black Maw was searching for the fabled Magellous Vaults.

 

Endure

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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.

 

[Carrack]

Prize

6.11

The Magellous Vaults

 

 

 

Casper used his lightning claw to cut through the last shipping container to reach the center of the vault. It had been filled with Militarum Ration Packs #7, "meaty gruel with added protein". They bore the stamps of being consecrated by some Ministorum Priest with an illegible name, dated 961, M36, a good year for Gundrun amasec from the southern continent, but not for "meaty gruel with added protein". Casper preferred a more refined, and much fresher fare, much, much fresher.

 

Casper was ever a connoisseur of fine dining. It was his passion outside of battle, mostly outside of battle anyway. He was not some monkish loyalist, who spent all of his free time chanting in a bare cell, and dining on nutrient feeds from his power armor, he had cast that life aside when he and his brothers turned on their father's father. He enjoyed the freedom to indulge in the finer things life had to offer. Most of these things quickly lost his interest, he was not some degenerate follower of Slannesh after all, but fine dining was the one thing that he never tired of, and there was the promise of an eloquent meal at the center of the vaults.

 

Their was the promise of a greater prize as well, within the structure before Casper. There was the promise of power. The last defender of the vaults was inside the structure, a vast walk-in safe, or armory., a vault within the Vaults. Whoever slew the last defender, be it Casper, or any of the other Chosen of Lord Carrack, would have the honor of securing the Vaults of Magellous for the warband. That honor may be enough for Lord Carrack to declare the one who secured the Vaults Champion of the Chosen. Casper wanted to champion the squad, they all did, but he was not willing to fight one of his few remaining squad mates to the death over it. Such was Casper's desire to win the prizes of the vaults, that he had slipped away from his squad to acquire them. Even now, Saint Tiam, the interim leader, was calling out to him on the vox, demanding a status check. Casper ignored the icon bearer, as did Harold and Obbo, even the thinblooded Copil had abandoned any semblance of squad integrity in an attempt to be the first to claim the prize. Casper had an advantage though, he had discerned the pattern to the maze of containers in this bottommost level of the Vaults. They formed a great, toothed, cog, no doubt in veneration of the stagnant, loyalist, remnants of the Mechanicum that had created the Vaults of Magellous. So as he advanced on the prize, he was well ahead of his rivals.

 

Casper set all of his krak grenades against the hinges of the door, all the while being watched by a humming servo skull. He ignored it, let the defender know he was at the gate, it would get the blood flowing in fear, which would be important if he was to enjoy his personal prize. Casper stepped back and right of the door, and pondered the qualities his personal prize might possess as he waited on the fuses. On his way towards the prize, he had passed a stone bench, laden with scrolls. A quick glance had shown him the contents of three of the scrolls, The Daemon in the Belfry, The Augmetic Heart, and The Purging in the Rue Morgue, all by a well known author from the world of Deliverance. Casper himself had never bothered reading anything from the home world of the XIX Legion, but he hoped to soon gain some understanding from their most honored author soon. Boom. The grenades exploded in unison and the heavy door clanged to the floor. Las fire blasted out of the doorway in a wild volley.

 

After a moment, the defender must have realized that no one was standing right in front of the breeched door, and ceased fire. Casper charged, blindly hooking around the corner into the doorway, it was a risky move, but Casper was hungry for a quick victory. He was hungry for more than that. As he turned the corner he beheld the prize, and almost halted his charge in disappointment, almost. A techpriest, with red robes covering an obvious mechanical form, stood in the back of the vault within the Vaults. Shelves of scroll tubes lined the walls, and a jumble of equipment, both medical and mechanical was hastily piled at the entrance. There was no real meat on the prize, but perhaps it's brain was still largely intact. The brain held the best cut, a true delicacy that allowed him his most cherished pleasure, to engage his omophagia, and to taste the genetic memory, and flashes of the living memory of the meal. That is what Casper truly enjoyed, but he had well developed tastes, he wouldn't bother with the brains of simpletons and slobs, no, he only dined on the brains of poets, scholars, and artists, in that order.

 

Casper barged through the piled equipment like it wasn't there. As he closed, the techpriest hefted up its cog-backed power axe, and retracted its servo arm for a pneumatically powered punch. It was too slow. Casper slashed out with his claw, taking the armored skull from the shoulders of the techpriest, and kicked its body against the wall, to avoid any retaliatory strikes reflexively launched from the mechanical corpse. He stood for a moment, offering up the armored skull to Khorne. The skull was adamantine, not bone, but the Skull King cared not, a skull was a skull.

 

His momentary act of faith complete, Casper cut into the base of the skull to reveal the grey matter within. It was mostly intact, what little had been replaced with augmetics was in the back. The choicest morsels were to be found in the front. He holstered his bolt pistol and retrieved his mess kit from a pair of grenade pouches at his thigh. He then righted an upturned operating table and with a flourish, whipped open his silk table cloth that had been neatly folded in his kit. Lamentably, he returned his micro-stove and spices to the pouch, his squad mates were closing fast on his position. He would have to enjoy this prize crudus. Next, he retrieved his daintily small, mother of pearl spoon. He was well aware how ridiculous the tiny spoon looked in his Astartes sized hands, but the small, non-metallic spoon was ideal for preserving the delicate flavor of his preferred dish. Without further adieu, he began to sup on the Techpriest's still warm brains. His omophagea plunged the depths of the Techpriest's, the very Magellous the Vaults were named after, memories. Such delights, such knowledge, both technical and literary, mellowed with the loneliness of millennia of isolation. It was a fine prize indeed.

 

[Carrack]

Apocrypha II

 

This takes place on the Pillars of Fortitude, mostly, but away from Ramone the Degenerate, in the army of Cancon Nagashesha, Serpent Prince of Rot.

 

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.

 

[Carrack]

Chosen Brother

Part 6.12

Fleeing the Lemish System

 

 

 

Casper was on a knee before his lord on the bridge of the Bitter Revenge. He proclaimed to Lord Carrack, “I have delivered you the Magellous Vaults, my lord.” Lord Carrack made him wait a moment, then turned with a great whoosh of his crimson cape trimmed in the fur of a greater white bear. He showed Casper his back. This wasn't going the way Casper had hoped. Lord Carrack replied as he stalked the bridge, “The Vaults were no great prize. What we recovered was mostly crates of spoilt rations, moth eaten flak armor, completely drained power cells, and the like. With what remains, we can barely outfit another mortal army, and we spent our last one conquering the cities that likely concealed the Vaults. Conquests we now abandon to the greenskins while we are forced to flee this system. You have delivered me nothing.”

 

Casper could feel the other Chosen laughing at him, even though they did it silently from within their helms. He raised to his feet and rejoined his mocking brothers. The imposing Lord of the Black Maw turned on his heel, as agile as a dancer, in spite of his terminator plate, and shouted, “You allowed Vinno to die! You are all unworthy to champion my chosen warriors. Who should I choose, Copil, he is a capable warrior, but you will never follow him because he has fought the Long War for two thousand years less than the rest of you. Saint Tiam here doesn't even want to lead, he wants to stay as the Icon Bearer, and never amount to anything greater, his lack of ambition makes him unfit. Marbas hasn't even been summoned for this audience, maybe the smartest thing you fools have done today. Obbo, Harold, or you Casper? You three are lunatics, if I chose any of you as champion, I could count on the squad to abandon the mission to hunt land speeders, tinker with their weapons, or chase after the brains of people smarter than you, and Casper, that's just about everybody!” With that the enraged Slayer of Multitudes hacked through a bridge officer's console with his great axe, and burnt the man’s face in a shower of sparks. Wisely, the officer slunked away, not daring to cry out in pain.

 

All of the Chosen stood there respectfully, they had to, Lord Carrack was on the verge of another killing rage. Inside however, Casper was both mad and crestfallen, if his lord wasn't present, he would kill some thralls for sure, just to vent his rage. He was crestfallen, because he was not going to rise in position today, and it was impossible to know when another opportunity would come. But who would Lord Carrack install, an outsider to the squad? Such an outsider would bring his own lackeys with him to bring the squad back up to full strength, Casper and the others would have to contend with other chosen being favored over them by such a champion. Such a champion might not tolerate Casper's occasional dining forays away from the squad.

 

 

The door opened to the bridge, and in walked Paimun. Casper had heard he had made it out alive. Paimun had Vinno's red bladed power sword laid across his arms like he was carrying a serving platter. Copil removed his helm and spit on the deck, the acidic saliva eating into the grating. Why was Copil so mad at Paimun? He had always hated everyone in the squad equally, mused Casper, but to make such a display in front of their lord spoke of a specific hatred. It was obvious who Lord Carrack would choose to lead his Chosen. Paimun had the sword. This whole audience was a farce. Paimun's entrance had been timed, and if Lord Carrack found Casper's, Harold's, and Obbo’s sanity too fractured to champion the Chosen, then Paimun would have been an even worse pick. Obbo and Harold had their obsessions, and Casper would admit that his cannibalism, although refined and sophisticated, wasn't exactly mentally healthy, Paimun however, was way far out there, warp-touched for sure, probably because of that thing attached to his stomach, it had to affect his digestion, and that was probably the source of his affliction. Good digestion was paramount to mental health.

 

The ceremony on the bridge was immediate and simple. Carrack named Paimun Champion of the Chosen, and knighted him with Vinno's sword, then granted it to him. This may have set an interesting precedent for the squad thought Casper, the sword may have just become a symbol of office for the squad. That might make future successions simpler.

 

What was interesting about the ceremony, surprisingly, was young Copil's reaction. After the champion was chosen, Lord Carrack elected three new chosen to the squad to bring them back to full strength, assuming someone bothered to summon Marbas back from the warp. The new chosen were Vanor, Yam, and Mot. All were from lord Carrack's old company, and of those who didn't reside permanently on the Blood Eye. . All were Cithonian, and all had been at the Siege of Terra. Young Copil was livid. The boy stepped up to lord Carrack's throne, about to say something, when Paimun intercepted him, and took him aside. The two came back to the bridge with Copil now wearing Paimun's powerfist.

 

Casper's interest was piqued, something was going on between the two. His interest brought him out of his anger and sadness, well his sadness and some of his anger anyway. Casper was certain he could unravel the mystery. Paimun was secretive, but not as much as he thought, and Copil was easy to lead on, he just had to treat him respectfully for a few years and he would think Casper was his greatest friend. Although he didn't get the championship, Casper also didn't lose any more of his squad mates to a senseless honor duel. This alone was a victory. They were his brothers, after all.

 

[Carrack]

Close

Part 7.4

Garland System

 

 

Lord Carrack felt the deck shudder beneath his feet as he stalked the bridge. The whispers from beyond abruptly quieted. The feeling of being watched by swarms of ghosts receded away. He didn't need to be told that the Bitter Revenge had just clawed its way into reality from hell itself, to once again strike at the realm of Man, he knew, he had done this so many, many, times before. As had his equerry, Lythane the Black. As the auspex returns came in, the sorcerer advised a course of action. He said,

 

"The Angels of Immolation outclass us, but we do have advantages. Their Battle Barge, Ember, simply has more armor and teeth than our grand cruiser, even though we have the range with our lances. Our strike cruiser, Blood Eye is being boarded by theirs, Pyromania. The close pursuit of their Battle Barge keeps Blood Eye on the defensive and running for her life. Where we have the advantage, is in numbers of escorts. We have two full squadrons of destroyers and frigates, and another of pirate raiders, while they have but a pair of Gladius protecting their flagship's flanks. If I were you, Lord Carrack, I would stay at range and strike with our lances as we delay them with our escorts, so we can destroy the loyalist flagship, while we sacrifice the Blood Eye, to tie up Pyromania. That or simply leave the strike cruiser to her fate, and withdraw to the warp to strike a less defended system."

 

Lord Carrack stopped his pacing, and replied, "If I were Lythane, that is what I would do, but I am Carrack, and I will close with the enemy.

 

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

 

Chapter Master Barca observed the enemy fleet's disposition from the Bridge of Ember. It was apparent that this would be the battle for the fate of the Aspis Subsector. He strapped his gauntleted hand onto the grip beneath the boss of the symbol of all of His souls in this subsector, the Aspis Eternal. It had a heavy weight to it that even he felt as he hefted the shield, both physically and symbolically. He would bear both. He took his honor guard with him off the bridge, no commands were necessary for his Master of the Fleet. The captain would do what he could to thin the boarding craft that were about to launch. He could hear the benedictions from his Master of Sanctity now, being broadcast across the ship-wide vox. The benedictions called for purity of aim and steadiness of hands for the turret gunners, and purity of faith and steadiness of heart from his outnumbered pilots. Both would do their utmost, but ultimately fail to stop Ember from being boarded. He led his honor guard to the central most position on his chapter's flagship, in accordance with the Codex Astartes. The section on counter-boarding operations was one he, and every brother-marine in his command had memorized, practiced, and rehearsed, but infrequently used, who would dare board an Astartes Battle Barge?

 

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

 

Lythane the Black seethed in indignation as he followed his lord to the teleportation chamber. His subtle ploy had been turned against him. He had tried to take credit for a probable victory, by pointing out the best plan of action for Lord Carrack to take in fighting the loyalist's fleet, then offered a cowardly alternative to channel Carrack's decision towards his real plan. If Lord Carrack would have followed his advice, the credit for the strategy would have gone to Lythane. Instead, Carrack had chosen a more dangerous, but bolder strategy, and called Lythane's courage into question with his insinuating remark. The warband would hear of Lord Carrack's remarks soon, Lythane was sure. In one way, the genetically engineered superhuman Black Legionaries were no different than ordinary, mortal soldiers, they gossiped like old woman at a salon. Word would spread of Carrack's bold plan to board the enemy, and Lythane's plan to sacrifice the Blood Eye. Lythane adjusted his schemes, out of spite for his lord. He ultimately wanted control of the entire warband, but was willing to settle for control of a sizable portion. He would see Carrack lose. He would subtly influence the battle to end in defeat, and then the rumors would be spread how he had offered a more sound strategy. It would be a delicate matter. He couldn't be too subtle that Carrack might win, but if he overdid it, there would be nothing left for him to take over. Lythane had waited too long in the shadow of Lord Carrack. The time had come to change that.

 

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

 

Garaduk watched the incoming fire streak all around the lighter as it closed on the battle barge. The pilot was shaking in fear, but not from the kaleidoscope of tracer fire and las beams. He was more afraid of his masters. Wisdom of a sort, Garaduk guessed, he had after all, killed the man’s copilot in the assault bay, partly as an example, but mostly so he would have a better view out the cockpit window as they made their boarding run. The copilot always blocked the screen from where he liked to sit. He knew the lighter would never make it. It was too big and slow a target, compared to the dreadclaws, thunderhawks, storm eagles, and boarding torpedoes that filled the void. It would serve a purpose though, it would get him close enough to make the jump pack assisted leap to the hull of the battle barge. In fact, it had gotten him closer than he expected, maybe even it would succeed, he mused. Then the wing ripped open from a lascannon strike at its base, sending the lighter off course and exposing the troop compartment to the void. Maybe not. Garaduk made his way back down the neck of the lighter to follow his Vulture Raptors out the new exit, and fire their packs to the surface of the incoming battle barge.

 

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

 

Like some aquatic parasite, attaching itself to the skin of a much larger beast, the dreadclaw punched into the armored hull with its talons. Then fired its melta cutter to breach through the massive armor, and disgorge its sole passenger, the helbrute Kharfus. If he knew, or even cared, Kharfus had the honor of being the first to board Ember. He didn't. All he knew was pain and rage at his interment in the sarcophagi, and all he cared about was sharing that pain and rage with as many as he could, that and proclaiming who he was, proclaiming that he was still alive, in spite of the virtual death of his physical body. He would let the Imperium know that he was still here, and that his hatred hadn't diminished in the least. He stepped through the breach, and into a wide gun deck, teeming with serfs scrambling to arms at his intrusion. He let them be the first aboard the ship to know who he was as he immediately burned through swaths of men in red and orange. +I AM KHARFUS+ he proclaimed. It was all he ever said anymore.

 

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

 

Saint Tiam had bit his tongue as the boarding torpedo crashed through the armored glass of the observatory. Blood filled his mouth and spilled down his chin. It wasn't the impact that had caused him to bite his tongue, he had done it on purpose. It was an offering to the Blood God at the start of battle. It served to stir the rest of the hot blood coursing through his veins. That it was his own blood mattered not, Khorne demanded blood, regardless of whether it was freely given. He cried out for more blood as he blew the hatch on the torpedo, even before it had lost its momentum. Saint Tiam and the rest of the Chosen of Lord Carrack leapt from the speeding tube as it skidded across the observatory’s mosaiced floor, and rushed to the entrance in time to meet the defenders, Angels of Immolation space marines who were in turn, rushing themselves to the scene of the Chosen's breech. Flamers fired into the chosen, a standard flamer, and a more robust heavy flamer. They were well positioned to catch the Chosen following Saint Tiam's Wrathful Standard. The jets of flame were accompanied by a scattering of bolts. The Chosen took losses, young Copil had a glob of sticky, burning, promethium spatter against the top of his backpack, and burn in the tight space between his back armor and power plant. He kept charging, but seven steps later his backpack went critical, and blew him to the deck face first. He wasn't stirring. Obbo took another gout of fire into his belt, which spattered over the soft armored joints of his groin. He threw down his meltagun and began to beat the flames with his gauntleted hands. But Marbas the Revenant, Casper, Harold, the newly made Champion Paimun, and Saint Tiam himself weathered the storm of fire with singed iconography, chipped breast plates and helms, and with Saint Tiam's Standard being set aflame. He could feel the standard’s rage at the fire and the nearby loyalists. The rage was hotter than the burning flames.

 

Before the charge hit, Harold fired his own flamer into the bunched up loyalists and covered much of their squad in his own special blend he used in his flamer. His special blend, one he had used for years, didn't burn any hotter, but included weird ingredients that he felt added to its effect, ingredients like ground up skull dust from a Salamander space marine, and menstrual blood. Harold swore by his special blend, and thought it a secret recipe, but all of the other Chosen had discovered it over the years. Harold's flamer burnt down two of the loyalists, Khorne must have smiled on the squad, for when the Chosen reached the Angels of Immolation, outnumbered two to one, they tore into the loyalists with fury and rage. Although outnumbered, the chosen were landing two or three hits to every one of the loyalists. Saint Tiam planted the burning standard into the primary heart of the heavy flamer bearer, and shot another in the head point blank with his bolt pistol, both went down. Likewise, Casper carved another two with his lightning claw, while Paimun gutted the sergeant with Vinno's sword. Harold and Marbas took down three of the loyalist marines between the two of them. The surviving loyalist fell back to a side corridor and ducked behind it. Harold fired his flamer again, jerking it quickly against the side corridor to splash the survivor with his special blend. Saint Tiam charged the side corridor, blindly hooking around it, only to discover the last loyalist dead. He was momentarily disappointed, until he looked at the end of the corridor. It was an armored door, heavily armored, but more importantly, it bore the sigil of House Rossi, a Navis Nobilis House. This was the objective they hoped to find close to the observatory. The rest of the remaining Chosen, including Obbo, who must have recovered from his wounds, followed Saint Tiam to the door.

 

[Carrack]

Macar

 

Part 7.5

 

 

Macar plunged Hilketa into the effigy and felt her hilt quiver in his hand. One by one, the tallow candles marking the edge of the ritual circle blew out, bereft of wind. As each candle was extinguished, a corresponding gem in the sword’s hilt illuminated with light, and played its color down the length of the blade. The light from the glowing gems was as bright as Macar had ever seen it, for he had spared no expense in completing the ritual. The circle had been etched into the deck of the thunderhawk, Consilia in Melius’s troop compartment with a distillation of his own acidic saliva, and then carefully inlaid with molten silver. It had taken several hours, worked in short increments, guarded in secrecy. The tallow for the candles had been ritually rendered from the fat of murdered men. The effigy had been woven from reeds watered with tears, and covered in wax taken from the hives of the blink wasp, an insect so venomous, that if a man was stung by one, all he would have time for was to blink before his death. But the real expense, the costliest component, was inside the wicker effigy. It was three strands of hair, and a scattering of skin cells taken from the effigy’s inspiration. Macar had beggared himself, both in coin and favors, to procure the scraps of genetic material from Hilketa’s next victim. Finding people close enough to the warrior that were willing to betray him had not been easy. The sword was still a sword, and a masterpiece of the swordsmith’s art at that, she would cut and stab anyone she struck, but the ritual would attune the weapon with the victim made in effigy, and Hilketa would always strike true against her designated foe, her bond-victim. It was the advantage Macar needed, if he was to win against the warrior the wax and reeds represented.

 

The assembled warriors looked on the ritual in damning silence. None objected, all present had tied their own fortunes to Macar's. Some had never seen the ritual before, others had spied their captain conducting the ritual in a meaner, less elaborate fashion before. All present were committed to following Macar, even against the deadliest of enemies.

 

Enemies made themselves known. Proximity alarms blared through the thunderhawk, indicating that they were in range of the enemy battle barge. Ember, the Angels of Immolation flagship that was about to be boarded by Macar, and the other Black Legionaries of the warband. This was the battle that would most likely determine the fate of the Aspis Subsector. It had started with Ember catching the Black Maw strike cruiser Blood Eye raiding on her own in the Garland System. A chase had ensued, that would have ended with Blood Eye reaching the system's edge, and translating to the warp just ahead of her pursuers. Then the loyalists cut her off, their own strike cruiser, Pyromania, coming into the system ahead of the Blood Eye. Lord Carrack, the ironfisted ruler of the Black Maw, heard the Blood Eye’s screams through the warp, and left the world he was raiding to take his fleet to relieve his most important capital ship, other than his own flagship, Bitter Revenge. A void battle ensued. The fleet of the Black Maw faced a tremendous foe in Ember, and could not afford to close with the Angels of Immolation's flagship. They could however, overwhelm her attack craft with attack craft of their own, along with interceptors, bombers, and boarding torpedoes launched from across the fleet of the Black Maw. But boarding an Astartes Battle Barge was a risky endeavor. The Black Maw could succeed in destroying the battle barge, along with the majority of the loyalist chapter, including their master, and thus eliminate the most potent defenders of this subsector. Or, they could be defeated, and any survivors would have to flee back to the Eye of Terror. In bold endeavors, heroes are made.

 

Macar's assigned part in this battle was to board the battle barge, and with his warriors, silence the port canon batteries. His part was not to strike the engines, or the bridge, the two most vital objectives in a boarding action, his part was of much lesser significance, and would win him little glory. That was his current standing in the Black Maw. It hadn't always been.

 

Of the three original Sons of Horus companies that had formed the Black Maw, Macar commanded the company belonging to their last lord, Lord Huma. When Huma disappeared to the warp, Lord Carrack, then a captain, had seized command. His former company had grown, given the best support, the most recruits, and the most opportunities for glory. He lured over warriors from Macar's and Garaduk One-Eye’s companies, with his favoring of his own former company. Macar’s especially, some of this was because Macar's company had been the favorite of Lord Huma, but it was also indicative of a religious shift in the warband as well. Lord Carrack had brought the Blood God into ascendency in the Black Maw. While Garaduk's recent patronage of Nurgle represented a new faction in the warband, it was still small, and not gaining many converts among the old guard of the warband, the true Veterans of the Long War that were the backbone of the Black Maw. It had even lost some support from some of his legionaries who did not wish to tread the Grandfather's path. Macar, like Lord Huma, had favored the Changer of Ways, and his faction had steadily waned in power since Lord Huma left, but as their numbers dwindled, Macar's remaining legionaries grew more loyal, almost tribal in their allegiance to each other and Macar over that of the warband at large.

 

The Consilia in Melius rocked wildly for a moment as it was hit with fire from the point defense turrets, then landed abruptly on the port side of Ember, above her gun decks. Macar mounted his custom-made Solomon Carpet. It didn't remotely resemble a carpet. It was a square platform covered with tubing, pipes, and engines, assembled by Solomon, the mad heretek of Xana II. The engines weren't responsible for lifting the carpet off the ground, they merely powered the containment field that trapped the motive force for the carpet in reality. Reality wasn't its natural environment. The carpet responded to no controls other than Macar's will, and shot out of the thunderhawk to range out over the port hull ahead of his legionaries.

 

Macar should have been searching for a breach point ventral to his landing zone, closer towards the gun decks, but instead he raced across the port side of the loyalist ship searching for a breach point more suited to his own, personal designs, designs for far greater glory. Only one small squad peeled off to undertake the mission assigned by Lord Carrack, and they were tasked with creating more smoke than fire. They were to create the illusion of a raid on the gun decks, while Macar went after a more worthy target, the target Hilketa thirsted for.

 

Macar halted his carpet over a passable entry to the ship, a seam where two armor plates had been poorly fitted together, the shipwright’s art was a dying one for the stagnant remnants of the loyalist Mechanicum. He dived down the five meter rift between the plates to place his melta bombs. In spite of the shortcut provided by the rift, it still took two pairs of melta bombs to breach the hull of Ember. Macar waited at the top of the rift for the breach to open, and his warriors to make their way to his position with mag locked steps. He passively watched the contents of the opened compartment rush out the hole into the vacuum of the void. Some of the contents were living serfs, though not for long. He led his warriors into the ship, to make their way towards the center of the battle barge, where Macar was sure to find Hilketa’s bond-victim.

 

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

 

The thunderhawk, Consilia in Melius, lowered its troop ramp as it fired its retro-thrusters just short of Bitter Revenge’s open assault bay, saving time for its next load of legionaries to board for the second wave. The normally bare troop compartment, shed debris into the void just outside of the Black Maw flagship. The debris consisted of nine candles, and a wicker effigy of a warrior in black terminator plate, an effigy of Lord Carrack, with a hole where his primary heart would be found.

 

 

[paulJam]

7.4 was top shelf brother!

ironic twists, iconic attitude, humour, flowing battle.... loving it.

[Carrack]

 

Meeting

part 7.3 1/2

The Warp

 

 

 

-sometime in the late 38th Millennium, on the bottom deck of the Black Maw flagship, Bitter Revenge

 

“So why are we only patch sealing this hatch, instead of repairing or replacing the Gellar Field projector?” Asked Samson as he turned off the compressor, satisfied that the hatch was airtight. Chief Cas signaled the specialist over the vox, and lit up a stogie before answering the stupid question, “Same reason we do anything numb skull, our masters told us to.” Unfortunately, the simple answer did nothing to satisfy Samson and his damned curiosity, and the specialist would likely take at least an hour to get down to this half-forgotten, bottom deck airlock. The young man paced the short airlock, Chief Cas could tell that he didn't want to appear insubordinate, but just couldn't let the matter rest. It didn't take long for his curiosity to compel him to ask, “But Chief, I was at the projector shop at the start of our shift, and we have tons of parts and replacements, and the Elect officers said we would be careening Bitter Revenge for days, so it's not like we are pressed for time. Why are we only patching it when we can fix it completely? I don't want any monsters breaking through next time we enter the warp.” Chief Cas lit a full cigar off the butt of the stogie he was smoking, then in an act of unexpected charity, passed the short nub to Samson, and slid his back down the airlock wall till he was seated on the floor, gesturing for Samson to do the same. He waited a minute, then said, “Look son, who told us to patch this airlock?” Samson quickly replied, “Well, Lieutenant Macar, well not really the legionary per se, but that little daemon that is always behind him.” The naive man acted like that was a distinction that mattered. Chief Cas, chuckling silently as the curious man burnt his fingers on the short cigar, and said, “Tell me Samson, can you find any reason in that overworked brain of yours, for us to do anything other than what a legionary of the Black Maw, and an officer at that, or his pet daemon have ordered us to do? Besides, we live above the starboard launch bays, any monsters that break through the patch, will have to contend with all the other monsters between here and there, before they trouble you.” With that, the young man was silent.

 

Finally, after two hours, the specialist arrived. He was creepy, but his kind always were, he was unnaturally tall and spindly, dressed in ill-fitting black robes that displayed his long, skinny, extra jointed arms, and hid his face in a deep cowl that had to severely limit his vision. Specialists. The freak gestured to Samson’s air compressor and the hatch. Instead, Chief Cas blew a cloud of smoke at the hatch, none of which left the airlock. Then the specialist pulled a tube from his robe and spread black wax over the hatch’s window. He smoothed out the wax with the empty tube, then started pressing a big gaudy ring into the wax at different points, all the while mumbling some words in a harsh language over and over. The words were more than words, Chief Cas grabbed Samson by the collar and stumbled for the far door as his gorge lurched up in his throat. He reached for the far door with his cigar still in his hand, and saw the cherry burning blue instead of red, and the smoke started to take the shape of his long dead grandmother’s face. He got out of there quick and didn't stop until they were three decks up. Samson was worse. Physically, he looked like Samson, but he was touched in the head, or maybe the soul. He still asked his questions, but they were questioned that made Chief Cas ill at ease, questions like, “Where will our souls go when we die, now that we have done the will of a daemon?”

 

-3 days prior to the Battle for Garland System, in the lift antechamber for conveyor 9, aboard Bitter Revenge

 

The antechamber was filled to capacity when Techna Drone Lott entered and closed the doorway. These were the Enlightened Ones, those who the Mysteries of the Conveyed Nine had been revealed. They were the chosen ones, yet they knew they were but servants of Lott, the true master of the Conveyed Nine. They struggled to kneel and press their heads down in supplication before Lott in the crowded room. He blessed them with allowing those in front to touch his robes, and snaking his mechandrils across the backs of those who could not reach his sacred person. His congregation started chanting the rites of elevation, to begin his mass. Their singing had improved. They must have been practicing, perhaps they were gaining new converts as well, not that that mattered, the only followers that he would bless were in attendance now. They were the ones who were assigned to work in his sacred conveyor at the appointed time.

 

Techna Drone Lott began his sermon, extolling the congregation’s virtues, and telling how they were not just more important than those who didn't worship the Conveyed Nine, but they were more important than all of his other followers. For in nine shifts, the appointed time would come, and they would make holy the Conveyed Nine, and prevent the unclean from profaning its hallowed machinery, by force if necessary. The Enlightened Ones became ecstatic at their special blessings, and anointed themselves in sacred lubricants before closing the worship with chanting the Rites of Descent, the most holy of prayers. Techna Drone Lott left the Enlightened Ones for his duty lectern, and wondered what his reward would be should his cult succeed.

 

-3 days prior to the Battle for Garland System, in the forward navigational observatory, aboard Bitter Revenge

 

“Ghannor, oh Ghannor. Ghannor!” A familiar, and unwelcome voice sounded in Ghannor the Warp

Seer’s head. The sorcerer sobbed out loud, “What, what do you want with me? Can't you just leave me alone?” The voice laughed maliciously, then said, “But Ghannor, I enjoy talking to you. I just need you to adjust the course ½ a degree in this direction Ghannor. You can do that for me right? It's only a half degree?“ The sorcerer grabbed his temples with both hands and tried to block out the voice with screaming, “No! I must guide the ship to the Garland system, Lord Carrack demands it.” The voice seductively whispered, “If you do this for me, I'll make the voices in your head stop, and we will still get to the Garland system, I will make an eddy in the warp to pull the ship back on course later. Do this and the voices will stop.”

 

“Ahhgg! You said the voices would stop. Please make them stop. Oh please.” Laughter drowned out the crowded head of the warp seer, and the one voice spoke again, “I did make them stop Ghannor, for three whole seconds the voices were silent.”

 

-2 days prior to the Battle for Garland System, in the suites of Lythane the Black, Equerry to Lord Carrack, aboard Bitter Revenge

 

 

Licklespit watched his master’s eyes roll back in his head and collapse back into his huge, overstuffed chair. It appeared that Lythane the Black had read to long from the dread Liber Apocal. It had happened before, the ancient grimoire had a way of overwhelming a reader with its powerful symbols. Still, Lythane had resisted the book better than any of its previous possessors, so Licklespit watched the unconscious sorcerer for another minute, checking his breathing rate and the frequency his eyes shook. It didn't appear that his master was bluffing, that had happened before as well. For a brief moment, Licklespit considered placing the grimoire under the hand of his master, and let the pages that could not be touched by man, suck in his black soul, to be forever bound in the margins of the pages, like so many sorcerers before, but instead, he placed the book on the lectern, unconcerned of the curse himself, because he was no man. Licklespit was a daemon, but a lowly one, one with many masters, and it was time to leave his mortal master to meet with his daemonic one. Before he left though, he flipped the Liber Apocal open, he wasn't in a position where he could get away with defying Lythane's most explicit commands, but if the sorcerer succumbed to his own temptation after gazing at the enthralling pages, Licklespit could not be blamed. The arrogant bastard deserved it with the way he treated Licklespit, like some flunky. All of the possessors of the Liber Apocal had always bullied Licklespit the Page Turner, but he usually got his revenge in the end. He left Lythane's suite to head below decks skulking and with furtive glances all about. He had to make a circular route to reach the number 9 conveyor, in order to avoid the territory frequented by Lord Carrack, and his own viscous familiar, Kneecapper, that feral daemon had no manners, and bit.

 

Traveling the Bitter Revenge, without Lythane was a little risky. Lythane the Black, equerry to Lord Carrack, was not well liked by the legionaries of the warband, he was seen as a plant from the Warmaster, a meddler from the Despoiler's court that threatened the autonomy of the Black Maw Warband. While no fool would dare raise a hand directly against Lythane, Licklespit was fair game if he was caught on his own. Yet as he entered conveyer 9, the quickest route to the meeting place, the normally busy conveyer was completely devoid of life, and strangely, symbols had been drawn across the conveyor in oil. Licklespit breathed a sigh of relief, getting to the meeting could have been dangerous.

 

On his way to his master, he met Dife Lespri, the other familiar daemon summoned to meet with Licklespit’s daemonic master. Dife Lespri’s mortal master was Captain Macar, the most powerful legionary in the warband to patron both Licklespit’s and Dife Lespri’s ultimate master, the Master of Fates. But that was no great claim, Captain Macar's faction was weak and waning. Licklespit continued on towards their rendezvous, Dife Lespri in tow. Licklespit both envied and looked down on his fellow familiar daemon. He envied Dife Lespri for being respected by not only his master, but by his master's warriors as well. Maybe not respected, but at least treated decently. At the same time, the social standing of familiar daemons was closely tied to that of their mortal masters, and Lythane was far more influential than Macar. Licklespit reminded Dife Lespri of that every chance he got. He did so now by ignoring Dife Lespri's questions about why they were meeting their daemonic master. He didn't know himself, but he acted like he did, only he couldn't be bothered to enlighten the likes of Dife Lespri.

 

Licklespit slid open the manual override for the service hatch and the two daemons entered the short airlock. Flickers of shadows danced just outside the corners of his vision in the short chamber before the hatch. There was something in the airlock with the Licklespit and Dife Lespri, something ominous and threatening, something vastly more dangerous than the two familiars. Licklespit swallowed a gulp of the stale air and went to the next hatch. It was sealed in black wax with sigils stamped into five equidistant points, but the wax was old, and the sigils blurred with age. Still, Licklespit felt the slight prickle of energy and his mouth tasted like it was full of aluminum foil as he reached for the hatch’s crank. The wards still held a small charge, in spite of the manifestation of the warp in the airlock. He thought better of it, these wards were made for beings like him, and commanded Dife Lespri to open the hatch. The lesser familiar opened the door with a gasp as the last of the wards sparked into his hand. The other daemon shoved his singed hand in his mouth to cool the burn and adroitly stepped behind Licklespit, so he would be the first to enter the observatory.

 

It was a navigational observatory, the kind used by navigators and sorcerers to view the tides of the warp. A clear dome extended down from the belly of the ship, the artificial gravity having been reversed in the exterior room. The floor was one flawless piece of obsidian, not cut for the dimensions of the observatory, but formed naturally, but such details were trivial compared to what was beyond the dome. It was the warp, the reflection of emotion, the impossible dimension, the realm of the gods, Licklespit's and Dife Lespri's home, and the home of their master. The master sent his emissary, and the dome shattered into a million snowflakes, all identical, as the emissary landed on the floor of the observatory.

 

Licklespit could see little of the emissary, as he groveled on the obsidian floor, not just showing deference, but hiding behind his master from the dangers that swirled around the ship. All he saw were two taloned feet, one blue and one green, each bigger than his entire body. The emissary spoke, not with words, but directly into his mind, “Tzeentch will take control of the Black Maw Warband. He will use your mortal master as his puppet. You will ensure that his will is done, and see that Lythane is not led astray. This will happen in the next battle the warband faces.” Licklespit smiled, his future was looking bright, then glanced over at Dife Lespri to gloat over his advancement, and saw the other familiar smiling and gloating in turn. Not a good sign.

 

 

[EesiOh]

Meeting

part 7.3 1/2

The Warp

 

 

 

-sometime in the late 38th Millennium, on the bottom deck of the Black Maw flagship, Bitter Revenge

 

“So why are we only patch sealing this hatch, instead of repairing or replacing the Gellar Field projector?” Asked Samson as he turned off the compressor, satisfied that the hatch was airtight. Chief Cas signaled the specialist over the vox, and lit up a stogie before answering the stupid question, “Same reason we do anything numb skull, our masters told us to.” Unfortunately, the simple answer did nothing to satisfy Samson and his damned curiosity, and the specialist would likely take at least an hour to get down to this half-forgotten, bottom deck airlock. The young man paced the short airlock, Chief Cas could tell that he didn't want to appear insubordinate, but just couldn't let the matter rest. It didn't take long for his curiosity to compel him to ask, “But Chief, I was at the projector shop at the start of our shift, and we have tons of parts and replacements, and the Elect officers said we would be careening Bitter Revenge for days, so it's not like we are pressed for time. Why are we only patching it when we can fix it completely? I don't want any monsters breaking through next time we enter the warp.” Chief Cas lit a full cigar off the butt of the stogie he was smoking, then in an act of unexpected charity, passed the short nub to Samson, and slid his back down the airlock wall till he was seated on the floor, gesturing for Samson to do the same. He waited a minute, then said, “Look son, who told us to patch this airlock?” Samson quickly replied, “Well, Lieutenant Macar, well not really the legionary per se, but that little daemon that is always behind him.” The naive man acted like that was a distinction that mattered. Chief Cas, chuckling silently as the curious man burnt his fingers on the short cigar, and said, “Tell me Samson, can you find any reason in that overworked brain of yours, for us to do anything other than what a legionary of the Black Maw, and an officer at that, or his pet daemon have ordered us to do? Besides, we live above the starboard launch bays, any monsters that break through the patch, will have to contend with all the other monsters between here and there, before they trouble you.” With that, the young man was silent.

 

Finally, after two hours, the specialist arrived. He was creepy, but his kind always were, he was unnaturally tall and spindly, dressed in ill-fitting black robes that displayed his long, skinny, extra jointed arms, and hid his face in a deep cowl that had to severely limit his vision. Specialists. The freak gestured to Samson’s air compressor and the hatch. Instead, Chief Cas blew a cloud of smoke at the hatch, none of which left the airlock. Then the specialist pulled a tube from his robe and spread black wax over the hatch’s window. He smoothed out the wax with the empty tube, then started pressing a big gaudy ring into the wax at different points, all the while mumbling some words in a harsh language over and over. The words were more than words, Chief Cas grabbed Samson by the collar and stumbled for the far door as his gorge lurched up in his throat. He reached for the far door with his cigar still in his hand, and saw the cherry burning blue instead of red, and the smoke started to take the shape of his long dead grandmother’s face. He got out of there quick and didn't stop until they were three decks up. Samson was worse. Physically, he looked like Samson, but he was touched in the head, or maybe the soul. He still asked his questions, but they were questioned that made Chief Cas ill at ease, questions like, “Where will our souls go when we die, now that we have done the will of a daemon?”

 

-3 days prior to the Battle for Garland System, in the lift antechamber for conveyor 9, aboard Bitter Revenge

 

The antechamber was filled to capacity when Techna Drone Lott entered and closed the doorway. These were the Enlightened Ones, those who the Mysteries of the Conveyed Nine had been revealed. They were the chosen ones, yet they knew they were but servants of Lott, the true master of the Conveyed Nine. They struggled to kneel and press their heads down in supplication before Lott in the crowded room. He blessed them with allowing those in front to touch his robes, and snaking his mechandrils across the backs of those who could not reach his sacred person. His congregation started chanting the rites of elevation, to begin his mass. Their singing had improved. They must have been practicing, perhaps they were gaining new converts as well, not that that mattered, the only followers that he would bless were in attendance now. They were the ones who were assigned to work in his sacred conveyor at the appointed time.

 

Techna Drone Lott began his sermon, extolling the congregation’s virtues, and telling how they were not just more important than those who didn't worship the Conveyed Nine, but they were more important than all of his other followers. For in nine shifts, the appointed time would come, and they would make holy the Conveyed Nine, and prevent the unclean from profaning its hallowed machinery, by force if necessary. The Enlightened Ones became ecstatic at their special blessings, and anointed themselves in sacred lubricants before closing the worship with chanting the Rites of Descent, the most holy of prayers. Techna Drone Lott left the Enlightened Ones for his duty lectern, and wondered what his reward would be should his cult succeed.

 

-3 days prior to the Battle for Garland System, in the forward navigational observatory, aboard Bitter Revenge

 

“Ghannor, oh Ghannor. Ghannor!” A familiar, and unwelcome voice sounded in Ghannor the Warp

Seer’s head. The sorcerer sobbed out loud, “What, what do you want with me? Can't you just leave me alone?” The voice laughed maliciously, then said, “But Ghannor, I enjoy talking to you. I just need you to adjust the course ½ a degree in this direction Ghannor. You can do that for me right? It's only a half degree?“ The sorcerer grabbed his temples with both hands and tried to block out the voice with screaming, “No! I must guide the ship to the Garland system, Lord Carrack demands it.” The voice seductively whispered, “If you do this for me, I'll make the voices in your head stop, and we will still get to the Garland system, I will make an eddy in the warp to pull the ship back on course later. Do this and the voices will stop.”

 

“Ahhgg! You said the voices would stop. Please make them stop. Oh please.” Laughter drowned out the crowded head of the warp seer, and the one voice spoke again, “I did make them stop Ghannor, for three whole seconds the voices were silent.”

 

-2 days prior to the Battle for Garland System, in the suites of Lythane the Black, Equerry to Lord Carrack, aboard Bitter Revenge

 

 

Licklespit watched his master’s eyes roll back in his head and collapse back into his huge, overstuffed chair. It appeared that Lythane the Black had read to long from the dread Liber Apocal. It had happened before, the ancient grimoire had a way of overwhelming a reader with its powerful symbols. Still, Lythane had resisted the book better than any of its previous possessors, so Licklespit watched the unconscious sorcerer for another minute, checking his breathing rate and the frequency his eyes shook. It didn't appear that his master was bluffing, that had happened before as well. For a brief moment, Licklespit considered placing the grimoire under the hand of his master, and let the pages that could not be touched by man, suck in his black soul, to be forever bound in the margins of the pages, like so many sorcerers before, but instead, he placed the book on the lectern, unconcerned of the curse himself, because he was no man. Licklespit was a daemon, but a lowly one, one with many masters, and it was time to leave his mortal master to meet with his daemonic one. Before he left though, he flipped the Liber Apocal open, he wasn't in a position where he could get away with defying Lythane's most explicit commands, but if the sorcerer succumbed to his own temptation after gazing at the enthralling pages, Licklespit could not be blamed. The arrogant bastard deserved it with the way he treated Licklespit, like some flunky. All of the possessors of the Liber Apocal had always bullied Licklespit the Page Turner, but he usually got his revenge in the end. He left Lythane's suite to head below decks skulking and with furtive glances all about. He had to make a circular route to reach the number 9 conveyor, in order to avoid the territory frequented by Lord Carrack, and his own viscous familiar, Kneecapper, that feral daemon had no manners, and bit.

 

Traveling the Bitter Revenge, without Lythane was a little risky. Lythane the Black, equerry to Lord Carrack, was not well liked by the legionaries of the warband, he was seen as a plant from the Warmaster, a meddler from the Despoiler's court that threatened the autonomy of the Black Maw Warband. While no fool would dare raise a hand directly against Lythane, Licklespit was fair game if he was caught on his own. Yet as he entered conveyer 9, the quickest route to the meeting place, the normally busy conveyer was completely devoid of life, and strangely, symbols had been drawn across the conveyor in oil. Licklespit breathed a sigh of relief, getting to the meeting could have been dangerous.

 

On his way to his master, he met Dife Lespri, the other familiar daemon summoned to meet with Licklespit’s daemonic master. Dife Lespri’s mortal master was Captain Macar, the most powerful legionary in the warband to patron both Licklespit’s and Dife Lespri’s ultimate master, the Master of Fates. But that was no great claim, Captain Macar's faction was weak and waning. Licklespit continued on towards their rendezvous, Dife Lespri in tow. Licklespit both envied and looked down on his fellow familiar daemon. He envied Dife Lespri for being respected by not only his master, but by his master's warriors as well. Maybe not respected, but at least treated decently. At the same time, the social standing of familiar daemons was closely tied to that of their mortal masters, and Lythane was far more influential than Macar. Licklespit reminded Dife Lespri of that every chance he got. He did so now by ignoring Dife Lespri's questions about why they were meeting their daemonic master. He didn't know himself, but he acted like he did, only he couldn't be bothered to enlighten the likes of Dife Lespri.

 

Licklespit slid open the manual override for the service hatch and the two daemons entered the short airlock. Flickers of shadows danced just outside the corners of his vision in the short chamber before the hatch. There was something in the airlock with the Licklespit and Dife Lespri, something ominous and threatening, something vastly more dangerous than the two familiars. Licklespit swallowed a gulp of the stale air and went to the next hatch. It was sealed in black wax with sigils stamped into five equidistant points, but the wax was old, and the sigils blurred with age. Still, Licklespit felt the slight prickle of energy and his mouth tasted like it was full of aluminum foil as he reached for the hatch’s crank. The wards still held a small charge, in spite of the manifestation of the warp in the airlock. He thought better of it, these wards were made for beings like him, and commanded Dife Lespri to open the hatch. The lesser familiar opened the door with a gasp as the last of the wards sparked into his hand. The other daemon shoved his singed hand in his mouth to cool the burn and adroitly stepped behind Licklespit, so he would be the first to enter the observatory.

 

It was a navigational observatory, the kind used by navigators and sorcerers to view the tides of the warp. A clear dome extended down from the belly of the ship, the artificial gravity having been reversed in the exterior room. The floor was one flawless piece of obsidian, not cut for the dimensions of the observatory, but formed naturally, but such details were trivial compared to what was beyond the dome. It was the warp, the reflection of emotion, the impossible dimension, the realm of the gods, Licklespit's and Dife Lespri's home, and the home of their master. The master sent his emissary, and the dome shattered into a million snowflakes, all identical, as the emissary landed on the floor of the observatory.

 

Licklespit could see little of the emissary, as he groveled on the obsidian floor, not just showing deference, but hiding behind his master from the dangers that swirled around the ship. All he saw were two taloned feet, one blue and one green, each bigger than his entire body. The emissary spoke, not with words, but directly into his mind, “Tzeentch will take control of the Black Maw Warband. He will use your mortal master as his puppet. You will ensure that his will is done, and see that Lythane is not led astray. This will happen in the next battle the warband faces.” Licklespit smiled, his future was looking bright, then glanced over at Dife Lespri to gloat over his advancement, and saw the other familiar smiling and gloating in turn. Not a good sign.

 

 

My god brother I leave this sight for all of 5 minutes and look how much the story's grown. 

Didya miss me ;P

[Carrack]

The Failure of the Cadian Method

Part 7.5

The Garland System, Eighth Catacomb of the Blood Eye

 

 

Gisco put his shoulder into the backpack of Chaplain Hamilax, and pushed him back towards the doorway. The black armored chaplain had nothing left, and couldn't trudge through the piles of cultist on his own anymore. He was swinging his Crozius with willpower alone it seemed. That, at least, was inexhaustible. Gisco looked over at the niches of skulls lining the walls, the last wave had pushed him back to Old Gold Tooth. That was a new landmark for the enemy. Broken Eye Socket, Space Wolf, and Dusty Dome were the names he had given other eye level skulls that they had marked the high tide's of the waves of mutant thralls. The first several waves hadn't even pushed the chaplain out of the entrance. The thralls so far, hadn't been able to push Chaplain Hamilax back far enough to bring their numbers to bear, and essentially, had been fighting a series of duels, one after another, against the faster, stronger, and better space marine. Eventually though, one would get lucky. Gisco shook the last promethium canister, futility hoping for enough fuel for one more blast from his flamer, but it was for naught. He might have enough to light a candle, but not enough to burn a heretic. The next wave would only be thinned by his and the chaplain's pistols, rather than the charge breaking flamer. He clamped the weapon to his backpack, and drew his pistol, judging the ammo count of the magazine by the weight of the weapon. His judgment was as sound as any auto counter, a judgment born of countlessuu hours of practice, coupled with a mastery of his enhanced physiology that only a space marine would ever know.

 

Practice, training, rehearsal, exercise, meditation, these were the things that had filled his time since the day of his selection for the Tempering. He dropped a knee, and reflexively shot the first braying mutant to step into the corridor from underneath the chaplain's own firing pistol. Both shots hit, and blew apart the poorly armored, but frenzied mutants. A half dozen more were behind them. The chaplain reloaded and Gisco fired into another mutant, this one sporting the twisted horns of an inbred ruminant that had been born of a flock badly in need of a new ram. The bolt struck the thrall center mass, but the mutant kept charging, in spite of the viscera uncoiling out of the gaping wound in its mid-section. Gisco rose to his feet and stepped back out of the arc of the chaplain's Crozius. He took the moment before the next wave hit to check the rest of the squad. They had taken up supporting positions, with two of his brothers in the corners bracketing the only door with aimed boltguns, waiting to cut a breakthrough down with a crossfire. Brother Bomlicar was in the back with his multimelta readied to stop any thralls from slipping to their rear, and Brother Sergeant Mago was left and back, chainsword ready to rush in should the thralls push the chaplain back enough to get two abreast. Their positioning was flawless, but unfortunate, for the Cadian method had failed to open a breach in the catacomb, and let the squad continue on their mission.

 

The Cadian method, that was a reminder for Gisco of the brotherhood of his squad. So much of his life had been spent in constant training, some individually, some in groups up to company level, and occasionally even bigger formations, but the majority of training was by squad. The times he wasn't in training, had been when he was actually waging war on the Emperor's enemies, but there had been scant moments, few and far between, when his squad was not fighting, or preparing to fight. Gisco could remember each of those moments, he privately cherished them. They were what, more than anything, formed the bonds of brotherhood for the squad. One such moment, only a year ago, had occurred while they were in Pyromania's Chapel of the Primarch, coincidentally, while they were waiting on Chaplain Hamilax, who was now smiting heretics down with furious strikes of his Crozius Arcanum. The squad had passed the brief time by each member recounting memorable stories about Imperial Guardsmen that they had seen fighting. Brother Mapen had told of the Cadians. The Cadians he had fought beside, had been tasked with creating an opening in the Xenos lines with their artillery, yet the greenskins had weathered the barrage and held their lines. Brother Mapen had heard the Cadians' colonel order his men to solve the problem the usual way. He told how he had asked the colonel what the usual way was, as several scouts carrying heavy packs started crawling forward to the xenos lines. The colonel had replied, "Any problem that proves difficult, can always be solved with copious use of explosives." A few minutes later an opening had been created. From that day in the Grand Chapel of the Primarch onwards, the squad always referred to demolitions as, "the Cadian method". It hadn't worked today. The catacomb was too heavily armored, and the squad's krak grenades and melta bombs had failed to force a breach.

 

This wave, the smallest the heretics had thrown at the Angels of Immolation, was halted by the exhausted Chaplain Hamilax, with the enraged chaplain only being pushed back to Space Wolf, the Astartes sized skull with the elongated canines in a niche a little more than a meter back from the door. It had cost the chaplain though, a slug from the biggest mutant's shotgun had punched through Brother Chaplain Hamilax's battered armor and body, striking him in his pistol arm, and tearing through tendons and bones to leave the arm dangling limply at the elbow. That mutant, along with the others, lay dead at the entrance, crumpled and pulped by the Crozius. Gisco put his non-firing hand on the chaplain's good shoulder, a signal that he was ready to step into the entrance to meet the next wave, but Btother Chaplain Hamilax defiantly shrugged off Gisco's proffered assistance.

 

The thralls had finally exhausted their numbers, and their master stepped into the corridor. He filled it, physically with his horrible form, and emotionally with an aura of seething hatred for humanity. It was the warpsmith they had seen on the hull of the Blood Eye. Eight augmetic legs, ending in adamantine spikes, supported a centauric torso clothed in heavy, red, robes that fluttered about as if blown by phantom winds. Beneath the cowl of the robes was a brass skull, while augmetic limbs thrust out from the half-sleeves of the robes, one ending in a short boltgun barrel, the other a many fingered hand clutching a power axe connected by a short power cable to the arm itself. From the back of the beast sprouted several undulating tentacles, some of metal and machinery, others of scaled flesh, while some blended the two. Each tentacle ended in a weapon, tool, or instrument of torture. One, a melta cutter terminating its scaled flesh like the rattle of a viper, snaked forward and fired its cutter into a tightly focused beam, invisible but for the shimmer of its tremendous heat. The beam, a weaponized version of what was used for cutting through the thickest of hull plating, cut down the center of the corridor and struck Chaplain Hamilax in the gut. The heat transferred from the beam to the chaplain's armor and melted a much wider circle through the core of the chaplain. His body crumpled to the floor in a steaming heap. The warpsmith charged.

 

[Carrack]

Dropped

Part 7.6

Garland System, Eighth Catacomb of the Blood Eye

 

 

The warpsmith was charging. Gisco didn't have time to grieve his fallen chaplain, the warpsmith was seconds away from hitting the entrance to the catacomb, and it was clear his intent was to make it a tomb for the Angels of Immolation.

 

Gisco was a consummate warrior, his skill in hand to hand fighting had been honed by years of training and sparring, and tested in the fires of battle on a hundred worlds. He had every confidence in his ability, yet was humble enough to know his odds of besting the charging monstrosity were slim. Even so, he would do his best, if it came to that. For the meantime, he would utilize his squad's most potent weapon available, and he dropped prone, firing his pistol with his left hand as he fell, and scooping up the fallen, but freshly loaded pistol of Brother Chaplain Hamilax with his right, firing it as well in one motion. Both shots hit, and both did nothing to stop the charging heretic. But at the same time as he hit the deck, he screamed out, "Melta!", to Brother Bomlicar behind him in the back of the catacomb. Brother Bomlicar cooly fired his already shouldered multimelta over Gisco's prone body, and struck the charging warpsmith in the chest, three meters before the entrance. The beast was incinerated by the potent beam of heat as it burned through augmetics and daemonflesh alike, to leave little more than charred limbs and writhing tentacles, flailing uselessly in the corridor. Gisco picked himself up from the deck, and nodded thanks to the multimelta bearer. Now they could continue their mission.

 

[Carrack]

Fires

 

Part 7.7

Garland System

 

The daemons were stirring. They were finally coming out of their screaming rage to face reality. This was my moment to strike back at the daemons that possessed both me and my fighter, Avem. Before long they would fully come to their senses, or what approximated senses for daemons, and return to tormenting me. Such windows were brief, the daemons always lost themselves in the rage of the warp, whenever the ship the fighter was attached to, the Bitter Revenge, dived into the Sea of Souls, and it always took them some time to find themselves, when the ship washed up into the empty reality of the void. This time had the promise of a greater opportunity than ever before, for at some point during the voyage through the warp, an enemy of the rage daemons had approached the ship nearby. I could see the effects of its visit through Avem's forward auspex. The enemy of my tormentors had struck an old, forgotten observatory further towards the bow from our position clutched to the ventral hull. The enemy daemon had shattered the plasteel dome, and scarred the obsidian floor of the observatory with its talons. I remembered their impotent anger, they had tried to rouse me from my own plunge into insanity, caused by exposure to the turbulent warp, but I was lost beyond even their most violent attempts to arouse me, and without me, even after all this time, my fighter would not fire its weapon, launch, or do anything other than what I commanded.

 

There were three major and five minor daemons that had inhabited the fighter with me since the Chain Maker had twisted me and Avem with fell rituals and forbidden technology. The minor daemons, I could ignore. They were little spites bound to support systems of my fighter, my vox had one, as did my targeter, and others were chained to different avionics. They could hurt me, and they would soon, but the pain they inflicted, and the blood they shed, was of little consequence compared to what the three major daemons inflicted. Vagon, Sangre, and Keen, they were the three that caused my true suffering, and cut into me with tooth and claw, spilling my hot, oily, blood throughout my fighter, and igniting it in flames when it suit them. Yet they never killed me, they bled me, they burned me, but they never ended me. I think my death would would somehow cause their existence to end, but I'm not certain. There are times when I feel that they simply wish to prolong my suffering, or perhaps they simply have no concept of time, it is alien to the warp from which they were formed. Vagon is in my engines, Sangre my weapon, and Keen is in my power core, but so am I. I and Avem are one, we are intertwined, along with the daemons, the conduits are my blood vessels, the power that runs through them stems from my heart, the power core. My eyes are the auspex, my larynx the vox, and my breath, that of flames, is my weapon. I am so far removed from the Cithonian boy who once roamed Ur Hive, stealing and fighting just to survive. My earliest memories are not just hazy, but utterly incomprehensible. My memories as an Astartes pilot are better, but they are painful, for I long for those distant days that will never again be repeated. I long for the control I once had over my fate, that I must now, at best, share with the daemons bound to my fighter.

 

I force my will on Keen now, focusing my thoughts and on the ignition sequence I had performed so many times, back when we were an ordinary fighter and pilot. Avem responds to my will, she to remembers the familiar routine, and the engines flare as power is released from the core. Keen cries out as his dominion over the power core is bypassed, and he is left helpless to control his fate. I redline the core briefly, and sear the daemon within. I know his pain and predicament, it is something I usually suffer, but I know no pity for the daemon. I burn him again and again as I fluctuate the flow of power through us. The other daemons scream in rage at my rebellion. They cut and bite, opening veins and fluid lines to make me bleed in offerings to their god, and to remind me of my place. In spite of the pain, I laugh at them with the sweet joy of a rare victory over my possessors. However, regardless of the civil war that is our internal existence, we are united in our external purpose. I, we, are Igneus Avem Draco, the Heldrake of the Black Maw Warband, and battle is commencing.

 

The assault bays of our flagship are launching their attack craft and dreadclaws. Boarding torpedoes are shot in salvos at the enemy. The launch bays are releasing squadrons of hell blades and hell talons. Lighters are slowly making their way out of the cargo bays. Across the fleet, other ships are doing the same. Igneus Avem Draco will not sit idle when the Black Maw is at war, and we release our claws from the hull of Bitter Revenge. Vagon, the daemon in my engines demands power from me with threats and curses. I give him more than he can handle and burn him like I did Keen, but Avem is growing angry with me, my attacks on the daemons are hurting her too, so I relent as we lurch forwards with the overpowered burn. We approach the enemy flagship and it is formidable. A loyalist battle barge, clad in red and orange armor like flames, is on a head to head coarse with our own flag. Squadrons of fast moving frigates and raiders flank the main assault force. They make quick work of the pair of Gladius escorts guarding the battle barge with lance and cannon, and pepper the enemy flagship with torpedoes.

 

The enemy does what it can to stop the assault, its own attack craft briefly fighting, but ultimately are overwhelmed by the hell blades at the vanguard of the assault force. The point defense weapons of the battle barge take a heavier toll on the vanguard, but one by one, the port turret guns are extinguished by our escorts and bombing runs from the hell talons. The first of the dreadclaws and boarding torpedoes strike the battle barge in the vast hole in the ship's point defense net we have unraveled. We are right behind them.

 

A single interceptor launches from the battle barge as we approach. It is a storm hawk, a void supremacy fighter. I guess that it had a delay in launching, and was unable to join its squadron where it would have made a greater impact, but it's pilot wished to sacrifice himself in a futile void war, rather than have his fighter destroyed in its bay. The loyalist fighter dodges and dances around the hell blades, staying in their midst to limit the angles of attack from the hell blades by using them as shields. This wouldn't last long, some hell blade pilot would cast aside concern for his brothers and fire anyway. Brotherhood has lost its meaning to many in the warband, the tolerance of my suffering by my brothers is a testament to the state we have sunken to. We don't give the hell blades a chance to shoot themselves. We dive into the battle and scatter our allies. The storm hawk tries to scatter with them, but chooses a predictable path. We don't bother firing our weapon, but slam into the loyalist voidcraft with our docking talons, and rip its starboard wing off. Not satisfied, Sangre directs our weapon head to bite, not fire on the storm hawk's fuselage and the loyalist fighter is further ripped apart, exposing the space marine pilot within. We grasp him with our talons, and rip him in two, then fling both halves out into the void. Drops of the pilot's spilt blood freeze and shatter against other drops and the flotsam accumulating around the battle.

 

We break away from the fight and skim the surface of the port side of the battle barge. We read its name, Ember, and our rage heightens to a heart racing pitch. These loyalist know nothing of flames and have no right to name their ship such. We will teach them the error of their ways. A thunderhawk, the Consulia in Melius, has dropped its troops onto the hull of the enemy ship. They are following their captain, who has ranged ahead on some daemonic contraption. These troops are followers of a different god than the daemons in my fighter. Sangre wants to burn them, but I give him no power to do so. He burns me instead, with the heat from his fiery sword. I endure the pain for the sake of warriors who have ignored my entrapment. Once, they were my brothers.

 

A sally port opens behind the Black Legionnaires walking the hull. Out of the port fly ten loyalists with jump packs. They fire their packs and chase after my brothers, preparing to harry their rear and slow their advance. We will have none of that, and race in behind them. We want the slaves of the False Emperor to burn. Avem and I can try to fire our flames, and Sangre is eager to do so, but to get the most out of our weapon, I must release the power core to Keen, and allow him to imbue the power for the weapon with daemonic energy. I bluff, I tell Keen that I can now take control of the core anytime, and I will punish him should he displease me. He calls me a liar, he knows I was lucky to usurp his control. Still, the enemies must burn, so I release the control. Keen does not retaliate against me, and honors my request for power to our weapon. I sense that I have won a level of respect from the daemon. It is not mutual. Sangre belches forth gouts of green hellfire upon the loyalist marines, burning and burning them, as we make passes on the assault marines. It is not just their armor and flesh that burn. The daemonic flames sear their very souls. We circle the boarding zone on the enemy ship, and wait for the next defenders to burn. We are Igneus Avem Draco, and we will set the Imperium aflame.

 

[Carrack]

Rites of the Chosen

Part 7.8

Garland System, aboard the Angels of Immolation battle barge, Ember

 

 

Copil could feel the Wash lapping at the edges of his mind as he rejoined his squad on the loyalist battle barge. He panicked. Unfortunately, there was nobody he could hit to calm his nerves, and release the tension mounting in his mind. The Wash was bad. It was a flaw in his creation, a product of the unorthodox way in which he had been gene-forged.

 

For all intensive purposes, Copil was an Astartes, he had the implants, and the benefits they provided. He had the speed, the power, the longevity of a marine. He looked like a marine, he thought like a marine, and he fought like a marine, but he wasn't truly a marine, not like the rest of the Chosen of Lord Carrack who were burning through the armored hatch with melta shots and bombs. He wasn't a marine because he hadn't been created like a marine. He hadn't begun life as a mortal aspirant and gone through the ritual enhancement of a true Astartes. Instead, he had been created in a laboratory by the infamous Fabious Bile. He had been made into the semblance of an Astartes, but not quite an Astartes. The Wash was what separated him from true marines.

 

The wash was a flaw, an oversight in Fabious Bile's attempts to recreate Astartes. It was a tendency for the warp infused energy used in his creation to overwhelm his psyche, and wash away years, decades, even centuries of his memories. It left him bewildered and confused, vulnerable in the company of ruthless killers, and more often than not, in the midst of the tempest of battle. He couldn't afford to have the Wash come now, so he fought it off with rage. He focused on his rage at the universe at large, then narrowing that rage against his cruel brothers who stood beside him. The slights they visited upon Copil were too numerous to count, but mostly revolved around their claims of superiority from fighting the Long War from its inception. He looked again for something to hit. The waves of the Wash receded a bit in the face of his monumental anger. It was how he dealt with his flaw, a personal rite, that if performed correctly, might quell the surge of blankness that threatened his mind.

 

Copil made his way to the front of the squad, eager to strike the hatch with his power fist, and further channel his anger into physical action. As he passed the other chosen, he thought of their own individual rites that they performed for unique reasons.

 

First he passed Harold with the barrel of his flamer pointed low, waiting to step to the fore when the hatch was breeched. Harold's rites were in the care of his weapons. Harold's flamer was an ordinary flamer, no different than any other carried by the legionaries of the Black Maw, but the contents of his promethium canisters were unique. Over the ages, Harold had concocted a secret recipe for his flamer's fuel. Added to the promethium were strange ingredients that he believed increased the potency of his weapon. Out of curiosity, Copil, like every other Chosen in the squad had at one time intimated some of Harold's thralls into revealing this secret recipe. Strange ingredients like an eye of a newt and a toe of a frog were stirred into the fuel for no apparent reason, along with various types of blood from arterial to menstrual, were added in homage to the Blood God. Despite what Harold believed, the fire from his weapon burnt no hotter than that of any other. Still, it was a ritual, an act of worship from the legionary that he did in preparation for battle.

 

Next in line was Casper, Casper the Cannibal. Casper was known to seek out enemies, or thralls if none were at hand, that possessed talents for the arts. When he found them he would set an elaborate table, complete with fine china and silver, than with a white linen napkin tucked into his gorget, he would eat their brains. He proclaimed he did this to engage his omophagia, and sample the delicacies of humanity's protégées, but before he took his first bite, he always offered up the skull of his entree to the King of Skulls. It too was a personal rite of worship. It always amused Copil how Casper's thralls went to such great lengths to appear as simpletons and slobs.

 

Third in line was Marbas the Revenant, the insufferable whiner of the chosen. His rite wasn't something he himself performed, but something the chosen did on his behalf. Marbas was dead, many times over in fact, but before his first death, the cursed Eldar had banished his soul to the warp with psychic rites. Years later, a sorcerer of the Black Maw had uncovered the rites the xenos had used on Marbas, and by performing them in reverse, brought Marbas back from his banishment to bolster the ranks before a battle. Begrudgingly, the chosen still did this before major engagements, and Marbas would join the squad for battle, and either die or be pulled back to the warp a short while later. Incidentally, the same sorcerer later discovered a way to bring Marbas back permanently, but Vinno, the Champion at the time, stabbed the sorcerer in the back and destroyed the knowledge he had uncovered to the unanimous praise of the squad. Nobody wanted to hear Marbas whine more than they absolutely had to.

 

Saint Tiam clashed the Wrathful Standard into Copil's pauldron as he passed by. Saint Tiam's personal rite was extravagant, but as standard bearer, he received a double share of loot, and could afford it. The legionary had actually flooded a section of a sub deck on the Bitter Revenge and stocked it with those nasty black monsters from Katan II. He offers up sacrifices to Khorne by cutting their heels and throwing them to the sharks. The water would soon churn with blood as feeding frenzies would commence. The Blood God is surely pleased by Saint Tiam's rites, but no more so then by blood being spilled in a simpler fashion. Apparently the sacrifice had failed at one point in the last decade, for Saint Tiam's chief arming thrall proudly went barefoot, showing off his scarred heels to the lesser thralls.

 

Copil paused a moment to look his champion in the eye. Champion Paimun refused to make eye contact. It was how the new champion dealt with his secrets after learning that they were anything but secret. Paimun pretended they were still secret, hells of the warp, the loon probably believed they were still secret. Paimun had the dubious gift of a mutation. There was some sort of minor daemon growing out of his stomach or some other internal organ. It had a face, and a voice, and it told Paimun what to do. The current champion of the Chosen of Lord Carrack had actually kept his secret for an undetermined age. For decades the quiet legionary would occasionally slip away, either past Black Maw lines, or to the lower decks of Bitter Revenge. What he did was a mystery, but a boring one, Paimun was a little off for sure, but he was quiet, and never involved in any of the more interesting intrigues and power plays of the warband. He kept his head down and went unnoticed, but Copil had been a member of the squad since he was purchased from Fabious Bile, almost 8,000 years, and although he was the newest member of the squad, as his brothers so frequently pointed out, 8,000 years was a long time, so he had once endeavored to discover what Paimun did when he was away. It had not been easy. Paimun made a habit of leaving no witnesses to his secret forays, but Copil had eventually managed to spy upon his brother in the snowy mountains of Poe V. Paimun was on his knees in the snow, clutching his belly as if in extreme intestinal pain, and talking to whatever was inside him. Copil couldn't understand the words, but whatever it was, was talking back. The rest had been pieced together by investigating the wreckage of the medical bay every time Paimun had been wounded to the point of requiring surgery. When Copil brought the news of what he found to the squad, they had laughed at him, saying they already knew, they just didn't care, because Paimun was still a great warrior, and still offered up blood and skulls just as he had always done.

 

Passing all the Chosen save for Obbo, who had stepped to the side to let his meltagun cool for a moment, Copil slammed his power fist into the hatch, pushing a melon sized dent out the opposite end, he recovered his fist and punched again and again, breaking through the last of the barrier between him and the Chosen's objective. He broke left firing the boltgun in his right one-handed at the guards in this well appointed cabin. They looked professional, skilled even, for mortals, and armed with chain-bladed halberds, but their eyes were covered with heavy black blindfolds, necessary considering the charge they protected, but certainly a hindrance. As he charged into one, his boltgun blew another onto his back in the center of the room, across a mosaic seal of House Rossi of the Navis Nobilis. The rush of combat, and the flood of wrath stirring through his veins, sent the Wash receding back into the recesses of his mind. He had fought it off, for now.

 

[Carrack]

Twenties River Smile

Part 2.15

Tancrea, The Pillars of Fortitude

 

 

 

Ramone slid down from the firing step into the muck of the trench floor, again. He thanked the Dark Prince once more for the speed he had been blessed with to reach this battlefield first. The battlefield was nearly vertical, and Ramone held the high ground. Without the high ground, his fighters would have already been overrun by the better equipped, better trained, and better disciplined guardsmen of B Co 1212 Light. Yet all their advantages didn't make up for having to advance up such a steep slope to get to Ramone's lines.

 

It was the blessing of Slannesh that had given him the high ground. After his scouts and those of the Imperials, had engaged in passing, it had been a race to get to the high ground overlooking the docks of the Twenties River. The river was a vital supply artery for defense sectors 21-29, and sub-command sector 20. Supplies and troops could be easily moved on the river through the ravines of the sectors, much easier than over the cloud covered mountains, or the roads and rails with now mostly collapsed tunnels and bridges. The men and women of B Co 1212 Light had advanced to the mountain overlooking the Twenties River docks as a company. They had moved fast, light infantry of the Tancrean Guard could climb mountains faster than many units could walk level ground, but even so, in order to reach the battle in good order, they had moved at the pace of their slowest guardsmen. Ramone had thrown good order over a cliff, and discipline along with it. Instead, he had distributed the combat stim onslaught to his hardiest fighters and himself, in generous doses, and raced ahead, leaving a trail of stragglers strung out across the mountains. Those that survived the excess of stimulants and exertion had reached the high ground first, and dug in and waited for the rest of their company. Those that didn't survive, were offerings to the Lord of Excess, who rained blessings down on Ramone and his more worthy fighters.

 

Ramone's Black Maw fighters had held off the Imperials as straggling, sober, squads filtered in. Ramone had to wait on the last of his squads to get to the battle before he would advance. They were his support weapons squads, and their fire was needed to cover Ramone's charge, but lugging the bulky mortars and missile launchers over the Tancrean terrain had been time consuming. The guardsmen below had tried to charge three times already, after heavy barrages, but Ramone's fighters had managed to send them back to their lines. Ramone would only get one charge. If he failed that, his fighters would not follow him for another. They followed him out of a belief that he was favored by the Dark Prince, rightly so, but any evidence of Ramone losing that favor, would see the survivors drift away to other champions of the gods.

 

The shelling picked up again and Ramone hunkered down in the muck. The trenches were protection from the artillery, barring a direct hit, but Ramone's and his fighters' bones rattled and ears rang with the violence of the fire. He wished he could tunnel deeper into the mountain with his bare hands and hide, but he had to show strength to his fighters.

 

The show of strength was important for a leader in the Black Maw. Ramone had witnessed this from his lowly but practically invisible position pushing a mop bucket aboard the Bitter Revenge. While he was ignored by the Black Legionnaires, he paid close attention to them with downcast and deferential eyes. The legionaries followed the strong. That strength stemmed from personal power and the favor of the gods. When it faltered, the ambitious were quick to challenge their champions. However, Ramone had witnessed the champions in their unguarded moments, when they felt their privacy was secured. Many harbored nagging injuries and debilitating insanities that they went through great pains to conceal. While others beseeched the gods slavishly when alone, yet acted as if they were the gods' very proxy to the warband when around others. The appearance of strength, and a carefully maintained reputation, held them in power as well as actual strength and favor with the gods. Ramone needed to appear strong now more than ever, so he used his compu drug dispenser to shoot a dose of horse tranq into his veins, and waited a moment for all anxiety to fade away, even the fear of the barrage lifted as the drug meant to calm a massive cyber horse in the midst of the sounds and smells of battle coursed through his mind. He got up and walked the bottom of the trenches, smiling with the pleasurable sensation. He stopped at squads of cowering fighters and told them that he had faith that Slannesh would see them through, for he was her favorite servant, and they would be rewarded for being his most exalted followers. He couldn't tell if his fighters thought he was blessed, or insanely courageous. He had a hard time caring, he was feeling so good. Then Slannesh tested him.

 

A shell landed in the trench 30 meters ahead of Ramone. A direct hit. Body parts and dirt flew out of the fiery crater, causing a cloud to rain a hellish storm of mud and mangled men. It would have killed him if Ramone hadn't made his fighters dig the trenches in a zig zag pattern he had studied from a stolen data slate. More shells struck, not direct hits, but close enough to shake his fighters' bones and rattle their teeth. The Imperials were hitting with the most accurate artillery they had yet fired. Ramone made his way back to his command squad, purposefully and quickly, yet not running. His fighters needed to see strength now more than ever. Besides, there was nothing he could do about the incoming rounds, either they would hit or not, there was no sense worrying about it.

 

Ramone's vox bearer was already signaling Magos Helveti's artillery battery. Ramone had purchased the support of the Dark Magos, along with basic supplies and a wide variety of drugs, by selling most of the Triple R guardsmen he had corrupted. After converting the first platoon to the worship of the Dark Prince, he had used their knowledge to find other starving groups of guardsmen. He fed them with drugged and tainted meat, followed by involving them in twisted rituals devoted to the Lord of Excess. Most of the ill equipped regiment had already succumbed to starvation and exposure, and others had deserted, scattering off on their own, but Ramone took the remainder, and weakened their resolve and judgment with drugged meat, which hunger made them fall upon with reckless abandon, then ensured their damnation with unholy rites. Their was no turning back for the guardsmen that survived the rituals. Yet Ramone needed to resupply and equip his new converts, and had no means to do so. He settled for giving up half, to make the other half battlefield effective. Magos Helveti's guns fired off in the distance, and whistled their shells onto the mountain. They weren't accurate, but they would discourage the Imperials from following up their barrage with another assault.

 

Ramone's plasma gunner, Harkon, shouted down at Ramone from the firing step by his makeshift command post. Ramone climbed up to see what his disciple was clamoring on about and borrowed the man's field glasses. He saw good news and bad. The bad news was that the Imperials had moved up their guns to the lower ridge opposite the valley from Ramone, and were firing directly into his trenches. This explained their accuracy. The good news was that in addition to Magos Helveti's distant guns firing away at the Imperials, mortar rounds were arcing over the battlefield from the reverse slope of his mountain, and while equally inaccurate as Helveti's guns, added more weight of fire. It also meant that some of his heavy weapon squads had made it to the fight. Ramone directed his vox bearer, Anna Lorin, to have the mortar squad fire on the enemy guns across the valley.

 

The artillery exchange continued for a few minutes. It was a lifetime in the trenches. Ramone lost another squad, and most of a third, before his mortars found their range and forced the enemy guns off the ridge. He wasn't sure, but it looked like Helveti had hit the guardsmen's trenches once in return. At last, Ramone's missile squads ran and slid down from the mountaintop and into the Black Maw Trenches. Just in time too, Ramone heard the high pitched battle cry of the Tancrean Guard signal another assault. Ramone needed to be at peak performance to repel the enemy, so he slammed another onslaught tube into his dispenser, and shot the potent stim into his thigh. Readied, he ran down the line getting everyone of his fighters up onto the parapets of the trenches. Whether it was his infectious enthusiasm, or fear of his frothing mad screaming and whirling power maul, his fighters took the firing steps.

 

The guardsmen started out advancing methodically, They were moving up the mountain with harnesses attached to belaying ropes, secured to the ground with spikes they must have hammered on their previous assaults. It allowed them a chance to safely climb into rifle range. Each rope was several meters left or right from the next, well spaced to minimize casualties from lucky indirect fire. Once the guardsmen had hooked their harnesses to the ropes, they started to move quickly to rifle range. They hadn't counted on Ramone's missile squads, which began raining frag missiles down on the climbing guardsmen. The fragmentation warheads cut into the guardsmen, severing ropes and limbs. They fell back to their trenches.

 

With a shout, Ramone signaled a charge. Few of the fighters heard his shout, and other than his disciples, none followed him down the mountain, at first. Ramone was too high to care, the onslaught had heightened his aggression to the point that he had to charge, he had to physically express his rage or he would implode into gibbering madness, and the tranq was still erasing all of his worries, even for his own safety. It was two competing sensations, that strangely, only made him feel more pleasure. Fortunately, after Ramone had gone a few paces, his fighters went over the top and charged after him.

 

The charge was dangerous, not just because of the enemy guns, but the steep slope couldn't be simply run down. Ramone would take a few steps, than slip back onto his backside to slide down a few meters till his feet found purchase. It was a fast scramble, and he and his fighters were gaining momentum, but he was sure he would lose more than a few fighters to missteps that would send them head over heels down the mountain. It was a price Ramone was willing to pay, there would be no better time to break the enemy than after their own assault had been turned back, and their ranks were in disarray from the retreating survivors of their failed assault.

 

The enemy, no matter the confusion in their lines, opened fire into Ramone and his fighters. This was it. Did the Dark Prince still smile on her favored Ramone? The charge would tell, either his fighters would push through the defenders fire with enough momentum to take their trenches, or he would be repelled, broken, to watch his command dissolve in the face of Slannesh's rescinded blessings? The wonderful sensation he was experiencing had to be a sign, in spite of the cracking las fire and the deep barking of heavy bolters, he still felt so good, things couldn't possibly go wrong.

 

 

 

[Carrack]

A New Trophy

 

 

The great spinal corridor of the Angels of Immolation's flagship, Ember, was many things. Functionally, it was the great corridor that ran the spine of the battle barge, an avenue from prow to stern that ran midship, and allowed the fastest movement of its marines across the ship. In normal operations of the battle barge, the corridor teamed with traffic, mortal and Astartes, on foot and in small cargo conveyors. Spiritually, the corridor was equally important, it held the battle honors of the chapter along its mosaicked floors, frescoed walls, and painted ceiling. A walk down the great spinal corridor was a walk through the history of the chapter, and it was glorious, not just the moments illustrated, but the depictions themselves. The serfs of the Angels of Immolation were master of fresco and mosaic, and only the best of their very best ever graced the spinal corridor of Ember. The mosaics depicted the terrible defeats the chapter had suffered since its founding, each beautifully rendered, but fit only to be trod upon with the boots of those who would remember the bitter losses, but symbolically keep such failures beneath them. The frescoed walls depicted great accomplishments, not total victories per se, but achievements, such as the seizing of the Narbina Heights, the recovery of the the Arinflame, and the slaying of Warboss Gakk Ull in personal combat. The walls were where the eye fell for those who walked the spinal corridor routinely, and were reminders of what it took to achieve the great victories depicted above on the ceiling. The vaulted ceiling was said to have been painted by the great Vensominair, without remuneration. It had taken two decades to finish, and the troubled, but brilliant artist had sworn to halt any future projects, should he be called to add another scene to the painting. It had already cost him most of his eyesight and some of his already fragile sanity. Most critics considered it his best work, and they had only seen but pic captures of the miles long painting, critics not being worthy to walk the deck of a warship of the Emperor's Finest. The spinal corridor was both these things, a functional artery of a warship, and a history of the Angels of Immolation chapter, but at the moment the spinal corridor was the battlefield that would determine the fate of the Aspis Subsector.

 

The defender of His claim on the Aspis Subsector strode forth to meet his foe. He looked the part of a righteous champion. His armor gleamed with more gold than the red and orange of his chapter's livery, and it was his chapter, for he was Chapter Master Barcar, and he bore the very Aspis Eternal, from which the subsector drew its name. His armor gleamed from the gold painstakingly wrought into it by its Martian smiths. The gold was not the only embellishment to Chapter Master Barcar's panoply. The shield that symbolized the Emperor's protection of this subsector, the Aspis Eternal, was polished to a mirror, and reflected the brilliance of its bearer and the spinal corridor he traveled. Purity seals, written by his Master of Sacristy, were sealed with his own signet to his pauldrons with vermillion wax. The seals were inscribed after the stalwart defense of Punicia, the Angels of Immolation's fortress monastery. Thirteen red threads, taken from the personal banner of the Angels of Immolation's primarch, were collected into a tassel that hung from the haft of the Chapter Master's hammer. They were bequeathed to the Angels of Immolation by the Ultramarine's own Chapter Master upon the founding of the successor chapter. Laurels grown on the mountains of Ultramar crowned his shaven head. Laurels won in fighting the Great Devourer at a cost of almost half his chapter's brother marines. Each trophy was a testament to the honor and glory of his chapter, like the artwork of the corridor, none of it glorified the Chapter Master personally, they all belonged to the chapter he commanded. For the honor of the chapter, Master Barcar went forth to face the enemy, if he was to win, the fight would be remembered upon the walls of the spinal corridor. If his chapter won the battle for the Aspis Subsector, he would be awarded a trophy to carry on behalf of his brother-marines.

 

The enemy did not gleam as he stalked down the glorious hallway, he darkened it with his foul presence. His armor had its fair share of gold, although bronze was more prevalent. It was mostly black, black as his hateful hearts. Across the enemy's back was a great cloak, dyed with blood, and trimmed with the fur of the greater white bear. The enemy's weapons and plate were adorned with spikes, hooks, and skulls, mostly obscured by the splattered blood of martyrs shed from the dripping blade of his cruel axe. These accouterments were not enough to show the enemy's terrible power, jutting from the back of his terminator power plant was a great rack of bronze spikes that pierced the helms and skulls of humanity's heroes. Two spikes were unadorned with skulls and helms, one bore a blood red bag. The bag was said to carry the knuckle bones from rulers of worlds that the enemy had conquered or burnt. The bag bulged, for the enemy was Lord Carrack, called Slayer of Multitudes, and one could not easily count the worlds he had ripped from the Emperor's breast. The other empty spike awaited another skull, that of Chapter Master Barcar.

 

The defender and the enemy paused just outside of range to take the measure of one another. The righteous hero glanced back at his honor guard, each marine a hero in his own right, and was reassured by their steadfast resolve. The enemy didn't look back, but his third, simian arm clawed out at one of his retinue who had disrespectfully ventured to close to the front of Lord Carrack. His retinue were chaos terminators, each nightmares that had plagued humanity for ten millennia. The honor guard and retinue would stand aside for the coming duel, out of honor or fear, depending on which leader they followed. The duel would determine the fate of the battle. The battle would determine the fate of the subsector. What ever the outcome, a new trophy would be take to mark this day.

 

Note: I'm really inching along here.

[Carrack]

Thirst

 

 

Alexandru awoke, blanketed in shame. It was crippling, the shame threatened to overwhelm him, but he had awoke for a reason. As much as he desired to lay in his sarcophagus, wallowing in his failure to control himself, he had a duty that demanded he rise. Perhaps there would be some redemption in that duty, some token act that would cancel some of his sins. Alexandru climbed from his sarcophagus, taking stock of his healed collarbone and knee, at least the deep slumber of his regenerative coma had accomplished what it was supposed to. Then he looked at the source of his current shame, and staggered worse than when he had suffered the wounds that had driven him to the sarcophagus in the first place. Ionut, his attendant-serf, lay dead in the corner of the cell, a desiccated husk. Alexandru had done it again. He had failed to control the Red Thirst. He had known he would.

 

There was a time when he had only felt the Red Thirst in the thick of battle, when he was filled with righteous rage. There was a time when he could fight it off. That was over a century ago. Now, he felt it every time a foe sought to pierce the armor he awkwardly donned himself, he felt it every time he pulled the trigger of his infernus pistol he checked and locked to his thigh, now he felt the thirst every time he drew the blade he slung sheathed across his back. Worse than the loss of control in the heat of battle, was the complete loss of control whenever he let consciousness slip away. It was a more recent failure, and a harbinger of what he would eventually become, a monster, a blood craving monster, utterly devoid of humanity and self control. Ionut was not the first to quench Alexandru's thirst when he was supposedly healing in his sarcophagus. He had hoped this time would be different, that he would not unconsciously leave his sarcophagus and murder his loyal attendants, but he knew he would, it happened every time he rested now, same as on the battlefield.

 

Armed and armored, Alexandru opened the door to his monastic cell and made his way to the bridge. Vasile, Ionut's assistant, and likely Alexandru's new attendant-serf, cowered in the corridor outside his cell, reeking of garlic. That ancient superstition must have taken hold among the serfs of the Pinion again. It was understandable, it had been a long voyage through the Sea of Souls, and most of the Angels Vermillion under Alexandru's command had been forced into the sarcophagi to heal wounds from the last battle as well. Most suffered from the Red Thirst the same as Alexandru, though such shameful weaknesses were never openly discussed, and what was confessed to the Sanguinary Priests was not divulged to others, even Alexandru, their commander. Even now, Alexandru passed young Brother Gheorge, carrying a bundle wrapped in an embroidered rug to the chute across from his cell, tears pouring down his face. He pretended not to notice, and entered the bridge.

 

Grigore, his steward-captain, met Alexandru with a reverent, but wary bow, and appraised him of the tactical situation. Little had changed from the information hypno-inducted into his brain as he was awoken from his slumber. Pinion had translated into the midst of a massive void war. Nearby, two strike cruisers, Pyromaniac, of the Angels of Immolation, and Blood Eye, of the Black Legion, were engaged in a boarding action on the heretic's vessel, but that was a secondary battle. The main battle was a more massive boarding action aboard the Angels of Immolation's flagship, the battle barge Ember. The battle barge was defending against what was likely the entire traitor marine contingent of the heretic warband, their own flagship, the Bitter Revenge, was idle, well outside of range. It was a gamble, if the heretics destroyed the Angels of Immolation's flagship, they would break their ability to defend this subsector, but if they were repelled, the Angels of Immolation would be able to destroy much of the Black Legion fleet, and drive the surviving heretics back to the Eye of Terror. Alexandru could not relieve Ember in time, not directly. His gladius frigate did not have the speed, or the marines to meaningfully affect the boarding action, which by design, were quick affairs. He did have the angle to indirectly affect the battle. Pinion had translated behind the Bitter Revenge. He ordered steward-captain Grigore to take Pinion on an assault run on the grand cruiser's stern, and to bring it in as close as he dared. He then announced to his brothers to don jump packs, they would be boarding the enemy directly. Hopefully the enemy would withdrawal some of its traitor marines to defend their own flagship. Hopefully Alexandru could redeem his sins by giving the Angels of Immolation a chance to win the battle.

 

 

Note: after binge watching Game of Thrones, amazingly with The Mrs., I decided this story needed more characters. :)

[Carrack]

 

 

Turn Back

 

 

Lythane the Black stared into the back of Lord Carrack as the lord of the Black Maw paused before his loyalist opposite further down the corridor. What was the fool doing, saluting his challenger like this was some epic battle in a stupid Fenrisian ballad? No, he was opening a vox link, projecting his helm's vid feed across the warband's general channel. Was this an act of hubris? Did he only wish to display his prowess for the entire warband to see? Or was he showing every legionnaire the glory of him winning this symbolic duel, and thus, his favor with the gods. Lythane couldn't tell, both were equally possible motives for Lord Carrack. The Doom of Calebra Hive had held his position as lord of the Black Maw for decades, and was capable of playing a politically astute move when required, but he was also deeply lost to the Blood God, and he faced a worthy opponent, he might be given over to the moment, Lythane could never tell. In any event, the feed was stepped on by someone within the warband, and the channel blared a continuous loop of a beseeching prayer to the Architect of Fate. Who would dare enrage Carrack with this interruption? Lord Carrack apparently assumed it was Lythane, and whirled on him with his axe held high. Lythane quickly ripped his helm off by one of its horns, breaking away the magnetic seals and latches to show he was not broadcasting from his helm's vox suite. Now was not the time to fight his lord. Maybe after he killed the loyalist chapter master, if he won anyway, and if he was sufficiently softened up, and if the terminator armored killers of his retinue would stand for it. Only then would Lythane fight his lord.

 

Before Lord Carrack swung back to face his challenger, he cocked his head to the side, and gestured to Lythane's helm with his mutated third arm. Lythane put the helm on as best he could, and caught the tail end of a transmission coming over the command vox channel. The Bitter Revenge was being boarded by the thin-blooded sons of the IX Legion. Finally, this was his chance to take control of the Black Maw. He summoned his Ki with a few measured breaths, and began reciting the Stanzas of Harbor, focusing on the familiar teleportation shrine of the Bitter Revenge.

 

Lord Carrack howled like a beast as he charged down the spinal corridor. The Angels of Immolation's chapter master charged as well, in determined silence. Lythane would have to push his sorcery to its limits. He did not have the time or the proper sacrifices to make the teleport safer. He would have to trust in his own ability, and the will of the gods. His hand strayed to the dread Liber Apocal chained to his waist. It had the power to safely channel the spell, if he could quickly read from its cursed pages, but he checked his hand, saving his soul from being sucked into the margins of the book like so many weaker sorcerers who had owned the grimoire before him, but now we're trapped for eternity within the Liber Apocal. He would have to cast the spell on his own.

 

As he started the final Stanzas of Translocation, he watched Lord Carrack fire a long burst of bolts out of his combi-bolter. The mass reactive warheads exploded off the loyalist's shield and armor, but didn't slow his advance. As he neared completion of the spell, Lord Carrack fired the under-slung melta barrel of his combi-weapon. It struck the loyalist on his right side, and spun him around as the heat from the beam slagged the side of his chest plate. The loyalist fell, and it seemed that Carrack had won a cheap victory, but the chapter master recovered as he looked at the shield on his arm, and warily, arose to continue his advance. Then the spell was complete, and Lythane and Lord Carrack's retinue were caught in a whirlwind of black lightning, pulling them in to its center, shrinking them into nothing as the vortex collapsed on itself.

 

Lythane and the retinue were tethered to a mass of black cords, being pulled through a cave filled with pink light and floating eyes, hungry, dead eyes, eyes that had never seen reality, but wanted to consume it. Fortunately, they were pulled too fast for the eyes to catch them, and were yanked out the toothy mouth of the cave. They landed on the silver circle inscribed on the floor of the teleportation shrine, off balance but managing to keep their feet. The retinue turned on Lythane, weapons still in their hands. Lythane, still disoriented, had the wits to bark out, "Our flagship is being boarded. We must repel them or this war will be lost!" The terminators paused a second, then advanced on Lythane the Black. He had no Ki left for sorcery, and although he was skilled as any in battle, there was no way he could face three of Lord Carrack's most ruthless killers alone.

 

[Carrack]

I did a quick count, 16 named characters killed so far, mostly insignificant ones. The Blood God demands more from the Aspis Subsector. :)

[paulJam]

i often find it difficult getting motivated to invest much history for a red shirt that's going to get capped within 2 chapters. just the name generation alone becomes tiresome.

"what ever happened to rob?"

"dead."

"petrus?"

"dead."

"cleopold the seer? dead."

"zanfrask iii? dead.  they're all dead dave."

 

how much to do you think extra named characters adds to the story/experience? and do you think that just writing them off as red shirts, 'soldier 17' (which is pretty much what we see in the movies) makes the whole story too generic? perhaps with smaller 'kill team' settings without large scale battles it becomes easier.

 

sorry, rambling a bit.

[Carrack]

I agree, some of the characters are only named at the time of their death, but I haven't gone out of my way to name them. It seemed appropriate at the time. For example, my emphysemic preacher, Jovver, had a band of twenty cultists when he stormed the keep. A few casualties got named after their deaths, much like your list, but it seemed to me like Jovver should at least know their names, not that he cared that much. Another example is my Chosen. They get in some dangerous scraps, and take losses, but I feel like their importance warrants a name. I don't think this actually make them written any better then Chosen #9, who dies in most every story, but I do it anyway. (Seriously, there is not a good track record for FNGs in the Chosen.)

 

My problem is I like telling a story from multiple points of view, and I end up with a huge cast of characters. Some of these, for example, Chapter Master Barcar, Lord Carrack, Lythane the Black, Vinno, and Captain Macar, I feel like I can't leave hanging in the wind during main events. Yet I've made errors in their creation and development. Chapter Master Barcar is engaged in a battle that has two likely outcomes, victory or death, and any other possibility I can think of, would be a distasteful stretch for me. Lord Carrack is in the same position, but he is The Man of the warband, and his death will change my stories dramatically. Lythane the Black has two interesting traits, his connection to the legion, and his spell book. His spell book I have visited several times, and think it is taken as far as I can go, and his connection to the legion would, if developed more, bring me uncomfortably close to established background. Vinno was both a shadow of Lord Carrack, at least in my mind, and outshone by the more interesting chosen in his squad. Captain Macar was written and made during ETL, and his model is absolutely atrocious, even for my limited capabilities, so I'm having a hard time getting into his character. There is a solution to this dilemma of having too many characters. A permanent solution. Anyway, thanks for your input, it's valued. Do you have anything cooking up in the fiction kitchen?

[paulJam]

I agree, some of the characters are only named at the time of their death, but I haven't gone out of my way to name them. It seemed appropriate at the time.

perfect answer.

 

My problem is I like telling a story from multiple points of view, and I end up with a huge cast of characters.

as a regular reader i've always enjoyed the side paths. and having common characters from story to story adds to their depth (when they survive !!)

 

Vinno was both a shadow of Lord Carrack, at least in my mind, and outshone by the more interesting chosen in his squad.

that was a nice twist as well, documenting the failures rather than the victories.

 

There is a solution to this dilemma of having too many characters. A permanent solution. Anyway, thanks for your input, it's valued. Do you have anything cooking up in the fiction kitchen?

rock falls, everyone dies?? .. nah... write on brother, i always look forward to seeing there's a new paragraph or two to enjoy.

nothing on the way at the moment.  i generally write about armies i'm putting together to give them a history; no new armies + my existing armies have history = done.

have been actually playing a lot more games (epic/kill team) this year than i have over the past several years. i'm hoping to find some battle report inspired tales from those.

won't side track your thread any further.

[Carrack]

To Bloody the Maw

 

Fathers

 

 

Alexandru waited on his command squad to stack on the next armored hatch. He had gotten ahead of his squad again in the heat of the battle. Slaughter, not battle, for the thralls of the heretics' ship offered little in the way of real resistance. He, his squad, and the three squads under his command were butchering their way through the engine crew of Bitter Revenge, spiking generatorums with melta charges and slowly crippling the ship. The thralls fought for all they were worth, but their tools, shivs, and sidearms were not equal to the task of stopping the Angels Vermillion. They did pose a threat though, with their bloody and easy deaths, they were stirring the angels' thirst. Already Alexandru had broken formation, and allowed himself to get ahead of his command squad just so he could cut the elongated neck of the mutant thrall who was scrambling to open the next hatch. The mutant's blood ran down his chin, Alexandru having found some excuse to remove his helm much earlier, as had most of his marines.

 

He was not alone in his descent into bloodlust, 2nd squad had not responded to vox hails minutes ago, though their position was marked by the occasional explosions of generatorums and fuel reservoirs. Alexandru sensed a madness from his silent squad, a madness worse than giving into the Red Thirst. He didn't have any facts to explain their silence, but he knew for certain what it was. It was uncanny, just like the sense of deja vu he felt aboard this Black Legion warship. He had not seen any in-depth intelligence on the Bitter Revenge, but the welding, the pattern of the rivets, even the Cithonian graffiti scrawled on the decks and walls, just seemed too familiar. He thrust such thoughts aside and fired his inferno pistol into the top hinge of the armored hatch. A short hiss preceded a popping sizzle as the hinge and the frame it was attached to melted away. Alexandru didn't bother kicking the rest of the hatch open, he merely charged through it without paying attention as it was cast aside off his armored thighs. As he charged into the next compartment, Alexandru shouted, "For the Emperor, for Sanguinius!"

 

...for Sanguinius...

....The Angel...

 

He must reach his brother and stopped this madness. His brother had sunken so far, his once glorious battle barge was dark, twisted, and corrupted, just like his brother's son who stood before him now, one of his librarians, Lythane.

 

Wait, something was wrong, Lythane hadn't won terminator honors, yet here he stood, clad in black and gold tactical dreadnought armor, and the compartment here was smaller, yet at the same time more twisted and mutated.

 

...I am not the Angel...

 

I need to reach my brother before it is too late. I don't have time for Lythane, so I strike him down with my sword, and step across his body. I must reach my brother before it is too late. Three of his first company veterans step into the compartment, also clad in tactical dreadnought armor that has been profaned by the madness of my brother. I must reach my brother before it is too late. I must get to the bridge of Vengeful Spirit before my father visits his wrath on my brother. I shout at them to stand aside so I can reach Horus and save his life from this madness that has caused him to attack Terra below. I strike the Son of Horus veteran who went left, knocking him back, although not piercing his plate, and I parry the axe blow from the one who went right, but the center Son of Horus bulls through my guard, and drives his chainfist through my waist. It is a mortal wound. My killer looms over me with his grotesquely tusked helm inches from my face. His voice booms, "You are not who you think you are foolish thinblood. I've met him, and you are not his equal. My father was not worth saving anyway, but at least you actually killed that wretch, Lythane, unlike your own failure of a father."

 

 

[Carrack]

Aspis Eternal

 

 

 

 

Lorella gasped with a hiss as a sharp pain stabbed into her heart. Something was wrong. She winced again as the acid from the bath she was etching circuits with found its way to her flesh through that old nick in her protective glove, above her thumb. She had etched so many circuits with the gloves that she had grown accustomed to their flaws. The pain in her heart had distracted her. Lorella quickly removed the glove and began applying the balm at her station to her hand, as she recited the Penance of Laxity and looked to the small shrine she had made on the shelf above the bath. Trepidatiously, she looked at the pics of eight of her eleven children, all proud in their Imperial Guard uniforms. She had felt the same stabbing pain in her heart three times before, and the pain had been echoed, ever so slightly, when she looked at one of her children's pics in the shrine. Jane, Bosco, Alfred, each had caused her a pain that was a mother's worse fear. She hoped, she prayed, she was wrong, but intuitively, she knew what had caused the pains in her heart. She breathed easy, only for a moment, when her eyes passed her other five babies without an echo in her heart. Then she felt it. An echo of the pain, this time almost as strong as the original, pierced her breast as her eyes caught the larger picture that was the backdrop of her shrine. It was a motivational picture of the Bestowment Parade she had been blessed to attend, where the Shield had been bestowed upon the mighty Angel of Death. Something was wrong.

 

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

 

Chapter Master Barcar stared at the shield still strapped to his forearm as nerve blockers, stimulants, and coagulants flooded his system. The wound from the melta beam was horrific, his armor had melted into his right side, ruining a lung, and searing shut arteries close to his primary heart. The shield on his arm reflected back an image of his face that betrayed the agony of the wound. Barcar could not let that be the last image he saw. He could not die with a vision of his own failure in his eyes. The shield was more than a shield, it was the Aspis Eternal, it was a symbol of the Emperor's protection of the worlds of the subsector that shared its name. Barcar, and his chapter, The Angels of Immolation, were that protection. It was why the shield had been bestowed upon him. He would not fail his chapter. He would not fail the multitudes of souls crying out for his protection. He would not fail the Emperor. Chapter Master Barcar used the Aspis Eternal to hoist himself to his feet, and unsteadily advanced on the enemy.

 

The enemy was the worst of enemies, an old enemy, a familiar enemy, an enemy that was once a brother. The enemy was a betrayer. The enemy had betrayed the Emperor, and in doing so, had betrayed all of humanity. It was obvious by the way the enemy charged, more like a beast than a man, hunched over, loping, with a profanely mutated third arm clawing at the mosaicked deck like an animal that was unused to walking upright. The bestial gait of the enemy was not where Barcar's once again steeled eyes focused. Nor did they look for weaknesses in the once-proud terminator plate. His gaze glared on the enemy's axe, a massive and cruel weapon that glowed with red, daemonic light. Barcar held the Aspis Eternal high, readied to block the blow of the enemy's infernal axe.

 

The enemy, Lord Carrack, was more than just a simple beast though, his charge was not the straightforward attack of a predator used to taking down prey whose speed was their only defense. Lord Carrack was a warrior, used to fighting other warriors, and his charge ended with not just a simple overhead strike. Lord Carrack dipped his shoulder in the opposite direction of his strike, nodding his head in the other, and jabbed out with his third arm below the belt. Chapter Master Barcar never took his eyes off the axe. He absorbed the punch to his groin with his Martian forged armor, and was not fooled by Lord Carrack's feints. He blocked the heavy strike of the axe with the shield he bore for the subsector, and a shower of sparks rained down on the two warriors. The sparks were not ordinary sparks, they were blood red, and changed their trajectories as they fell, seeking the eyes of both warriors with inhuman intelligence, both warriors, for they cared not for which would fall.

 

As the unholy shower of living sparks rained down, Barcar swung his hammer overhead, alarmed by the weakened state of his right shoulder. Weaknened, but not weak, the thunder hammer still carried enough force to crush the enemy when it reached its terminus. However, the swing would never reach its bloody conclusion. The massive size of the axe of the enemy belied its speed. Lord Carrack swung it as quick as a man would swing a hatchet cutting kindling for a fire. The first cut after the initial parry came low as the axe deflected wide, cutting across Barcar's left knee, an instant before he could pivot back his leg. The wound would have bled, and tore clean through his lateral knee ligament, but it was inconsequential compared to the next two cuts. The next strike came in at the melted point of his armor at his wounded right side, below the armpit, and cut all the way to his primary heart. The blow was a mortal one, but not the last. The last cut stopped Baracar's own strike at the wrist, cutting clean through vambrace, flesh, and bone. The hammer tumbled awkwardly, his hand still grasping its hilt, to bounce its shaft off of Lord Carrack's helm. Chapter Master Barcar fell to the deck of his flagship, along with the Aspis Eternal, and the hopes of the subsector.