++ March of the Legions: VIII Legion ++

[Slips]

Shooting up the place like a Straight G with that Plasma Gunizzle!

[Brother-Chaplain Kage]

I'm not a huge fan of the gangsta shooting pose, but given the cuff on the armor, there's not much you can do without some serious converting on the arm.

[Balthamal]

God knows I tried but I'm very conscious of the fact if I mess that arm socket up I'm screwed so played it "relatively" safe

[Brother-Chaplain Kage]

No, I understand. Not everyone is a crazy converter and comfortable with chopping up an expensive figure just to fix the way the gun is pointing.

[Aeternus]

He's getting there, bit by bit. Fluff is gonna be the hard part of this challenge (the deamonette head is going to be in his left hand, but was easier to paint separately)

http://i1072.photobucket.com/albums/w376/Aeternas/image.jpg3_zpsypy8m1ga.jpg?t=1457342290

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[Fire Golem]

I, fire golem, accept my role in this.

I promise to lead the VIII Legion into the night, and command them to murder.

I will do so no matter the ferocity or ingenuity of the foe.

I pledge my blade to the VIII Legion.

On this matter, and by the Dark King, I swear.

[Dagoth Ur]

So, finally got around building a Praetor with Jump-Pack
I give you Clawmaster Azan!

http://i411.photobucket.com/albums/pp194/hodoalmir/Praetor20with20Jumppack1_zpsq9luepcx.jpg

Let's see if I get around of painting him^^

[StruManChu]

Morning Frater!

Just wondering if you can help me out with a quick straw poll...

I think my Khârn-version (ha!) needs a gorget or otherwise neck-guard-esque thing, but I'm not sure how to do it without it looking a bit like a Turtleneck, which I feel would take away from my supposedly frightening Night Lord.

What do you reckon? Any tips?

[Dagoth Ur]

Morning! To be honest, I wouldn't raise the gorget all that much, maybe just a milimeter to make it parallel to the helm, and then I'd just add a bit of puty to fill out the socket and make it look like this sift ribbing that connects the plates. :)

[Captain Nameless]

Let's try this again

 

 

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I, The Nameless Captain, accept my role in this.

I promise to lead the VIII Legion into the zone of war, and conduct them to battle.

I will do so no matter the ferocity or ingenuity of the foe.

I pledge my blade to the VIII Legion.

On this matter, and by the Emperor, I swear.... 

 

.... That justice be done though the heavens may fall.

[helterskelter]

Pet, The Destroyer

 

http://i826.photobucket.com/albums/zz184/Lamenterkyle/Mobile%20Uploads/20160314_210429_zps9hw2v51r.jpg

[Xin Ceithan]

So...

I wanted to do something special for the VIIIth. Since I am huge fan of the artwork on the original NL books, I thought I try my hand at capturing the feel of those covers, Void Stalker in particular. came out not quite the way I wanted, but still quite pleased with it. Pics are not so well. Sorry.

Still, here goes...

During the initial engagements at Isstvan, the 21th Company of the VIIIth Legion held back the bulk of it's infantry, mainly deploying boarding parties in support of it's company main naval assets, centered around the strike cruiser "Asphyxia's Call." Early support of the on planet forces consisted mainly of then plentiful aerospace units which were first used to help establish air superiority and would then go on to on to hunt down surviving loyalist forces trying to escape from the surface. Only at this later stage of what would become known as the Drop Site Massacre would the 21st commit it' s primary infantry forces. consisting mostly of Raptor formations and a surplus of designated " Terror Squads", who would stalk the black sands of Isstvan for loyalist survivors.

Due to the massive amount of dust and debris thrown up in the initial engagements as well as atmospheric conditions after multi legion orbital landings, conditions at ground level were basically low visibility and akin to night fighting, further playing into the strengths of the VIII Legion forces. The pict capture, taken under low light augmented auto sense conditions, has been ascribed to Legionary Ezra Munqh, 21st Co., VIIIth Legion. Nicknamed "the Confessor", he was known to kneel down and listen in to the dying breaths of his victims, often adding the hands and fingers of the slain to his armour as a representation of the failing interest of the universe in such pleas. Munqh would rise to squad leadership in later days and is recorded as having been fatally wounded in the Thramas campaign. There are reports of his signature behavior being displayed by a Contemptor class dreadnought shell during the Siege, but these are unconfirmed.

[Slips]

Finished my duder enjoy the crappy phone pictures. I have since painted in the Jump Pack Intake which I forgot to do when I snapped these hahahah!

 

http://i1285.photobucket.com/albums/a598/stampeeder/2016-03-30%2000.06.56_zpsji2icb9r.jpg

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+++

 

Depicted here is Slayer M'harak Zhal at the battle of +]REDACTED[+

 

He was recorded as having killed over 50 Imperial Army and Solar Auxilia Officers over the course of the battle, dropping in and out of Traitor and Loyalist lines alike carving a bloody path for him and his forces using the confusion and surprise to its fullest.

 

No records exist beyond a sighting of Slayer Zhal entering a Manufactorum alongside his assault squad which subsequently self-destructed leaving no salvageable war materiel for either side.

 

There are extant rumors and potential sightings of a band of rogue Astartes sowing terror, chaos and confusion in the regions of the Segmentum Tempestus whose 'Strategic Tendencies' and Piecemeal Suits of Power Armor conformed to the existing records of Slayer Zhals Warband but conclusive evidence was never obtained.

 

+++

 

Depicted in here in a suit of Mk V Power Armor, a Stop-Gap Design created due to a lack of resources, Zhal would go on to accumulate quite the kill count with his pair of Power Talons.

 

[Balthamal]

I'm going to fail in my quest for this seeing as my replacement airbrush tip hasn't been dispatched yet despite being ordered Tuesday

[Dagoth Ur]

I'm afraid I have to join in with failing as my Night Lord has dropped to the floor and broken into several pieces. While it isn't anything I cant fix, it just killed all the motivation to paint him :(

[Aeternus]

'Mortals, you have chosen your path, and now you must follow it to its bitter end'

Morisa'ta was one of the 101st companies cadre of commanders, regarded by many as the company champion - a title he neither welcomed, nor wanted. One of the early recruits from Nostramo, when the Haunter's legacy was still remembered, he stood apart from his Terran brothers in the company. As opposed to his brother centurions who each had their preferred bodyguards, either the multitude of terror squads, or the Atramentar brethren, Morisa'ta chose to walk alone. He excelled in ship to ship boarding actions, or perimeter breaching. Here his murderous skills could be put to use in the tight corridors and claustrophobic spaces, his artificer chainglaive whirling in a deadly dance of adamantium teeth as his ancient ceramite half shield covered his weaknesses. Overtime he grew even further apart from his legion, especially after the Istvaan atrocities. Eventually, after one boarding action alongside the XVII legion against the Blood Angels when daemonic allies were brought forth, contact was broken. His company proceeded to withdraw as evidence of the XVII forces corruption showed, and after numerous vox-inquires went unanswered, left Morisa'ta to his own path...

'He stood grunting, the chipped teeth of his glaive spluttering as they ground to a stop, shards of ceramite and bone still stuck between them. One last look at the fallen angel, one of their veterans, confirmed the kill. With half his skull missing, the viscera spilling to the floor, and a rictus look of horror on his face. "Not so beautiful now" Morisa'ta hissed out through a clenched jaw. He could feel his artisan wrought armour split open in several places, a victim of the custom bolter shells that had been spat by the angel's bolter in the moments before his death. He turned, about to move further toward the command deck when a high pitched giggle interrupted his movements. Turning back towards the corpse he noticed a slim, slender wraith of a figure gliding towards him down the dimly lit access corridor. Opal blue eyes set upon a too perfect face, framed by a mass of off white hair. The torso, altogether too thin for a human, yet looking like the most beautiful woman he had set his black eyes upon. One swaying arm ending in a vicious barbed claw, the other gripping a silver knife. Daemon.

"For one so keen to inflict fear upon other humans...you reek of it." The words came out in perfect cadance, uttered by a forked tongue.

Pressing the activation stud on his glaive, and raising his shield upon his left arm, he prepared for combat once more.

"I will rip your body to shreds, filthy concubine of the warp. This I promise you. You will not find the sons of Nostramo as weak as the bearers of the word", he growled through his winged helmet's speakers, a low growl to contrast the Daemon's pitch. He moved into a run at the same time as the daemon leapt from the deck, and their weapons met in sparks, gene-forged murderer against a predator of unknowable age.

http://i1072.photobucket.com/albums/w376/Aeternas/image.jpg5_zpsitcgfhbm.jpghttp://i1072.photobucket.com/albums/w376/Aeternas/image.jpg1_zpsztw6drpe.jpghttp://i1072.photobucket.com/albums/w376/Aeternas/image.jpg2_zps6wik9etk.jpghttp://i1072.photobucket.com/albums/w376/Aeternas/image.jpg3_zpsh93tbuw6.jpghttp://i1072.photobucket.com/albums/w376/Aeternas/image.jpg4_zpsvf5ymxhu.jpghttp://i1072.photobucket.com/albums/w376/Aeternas/image.jpg6_zpsavqinlfs.jpg

So here he is. Unfortunately a few details such as weapon stripes were lost in pic-capture. However such is phone technology. Well done all who have completed, and shame, shame you legionnaires who didn't Nonetheless, Balth and Observer, your models themselves were really nice. Hope to see them painted at some point

Edit. Ignore the resin shard in the kinda ditchy part on the base. Somehow slipped in there while photos were being taken. Dammit.

[Ezeriel]

Here's my entry for the month.

Drest the Shredder:

A Terran born member of the VIII Legion, Drest quickly displayed his sadistic nature during missions. His preferred method of terror involved his twin chainswords. He would slowly chase his enemies whilst revving the swords and scrapping them along walls, eventually driving them made with the sound. Once he finally caught up to his mentally broken victims, he would use the spinning blades and teeth of his swords to slowly gouge chunks of flesh and armor.

He was last seen on Istvaan V during the drop site massacre being overwhelmed by surviving members of the XVIII legion.

[Barabbas Sogalon]

“…Unification? You’re ripping up old wounds, lass, not many appreciate that. Aliksandr was always the best of us, though unpredictable, a military genius and the kind of leader we would follow through seven hells if need be. He served as second-in-command to Astorian the Unworthy, our first Captain, but to us he was the true commander. Take orders from an incompetent non-Albian or one of our own? It’s not even up for consideration. We had no respect for Astorian and no one liked the bastard, except for the prison dwellers perhaps, but we never cared about those filthy mongrels.

Aliksandr never forgot Albia. He blamed our leaders for failing our countrymen and bending their knee way to easily, and he resented not being able to conquer Earth as a Warlord of Dusk, but still he fought and bled for the Emperor. The VIII was our only home now. He said that if the Dusk Raiders were the right hand of justice, then we would be the left, using the old ways to scorch the earth of His enemies.

The obsession with fire was always there. I remember when we burned the Southern Atlans, how he stood for several hours and watched as flames devoured the hives, listened to the screams until there was only smoke left. Then he laughed. Many of my brothers in the Company share this fascination, but I will never understand it. Fire soon became our way. After the last hive fell he named us Bringers of the Infernal Night, gave us the Burning Eye to carry into battle. Now we are only known to others as the Noctis Infernae.

There has always been a shadow over him. The dark mood didn’t surface until years later, during the Crusade, but we who fought alongside Aliksandr since the beginning could already see the signs, how he was swinging between the manic determination that brought us victory and periods of despair where he lamented lost Albia. Back then it was manageable, but we had no idea that it would worsen over the years. These days it feels more and more like madness interrupted by occasional lucidity. I can’t say if this is part of who he was before the Legion or just another legacy of our great father… it is not my duty to speculate.

Our high and mighty cousins, self-righteous bastards all of them, they always looked down us and our methods. In their eyes, Aliksandr was an unhinged pyromaniac thirsting for personal glory and bringing disgrace to the Emperor’s name. They mocked him, called him the Savage One; Aliksandr just laughed in their faces, and by the time we left Earth he had taken Saevus as his name. We built the Imperium. We did the dirty work that no one wants to admit is necessary to ensure victory. How dare they judge us? And now we have weak-bloods from other worlds joining that cursed choir, as if they have the right. They know nothing of Unification and our sacrifices, just another example of how the Legions have been corrupted.

I recall something Aliksandr said to me early in the Crusade. “Who would you say is the most loyal, Kalthim: the sycophants competing in how loud and how often they can scream the Emperor’s name, or he who willingly taints his own hands to make His dream reality?”

Sadly, the Emperor did not appreciate our loyalty.

- The words of Equerry K. Jebra, XXVI Company, VIII Legion, as recorded by Regimental Archivist A. Saroyan of the 4th Northern Varyags, 002.M31.

First Lieutenant Aliksandr, "He Who Is Called Saevus", XXVI Company, VIII Legion

[StruManChu]

Not every hero of the Emperor's Legions wore power armour. However, as broadsides and Boarding Torpedoes had struck their ship, this was little comfort for the mortal servants of the IX aboard the Triumph Sanguis. It was worth even less when they learnt the source of the attack.

Marrika had been born less than nothing; the daughter of a supplicant devotee who had come aboard the Sanguis at Baal and simply never left. In quieter moments and select company, Marrika had heard her mother call it a Pilgrimage. Why the Legion continued to tolerate, let alone encourage such people was beyond her. Perhaps it reminded them of their humanity? Regardless, she was grateful. There were alternative routes her life could have taken that did not bear thought. Being a pregnant and unpartnered woman alone on a Legion vessel, her mother had offered her child to the Legion's care. It was nothing short of a miracle that her infant self had been considered worth more than the sum of her parts, and that she hadn't been turned into a servitor or worse. She'd trained, and learnt, and excelled. Where the male children distracted themselves with the possibility of someday becoming an Astartes she knew that, for her, there was simply no option, so she applied herself further, eventually being handed a shotgun and the blood-red fatigues of the shipboard security forces. It was the proudest moment of her life.

And now she was going to die in a smoke-filled corridor, terrified and useless.

Many found a kind of release in the knowledge of their imminent deaths that allowed them to achieve greatness in their final moments. Those among her squad equipped themselves for the end. Marrika though was simply paralysed by the sudden realisation of all that she would lose. She would never know what real gravity felt like. She would never breathe fresh air. She crouched down against a bulkhead, the weight of inevitability pushing her down. She tried to make herself as small as possible in the dark, but she knew it wouldn't come close to hiding her. Not from these killers.

She’d never seen an Astartes at war. Not in the flesh. There had been many vidcaps that had come back from battles, many stories told by the soldiery, many depictions from many remembrancers, and Marrika’s subconscious mind had crafted a certain image for the Emperor’s Legionaries. She expected to see something terrible, yes, but also something glorious. Avenging, liberating angels. Ruthless, yet righteous.

What emerged from the smoke was not these things. This was not an angel. This was one who had taken their humanity and shed it like serpentskin. One who had taken lives for no cause other than their own gratification. One who revelled in wearing the mantle of a murderer.

The first thing she saw was his eyes. The glowing lenses of the giant’s helmet pierced through the smoke a moment before the skull-shaped helm they were attached to became visible. Marrika shut her eyes tight and tried to make herself even smaller. Her experience of the next few seconds was of utter, quaking terror. Gunshots sounded. Cries and yelps and the sickening cracking of bones and the slop of innards found her ears. Something warm and wet hit the side of her face, the stink of flesh and offal filling her nostrils.

She whimpered as she felt a shadow fall over her. Her rational mind knew her discovery was inevitable, that she should have fled, but her fear had stolen her agency. The whimper turned into a sob as she felt a gauntlet, hard and cold, close around her neck and pull her up from the floor.

The monster held her aloft without seeming to struggle at all. A whisper in low Gothic like poison mixed with contempt slithered out from the monster’s vox grill.

“Open your eyes.”

To her credit, Marrika tried desperately to follow this simple instruction. But her body would not obey. All it wanted to do was flee. She started to struggle. The monster clamped down harder.

“Pathetic. Do as you’re told, little one.”

She tried to turn her head away so as not to have to the terror before her, but he held her firm, and as her eyes cracked open, she broke. A skull too flawed to have been fashioned by an armourer stared into her, glowing red eyes piercing and accusing. So dark was his armour she could barely make it out… But she could tell it was slick with gore. The remnants of her friends were awash in this dark corner of the Blood Angels vessel. Panicked, her eyes flitted back and forth as another monster came into view.

“A new plaything, Salcis? Are the walls of your chamber not sufficiently adorned already?”

The monster holding her chuckled; a low, wet sound.

“Nothing so violent, Lesaak. Not yet. This one’s void born, you can tell from the way the muscles have developed. She’ll know the run of a ship. She might be useful. If not, then maybe her body will be. Get her back to the torpedoes.”

Salcis Xanarius, Head-Taker Champion of the Jaded Blades and Captain of the Void Slaughterer, took the life of Marrika Angelika over the course of the five days immediately after the battle. He told her it was a punishment for her cowardice, and for abandoning her squadmates to their doom. He told her that her death would have been so much quicker and less painful if she’d only stood and fought. In the end she begged him to end her; for a single merciful strike… But the monsters of the Eighth have no mercy to give. She was still conscious, though barely; sustained only by the skill of her captor, when he started to strip off her skin.

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Mandatory apology for phone photos here.

Roll on to April and the mighty Seventh!

[Brother-Chaplain Kage]

Ahhh yes, that flood of last minute entry completions. Excellent.

[Slips]

The best kind!

[Soldier of Dorn]

I'll be the first to admit that it wasn't the model I said or intended to paint, but its the one I did paint, so...

 

 

Also, apologies for crappy pics. I was in a bit of a rush. I'll retake them later.

 

+++

‘We are called Terrorborn. Do you understand why? It was because when my esteemed father took control of his Legion, he found that there were some whose sins were far too great to leave unpunished, to let influence their brother’s actions, but still had their use. So were we born. Now, you know our Legion’s reputation. You know what the VIII is capable of. Imagine what the worst of us are capable of. And yet, we do not bear the mark of the Red Hands, not a single one, for the Red marks out a stay of execution, and death means nothing to us, for we are death incarnate, bound to the will of the Dark King. We are the breath that warms your neck, in the darkness of night. We are Terrorborn, and by this blade, and the blades of my brothers, this I swear: we have come for you.’

- Shaa Tevar, First Blade, Terminator Cadre ‘The Severing’

52^nd Company, designated ‘Terrorborn’

VIII Legion Astartes

http://i.imgur.com/d9RN9mt.jpg

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EDIT: Gaflarking Legion numerations! I keep mixing them up with Fists!

[Captain Nameless]

This guy's left arm broke off on three separate occasions during construction and priming, but I think the result makes up for the frustration.

Fluff is coming as soon as I finish with some calculus.

Edit: fluff has arrived.

The two men stood around the Apothacarion bed, one was making the final adjustments to a pict-corder while the other faced the pallid, one-armed astartes propping himself up to look back.

“So, you’re the new remembrancer?”

“Yes, Karl Lanz, ah, documentarist.”

The astartes turned to the man with the pict-corder, “And you?”

Looking decidedly less disconcerted and more scarred than the remembrancer, he responded.

“I’m his assistant and, when necessary, human pack animal.”

The astartes grinned and turned back to the remembrancer. “Lieutenant Venn sent you here to interview me.”

“Yes. He said that you weren’t busy at the moment.” Said Lanz.

The astartes leaned back in the bed, “Ha!”

The scarred man finished adjusting the pict-corder, giving Lanz an affirmative.

“We’ll start now.”

“Fine.”, said the astartes, shrugging. “Lieutenant Cyros Zane, eighth Legion, Night Lords, 29^th company, Ironclad.”

“Lieutenant Zane… what do you do?”

“I kill people.”

The scarred man laughed, “I used to be in the same line of business.”

“Imperial Army?”

“Yeah, and now I’m here. There are worse ways to retire.”

Zane shrugged, “Ehh, to each their own. “

Zane readjusted himself, “You probably wanted something more specific. Right. Well, I serve as quartermaster. I manage the supplies, the armory, keep everything in order. I have a very good memory.” He tapped his forehead.

“Don’t astartes have eidetic memory.” Interjected Lanz.

“Yes, that just made me even better.”

“Uh huh.”

“Back on Nostramo I used to watch people, memorize how they got through their security, then I snuck in, killed them, sold their things, and then rented out their lodgings for modestly exorbitant fees.”

He looked off in remembrance for a moment before snapping back to the apprehensive looking men before him.

“See, the lieutenant probably wouldn’t have let you see me if it weren’t for the presence of our dear Guardian Angel.”

He said the last bit, grinning obnoxiously, to the apothecary walking towards them. Who, upon reaching them immediately hit Zane over the head.

“Telling them stories of being a murderous property dealer?”, asked the apothecary with a raised eyebrow.

Zane sat rubbing his head, “is there any other kind back home? And whose arm was that?”

“Yours. It just came back from the forges.”

As the apothecary went to work reattaching the augmetic, Lanz spoke, “Lieutenant, I have been wondering, the name of this company, Ironclad, what is the reasoning behind it?”

Zane looked back at him, “You were with the Cinderhawks before this, right? You didn’t ask them?”

“Well, I did, but that was an outsider’s view. I don’t know if it's what you think.”

He tried to readjust himself again, promting the apothecary to growl, “stop moving around.” He looked at the apothecary, nodding slowly as he turned back to Lanz.

“Well, our captain is an odd one for the Night Lords. He’s Terran-born and was inducted into the Legion before the discovery of our… father. Even among the rest of the VIII Legion Terrans he’s a little strange. He decided to make worthwhile soldiers out of a bunch of Nostraman scum through the uncompromising enforcement of ironclad discipline, hence the name.”

“From what I’ve heard of the VIII Legion, that sounds… heh.” Lanz laughed nervously.

“That would be the Night Lords you’ve heard of, but yeah, not exactly a sane thing to do. Funny thing, he pretty much succeeded. Especially with Lieutenant Venn to keep people in line.”

“I thought he reminded me of a drill Sergeant.” Said the scarred man.

“Yeah, that fits. Sometimes though, and this is the most oddball thing about him, the captain will try to subtly convince us that we can be better than the murderous children of Nostromo that we are.”

Lanz stayed quiet and let the astartes continue talking.

“A few of us buy it, some don’t. Some, like myself, don’t care. The Terran-born are obviously not from Nostromo, which puts them in their own category. and of course,” He turned to the apothecary with the same obnoxious grin as before, “the Angel is ever the exception.”

“You’re lucky that at this point I’ve learned how to keep my anger in check enough to be able to take that as a compliment.” The apothecary said calmly.

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“Anyways, one thing that I do care about is that he tells us to be just. I can appreciate that. Justice doesn’t have to be nice, it doesn’t even have to be fair. So… Just, I can be just.”

The apothecary, having finished securing the augmetic arm, leaned back, “ how is it?”

Zane tested the arm, inspecting it, “you know, remembrancer, our forge lord is nuts. Not like the captain, he’s sort of heroically crazy, this guy is just… crazy. He’s not incompetent, but all of his augmetics come with some sort of built-in weaponry. It can be useful, but, just look at this!”

The augmetic split down the forearm and a shot into place through the middle of the hand.

“If I tried to hold anything right now it’s just going to get cut in half. It is useful, I will give it that.”

He inspected it and then looked back up grinning, “oh yeah, it’s also a power weapon. Watch.”

The apothecary immediately grabbed a hold of the augmetic, looking Zane right in the eyes.

“Don’t.”

“Haven’t forgiven me for those two servitors, it seems.”

“One and a half.”

“There were two.”, said Zane, grinning.

“Not anymore.”

In the background a servitor that was just a torso on the end of a servo-arm attached to the ceiling moved along its tracks while staring blankly ahead.

[Balthamal]

It's thread-o-mancy of the worst kind and I heartily apologize for it but I made a commitment to get this done and despite it being 6 weeks overdue, I've actually managed to finish. And since a large chunk of writing also went into I thought it would be a shame not to include it

So behold, Lasiurius, Duke of Blades, Red Judge of the VIII Legion

Ok I meant to post this ages ago when doing my bit for the March of the Legions over in the AoD but since my airbrush broke and I missed the deadline that went by the by. No however the model is finished and I've finished my writing to accompany it all. So without further ado I present my new Duke of Blades. As for the writing I've bundled that in spoiler tags since I'm pretty sure dropping 10k words in 1 post is against forum rules

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The Fall of Thyranus Secundus

The first disaster to befall Thyranus Secundus, like so many disasters, came from the skies. For five days, a caustic rain lashed the entire world. On the rare breaks in the weather, the sun was visible as a baleful red orb, evidence of a significant shift in the atmospherics. By the end of the seventh day, it was hard to discern where the day ended and the night began. After eleven days the rains returned, this time with a biting acidic edge, the precipitation corrosive enough to strip paint from buildings. When the pathetic dawn came on day thirteen, nobody bothered marking it. On the fourteenth day, there was nobody alive to count it at all.

He of False Convictions

The four killers circled the wretch before them, their movements measured and menacing. He had greeted them with defiance and was now paying for that most grievous error. All bore implements of pain and murder about them, some mag locked to armour, others clenched in bloodied fists. One flexed his arm repeatedly, the motion bringing the saw and drill built into his bracer to life.

The wounded man flinched at the sound; he had tasted both appendages and bore their kiss openly on his violated flesh. He still had some fight in him though. Decades of service had instilled that down to his marrow.

“In the name of the God-Emperor I defy you! Heretics!”

The leader of the small group shook his head before replying. “Is that all you can say? Throne in flames, millennium of spite and hatred and the best you can level at us is heretic?” He spat on the human’s exposed leg, taking care not to make the acid in his saliva too corrosive lest it completely dissolve the tissue. The groan of pain that answered the act was merely satisfying rather than enjoyable.

Another of his brothers crouched to eye level with their prisoner. “Do you even understand what a heretic is? It is one who rebels and refuses the authority of a religion. If only you knew the trouble of this fallen empire and religion.”

“Don’t bother with verbal sparring Sar Tuum, we have much more interesting options available,” that from the final Astartes.

“Naz, you can be a miserable faryth sometimes”

The broken man raised his bloodied face at the word. “That language……” His only reward was a kick to his broken arm, the pressure sending a fresh wave of agony through him and out of his mouth in a hoarse scream.

“Is Nostraman Inquisitor,” the leader stopped his pacing and enjoyed the human’s pain. “And what benefit you hope to glean from knowing Sar Tuum called Nazvun a pig is beyond my comprehension. But then again it is a filthy language, a perfect match with its filthy world.”

“Ah you’re determined to hurt my feelings my lord,” chuckled Sar Tuum with a mocking bow.

The Duke of Blades ignored the remark before continuing to speak to the Inquisitor again. “Whatever the value of the Nostraman tongue, it matters little now that the world is several thousand years dead. However since we’re addressing your desire for learning, we can all enjoy the irony of your learning being the reason why we’re here, now.”

Inquisitor Dzarmaq Holgan-Var slowly raised his head again to look at his torturers.

“What do you mean?”

It was Urozna who answered. “Why your enquiries and investigations into a certain world and those who have come into contact with it that has led us to you mortal. You have, you could say, writ your fate in thine own hand.”

Lasiurius also knelt to look the human in the eye. “A supply run out of Kureash, the rogue trader Gyman Wreas, a regiment of indentured militia diverted around a world called Cthonia, the capture of a ship named Consecrated in Slaughter and the incarceration of Inquisitor Lord Phrelus Taraon Veltarul on the moon Titan.”

Holgan-Var stared in horror at the Night Lord. How could they know? How? Everything had been done in secret. Binding oaths given. Silence sworn in more than blood.

“How do you know those names…” his voice barely above a breath.

The one called Nazvun answered this time. “Because silence is never truly bought save with death. And we are not afraid of names mortal. We do not cower and our britches like your foppish Terran courtiers at mention of Cthonia”

“That world……the evil-“He managed nothing more. The laughter from those around him stopped him short. Lasiurius took several seconds to compose himself.

“The only evil on Cthonia was the veneer of civilisation the Imperium tried to impose on its sons for the Great Crusade. A doomed effort from the start, so doomed in fact I occasionally wonder if we destined to fail in Horus’ rebellion purely from the inadequacy of his Legion stock.”

“That name must never-“Holgan-Var was cut short again, this time by another kick to his broken arm, eliciting a fresh scream.

The Duke of Blades stood again, no humour left about him.

“That name is as much of a curse to us as you human, if you were going to live to tell your masters I’m sure they’d enjoy the jest. But you aren’t going to live. Even now your Black Ship is being torn apart. We are taking your supplies, butchering your men, enslaving your crew. And your holds...” he let the implication hang between them for a moment. “Your holds we are paying special attention to.”

The inquisitor wore another horrified look on his face.

“The holds are full of the diseased! They are unclean and fit only for death!”

“Do not lie to me. I can taste your falsehood without so much as brushing your mind. You carry five thousand, six hundred and forty eight pre-pubescent males. All show some trace psychic potential. You have another eleven thousand two hundred and fifty four females and males over maturity also bearing psychic potential of varying degrees. Yours is a slave ship mortal. Bound for Titan or to feed their souls to the False Emperor’s life engine. If you had ever walked in the Warp you’d hear his screams and realise what a futile effort it is.”

“And more importantly, we know where you were destined, and for what purpose,” added Sar Tuum. “The time for equivocating is over, you will simply provide more sport if you resist.”

Holgan-Var stared around in defiance. “It matters nothing what you do to me! I will die a loyal servant of the God-Emperor!”

Lasiurius held his stare until the mortal was forced to break it off. When he spoke his voice was quiet and cold, the voice of a killer. “You think we will simply break your flesh? You know nothing. We will force you to watch as we slowly flay each and every arms man aboard; every scream will assault your senses. When we feed the psykers chained in the holds to the Soul Eater, I will project their suffering into your mind as their essence is consumed. I will puppet you into executing your faithful savants, your pretty little interrogator I will save for last. Her I will force you to torture, mutilate and violate until she begs you to end her life, then when you have bathed yourself in the blood of those who followed you, I’ll kill you, over days, and dying you will know that this cargo who were meant to boost the ranks of your precious silver slayers will instead nurture the VIII Legion in the Long War.”

Hearing his fate pronounced so brutally, the human shied away from the Astartes before him. When he finally spoke his voice was raw, as raw as the pain in his gaze.

“Do what you will, I’ll give you nothing. I’ve stood in the Imperial Palace. I’ve stood in the light that is Holy Terra. There’s nothing you can inflict upon me that will make me betray that.”

All four Astartes slowly moved towards him, drawing weapons as they did so. It was Lasiurius who spoke for the final time.

“You delude yourself Inquisitor. I hailed from Terra. I remember it before Unity, a backwards radiation wracked hole. I remember it after Unity, where I knelt before the False Emperor and swore myself to a lie. And I remember it during the Battle of Terra, where I and mine washed the halls of the Palace in the blood of those as blind and deluded as you. It was all built on a lie; the lie that there is no light on Terra and it certainly isn’t holy. Its sinkhole prisons, its secure gaols, the shadowy halls, even the Red Mountain is a light of death. There is nothing but darkness there. And you have never seen the truth of it.”

He slowly placed his flaying knife against the human’s ear.

“Until now”

The Darklight

The scent of fresh blood and shame permeated the cell. Aurana soaked it up just as she had been taught. Shame could only be washed away in blood, be it her own or her enemies, and since she had no enemies to speak of her, that left her body as a canvas to paint her repentance. The rhythmic slapping of the whip against her flesh the only sound aside from her grunting. Two hundred and eighty four lashes, sixteen left. She should be better than she was, she had to learn discipline. Once she had mastery of herself, she would be fit to be taken on the Black Ship. All of her instructors told her this, it had to be true. If she would only apply herself as needed, the shame would cease to have any place in her life of service. The initiates agreed with the tutors, it had to be the truth. She would be worthy of the highest duties in the service of the God Emperor. Psychic blanks had always been exceedingly rare, simply casting her aside for refusing to learn her expected place a fool’s choice. No matter the time or the effort, Terra would have itself another tool. And there was honour in being a tool in service to humanity’s god. They all said it, that everything was for her own good, that she was being given the chance to use her life in a meaningful way, it had to be true. Every punishment, the result of her failing to seize what she was, a lesson to build character.

Except….except it wasn’t discipline that was her downfall. Aurana could apply herself to any task with minimal focus and the slightest prodding. She simply didn’t care. The initiates were mewling little wenches going through maturation and whispering about their inconsequential existences, too afraid of the tutors, slaves in all but name. And the tutors themselves were mean-hearted bitches who only demonstrated power over her to compensate for their fear. They knew what she was, what she was destined for and that scared them, even here in their fortress of papyrus and incense. Indeed her latest infraction was nothing more than their irritation at the latest harvesting delayed with the late arrival of the Inquisitions vessel. What did she care, it still wasn’t her time. And yet again she was made to suffer because they were annoyed. Discipline? She’d ram discipline down their stinking throats given the chance.

Outside the cell, Mother-prelate Yshanu turned away from the glass wall as Aurana completed her three hundredth and final lash. Beckoning her taskmistress to follow, she moved with deliberate pace to the monastery’s astropathic sensorium. The taskmistress bore a satisfied expression on her face.

“If only the little wench had the same enthusiasm for her scrolls as the rod and scourge,” she grunted.

Yshanu sighed in resignation “Your dislike of the girl is unbecoming. She is never going to amount to much I fear but I am determined to give her the best possible chance to be selected. We owe her no less.”

“I say enforce a lesson on the rest of the girls, it’ll keep them in line for decades if we make an example of her.” the taskmistress’ face almost glowing at the thought. “We owe her nothing”

Yshanu turned sharply to her deputy, causing the other woman to stumble to a halt. “I have tolerated much of your treatment of this young woman as we must strive to maintain the standards we set not only ourselves but in the eyes of his most Holy Majesty’s Inquisition. She has to learn and if sweet-meats will not suffice then the rod will take its place. However I will not scourge or flog or allow her to be used for any purpose other than that which she could serve the Imperium, not simply sating your desire to see her suffer. Am I understood?”

“I hear and obey Mother-prelate,” she acquiesced with a bow of the head “I’ll grant she’s useful in keeping that thing docile however when the Black Ship takes possession of the creature her uses will be limited. She’ll be a wasted life here.”

The Mother-prelate thumbed her eyes closed as she began to walk again. “She will hardly be the first wasted life in this place. The call to serve the God Emperor has ever been a trial; it is in the trial of our service that we earn the right to rise at his side. Now let us see if there is any news of our expected guests. It’s been Nineteen weeks, even for the Malleus that is late.”

The Fire Clothed in Flesh

The darkness never bothered her. In the dark she couldn’t see the faces of those who tormented her. In the darkness her power was contained. It wasn’t completely caged away; it would take something far more formidable than the absence of light to make that happen. But here in the dark its tempest was calmed to a gentle trickle. She sometimes wished that she didn’t have that raging fire inside her; it would be so nice to not lose control and hurt those around her. It would be even nicer if she wasn’t treated less than human for having something others did not.

They took turns in guarding her but she knew they were scared and so taunted her instead. When that happened the power would push against the inside of her head, threatening to ignite the air around her, despite the darkness pressing in. It wanted to be free. And in its freedom burn those who inflicted misery on its owner. Every time they would push too far and her gift would bring a fire to her eyes, her hair would leach of its’ rich, red hue and turn whiter than snow and the silver cuffs around her wrists and ankles would begin to glow. On such occasions her jailors would run screaming; only returning some hours later with the girl in tow. Then her power would drain away until its light extinguished completely. Even her blinding headaches receded in her presence, allowing her to sleep; all the while the girl was kept outside, attempting to remain unmoved but her eyes always held warmth and pity for the wretched state she was kept in. She liked the girl, she felt safer with her, though she didn’t know her name.

So she sat in cell calmly, the slightest hint of a smile on her face. The trickle of power she had was more than enough. She could see the night falling in the world outside, she could almost taste its unnatural origin and she could feel the deeper darkness out there. And it was coming.

The Soldier

Patur Tryn grimly settled his armour on his shoulders for what seemed like the tenth time in the past hour, a task made harder by the near total darkness. After days of sitting through storms and acid rain, there had been reports of soldiers in the eighth quadrant of the city. Time to finally get out and do something instead of stewing about the constant night he thought. Sergeant Qhasta counted off the squad, pairing Tryn with Bresh, which suited him fine; Kuve was solid, he’d have his back.

There was none of the usual baiting in the transport as it sped through Quadrant Six. The unnatural weather and darkness had everyone on edge. Qhasta made a point of looking at all his men, his ugly face rendered ghostly in the sickly green glow of their low-light optics.

“No fugging around tonight boys. Let’s get out there, get some heads and get back home.”

“Copy,” were the dozen replies. Everyone focused.

Deciding that a disused manufactorum would be a sound rally point, Qhasta split off the designated pairs, all six moving with purpose through the prefab workshops. Bresh took the lead, his slug thrower steady in his hands, Tryn eight paces back, his ears straining to pick up any sounds other than the slight clicking of the vox and the crunch of their boots through the deserted space.

The first sign of death came after nine minutes; dried blood sprayed over one wall. Either someone had had their throat opened against the stone or they had been thrown against it with incredible force, surely too much for a human to bring to bear. Two rooms over, they found fresher blood, not as darkened by age, less spread. This had been a precision kill.

Bresh put a hand to his ear-piece, intending to report to Qhasta however only static answered him; it was loud enough that Tryn heard it several feet away as well as in his own ear. He almost thought he heard a voice buried in the white noise, calling names; “Kuve Bresh, Patur Tryn.” He shrugged and motioned to Bresh to sweep the next room before muttering “wonder what’s coming for up for us with this.”

The blow slammed into his face without sound or warning. Something hard and cold struck his nose and mouth with punishing force, flattening him and sending his optics flying off into the gloom. Bresh barely managed to spin around to see two glowing red eyes before a blade pierced his chest and began revving. He died before feeling his heart and lungs churned into chunks of raw meat. Tryn tried to pull his thoughts together; he was a soldier to his core, if he was going to die here he’d do it on his feet and making sure that someone coming after him would finish this bastard, whatever it was.

A harsh mechanical voice issued from the same direction as the glowing eyes

“We have come for you.”

“The rest of my squad are combing the area, run while you still can.” It wasn’t much of a threat but a little bluff worked now and again.

“They are dead. You are the last. And you are not really in a position to threaten me.”

Tryn smiled through bloody teeth at the monster that stood over him; “The Inquisition knows of this world you fugging whoreson. They’re going to find you and kill you,” he spat out what little defiance he could manage, the urge to soil himself almost overwhelming him completely.

The red eyes blinked out in the dark and the hiss of venting air pressure spoke of a helm being removed. The creature knelt down at his head, he couldn’t quite make out the face after using low UV optics; youthful, almost handsome but somehow wrong; a face that had no place on a man. It was also smiling yet the cruelty in it twisted what could have been humour into something altogether darker. Its voice too was deep

“Kill us? My simple mortal, we cannot be killed. You think us flesh and blood? To be ended by shot and blade?” the thing shook its head, still smiling. “We are nothing so mundane. Our flesh is that of the false god you worship without conviction. Our blood is the sum of human depravity. An interesting concoction no?”

Tryn drew some small measure of confidence from the fact that he hadn’t been gutted like the rest of his squad “Yet flesh and blood you are, and flesh and blood can be kill-“he broke off as a vile chuckle split the air.

“You truly cannot conceive of us mortal. We are an idea, a principle; punishment is a consequence of sin, the reaction to every action. Do you not see?”

“But what sin? We have broken no law as mandated by the Inquisition-“the fist wrapped around Tryn’s throat cut off further words. Finally the monster’s ire showed itself.

“My poor fool,” the words were spat with such malice that Tryn instinctively tried to cringe away. “The Inquisition is an infested sewer playing at enforcing the rule of law; we are something older, purer”

The soldier barely managed to get his words out past the vice squeezing the air from his neck; “Then……what……are…………you…….”Tryn felt himself pulled closer, tasting the stink of foetid breath.

“We are an ideal Patur Tryn; justice, unbiased, unprejudiced, the expression of retribution of the wronged.” He let Tryn drop, who drew in a painful gasp of air. Slowly, he climbed back to his feet, his fear an urgent ache in his stomach.

“Someone will still kill you.”

Nemios smiled in genuine pleasure. “I like you human, you actually have spirit. That’s why I’ll kill you now” He kicked Tryn’s legs from underneath him and pulled a knife from a chain on his armour.

Tryn still managed one last act of defiance; “The God-Emperor protects.”

Another chuckle greeted the words as Nemios pulled open his right eye. “We’ll soon find out. If he does he won’t keep you alive through even half of this”

The First

The lack of alarms did nothing to diminish the urgency of the armsmen gathering in the monastery’s great courtyard. The oppressive darkness simply added to the focus of all present. More than a week without sunlight and now panic was abroad that the planetary ecosystem was in danger of breaking down if light didn’t return soon.

Taret stood watching his men mill into formation, a sorrier sight he had yet to behold. Worthless, all of them. “Move it you scum!” he bellowed, trying to impress at least a façade of discipline on them. Finally, blessedly they were at attention, the rain, also blessedly had ceased for the moment. He started pacing in front of them.

“Right you worthless dogs it’s time for you to earn your pardons and do your duty in the name of the God Emperor! We have no idea what’s going on further to the South but I want one thing understood! This fortress is the prime locus of the Inquisition for a score of light years! This place matters far more than your inconsequential lives! You will stand ready and whatever may come you will stay standing until the very end! Any man here who refuses to do the duty entrusted to him in the name of the God Emperor, who in his majesty has presented you penal trash with a way to atone for your transgressions, I will kill myself and once I’ve gouged out your eyes and pissed in your empty skulls, I’ll get one of the mutant freaks held inside to claw your soul back into your pathetic shells and kill you again!”

Most of the assembled criminals looked distinctly unimpressed; more so given the fact the darkness prevented them from seeing Taret’s imposing figure in the first place. Some even complained audibly.

“What are we supposed to be doing against whatever is out there?”

“Where are the regimental soldiers? They’re getting paid for this at least-“

“What does this fool take us for? Seasoned guns?”

The bark of a bolter being fired into the air silenced all sound. Taret glared around at the gathering before him.

“I’ll tell you what I take you as! The lowest dregs in the sorry history of the human race are what! Pathetic all of you! Were it up to me I’d have shot you all the day you were convicted! And what do you take me for? You think I want such miserable scum serving under the Aquilla? Morons! Is that what you take me for? Is-“

Taret’s invective cut off as he felt burning pressure in his lower back that rose to all consuming pain; agony so intense he could barely breathe let alone articulate it in a scream. As the darkness around him grew darker and his vision faded, he heard the most terrifying voice in his life, speaking to his men.

“I am Muratsash. And I take you for my first.”

Laughter

The screaming still echoed around the halls. Whether it was someone being butchered close enough to pick up or transmitted across the fortress vox, the constant expression of pain continued. The lighting had been the first thing to go but the vox system was still functional. Taskmistress Carylua had the majority of the novices gathered in the tertiary dormitory, whilst not the most defensible in the fortress monastery, it was certainly the largest and therefore the most logical choice to keep most of the girls out of sight. The oldest of their number, those most advanced in their training were out fighting with the indentured soldiers and Inquisitorial detachment. How and why they were being attacked was irrelevant now.

Some of the girls were whimpering among themselves and Carylua bit her lip for what felt like the hundredth time; she despised these little wretches, she despised her fate in being left to dole out discipline to those should would have happily strangled in her previous life. Slowly, the screaming outside began receding; all sound in the dormitory faded away too, the girls too scared even to cry among themselves. The taskmistress strained her ears, her knuckles white around her lasrifle. Ironic that she should find herself with the weapon in hand after all these years. She should have made better use of her time, she should have made sure the wretch Auret was dead before he could use his influence to see her consigned her to rot. Damn the whoreson! Twenty years of hell because he found some other younger woman to ride and knew she carried a grudge!

The sound of giggling snapped her attention back into the room. There was definitely giggling. And it was in the room with her. Those stupid little bitches!

“Whoever is giggling had better be silent or they’ll wish they were out there with whoever has come!” she shot over her shoulder into the dark with a cold hiss.

“But mistress there is no laughing,” that from Lhurya. She wasn’t enough of the rod. She liked to push Carylua, establish herself ahead of the others. Well she would pay for it this time. Whenever this mess ended.

“Be silent. I can hear it! Unless it stops this instance there’ll be a hundred lashes each!”

The gasps from the girls didn’t manage to muffle the sound of the giggling. Turning around, she raised her rifle at them. Even though it was pitch black, the sighting laser shone through the darkness, pointing at them.

“If the threat of the lash won’t shut you up then perhaps this will!”

Silence greeted her this time. Thankfully. Carylua padded slowly to the doors, intending to press her ear against it and gain some idea of what was happening. Lowering her weapon, she leaned forwards and promptly fell out into the hallway. The door was open! Someone had gotten out! Furious she stormed back into the dormitory, the girls must have sensed her anger for they were too terrified to even make a sound. Her bare foot stepped into something warm and wet and her fury spiked even higher. They were soiling themselves now as well! The giggle came again.

She opened her mouth to unleash a blistering reprimand and instead screamed in pain as a bright light flared before her. After hours in the darkness the iridescent glow plunged daggers of agony into her skull. Gritting her teeth against the pain she faced back towards the doorway and out of direct sight of the blinding radiance. Slowly, the pain receded, and sight returned. She turned around and was greeted by a scene of unparalleled slaughter.

All of the novices were dead, every single one had their throat opened, and the spreading lake of blood she had stepped in. Each had their eyes fixed open in terror except Lhurya, hers were ripped clean out and wedged into her mouth, her nightshift slashed and used to bind her arms behind her back. Gagging, with tears of blindness still spilling from her eyes, Carylua began to back away from the death before her when, again, came the giggle. She spun on her heels and smashed her head into a power armoured chest. She fell back stunned, barely taking in the lightning flaring to life across the plates, the bones and skin adorning it. All she saw with clarity was the hooked knives dripping blood in the monster’s hands. He was here all along, waiting. She soiled herself at his words.

“I was the one laughing,” said Liagond

Maidens of Darkness

Aurana jerked herself awake. She had no idea how long she had fallen asleep for, but it could not have been long. She had been down here with the girl for almost fourteen hours and she had finally given into the urge to rest. No one else was outside the cell, which in itself was odd. She looked through the armour glass at the prisoner. Cassandera sat cross legged, equidistant from every wall, perfectly centred. Her hands rested on her crossed legs and a small smile decorated her face. Despite the grime and dried blood, she was still beautiful and Aurana felt her pity stir again. It was not her fault that she was cursed as she was and yet she would be persecuted and killed for it regardless. Sometimes the injustice of the Imperium made her angry enough to scream. Opening her eyes and seeing Aurana, Cassandera’s smile widened.

“I’m glad you’re down here with me,” she whispered.

Aurana tried and failed to supress her own smile, amazing after everything she had been subjected to that she could still take any pleasure from the situation.

“Why is that?”

Cassandera’s smile became sad and rueful.

“Because of what is happening upstairs. I’m glad you’re not going to be hurt because of it.”

The icy knot sank from Aurana’s throat to her stomach, bounced and repeated the trip.

“And what is happening upstairs?” she asked, dreading the answer.

Cassandera met her eyes. “They are upstairs. They have come for us.”

Aurana left the cell at a dead run. She had to find out what was going on. As she reached the fourth sub level, she began hearing the screams. By the time she made it to the first sub level the screaming was a never ending crescendo of suffering. Arriving on the ground level, she decided stealth would be the best option, at least until she could retrieve the weapons racked in her small dorm. The darkness from outside was now inside the walls it seemed, even her normally excellent low light vision wasn’t piercing the gloom as she had become accustomed to. She’d need to find the main body of novices, most were too young to fight but the older ones would be forming a point of resistance at the secondary armoury. She’d head there. No sooner had she determined her destination a hand shot out of the night and wrapped itself around her throat. Barely able to breathe she heard the creature holding her speak seven words:

“This is Kas. Barb, I have her.”

The warrior called Kas carried her through the blood drenched halls of the monastery almost as an afterthought. He barely so much as glanced at the murder writ large around him and seemed content to reach his destination as quickly as possible. Only as they began to ascend did she realise that he was taking her to the Mother-Prelate’s chambers.

Yshanu lay in a bloodied heap in the centre of the room as she arrived; her concern only increasing when she saw the Mother-Prelate whimper in pain. Other warriors stood around her, all of the same overwhelming physique and glad in the same armour as her captor. Some of them glanced around as Kas walked into the room and nonchalantly dropped her to the ground; others kept their attention on Yshanu. One went so far as to take several steps back. She looked around at a voice; it was deep yet had a cultured edge to it, which shocked her.

“How do we know this is the one?”

The one standing in the centre, she guessed him to be the leader purely from the way the others seemed to circle him, understanding their place in the pack yet feeling no resentment at not holding the place of power, brushed his cloak back and drew the huge glaive from a sheath of what looked terribly like flesh before he spoke.

“Tell him Soul Eater.”

The warrior who had retreated from her glanced in her direction and kept her gaze before replying to his master.

“My powers flee Ferrusalta, as do yours.”

The leader, the one who, if her High Gothic studies were of any use though the accent was abominable, was called Blade Dancer turned back to the cultured voice.

“See Ophidius, certainty.”

Ophidius inclined his head, agreement not submission. Aurana tried to pull her thoughts together; they were racing at the import of all the words being spoken over her head. Who were these creatures? Why had they attacked? How had Cassandera known? She shocked herself when her mumbled question was none of those things.

“Why are you called Blade Dancer?”

Ten pairs of eyes fixed themselves upon her. A couple of crude laughs accompanied them. One, with his arms painted in blood to the elbows even hopped on the spot in mockery of a dance. Blade Dancer himself tilted his head as though considering whether to answer her or not.

“A wolf, who walked as man and killed like the wind named me such, some three thousand years ago,” he said at last. “I did not really understand if it were intended as a compliment. Fenrisian humour never ceased to puzzle me.” He stepped aside so she could see the Mother-Prelate clearly. Though her flesh had been cut it appeared that was the extent her injuries, the physical at least.

“Why have you done these things?”

Again he tilted his head; she didn’t know whether to find the situation hilarious or terrifying that he didn’t seem to know what to make of her. Slowly he pulled his helm off, the glowing eyes set in a skull winked out and venting gases escaped.

“For many reasons, human. For pleasure, for revenge, for justice. And for you.”

That brought her up short. They had murdered everyone here, for her? Her other questions remained unasked as he continued speaking.

“Thyranus Secundus is dying because it sits at the terminus of a long and convoluted plan. Centuries we have spent patiently piecing together scraps of information, scryings, and blood magicks to determine where this one world sat, with its precious little secret. And now we are here we see that it is indeed two little secrets.”

Aurana felt herself trembling; it was almost as if her fate had been decided hundreds of years before she was even born from their words. She tried to encompass the thoughts of those around her and failed miserably. In a tiny voice she mumbled; “I don’t understand.”

Blade Dancer knelt before her. His scarred face would have been handsome in another life; here he was simply the alpha killer.

“Tulak Soul Eater has had his dreams haunted by the Darklight for hundreds of years. We knew about you centuries past and have acted to bring events to the here, and now, for longer than you can comprehend. We have hunted you down the changing of the millennia and now we have you.”

Aurana shied away from the triumph in his eyes, she felt small and alone even though the attention of the other warriors wasn’t aimed at her, but at Yshanu. Their expressions were hungry.

“But I am nothing special here. The Instructors have told me for years that I am-“She broke off when the creature kneeling before her gave her a strange look. Was that what passed for humour with him?

“Mortal, you are very special indeed. A Psychic blank of your prodigious strength is a treasure beyond price. Do you know the true reason you have been kept here?”

“No.”

“You lie; I see it in your face. You know full well you are the jailor of the girl imprisoned below. You know you were to be given to the Clades of Terra and made into a weapon. You were to be spent in the Long War without ever truly seeing it.”

Aurana remained silent this time. His words were hitting far too close to home. It was almost as though he had stood and watched every day of her life in the monastery and knew her better than she knew herself. Yshanu stirred again, forcing herself to sit up, when she saw Aurana her face creased in anguish.

“Child, are you hurt? Have these monsters-“she cut off Tulak approached and cut another gash into her shoulder. Her squeal of pain made Aurana flinch.

“You would call us monsters Prelate?” Blade Dancer stood and towered over the stricken woman. “You whore away the lives of all the maidens who are passed through the gates, either to be fed to the never ending warmachine of Terra or else to rot her, sharing the fates of those who have failed them.” He turned to look back at Aurana. “Or should they be unfortunate enough to bear the Warp’s touch they have the dubious honour of feeding a false god.”

“The God-Emperor-“He wrapped his fist around Yshanu’s throat before she could go further, his voice and angry snarl.

“Will your kind never get tired of spewing that to us who walked in the age of the False Emperor, saw his flesh, and heard him scream as Horus carved him apart. You worship a lie and bind others into your falsehoods. Your hypocrisy, your sin makes me want to kill every last one of you” He pushed her back to the floor, knocking the wind from her with a wheeze.

“You poison the lives of all who come here with the lies of the Inquisition, you impose your tainted morality on those who are given nothing and taught to cherish it, you imprison any who fail to conform to the dregs you hold as perfection.

Take your taskmistress, left her to rot because she lay with the wrong man too many times, left to stew in her hatred and then inflict that hatred onto those in her care. How many times did she take the lash to this girl her because she hated a reminder of youth and beauty?”

The words slowly sank in for Aurana. All of those beatings….

“Mother-Prelate, is this true?”

Yshanu raised her face. “Of course not child we would never give any of you to the lash without cause!”

There were chuckles from the gathered warriors. One carrying a long spear with a curious chain in place of a blade laughed loudly.

“She confessed everything before I killed her. You wouldn’t believe what she would say to avoid a little more pain. She really had it in for you girl.”

Yshanu raised an imploring hand to Aurana. “Don’t listen to them child! It’s nothing but filthy lies told by those outside of the God-Emperor’s light!”

Blade Dancer smiled at that. He stepped back between them, blocking her view of Yshanu.

“Again your hypocrisy, such sin in such a holy,” he poured scorn into the word, “place. An empire of lies will raise upon yet more falsehood. Where is the truth in this place priestess? The Inquisition value these places highly do they not? That institution of justice, that shepherd of the true way. Where are they to defend such honesty and virtue now?” He smiled all malice now.

“They are :cussting their beds on Terra knowing that we haunt the Long Night; after this deed is done they will know that we will strike at the heart of their strength, at the lies they cloak their power in lest all see it as dross. They will know justice”

Yshanu raised herself up on to her knees, some defiance left in her. “You are no harbinger of justice!”

“You are right, in a way, Mother-Prelate. Our task is not to herald the coming judgement, but to enact it. Our hands have been stained in the blood of the guilty for millennia. We are well versed in our craft. And now the Inquisition will see the consequences of its shroud of deceit; a world flayed of human life as skin parted from bone; sin and injustice washed away in a welter of hot vitae.”

“There is no injustice here!”

“Yes there is,” Aurana could barely believe that the words had come from her mouth. Yshanu looked at her in utter horror as she continued. “Cassandera is held in the levels below until she is taken away and murdered because she is different. Where is the justice in that?”

“Child, you know that she is too dangerous-“

“Dangerous to who? You? Me? The Inquisition? Who is allowed to determine whether she lives and dies>”

“She is tainted. She cannot be allowed-“

“To what? To live her life as she chooses? Who are you to say her life is worth less than another?”

“Child you must listen to me! If she were free she would kill us all! It matters not whether she is of good heart or the best intentions! You are among our very best; you are not ignorant of this. For us all to be safe she must die! I would never lie to you-“

More laughter surrounded them; these killers really did seem to be enjoying the sport before them. The killer of Carylua wagged a finger and Yshanu.

“Now, now priestess, that isn’t true either, is it? What were your words to the taskmistress regarding our maiden here? I believe you said “she will never amount to much” and acknowledged that she would be “a wasted life.” Such an odd way to speak of your “best” wouldn’t you agree?”

Tears began to leak from the Mother-Prelates’ eyes; “You twist my words!”

“So you admit you did give voice to them then?” Ophidius chimed in even before she had finished speaking.

“You damn yourself with you own tongue.”

“Your crimes writ in thine own hand”

“Injustice by your decisions”

“Injustice begets retribution”

“Retribution is justice”

The words came one after the other without pause, all adding their voices to the condemnation of the Prelate. Blade Dancer didn’t look at the weeping priestess; he turned back to Aurana.

“You have seen the injustice of this place. You may now leave.”

Aurana didn’t look at him; she kept her gaze on Yshanu, focusing on the way her shoulders heaved under her sobs.

“You would let me live?”

“Of course, I spoke truly when I said we had come for you.”

“But, why?”

“Because you are a means of controlling the walking weapon of destruction caged below. At least until, she is made more comfortable with our ways.”

“So you’d just cage her again, like everyone else would!” Aurana didn’t understand why she was bothering to argue with him. He could kill her without so much as blinking, yet curiously he stayed his hand.

“Would you want something with the power to rip apart a ship and throw you and all your kin into the Warp on a whim? I control my own power, that doesn’t make me anymore of a slave.”

“What if I agree?”

“You will go down to the cells and release her. Then we will leave.”

“And if I refuse?” she almost whispered.

“Then I will carry you down to the cells, release the girl and drag you both back to my ship where I’ll break you until you agree to serve through fear of what I’ll to you. I gave my word; you are free to leave here. But mark me well; you will leave with us willingly or as slaves.”

“And what will I be?”

Blade Dancer paused, considering the implication of her question. When he replied, it was with power and purpose. “You will be the protector and guide of the most valuable soul on board my ship. You will be part of the VIII Legion. You will be justice.”

Aurana stood slowly, her mind still reeling, yet a decision forming. She looked down at Yshanu’s still weeping form. “And the Mother-Prelate? What will happen to her?”

He met her eyes and spoke a single word; “Justice”

She nodded, expecting nothing else. Now that her decision faced her she felt a troubling lack of guilt. Shouldn’t she feel worse than this? She had been one of the Inquisition’s acolytes; shouldn’t she be fighting to the death to preserve her loyalty to the institution? The answer was surprisingly simple; she wanted them to pay for what they had done. It wasn’t simple revenge; nothing so petty would ever hold sway over her. No it was for the generations of girls dumped in this monastery to be made into weapons or cast aside and left to rot and vent their anger on those who came after. It was for them lying to her, beating her to mask their own insecurities. And it was for the girl locked up several hundred feet below who was tortured and taunted and abandoned to a sacrificial fate yet still could smile at anyone who showed her kindness. She faced her new master, mentally sliding the title into place.

“I want justice master.”

He nodded slowly, then sheathing his glaive, he held out an empty hand behind him. One of his brothers placed a knife across his palm before he presented it to her. To him it was an inconsequential weapon; to her it was a long blade. She stared at it blankly for several seconds, knowing exactly his meaning but unsure if she could really do this. Yshanu might have been one of them but she had shown her kindness; she alone had offered encouragement instead of more pain to push her. She had been different. Then as she met Yshanu’s bloodshot eyes, she heard the words spoken mere moments before, her lies exposed. Stepping forward the Mother-Prelate came to the realisation of what was happening. She raised a pleading hand to Aurana.

“Please child, do not do this. Please hold true to what you are! You can still stay in the Emperor’s light”

Aurana looked down, her emotions roiling. She’d been used and lied to and abused for years but she couldn’t murder a defenceless woman. She glanced at Blade Dancer, “Is this truly justice, killing a helpless woman?”

His gaze was steady as he replied, no mockery in his voice. “Justice is blind, it matters not if the guilty are armed or unarmed, young or old, wealthy or paupers, all that matter is their sin. And it’s retribution.”

Yshanu let out a final whimper “Child please”

She steeled herself. “My name is Aurana”

She started for a long time at the Mother-Prelates’ corpse. The blood had stopped flowing now and was a pool around the body. Several of the Astartes had left the chamber to attend to other matters. Only Blade Dancer, Kas and the one whose name she learned was Liagond remained. Kas was looking at her, noting her shaking hands. When he spoke he was surprisingly understanding.

“Your first will live with you always. The others are considerably easier.”

“What are?”

“Murders”

“I didn’t murder her, I made sure that the justice she was owed from those-“

“Girl, you looked into her eyes and coldly decided to end her life. You’re a killer plain and simple.” He grinned, she thought it was meant to be reassuring but it came across as viscous. “You’re in good company.”

Blade Dancer broke off his conversation with Liagond, all hissing malice and cold sibilance. She was still unsure of him. He had said he needed her and would be taking her away with the rest of his spoils but she remembered too that he had promised to break her if she ever defied him. She would forever need to be wary of her new master.

“Kas, Liagond. Take our new preferred slave down to the cells to fetch her sibling in darkness. She might be more receptive if she’s there to explain the situation.”

Both inclined their heads and left the chamber with Aurana between them. Her last glance of Blade Dancer was of him replacing his helm and removing a device from his belt.

Lasiurius raised the lithocaster and watched it spring to life with the forms of his erstwhile brothers. He still trusted them, after a fashion, despite a thousand years of broken promises and veiled threats. Some he considered true blood kin, others, less so. Yet for the places each held in his heart they had all come at his call. True enough their aid had cost him, dearly in most cases, the rest he had cleared debts owed him from times long past. Jhadek Redcrow, Tol Zhaequal, Hashec Tor the former, Raethra and Gureyr very much the latter. Funnily enough both of them remained audio only on the link, he could feel their distaste as a wind against his skin.

“Brothers, it is done. I trust you have enjoyed your sport around the rest of the world?”

Grunts answered him before the link died. Jhadek merely chuckled.

“They still hate you Barb, no amount of skinning pits are going to soothe that wound over any time soon.”

Barbastellan shrugged, his armoured shoulders exaggerating the motion.

“I’m sure I’ll live with the disappointment. I needed them for this and they owed the XIV, the next time I see them I’ll probably be killing them and taking their spoils so I won’t weep over them ignoring me now.”

Tol Zhaequal’s laugh was full of malice.

“You’re a cold bastard Barb. That’s why I like you. The next time you plan on pulling insanity like this I will feel slighted if I’m not offered the chance to partake.”

Barb’s grin matched his brother’s. “I wouldn’t dream of excluding you Tol.”

Hashec Tor was the only one not smiling “Did you get what you came for?”

“I did two prizes worth the centuries it took to pinpoint this place. When the Imperium arrives in our wake they’re going to find a world reaped bare of human life and they will know fear. Fear at what awaits them out in the darkness.”

Vicious grins met his words.

“Now flee brothers. Until the morrow.”