Inspirational Friday 2017: The Black Legion (until 1/5)

[Kierdale]

Scourged, that is a fantastic idea. Give me some time and I’ll set it as a side challenge, perhaps with a deadline a month (or two?) out. A challenge for members to put together their entire Campaign series –revising and adding to it as they wish- and I’ll see if I can whip up a special medal reward. `Chaos Remembrancer` or something.

Thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday – Campaign IV: End Game .

Only two made it to the finishing posts, though I know more are still to come. Please post them as and when you like (or wait for the challenge I mentioned above ).

If members are interested I’d like to do another similar series, perhaps focusing more on the campaign element of it (as I know my own entry, for one, focused on one large battle really rather than a series of battles). Any suggestion on the themes that could be broken down into are welcome.

Here begins our third challenge of Inspirational Friday 2017:

Seeds Sown...

The fall to Chaos is rarely a swift one and the initial cracks in one’s loyalty and faith are hard to see, but it is through these faults that the Chaos Gods whisper their insidious thoughts and promises. In this challenge I wish to see tales of such Seeds Sown..., which in a later challenge may ...Bear Fruit.

Inspirational Friday: Seeds Sown... runs until the 17th of February.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Warsmith Aznable.

To the chosen victor: step forward and claim the Octed Amulet:

[Carrack]

Kierdale, that was an awesome story.

 

I'm not sure how an overall contest of our 2016 campaign will work out for me. All of my stories last year were part of it, not just the specific contests. Those stories, along with a handful of others have been compiled in the fan fiction board under the title of The Shield. I guess I can pick some of the better ones, or use the ones for the specific contests.

 

I'm looking forward to this next contest too, seeds are planting in my imagination as well.

[Kierdale]

Seeds Sewn

Dramatis Personae

Attilus, captain, Imperial Fists.

Pelonius, sergeant, 4th squad, Imperial Fists.

Ertiros, tactical marine, 4th squad, Imperial Fists.

Guria, chaplain, Word Bearers.

 

One

Hidden Content

Sergeant Pelonius’ blade slid from its sheath with ease. He kept it well oiled, using only the finest scented oils the forge masters could provide him with. The blade’s edge was keen enough to split through all but the thickest of armour, and with its power field activated even ceramite was no protection against it.

He hefted the weapon, once more appreciating its balance; a finely carved onyx fist forming the pommel a perfect counter to the weight of the blade. No flashy flourishing of the blade, he simply raised it toward his foe, its point aimed at the soft armour over the throat, above the gorget. He cocked his head to one side challengingly and smiled. This would be over soon enough.

The Word Bearer raised his own sword in salute before extending it toward the Imperial Fist, gently touched the tip of the sergeant’s blade with his own, and the duel began.

A quick step forward by the Word Bearer accompanied a stab at the Fist’s throat. A step too far, over extending the sword arm and unbalancing the swordsman, Pelonius noted. With ease the Imperial Fist sergeant slapped the blade aside, hard enough to take advantage of the Word Bearer’s bad stance and send him staggering a couple of steps backwards.

The Fist let his opponent recover and raise his guard once more, for he would not end his foe so quickly. So easily. Not without working up a bit of a sweat. Showing how a sword should be wielded. By a true warrior.

The amber-clad marine swung his sword - a broad-bladed cutlass, perfect for boarding actions - high before dropping it low toward the knee of the Word Bearer’s lead leg. Unable to react and parry in time, the Bearer was forced to take a hurried step back. But Pelonius did not relent: he swung back, batting his opponent’s sword aside and his return stroke cut a groove into the faceplate of the Bearer’s helmet. Another blow slapped the sword from the Bearer’s hand and the Fist’s boot sent him to the ground, ending the duel.

The assembled warriors applauded and Pelonius offered his hand to the Word Bearer chaplain.

Guria looked from his conqueror’s face to the proffered hand, accepted it and was pulled to his feet. Removing his helm he noted the cut across the cheek of his skull mask.

“My first dueling scar,” he noted with a smile which became a bark of laughter, soon joined by the Fists. Pelonius removed his own helm, revealing half a dozen scars upon the sergeant’s otherwise handsome features.

“We Fists prefer to wear them upon our flesh.”

“So be it,” Guria nodded, tossing his retrieved sword to the deck and drawing his crozius.

The laughter of the Fists died at the clattering of the sword upon the flagstones. Ertiros, one of Pelonius’ squad and the youngest marine present, was quick to pick up the sword, “We Imperial Fists take better care of our arms, so that they might take good care of our lives,” he said with barely veiled distain, not looking the chaplain in the eye.

“My apologies, brothers. To me it is but a tool,” Guria explained, contrite, “And not one I am particularly skillful with.” He raised his crozius, the gilt Aquila catching the light of the lumenglobes in sconces along the walls of the chamber, deep within the Imperial Fist battleship Champion of Terra. “Perhaps thus armed we might have a rematch, sergeant Pelonius?”

 

 

Pelonius had tried to laugh it off at first. The urging of his brothers had had him promise a rematch when next they met, but they would not relent and so he had acceded.

The chaplain had begun much as he had with the sword, but now Pelonius could see that that too had been an act. The chaplain had deliberately over balanced in his first attack, he was now sure. He had let himself be defeated with the sword. To ingratiate himself with the Fists? Perhaps. It was not long after the events of Monarchia and despite the best efforts of crusade command, word of what had taken place there had spread throughout the fleets. Now the chapter of the Crescent Sun would fight alongside the 49th of the Fists. No doubt Guria meant to charm the Fists, to ease any unease betwixt the legions before the drop.

And Pelonius found himself outclassed. The Fist sergeant was a quick learner: he prided himself on his ability to learn a foe’s strengths, their tactics and most importantly their weaknesses at great speed but the chaplain was clearly no mere morale officer, for he wielded his crozius with a ferocity and skill which contradicted the ornateness of the weapon. He bludgeoned through the sergeant’s guard and battered him to the ground in a handful of strikes, to the roars of laughter and surprise from the assembled members of the dueling society.

“You look down upon me, do you not, sergeant Pelonius?” Guria asked as he stood over the prone Fist.

“I do not, chaplain Guria. You have demonstrated great skill with the weapon of your office,” Pelonius replied, flexing the numbed fingers of his sword hand and shaking the stars from his vision.

The chaplain shook head. “I mean my legion.”

“I do not. I seek to learn from our fellow legions. Thus I invited you here to our select group’s meeting.”

“To learn from our mistakes.”

Pelonius smiled, giving in, “So that I might expunge such weaknesses from myself, yes. No offense intended. It is my way. In order to better fight this war.”

“What fate awaits us when the crusade ends, brothers?” posed Guria, looking about the assembled warriors and helping his opponent to his feet. “When sergeant Pelonius here’s fine bladework has put an end to the foes of mankind?” There was no mocking in the Bearer’s voice yet some looked at him blankly, as if never having considered the question, while others looked away, unconcerned, before he had even finished speaking.

“Are we to become judges of the masses? Watching over the citizens of the Imperium?” he continued. No longer the warrior, the chaplain worked his skills of oratory and soon he had the attention of all those of the 49th present, even those at first uninterested such as Ertiros.

“What have we to do with such mortal concerns?” sneered the young marine. “We pacify a world and move on. I have seen but a handful of these `citizens` in my lifetime. And not one I would trust to fight at my side.”

“I am no judge. It is not my way,” answered Pelonius, sheathing his sword and grasping the chaplain’s wrist in a warrior’s handshake. They exchanged the smile only brothers who have faced each other in combat, who have tested each other, can share. Aye, the duel - the second duel - had eased the tension between their legions, at least amongst those present in the chamber.

“No? Do you not judge and evaluate your foe? Choose the best weapons and tactics in order to defeat him?”

“I am a warrior.”

“Not judge nor jury but executioner then.”

“A duty without honour.” Pelonius could feel the chaplain was goading him with words, as he had with his weapon in their duel. “I leave it to the wolves.” That brought a titter from some of the assembled duelists.

“The first captain has it that war will not end. We shall forever be warriors.” This came from the doorway. Captain Attilus, commanding officer of most of those present, did not attend the dueling society but had come in search of his legion’s guest. The captain showed neither approval nor objection to the gathering of swordsmen but held himself distant from it, perhaps unwilling to discard his rank as those of the society did whilst together.

“I have not had the pleasure of meeting him but your first captain sounds a most cheerless fellow,” Guria responded, smiling at the end to soften his words.

Attilus did not retort but raised his nose and addressed the room. “In one hour we will be in position. Men, to your arming chambers. Chaplain, kindly return to your own vessel and have your chapter ready.”

With a bow, Guria acquiesced and withdrew, “Until next time, brothers. I hope that I might attend one of your dueling meetings once more-”

“Your swordsmanship certainly needs it,” Ertiros put in, drawing some jeers and a few stern glares from those who were once again his seniors now that the meeting was dismissed.

Guria continued with a warm smile, “- so that I might improve my swordsmanship, and engage in more conversation with the chosen of your chapter.”

Pelonius gave the chaplain an Aquila salute, “We are not the chosen men of the chapter, merely those who band together out of a love of the blade.”

The chaplain nodded in understanding, “I see. We have similar lodges within my legion too. Though more for communion and debate than dueling.”

“Then next time let us talk and cross blades.”

 

Two

Hidden Content

It was in orbit over the planet designated 4932 that chaplain Guria and captain Attilus’ Fists met once again: in a joint briefing as their fleets came together before the assault began. Resistance was smashed by the Ashen Circle of the World Bearers against the anvil of the Imperial Fists’ immovable might. And again afterwards as victory was celebrated aboard the Word Bearer cruiser Rectitude. Wine flowed and fine foods from Colchis itself were eaten as tales of the war were recounted and honours bestowed upon the heroes of both legions.

And as the festivities came to an end a special, quiet invitation was extended to those of the Fists’ dueling society. Whilst their brethren returned to their own ships, these men stayed aboard Rectitude and met with members of the Word Bearer’s own lodge.

Guria shook the sergeant’s hand before pulling him in to embrace him properly and giving him a warm smile.

“Now, with a sword at your hip, you look happy! During the feast you looked so cold I doubt one of the Circle’s flamers could have warmed your mood.”

Pelonius nodded and allowed himself a smile. “Such gaiety does not interest me. Here, with others who favour the sword and duty over all else, I am at home.”

The chaplain nodded in understanding. Whilst he had taken the grim sergeant’s demeanor as aloof upon their first meeting, battlefields shared since then had shown him that Pelonius was something of an ascetic.

“Then, as you are currently on our ship, allow me to pit you against one of our best,” Guria smiled and waved across the dim chamber, filled with as many yellow clad marines as grey-clad ones, to one of his men. “This,” he said as the marine neared, his plate engraved with curious designs reminiscent of constellations, “Is Racha, the finest wielder of an axe-rake in all the Ashen Circle who accompany me. I would see you two cross blades, Pelonius my friend.”

This drew the attention of the other marines, a good two score of them, some still with goblets in hand, and the various conversations died down.

Pelonius looked Racha up and down. He was certainly a big marine and would probably have been more comfortable in a suit of Tartaros or Cataphractii. He was unhelmed and his head, like many of the Bearers, was shaven and it was tattooed with Colchisian script, the black cuneiform indecipherable to the Fist.

“I would dearly love to shame your champion,” Pelonius began, drawing `oooh!`s from his own men, “and have him kneel before me,” a laugh from young Ertiros and angry cries from the Word Bearers - in fact Racha’s eyes seemed to blaze - , “but you, chaplain Guria, you yourself requested a rematch when we first met, did you not?”

The anger died in the throats of the Word Bearer lodge members and turned to laughter, though Guria, laughing too, had to push the still-fuming Racha aside as he moved to face the Imperial Fist sergeant.

“Your memory is as sharp as your blade, sergeant. But I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing.”

“With your crozius, then.”

This took the chaplain by surprise, but he nodded and the men of both legions backed off, forming a wide ring about the two.

 

 

Their weapons locked, they circled, each trying to twist his opponent’s weapon from his grip, but Pelonius’ was stronger and with a grunt he batted the chaplain’s crozius arcanum aside, sending it clattering across the deck and causing Guria to raise his hands in quick surrender, panting from breath, his head slick with sweat as their duel had worn on far longer than either had anticipated.

Then the damage to the crozius was discovered. The cutlass’ blade had near bisected the golden aquila’s chest, and had removed one of its heads.

Pelonius immediately dropped to a knee.

“My apologies, chaplain.”

Guria accepted the crozius and its severed head from one of his men and examining the broken eagle in his palms. “Rise, friend. It matters not. It is but a tool, as I told you when we first met. It seems I must find a new weapon with which to best you.”

 

It was another hour before the Fists returned to their vessels, chaplain Guria gifting each with a small silver coin, a memento of their brotherhood, upon their departure.

 

 

 

Three

Hidden Content

Heresy.

Four entire legions of astartes had turned from the Emperor’s light.

Such treachery was unprecedented. Unconscionable.

 

“I cannot come with you to Terra. I must return to my legion, captain Pelonius. My lord Aurelian will not stand by and let his brother Horus lead such madness.”

“In that case I am the bearer of greater bad tidings, friend Guria,” Pelonius said in a voice heavy with regret. “Chapter master Attilus has commandeered all warp-capable craft in order to speed us to the homeworld.”

This time Guria had not been at the head of a chapter of his legion but rather had been seconded to the Fists of the 49th alone, gladly fighting alongside them and welcomed by those he had now shared battlefields with on over a dozen occasions. The Imperial Fist lodge had held a dueling tourney in his honour.

He and captain Pelonius had fought to a draw.

“A chaplain’s place is with his brothers,” Guria began to protest, looking about the stark halls of the Imperial Fist vessel as if he might find a jump-capable ship left lying about.

The captain placed an amber gauntlet on the other’s black pauldron. He cast his eyes over the rest of the chaplain’s crimson armour before meeting his gaze. “You are amongst brothers here, are you not? Join us, come to Terra. Add your bolter, your crozius and your great voice to those who shall defend the palace walls!”

Guria began to smile at his old friend’s words.

“You say your lord Lorgar and six of his brothers are bound for Istvaan? Then Horus’ heresy will soon be crushed and you will be reunited with your kin in no time.”

The chaplain finally nodded.

“We shall have much time to duel then, en route to Terra.”

Pelonius sighed, “Ah! Yet more bad news: Chapter master Attilus has in his wisdom ruled that the lodge is to cease. He would have us dedicate our time to bolter drill. Blades will do us little good upon the walls of the palace..”

“Your master is a rather staid and uptight one, I must say, even for a Fist. He and your first captain are good friends, perhaps?”

Even after their years of friendship, Pelonius could only manage a shrug and looked away. No smile.

“After hours, then. He needn’t know. Particularly not on a ship as big as this. I’ve heard of lodges in other legions having to keep themselves from the eyes of officers who didn’t understand. And you won’t exactly miss any sleep. Got a catalepsean node, haven’t you?”

 

 

 

Devotion to duty, putting it above all else, was one thing that chapter master Attilus shared with captain Pelonius. Having ordered an end to the dueling lodge’s meetings, he hoped to focus Pelonius even more. The captain was a mighty warrior and a fine officer. Bound for greatness, Attilus believed, and he meant to ensure that Pelonius fulfilled that destiny.

Duty above all else.

Word from Terra was that the Night Lords, the Raven Guard, the Word Bearers, the Iron Warriors, the Iron Hands, the Salamanders and the Alpha Legion had all been dispatched to Istvaan V to crush Horus, Angron, Fulgrim and Mortarion. That they might fail was impossible, and a less disciplined warrior might have questioned the need to recall crusade fleets such as Attilus’, but the chapter master had immediately had his fleet regroup and set course for Terra.

He knocked upon the door of Pelonius’ quarters, only for it to be answered by Ertiros, his squire.

“Where is captain Pelonius, sergeant Ertiros?”

“I can’t say.”

 

 

The spikes adorning Guria’s mace again and again tangled the captain’s blade, forcing him to abort his attacks. It was an ugly weapon of rough iron stamped with Colchisian runes, but the chaplain had deflected comments about it as easily as he did attacks.

“’tis but a weapon. A tool. A means to an end.”

Pelonius grunted as his thrust was parried once again, so strongly that his blade was almost torn from his grip.

The two could have been dueling alone, so little noise did the assembled warriors make. Here within one of the Champion of Terra’s minor cargo holds, deep within the battleship’s belly, a portion of the warrior lodge’s members had gathered. Only a portion for, while there were more aboard the Champion, they dared not all gather at once for fear of discovery and sanction. Such was their desire to hone their skills, and the strength of the bonds that had formed between them. From initiates through marines of tactical, assault, support and even destroyer squads, their sergeants and up to captains, there were many who bore the lodge tokens in secret. Word was that there were lodges amongst the other Imperial Fist fleets too.

Pelonius grunted, more in surprise than in pain, as Guria kicked him hard in the soft armour at the side of his knee, driving the Fist captain to his knees and eliciting words of disapproval from the lodge members.

“A bit of a dirty blow that, wasn’t it chaplain?” asked Pelonius, pushing himself to his feet once again.

“Angry, captain?”

“You should know after all these years we uphold higher ideals here.”

Their duel recommenced and after several exchanged blows and parries Pelonius blocked an overhead smash by the Word Bearer, their weapons locked in the air above them, their arms straining, clenched fists on the weapon handles before their faces. Guria then thrust his hands forwards, punching his opponent in the face with both fists still holding the haft of his mace.

Pelonius staggered backwards, slashing before him with his cutlass to stop any follow up attack.

“You mean to anger me, Guria?”

“Perhaps, but only so that you drive it from yourself.”

Pelonius lowered his blade a fraction and raised an eyebrow.

“You told me once you observe your enemies and allies in order to identify their weaknesses and purge yourself of them.”

“And you feel there is still much work to be done?”

“Brother has been set against brother and only the strongest will survive. Only the strongest of arm and will may achieve victory, captain. You know this. I would have you purge all but duty from yourself. All but duty to that which you see as right.”

He had at first taken the chaplain’s words as hubris and had been ready to laugh them off, but perhaps there was an element of truth in what his friend said. Pelonius took a deep, calming breath and raised his sword once more.

“Captain Pelonius!” sergeant Ertiros burst into the chamber, the lodge’s sentry at his side.

“Chapter master Attilus is looking for you!”

Pelonius turned back to Guria and sheathed his sword with an apologetic smile.

“Until we next have the opportunity, chaplain.”

The Word Bearer nodded, “Unfinished business.”

 

 

 

A full half the host of the Emperor’s angels had turned from his light.

Such was the word garnered from fractious, nightmare-rich astropathic communiques from the Istvaan system.

The Hands, the Salamanders and the Ravens had been betrayed and devastated by the treachery of their brothers.

 

The deckplates thundered beneath their feet and the malodor of ozone hung in the air about them, wafting from cracking blades and cudgels. They found their quarry upon the observation deck at the ship’s prow, above the torpedo decks, admiring the globe that hung in space before them, for the Champion had finally returned home.

“Terra,” the crimson-clad warrior said with wonder, facing the vast porthole, his arms outstretched as if to embrace the cradle of Mankind. “Isn’t it magnificent?” he said breathlessly.

“And you shall never set foot upon it, traitor.” Chapter master Attilus said. “Men, take him.”

The accompanying Imperial Fists fanned out into a semi-circle about the chaplain.

“What is the meaning of this, master Attilus?” Guria asked as he turned, looking with surprise at the armed and armoured warriors arrayed before him.

“Worm,” spat the other. “You sought to infiltrate the palace alongside us while your weakling father led his legion in heresy?”

Guria took a step backwards.

“I know not of what you speak.”

“Lies!” Attilus roared. “Take him, and slay him if he resists!”

“Hold!” Pelonius shouted, stepping out of the line of Fists, a hand raised as he sheathed his sword with the other. “Chaplain Guria’s guilt is not proven, master.”

Attilus turned his menacing gaze upon his captain. “You who would be neither judge nor jury? He is a Word Bearer, captain. Misled since their inception. Unable to give up the trappings of religion.” He turned upon Guria once again, “Did your kind learn nothing on Monarchia? Humbled by lord Guilliman...and your own father Lorgar sought madness instead?” It was clear that Attilus meant to provoke the chaplain. “And thus your legion flocked to the bastard Horus?”

To his credit Attilus’ head came back to stare daggers at the chaplain as soon as Guria had backhanded it, the Word Bearer crossing the distance between them before any had chance to move.

Four Fists seized the chaplain, wrenching his arms behind his back.

“Execute him.”

“He is taken, master. Let us empr-“

“Do you disobey my orders, captain Pelonius?” Attilus did not break eye contact with the chaplain.

“Do your duty, captain,” said Guria, his voice calm yet cold. “If duty demands you be executioner, so be it.”

As Pelonius drew his sword once more, those holding the chaplain – Ertiros among them – exchanged a look with their captain, to which he gave a minute nod. They lowered Guria to his knees, the chaplain no longer resisting, and captain Pelonius of the Imperial Fists ended the Word Bearer’s life.

 

 

No screams of pain escaped his mouth as the scourge lashed his muscular frame. Not a whimper. The steady rhythm of his breathing was barely broken as he flagellated himself within the darkness of his small quarters.

Castigated, scathed, he drew a small tool from his footlocker and, unwrapping a roughly spherical object from the silk cloth he had kept it within, set to work.

Hours later, dressed in his bodysuit he made his way into the bowels of the Champion once more. They were now in orbit over Terra and would soon transfer to the surface and the palace.

Showing his token to the lodge sentry he presented himself before his brothers and held up the skull of chaplain Guria for all to see, revealing his intricate scrimshaw work upon its surface.

 

[Scourged]

Have a thing, short and sweet. When the muse hits, it hits...

 

Hidden Content

Prayers for Truth

The labored screaming of the guilty had become white noise inside the chamber. It echoed back and forth off of the slab walls and low ceiling, finding no escape from the torture cell. The longer the wailing filled the room the easier it became for the other occupants to tune out the sound and conduct their duties without distraction. To the victim of their methods, the pains and tortures forced upon him were unending agonies the likes of which his short life had never known. To the agents of the Imperium in the room, this was just one of many other mundane sessions of interrogation.

As he had done countless times before, and would surely continue to do countless more time, Gallus Herodicus observed the macabre session. Gallus stood as an impenetrable bastion before the claustrophobic chamber’s only door, acting as warden for the prisoner that would never escape. In his current state, the young man bolted to the ferrocrete slab would be hard pressed to attempt to flee with electric shock and psychotropic stimulation ravaging his lithe body. In truth, the Inquisitor herself was enough of an enforcing presence to keep the single adolescent captive; the presence of a Space Marine Chapter Master was entirely psychological.

But for some reason, this session was different for Gallus. Something did not feel right this time. The young human - Kellios or Kellian or some such name - had been under the Inquisitor’s assault for seventeen hours and twenty-seven minutes. That alone was nothing new for the Chapter Master. Many of the guilty endured much longer sessions before confession. But this man - this boy - was different from the rest. He had not yet broken and confessed, because there seemed to be nothing to confess. Or so it seemed to Gallus.

Of course he had no evidence to support his thoughts. Gallus’ mind was untouched by psyker abilities so he was no more equipped to read the mind of the boy as the acolytes in the room. But after years of service to Inquisitor Tsalie Krejcik the Astartes had endured innumerable sessions in search of the truth, or at least a confession. He had developed an instinct for these situations. Such an instinct was not as keen as the Inquisitor’s, for sure, but it was strong enough to know that their current prisoner was perhaps… not truly guilty.

Once there was finally a pause in the electrostimulation, Gallus Herodicus opened a private vox line.

“Inquisitor Krejcik… a moment?”

Rather than respond back over the vox, Tsalie chose to speak inside of Gallus’ thoughts, letting her remain focused on the task at hand.

+This is unusual, Herodicus.+

“Yes, Inquisitor, I know. But the boy is not responding. Perhaps… I might attempt to question him?”

This caused Tsalie to pause and look up from her handiwork. She eyed Gallus from opposite the small chamber. She sized him up with a curious look, contemplating his request silently, much to the confusion of her acolytes whom were unaware of the conversation. Nigh imperceptibly she nodded and stepped away from the ferrocrete slab. Gallus took the cue and stepped forward, standing beside the young boy bolted to the table.

His body was an emaciated mess. Muscle mass was quickly fading away from the tremendous strain upon him. Several bones had cracked from the intense convulsions he endured. The plasteel restraints upon his limbs and chest had rubbed his skin raw, in some points straight through to the lower layers of dermis. One eye was red from countless burst blood vessels, and his teeth were stained equally so from similar bursts along the gums. The boy was a wreck, in more pain than most humans could perceive. But then he turned and looked up at Gallus Herodicus, the giant in ceramite armor looming above him, and the prisoner’s face wrenched into absolute terror for the first time.

“Boy. Your resistance is pointless, and your innocence is an illusion. Do you know who I am?”

Trembling as much as his frail form allowed, the boy shook his head no. Gallus nodded once, then let go of his ceremonial power spear for the first time that he might release the mag-locks on his helm and remove it. With his real eyes meeting that of the boy, he resumed speaking.

“I am Gallus Herodicus. I am the Chapter Master of the Seekers of Truth. You are here, under my purview. I want you to know this, and know it well: I lead those who seek the truth above all else. We always find it. The truth can never hide from us. And in the Name of the Emperor, we will find it this day. With every second you hide your answers, you prevent me from achieving my goal, and promise to the Emperor. I will not stand for this. So I will ask only once: where is it that your heretical warband acquired the Amulet of Anonkur, and where does the Hispullah Council convene?”

At first, there was silence. The Inquisitorial retinue watched and waited, curious from the unorthodox intervention of the Chapter Master. Tsalie Krejcik attuned her mind to the boy’s, waiting to scan his aura when he finally answered. And Gallus just stared, watching the young captive as his eyes darted, his mouth dried, his pulse quickened, and tears finally began to fall down his face.

“Lord… please Lord! I do not know! I know not of the amulet, or the council! Today was the first time I’ve ever been to that hab level, because my cousin - kyggggaaaaaauuuuuggghhhhh!”

The Inquisitor did not allow him to finish his lies. The overstimulation of every nerve ending through his frail from resumed once more. Gallus’ method had not worked, but he had seen enough. He returned to his stationary position in front of the door, retuning his helm to shield his head and face once more, power spear held at the ready.

+If it were that easy, Herodicus, I would simply have had you do that with every interrogation from the start. But I appreciate your willingness to intervene and expedite this confession. Thank you.+

“Of course, Mistress.”

He closed the private vox line and resigned himself to watch once more. It would be an untold number of hours before the young man’s body finally gave out and he died. And though she didn’t know it - or chose not to acknowledge it - the Inquisitor was wrong: it had worked. Gallus saw it in the prisoner’s eyes. The truth had been spoken just now. There was nothing to confess. But without any proof, the interrogation would continue until the boy’s death.

***

Free from the ceremonial plate of his station and allowed a brief moment of privacy within his quarters, Gallus reflected on the recent proceedings. It had taken another seven hours and fifty-four minutes before, as he expected, the young captive died without confessing his sins. Inquisitor Krejcik and her retinue were convinced the boy was a of stalwart mind and training, but Gallus knew otherwise. Had they simply the means to know the truth without question, there would not have been this day’s needless death.

The incident rankled the Chapter Master more than it should have. By all consequence the boy was nothing of note, yet Gallus could not shake the sight of his fearful eyes. For the first time in his service to Inquisitor Krejcik, he questioned her methods and those of the entire Inquisition. For the first time since appointment to the chapter, he wondered if the Seekers of Truth were a parody of their own crusade. And for the first time since his ascendency to the Adeptus Astartes, Gallus Herodicus questioned if the methods of the entire Imperium were correct…

No! Such thoughts are the path to heresy! These were not the rumination befitting of a Chapter Master! And yet, Gallus could not shake them away. He needed guidance. He needed to see the light of the Emperor’s wisdom once more. He could consult with Chaplain Marcatius, but… no. That would not be wise. If it came to light that Gallus had doubts in the Inquisition and Imperium there would be unending ramifications. Gallus would have to find a path to truth on his own.

Thinking back, he recalled a lesson on meditation from Librarian Dhelmas. It was a rudimentary lesson, nothing more than an introductory course in achieving a meditative state, but for whatever reason Gallus knew this is what he needed to do. He would introspect and reflect on everything, and within himself he would find his answers. And if he could not, he would pray to the Emperor in his trance. With his mind separate from body, he would call out to the Emperor and beg for His guidance.

In this transcendental state, Gallus Herodicus would call out through the Immaterium to the Master of Mankind and ask, pray, beg, plead for the knowledge and wisdom to know when a man speaks the truth...

 

Edited February 9, 2017 by Scourged

[Kierdale]

I'm out of Likes already today but Scourged that was excellent. :tu:

Welcome back!

[Warsmith Aznable]

Choosing between Kierdale and Carrack is a difficult thing. Both here present interesting scenes.

 

I choose Kierdale for the winner of the End Game. It's as difficult to say exactly why as it was to come to the decision. I suppose I enjoyed the image of the chase for apotheosis being the carrot dangled in front of frustrated yet still highly motivated Chaos Lord.

 

Here I will present my own campaign's End Game. I had a lot of time to think about it, but somehow it still didn't come out quite right.

 

The Story So Far

Hidden Content

Replenishments - A feudal world story

 

Chaos Nemesis - Introducing Dark Apostle Harnak

 

Interview with a Dark Apostle - the Dark Apostle Harnak visits a feudal world

 

Tales of Hubris - about the Warsmith's (fourth) wife

 

Battles of the Space Marines - Random loyalist space marine is recruited into the 49th

 

Treadheads - Keller gets a tank

 

Opening moves - an unexpected party

 

Upon Cursed Wings - a beachhead is established on Sicarus

 

Campaign II - Assault - at the Dark Apostle's door

 

Campaign III - The Crucible - The Word Bearers are unleashed

 

Tales of Vengeance - Enusat the Blind seeks vengeance for the Iron Warriors invasion of Sicarus

 

Unit Champion - Sergeant Byrlindi looks for a place to die

 

Conclusion

Hidden Content

Deep in a hidden grotto on the planet of Sicarus, home of the Word Bearers Legion, the champion called Izley’ci passively took in the sensations. The Stygian darkness was cut with light. There were luminescent clouds of pink and green, some which sparkled gold, all of which swirled hypnotically. Lasers of red, green, and blue lanced across the chambers of the grotto individually or in fanning and criss-crossing collections. Bright flashes of white, yellow, and orange pulsed in time with the driving rhythms of electronic music, or the discordant blats and thrums noisemakers. Bass cannons rumbled like distant thunder, shaking the floor and causing a buzz deep in the bones and teeth, neither pleasant nor unpleasant to experience.

 

Izley’ci breathed steadily and deeply, drinking in the air. He tasted the sweet incense, the salt sweat, the sharp adrenaline, even a hint of blood. The primal smells of human flesh, human needs spiked the air, arousal and fear in almost equal measure. Shadows of human form moved in time to the driving beat, merging in the darkness into a single mass, revealed in momentary flashes, vignettes of depravity, indulgence, and desperation.

 

Izley’ci sat limply with his back to a column, his gaunt face betraying no emotion. His dilated eyes were glossy, but half-lidded with a spiritual fatigue. His high cheek bones, pointed chin, strong jawline, and sunken eyes gave the impression of a skull, accentuated by his smooth, pale skin. Long, stringy black hair cascaded over his shoulders, down his back, and, despite his bony fingers compulsion to absently brush them away, errant strands covered his face.

 

As the champion silently absorbed the experiences, a grim faced mortal covered in black netting, leather, and painful looking piercings approached Izley’ci from the side, wordlessly pressed a small packet of folded paper into his hands, and melted back into the amorphous darkness of the crowd.

 

“Oh,” Izley’ci absently looked down at the neat rectangle of paper in his hands, not bothering to even wonder who the mortal had been or if he knew him. “Thank you.”

 

Izley’ci felt as if his hair were growing at an alarming rate, his face tingled, and he was not certain where his feet were. None of this was new to him, but he was experiencing a rare, vaguely uneasy sensation. Suddenly he made the decision to go back to his quarters, and awkwardly made his way through the crowd. Fingertips traced the contours of his exposed flesh, hands tugged on his extremities, lips kissed him, and voices called to him as he weaved to the grotto’s exit. Most were mortals lucky enough to be considered beautiful or exotic, some were other Legionnaires, and others still were something half-seen, something lithe and alluring, something unknown. None of this enticed Izley’ci to stay, and he wearily made his way upward toward the surface, back to his own living space.

 

The quiet of his room seemed oppressive to Izley’ci, still feeling the pulse of the grotto inside. He pulled off the stylish clothing he reserved strictly for his illicit grotto visits and moved to place the packet on his desk. He paused to look at his naked form in the mirror, dismayed momentarily by the effect of eye-liner running down his sweat drenched face, noting the bags under his eyes. His attention soon returned to the packet. Carefully he unfolded the paper and discovered a substance that looked to him like pink sugar crystals.

 

Izley’ci cast his eyes around his desk, not sure what he was looking for. He pulled open several drawers of his desk before finally withdrawing a small, well used mortar and pestle. With world weary precision he dumped the crystals into the mortar and ground them into a fine powder. Without knowing anything about the substance, or even if he was consuming it correctly, he inhaled the lot of it in one incredible snort.

 

His door control chimed and, as he turned to look toward the vidscreen to see who it was, the door slid open. A Word Bearers in power armour stepped in carrying a bolter. This, the champion knew, should cause him some concern, but already his mind was receding, the space marine before him getting small and distant. He fought the impulse to wave goodbye and tried very hard to listen to what the intruder was saying, for it sounded quite important.

 

++++++++++++

 

The rear ramp of the Rhino APC dropped, and Izley’ci casually strolled out. His squad poured out around him and rushed to take up defensive positions, though he barely noticed. He hadn’t said a word to anyone since he stumbled into the APC, merely nodding at them as they reported various things to him about what little they knew about the situation.

 

The roiling, oily smoke that obscured the vault ceiling was underlit eerily by the guttering and raging fires of ruined fighting positions and wrecked war machines. Sporadic flights of tracer fire lazily wafted into the dark clouds, and Izley’ci paused to admire the visual effect. The air was heavy with blood and oil, and Izley’ci had the overpowering sensation of both drenching his exposed skin.

 

As the vox bead in his ear buzzed with the clipped battle cant of his squad, Izley’ci waved dismissively and pressed on. He heard the distinctive rumble and clatter of a Land Raider pulling up behind his Rhino, and ignored it. To ask for clarification of orders or an objective at this point would have been to admit he was completely off his face, and Izley’ci was confident that whatever was going on he could handle it as it happened.

 

++++++++++++

 

“Commander?”

 

“That is me.” Izley’ci answered absently, slowly turning to face the speaker. His eyes went wide as he realized he was staring into the face of a Dark Apostle. A shot of adrenaline and a litany of pious superstitions flooded his brain in that instant, but the clarity of fear still struggled with the powerful effects of the powder he had inhaled. The Dark Apostle, resplendent in his byzantine and jagged Terminator armour, frowned at him impatiently.

 

“Secure our entrance, Commander.” The Dark Apostle commanded impatiently.

 

Izley’ci had little to do but motion vaguely toward the massive, armoured door of the Fortress-Cathedral’s inner chapel, and two of his squad members began placing melta charges to key points of the door. As his squad proficiently went through the motions of breaching, Izley’ci could not help but stare at the several high ranking members of the Word Bearers Dark Council. He hoped most fervently that none of them had noticed, or would notice, how off the rails he was.

 

There was a thunderous crash, a wild few smoke filled moments of shouting and bolter fire, and Izley’ci soon found himself sword in hand and standing in the middle of some unknown Dark Apostle’s most sacred inner sanctum.

 

They were few and they were ragged, gathered around their Dark Apostle to make a last stand that never came. The Dark Apostle in question was wild eyed and furious, and soon Izley’ci found he was standing in between him and several Word Bearers of high rank as accusations and recriminations flew.

 

Something in the chapel didn’t feel right to Izley’ci. The rantings and abuses that the senior Word Bearers flung at one another faded to a distant murmering, and Izley’ci slowly turned, eyes searching for he knew not what. The angles of the room seemed mismatched to him. The shadows of the gathered Dark Apostles lay at odd angles to one another. The noise of their argument echoed oddly. The motes of dust suspended in the air seemed to almost glow a soft, golden light.

 

A feeling of momentum began to gather deep inside of Izley’ci, as if inside a Thunderhawk developing Gs for escape velocity. His second heart began to beat, supercharging his blood with oxygen. The effects of the drug began to rapidly recede, and his mental focus was suddenly razor sharp. His sense of danger overwhelming, reminding him of the time he was nearly stepped on by a Titan. He looked to his superiors, then at everyone else in the room in quick succession. A few members of his squad caught his eye, concern writ plainly on their faces, but he knew it was for his mental state and not the dread alarm he himself felt.

 

“Everyone shut up!”

 

He hadn’t meant to bellow out such a course command, especially not to his military and spiritual superiors. But if he were meant to be rebuked for it, the developing danger allowed no time for it.

 

Suddenly there was someone in the room who had not been there before. The large figure rose to its full height not twenty paces from the argumentative Word Bearers leadership, in a section of the room that was not apparently there a moment before. An enormous Iron Warriors space marine in brutal Terminator armour, with wild eyes and a blood-matted beard, bellowed an inarticulate warcry. The baroque exhaust stacks on the back of the ancient TDA sputtered blue-green fire, white hot arcs of static lightning coursed and crackled across the burnished plates, scorching the frayed edges of a billowing red cloak.

 

Izley’ci took all of that in in a split second, then felt himself rush forward before any further conscious thought could take place. His hyper-prepared muscles lashed out and his body cracked like a whip, shot through the air and crashed into the senior Dark Apostle from the group he had escorted into the chapel.

 

Izley’ci had an excellent view of the power axe as it spun past the space the Dark Apostle had recently occupied. Time seemed to slow down for Izley’ci. The blade of the axe glowed orange-red, as if only momentarily removed from the hot coals of a forge. The darker shadows in the metal coalesced into a leering face, which seemed to press outward from the metal surface. Izley’ci saw the hunger for blood in the daemonic teeth, saw the hatred in the burning eyes. He fancied he saw an ethereal claw reaching for his own throat.

 

But in a sudden return to time and motion the moment ended.

 

A jetting arc of blood fanned across the flagstone floor, and a Dark Apostle who had merely stood quietly in the back of the group of Dark Council members dropped heavily to the floor, convulsing in painful death throes. The thrown relic axe neatly split the victims skull open, and a bloody mass of brains spilled onto the floor.

 

Chaos and confusion reigned. Bolter shells criss-crossed the chapel as the massive Iron Warriors Terminator moved far faster than anything with that much mass had a right to. Izley’ci snapped off a series of fruitless plasma pistol shots, one hand still protectively grasping the plastron of the Dark Apostle he had pushed out of the initial ambush path. The plasma pistol hissed and crackled, and Izley’ci dropped the overheating weapon with a curse, drew his slender power sword and tried to close with the assassin.

 

The Iron Warriors Terminator seemed to be the size of a Dreadnought. He was impossibly huge, his existence jagged at the edges and flickering in and out of reality. He was threateningly close and unreachable-y far at the same time. He loomed overhead, the stacks of his exhaust scraping the cathedral ceiling, and he disappeared behind cover. A wrist-mounted combi-bolter rattled off a killing shot on one of Izley’ci’s squad at the same time that the madman’s jaw unhinged and swallowed whole one of the Possessed of the besieged Dark Apostle’s retinue.

 

Izley’ci narrowly dodged having his skull bludgeoned by a boulder like fist, then fell back on his rear. The bizarre assassin turned his blazing eyes to Izley’ci.

 

“No!” The Iron Warriors Terminator suddenly bellowed, grasping at his head with both hands. He stumbled backward, away from Izley’ci, in apparent agony. “Not yet!”

 

The Iron Warriors Terminator screamed inarticulately, then turned and ran into a sturdy column supporting the cathedral vault. Reality swirled momentarily, and in a thunderclap the raging Terminator was gone.

 

The shouting continued a few moments more, until the senior Dark Apostle called for silence.

 

“Harnak.” The name was pronounced like a death sentence. “I exercise this sanction in the name of Lorgar.”

 

“I acted under the direction of the Council!” The Dark Apostle of the ruined Fortress-Cathedral shrieked. “I was chosen for this!”

 

“Yes.” The senior Dark Apostle agreed. He then motioned to Izley’ci. “Take his head.”

 

++++++++++++

 

Deep in a hidden grotto on the planet of Sicarus, home of the Word Bearers Legion, the champion called Izley’ci pushed his way through the dark crowd of revelers. Hands reached out to him, voices called to him, unseen lips kissed his flesh as he squeezed past. Finally he found a familiar corner, a favorite haunt a little quieter and a little darker, and he made room to sit among the familiar and unfamiliar faces alike.

 

“Trouble in paradise?” A friendly question came.

 

“I had to kill a Dark Apostle today.”

 

“What was that like?”

 

“I heard there was some kind of battle near the Well of Enlightenment.”

 

“Do you want to try some of this?”

 

“Where did you find that colour Soulstone? Is there anybody in it?”

 

“You have to mix them evenly or it loses potency.”

 

“It’s a frightfully large needle, but it's necessary after all.”

 

“Well what’s the point of flaying it all off, that’s where the nerve endings are!”

 

“Where are we going after this?”

 

Epilogue

Hidden Content

Yseult made her way through the Child of Calamity, lost in her own thoughts as she wound her way through the space hulks corridors. It had been weeks since she had led the remnants of their once mighty army back to their near empty home, and days since she had received word that her husband, the Warsmith, had finally come shambling out of the Webway, alone, covered in blood, and confused. She had been in seclusion, sifting through the personal effects of her Wych cult, none of whom had made the return journey. Her brother, the Archon, who had not himself gone on the adventure, had been insufferable with his crowing cruelty. But suffered him she had, for that at least was a familiar pain.

 

Now though, she needed to see her husband again.

 

She paused briefly at the entrance to their apartments, mildly disconcerted by the two hulking Terminators standing guard. She then strode by them unchallenged, and wearily entered her home quarters for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

 

The many chambered apartments were quiet and dark. The whole station had been on a prolonged night cycle in the Warmsmith’s absence, and even in the few days since his return had not deigned to play at sunshine. There was also a chill autumnal air, with a slightly earthy smell. Yseult was unsure what to make of that, but it suited her melancholy.

 

She paused again at the entrance to their bedchamber, collecting her thoughts. It had been a long time since she had felt such doubts.

 

Yseult entered, wondering why she did not feel more relieved when she saw the dark silhouette of the Warsmith standing by the glass doors that led out to his private gardens. He did not look at her as she came in, but was preoccupied with adjusted the fit of his warm, fur-trimmed robe. Yseult’s eyes could see perfectly in the low light, and they were drawn to a disheveled form half wrapped in sheets upon their bed.

 

She drew in a sharp breath when she took in the familiar features on the body that lay in its customary part of the bed.

 

“Husband.” She said sharply. “I lived many long years in Commorragh before the Hardheart’s were exiled. I’m no stranger to the deviant impulses of great men. But that I will not countenance, not in my own bed!”

 

The Warsmith said nothing. He finished tying up his robe, looked upon here with doleful eyes, and stepped out into the chill air of his garden. Yseult fumed, regretting having returned to her Monkeigh lover and his self destructive madness. She let slip the briefest, foulest expletive she knew, then nearly jumped out of her skin when the form on the bed seemed to shift position.

 

Ice in her veins, Yseult slowly approached the bed. Slowly she pulled a razorsharp knife from its sheath, then held its mirror polished blade under the nose of the figure on the bed. She sucked in a surprised breath when the mirror finish was fogged with warm breath.

 

“How?” Yseult whispered.

 

Brunhyld’s smooth, serene features wrinkled into confusion, and the witch squinted through sleep bleary eyes up into Yseult’s moonlit face. “Ysh?”

 

The witch blinked in confusion when she finally perceived the blade that Yseult still held before her face.

 

“Have you come to attempt murder or make love?” Brunhyld wearily asked. “It’s always so hard to tell with you.”

 

Yseult backed away and her knife clattered to the floor. Brunhyld, puzzled, watched the Eldar turn and flee the bed chamber.

 

“Dammit.” The witch sat up in bed, looking to see if the Warsmith were present. She frowned when he was nowhere to be seen. She growled in frustration, the unexpected adrenaline and endorphine washing through her. “Get back here you filthy xenos.”

 

+++++++++++

 

“Here, what’s this?” The Terminator bodyguard swiveled to see as the Warsmith’s Eldar wife stumbled back out the main entryway. “Is there a problem, madame?”

 

The bodyguard was nonplussed when the Eldar woman gave him a wild eyed look, then quickly slipped her fingers under his armour’s neck ring, expertly finding and releasing the catches of his helmet. The heavy skull-faced helmet smacked on the stonework floor and rolled away, and the Terminator could only stare in confusion as his master’s wife probed his face with her fingertips.

 

“Can I help you in some way?” He eventually asked her. He looked over her head to his partner, who merely held out his hands while his enormous shoulder pads made the characteristic micro-movements that approximated a Terminator shrugging.

 

“On Sicarus...” The pale Eldar woman breathed, a fearful look upon her face.

 

For a moment the Terminator could smell blood and earth. There was desperation and anger, and the charred smell of plasma. A flash of memory, of white hot agony, of falling, and despair.

And then it was gone.

 

“Does the Warsmith know you’re about?” Geiri carefully asked. “Do you want me to vox someone for you?”

 

“Am I dead?” The Warsmith’s Fourth Wife asked, hands drifting to her own face as she backed away from Geiri. “Am I dead!”

 

“Madame?” Freiki asked, and the Eldar woman turned to look at him.

 

The moment that Yseult Hardheart looked upon his partner Freiki, Geiri saw slagged and smoking holes in his helmet, smelled the burnt flesh and bone, and tasted blood. Again it was over in an instant, and instantly forgotten.

 

Yseult, the Warsmith’s wife, let out a maniacal giggle that quickly shifted into a wail of despair, then turned and ran off into the dark corridors of the Child of Calamity as only the leader of a Wych cult could.

 

“Well, that’s a first.” Geiri said to Freiki as he leaned forward to retrieve his helmet.

 

“I suppose so.” Freiki agreed, then casually kicked Geiri’s helmet a few meters down the corridor. “Better call it in.”

 

“You are a knob.” Geiri sighed, ambling after the helmet.

 

+++++++++++

 

Sergeant Byrlindi smelled the blood, heard it splash onto the floor as the victim gurgled out a few painful, final breaths. He hastily drew a bolt pistol and followed its muzzle around the corner. Servos whined as he tensed up and drew a bead on the killer.

 

“Madame?” He lowered the bolt pistol but did not move it from between himself and the Eldar woman who stood over the menial’s corpse. “Is everything alright?”

 

“Now this one,” Yseult, covered head to foot in blood and holding a knife in each hand, turned to look at him with empty eyes. “This one is definitely dead. Are you dead?”

 

“Not yet.” He told her warily. He showed her the white flexi-plast synth skin of his off hand. “You dragged me off that hell world, madame. Remember?”

 

“I’m so sorry.” Yseult told him, doleful eyes filling with tears. She then curled up into a ball in the pooled blood of her latest victim and began to sob uncontrollably.

 

+++++++++++

 

There was no moon, but the garden was still somehow moonlit. The Warsmith wandered the maze of hedgerows, pulled toward the center, all the while feeling as if he were being watched. He felt a presence that always seemed just around the corner or right over the nearest hedge, always out of reach. He pulled his robe tighter and walked on, open to whatever this was.

 

He reached the center of the maze, a place where he often came to be alone and think. He stood in an arched entryway, staring across at its counterpart and the shadow that lurked within.

 

“And what is this obscenity you are cultivating, child?”

 

Between them, curled on the paving stones the Little Girl lay partially on her side. Her aspect was older now, of a youthful maturity. Her skin was flush, nearly glowing, and her belly was dangerously swollen. She clutched at her belly and softly moaned, seemingly unaware of anything else save her own agony and ecstasy.

 

“You are not really here.” The Warsmith ignored the incarnation of the Little Girl.

 

“Are you?” The intruder asked. The Warsmith could not see the intruder’s features, but he felt their familiarity. He felt the eyes upon him, stripping him away to nothing as they always had. Before.

 

“Why now?” The Warsmith asked.

 

“I do not have to explain myself to you.” The intruder answered, his tone subtly shifting, betraying his annoyance.

 

“You call and I come running, is that it?” The Warsmith asked. “Just like old times?”

 

“No.” The intruder said. “Not like old times.”

 

The shadow moved away from the center of the maze, drifting away from the Warsmith into the shadows.

 

“I call and you answer.” The nearly forgotten voice of the Lord of Iron said. “Because these are the End Times.”

[Kierdale]

Thank you, Warsmith Aznable.

Being chosen over Carrack's entry I take as quite an honour.

 

I look forward to seeing what lies in store for the Black Maw (and that elusive Shield), Carrack. I presume the Angels of Immolation got away with it but can't help wondering what the Dark Angels were up to - and if they might not have tried to get it while Garaduk was out of action.

And is that

Perturabo

, Warsmith Aznable??

If I may be permitted to quote doctor Samuel Beckett, "Oh boy!"

 

I also want to see the end of everyone else's stories! :D

[Warsmith Aznable]

And is that

Perturabo

, Warsmith Aznable??

 

It is supposed to be a warp projection of him, part of the call to arms for the 13th Black Crusade, gathering all his Warsmiths for whatever it is that he is going to be doing. I figured for what is going on with the setting right now it would be a good place to end things until I have some idea of where it's all going.

 

I really don't like how it turned out, though. I feel like I had a lot more that needed to be said to wrap it up. The scene with the Dark Apostles should have been longer, should have had more information. Yseult having an epiphany and losing her mind over it was supposed to have a lot more explanation and action. There was other stuff I wanted to show but it just wasn't working. The Warsmith's actual plan, which I meant to finally reveal and explain, didn't end up getting time in the narrative. I'm sort of hitting a wall with the 49th Grand Company's story-arc, and I don't know what to do about it. I was much more excited to write about the Word Bearers character Izley'ci and show a Slaaneshi aspiring champion before he really gets on his way, even though he was originally conceived of just as an outside witness to events. I've lost a lot of enthusiasm for the setting as it heads toward 8th edition...

 

Maybe future challenges will spark something.

[Kierdale]

Maybe future challenges will spark something.

I hope so. That's what IF is here for ;)

I'll admit I'm....curious...about the direction 40k fluff is taking too.

 

If you feel there is more to do/more you could have done with the campaign ending, then please do rewrite as much as you like (when you do have it working) and submit it for the Full Campaign challenge in the future.

[Carrack]

The Siren's Voice

 

Tancrea, The Pillars of Fortitude

 

I throw the headset down against the side of the hole. The cord from the backpack vox unit snapped the headset back to me in spite of my efforts to distance myself from the voice. I couldn't take it anymore, it was too much. That voice was like chocolate for the soul. At first it was sweet, seductive even with its strange accent and husky timbre. It is the voice of every adolescent boy's dreams, exciting and alluring. Yet like chocolate, it was unwholesome, and too much of it left me feeling sick and guilty.

 

The colonel looked at me sternly and ordered, "Trooper, keep monitoring the vox. We need artillery fire as soon as the enemy's jamming falters." He called me trooper, not by my given, nor even my family name. It was a sign of displeasure that I had picked up over the course of the campaign. The colonel has high expectations of me. It's why I'm his voxman. I know the honor I'm being afforded, staying in his shadow, not only so he has a means of communication, but so that I can observe his decisions, poise, and command of the regiment. I am constantly by his side, and he has come to drop the formality of rank during routine operations, but when I slip up, it's back to being called "trooper".

 

I pick up the headset and put it back on, checking the setting of the vox to make sure it is still scanning all channels. The voice is still there, on all of them, the voice of one woman drowning out all communication. She promises pleasures I cannot imagine in return for merely seeking my freedom. The pleasures described both excite and frighten me. The freedom the voice wants me to seek is a call to my primal instincts, but an anathema to everything good and righteous. Before I can listen further to the blasphemy, a new barrage of mortar fire comes down from the mountain. I'm gladdened. Even as I duck deeper into the hole to avoid the fragments, and my bones shake from the explosions, a grin splits my face ear to ear. I can't hear the voice in the thunder of the barrage.

 

The barrage is a bad one, and although it has provided me reprieve from the voice, it might provide me reprieve from my mortal coil. My grin dissipates in a fit of coughing as my lungs fill with smoke and dust. A sharp pain followed by spreading warmth and wetness emanates from the back of my thigh. I check and there is a little piece of rock stuck in a small wound. I feel, but don't hear the barrage ending. I can't hear anything for the moment from the deafening barrage, but the vibrations in the ground and my bones have stopped. Bewildered I get up and look around. The colonel is already up surveying our position. He mouths something to me and I shake my head in confusion, still unable to hear. He simply points to my vox and my ears, indicating that I need to monitor the vox for an open channel as soon as I can hear again. As my deafened ears start to recover I begin to dread listening to the voice again. What will the voice promise? What will it demand in return? What blasphemy?

 

When the worst of the ringing fades in my eardrums and I think that I can hear the vox again, I find myself eagerly straining to hear the voice.

Edited February 16, 2017 by Carrack

[Kierdale]

Thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday: Seeds Sown. I look forward to seeing those seeds bear the foulest of fruits.

Our third challenge of 2017 saw the return of Scourged with Prayers for Truth, in which Gallus Herodicus, chapter master of the Seekers of Truth oversaw inquisitor Tsalie Krejcik torturing a suspected heretic for information. A session unlike others, for it saw seeds of doubt planted within the mind of the Astarte, and ended in a plea...

I think we all know the phrase Be careful what you wish for....

Carrack gave us The Siren’s Voice. The tale of a grunt, a vox-man for his CO, coming under fire from the enemy while, perhaps more terrifyingly, finding naught but a haunting, tempting voice upon every vox channel. A voice he at first finds repellant...

And in my entry, Seeds Sown we saw the growing comradeship between an Imperial Fists sergeant (later captain) and a chaplain of the Word Bearers in the years leading up to the Great Betrayal. Could it be that the influence of the chaplain Guria upon sergeant Pelonius, upon his drive for unemotional perfection, had a knock-on effect down the millennia?

Here ends Inspirational Friday: Seeds Sown though if you have more pieces on the topic, as always feel free to post them at any time with a suitable title to the post.

Here begins our fourth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2017:

The Fallen

I know not whether Cypher is the greatest threat, or the greatest hope for the Imperium. I only pray that we can stop him before we find out.

The lord of the Fallen, the elusive gunslinger himself, Cypher coming soon with a new model and in anticipation of this we cast our gaze over the Fallen: those Dark Angels who split from their legion ten thousand years ago, scattered across space and time by a great warp storm.

The quarry and nemesis of the Unforgiven, it is said that some of the Fallen swore allegiance to the gods of Chaos, while others went renegade, turned to piracy and even some have since come to repent their heresy and seek solitude. Can these tales be believed? Can these rogue Astartes be trusted?

What is the truth of the matter? What does truth matter to the Imperium of Man or the Pantheon of Chaos?

Tell us this time a tale of the Fallen, be they the protagonists or antagonists.

Inspirational Friday: The Fallen runs until the 3rd of March.

Let us be inspired.

Note that I chose to run this theme now rather than after Gathering Storm III hits so the events of that book do not colour our imagination either way, so to speak.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: ....me!

I thoroughly enjoyed both Scourged and Carrack’s entries and am having difficulty choosing a winner at this moment. The one with clearer foreshadowing yet I know the end result, or the one to which I do not yet know the end (and am very eager to read)...

Give me some time.

[Sheesh Mode]

I won one of these contests, but I do not remember which it was. I'll aim to do so again this week, and thereby hold on to my victory.

 

[Trevak Dal]

Cool, I can put in a little bit about the resident 1st Legion member of my Nightblades, Adrastus Garrak.

 

 

SSDD.

 

A ragged scream escaped from his mouth, agony writhing through his body. The air was hot and smelled of astartes blood, charred flesh and voided waste. The stumps of what had once been his leathery wings itched profusely, and Adrastus, felt drunk as the wave of agony subsided, his arms and legs pulled apart spread eagle, his shoulders out of socket.

 

"Look guy," he wheezed, "I submit to blah, blah, blah, I betrayed people you never heard of back a long time ago and turned against the :cussbird Primarch of our-"

 

The agony came again, and didn't recede for close to a minute-his hearts slamming in his chest, his teeth cracking as he screamed again, gasping when it stopped,

 

"-Who enjoyed :cussing pigs, young boys, and his Drunk Furry Brother," the armored gauntlet smashed into his face, shattering his jaw and knocking the cracked teeth out, sending him into blackness.

 

He couldn't tell how long it had been-it had happened so many times. Different livery, taking cues from the Old Orders, or the legion proper-they had run into Adrastus. He'd cooperated, they tortured him, and eventually "Saved His soul" by making him confess, before they behead him, immolate him, or something else.

 

He'd tried with several of them to point out that he'd in fact been killed by the 'Unforgiven' several times over, and were happily free to :cuss right off and leave him be.

 

This newest Chaplain was showing the tender attentions of a devotee of Slaanesh. He hadn't responded well when Adrastus had pointed out the similarities between the Unforgiven and the Emperors Children, shooting him in the head.

 

In the thousands of years after the Destruction of Caliban-his first Battle, but not his last, Adrastus had come to terms with his gift and lived a couple of lifetimes. He'd fought as a corsair, throwing his lot in with other renegades, and once with a Rogue Trader. He'd led a warband for a while too, though he eventually dropped all flags, allowing himself to be killed by an aspiring champion so he could retire to a planet.

 

It had been a moderately developed Imperial World, he hadn't had his wings back then, so he was just a "real big lad". That was how the woman who would be his wife called him. The Emperor had long been a corpse at that point, and his worship was law, somewhat humorous considering what his orators had preached about during the Crusade. He loved her, and when it came to be that they couldn't have children, they adopted a pair of orphans, and they lived on a small plot of land.

 

It had been a good life, it was around the 37th millennium, and that was when his Brothers first found him, sending Terminators to his house-killed his wife and their children even after he surrendered.

 

At the current count-he'd been found and killed-seven, eight times? He didn't know, and didn't rightly care. He was sick of these :cussing people and wish they would just get together and update their records.

 

"Heh, that was a pretty good one," came a twinned voice from the next cell over, stirring him from unconsciousness.

 

"Walr?" Adrastus asked aloud through his broken jaw, he seriously hoped they'd kill him sometime soon-though this Chaplain seemed to know what he was.

 

"Pretty good line, about the Lion," the voice came again, "We'd ask what you're in for, but its a good guess you are one of the Fallen, we're in because We may have tangentially known one of you guys at one time, or something. If you've had your fill of our host's attentions, we could use your help in getting out of here,"

 

Adrastus tried to laugh, but it hurt too much, but considered his options. This Chaplain had tortured him for-

 

He couldn't remember how long. They usually killed him by now. And he hadn't taken his 'confession' as so many of the others had, and hadn't given in directly to killing him as he'd goaded others. Yeah...this Chaplain was different. With a wince, he popped his jaw back into place as it started to mend.

 

"'We?'" Adrastus asked, the fog lifting from his mind.

 

The door to the cell hissed open, and a robed astartes was standing before him, his armor with the mutated touch of a possessed-but also shimmering in such a way as Adrastus had seen some of the IVth legion's Obliterators. When he spoke, the fanged maw of his helmet moved to make the words-it was unnerving to see.

 

"They thought We were disarmed, heh, heh," the creature said, it's gauntlets extending fluidly into claws as he stepped forward, slicing through the shackles, and Adrastus collapsed to the floor, trying not to shout as his abused limbs flailed about him-Adrastus was reluctant to let anyone know his secret, but he was more reluctant about staying with this masochistic, Chaplain's tender mercies.

 

"Kill me," he wheezed, he looked up at the possessed creature, "quickly before the guards come," he reached for the gauntleted claws. The eye lenses widened in the parody of a humanoid eye, seeming to cock in confusion,

 

" You would give up so easil-" before he could continue, Adrastus had slammed his face into the claws, penetrating his brain and killing himself, his body spasming for a few seconds.

 

It was always weird 'resetting' as he'd come to call it. It had first happened on Caliban, during a training exercise as a scout. He'd awoken after falling down a small cliff and snapping his neck-the apothecaries had thought him not as seriously injured as his squadmates had reported and were harshly reprimanded. The second time had been at the hands of a Legionary who'd sided with the Primarch, and it'd happened so many times, Adrastus had become quite familiar with what came next after the visions.

 

Adrastus gasped, his wounds healed, wings grown back and stretched to their full length, as he stood up, his shaven scalp now covered in long brown hair, blue eyes wide and unswollen. The Possessed backed away, it's claws raised up in a pugilists stance,

 

"The hell was that!?" The possessed asked, and looked back towards the door, making a snuffling sound, "Uh oh, the Librarian sensed that...we're going to have company looking to stop our little jailbreak!"

 

Adrastus looked around the room, and then back to the Possessed, "My thanks," he said, the thunder of ceremite clad boots and hammered down the corridor. That was when he noticed it-something was wrong about this ship.

 

"These Unforgiven don't follow the Emperor," he said. The possessed nodded,

 

"True enough, they are renegades, though I don't think they are of your vintage," he said, looking at him sideways, "what is your name Fallen?" he asked.

 

Adrastus smiled, "Adrastus Garrak, of the First Legion," The possessed took his arm and shook it cordially,

 

"Giselburtus, at your service," he said, making a slight bow, the helm grinning, giving a combat blade to Adrastus, "Let's give these guys the good news," he said, breaking off, splaying his claws wide as his eyes glowed-sparing a glance at Adrastus's nude form,

 

"Brace for some shrinkage, Adrastus," he chuckled as his armored body swelled, arcs of bioelectricity displacing the hoarfrost forming around the rapidly cooling room.

 

Adrastus despite their dire situation laughed as he flipped the combat blade around in his hand reversing his grip, drawing his wings in close like a cloak against the cold.

 

The astartes were splayed out, bolters trained on them, a figure Adrastus assumed must have been the librarian came forth, along with the Chaplain.

 

"Return to your cells," the Librarian spoke-both aloud and with the Warp, "we will kill you, and your souls will be damned forever," Giselburtus snarled,

Giselburtus snarled, breathing a gout of flames down the corridor, and the two ran from a barrage of bolts chasing after them.

 

The librarian dismissed the flames with a contemptive glance.

 

"They must not be allowed to escape. You can kill the Fallen-just bring the possessed back. He is the key,"

 

The Chaplain stared longingly after them, "I've not finished with his interrogation..." he said, "One such as he can be...very challenging to get to confess,"

 

"Enough!" The librarian shouted in the Warp as well as aloud to emphasize, "Bring it back, go now!"

Edited February 25, 2017 by Trevak Dal

[Kierdale]

Stowaway

Part One

Hidden Content

“A stowaway?” Jonisar said incredulously, the Astarte looming over the human who had made the report.

“S-such is not uncommon, in truth, m’lord,” the man protested. A cultist of the Exalted Fecund, he was still clad in the dirty coveralls of a ship’s engineer, only the pink turban atop his head with its gold broach in the shape of the Dark Prince’s mark indicative of his faith. This had been hidden before they had sprung their trap: the two-dozen cult members and six Psychopomps having deliberately `stranded` their ship on an Imperial shipping route. The cult’s spies had learned that the `Jennet II` would decant from the warp here before reorienting and jumping again. The distress beacon hadn’t caused the freighter to take the bait so Jonisar had given Eletenae, the cult priestess, the nod. The attractive young lady’s SOS via holobroadcast had finally caused the trading vessel to turn about and lend aid.

The crew of the freighter had put up a fair defence once the cultists had made their true intentions known. Eight of the Exalted had died before the crew had been overpowered and slain. The bodies, both friend and foe, had since been stripped of equipment and already a couple had been debased in the Prince’s honour, attempting to draw his blessing to their mission. That the crew had been killed rather than taken alive showed the urgency of the action: the fugitive, fallen chapter was running short on supplies and while the contents of the bulk hauler’s holds were not of immediate use to the Psychopomps, it would provide bartering materials so that deals could be struck with contacts within the dark mechanicum and other war bands.

As well as the cultists and his squad of Psychopomps, Jonisar had been assigned two other crew far more important than the mortals – or even his own marines – if they were to make off with the freighter: the dark mechanicum enginseer Rho-Hachi...and Tehot’temiel, the latter kept in a stasis casket.

“I am well aware that stowaways are commonplace on starships,” the aspiring champion spat. He had removed his helmet, revealing a face of unnaturally smooth skin for one who had led such a long life of violence. The skin about his left eye was tattooed a black ring, from which stretched back across his shaven scalp the tattooed icon of Slaanesh. “But a stowaway should not be able to kill seven of you in as many minutes!” Infuriated by the simpering messenger, he turned to face Eletenae. “One man?”

She bowed, “We believe so, my lord. The majority were killed with a large blade, but we believe one almost managed to flee.”

“You believe?”

“His body was...badly mangled, but judging from the way we found the remains and their distance from the bodies of the others, yes.” She raised a closed hand to present something to the Astarte leader. “From the damage to his body and the fact that we found this...”

She opened her hand to reveal a single spent bolt gun casing.

Jonisar’s fury was suddenly tempered and he looked to the five astartes of his squad assembled about him in the Jennet II’s mess hall. He pointed to two of his men, “Hirenzhoba, Nelael, get Rho-Hachi to the engineerium and keep him safe from our `stowaway`. The rest of you: we go to plan B.”

At this point the brow of the young priestess Eletenae furrowed.

“My lord? Plan B?”

The cultists were there for one purpose, and it was not the taking of the freighter. It was to crew it. The fallen astartes could have taken the freighter and its crew alive, then have forced the mortals to do their bidding, but such would have taken time, and one never knew when there might be a particularly staunch devotee of the Imperial Creed who might have put his faith before his life and sabotaged the ship.

Thus all the Exalted Fecund on the mission were certified space-hands. Pilots, enginseer’s mates, medics...with at least two of each vital position in case of casualties.

Jonisar looked down at the priestess, the expression upon his face unreadable to the mortal. “Have the bridge crew join us here now.”

She nodded and obeyed, wondering what was in store for them.

For they had not been informed of any plan B.

Once the pirate crew was assembled, all but for Tehot’temiel now secured within the navigator’s bubble, guiding the ship though the currents of the sea of souls, Jonisar seemed to ignore the cultists as he looked to his fellow astartes at the edges of the room.

“Plan B.”

There were a couple of seconds of confused silence from the cultists before the chainblades of the Psychopomps roared to life as they drew their weapons and began to hack into their thralls.

Though to an observer it would have appeared a mad slaughter, the marines were careful with their hewing, careful not to injure the heads of the cultists.

Once the screaming had ceased and blood was being wiped from armour, flesh picked from the teeth of their weapons, Jonisar raised the severed head of the cultist who had been brought along to captain the ship.

“Now, we eat.”

 

Part Two

Hidden Content

Rho-Hachi looked down on his escorts in every way possible. Firstly that they were turncoats: they had once been the loyal servants of the false-Omnissiah, that zombie-bastard on his Golden Throne far off on the world Rho’s race had spawned upon in ages past. Rho-Hachi had never known anything but the worship of the Pantheon. He had been born on a world of the dark mechanicum with a name no meat-tongue could rightly pronounce nor meat-ear fully hear, located deep within the Eye. He did not hate the renegade astartes, for they had discovered true faith, but he hold them in mild contempt for their turncoat nature and their embracing of but one of the Four. As with many things in enginseering, he sought balance.

And physically he looked down upon them, for he was born aloft upon eight tentacle-like mechandendrites, his betters – he had never come to know his genetic sires though likely they were slave stock – having replaced most of his flesh with cybernetics during his early years.

Two of the Psychopomps, Hirenzhoba and Nelael were their labels apparently, had been charged with escorting the enginseer to the seized ship’s engineerium. One advanced before him, the other behind. Though he had not been told directly of the presence of the killer stowaway, the astartes had underestimated his enhanced hearing – more powerful than the autosenses of their powered armour – and he had heard their exchange. He had also, as he was being escorted away though the ship’s winding corridors, heard the faint echo of chainblades and muffled screams. This had not panicked him for he had rapidly determined what was happening: the astartes would take over the piloting of the ship, learning via their omophagea. Consuming the brains of the cultists.

Rho-Hachi was confident that he was safe in the Psychopomps’ company: the mere consumption of what grey matter he still had within his adamantium skull would be insufficient for them to learn how to master the ship’s machine spirit. He would have smiled if he had possessed lips.

Finally they arrived in the chambers to the aft of the ship, cavernous if the great reactors, engine-heads and webs of piping and ducts were removed, but with these vital organs in place the engineerium was a crampt maze of shadows.

The black-clad cyborg advanced toward the great obelisk-like cogitator which housed the ship’s machine spirit. Two meters from its chin to its crown, a large skull was mounted upon the face of the monolith, one side fashioned after a human skull, the other as if scrimshawed with circuitry. The mark of the Priests of Mars. His own skull was similar after a fashion, though the angle of the ocular orbits and the fangs which flanked his vox-grill were more akin to the features of one of the neverborn: those servants of the pantheon which Rho-Hachi’s kind made pacts with or lashed and captured, imprisoning them within constructions and bending to their wills.

The prospect of corrupting this vessel’s innocent spirit was exhilarating and he said a prayer to the Dark Prince before beginning the Blasphemous Litanies.

 

Part Three

Hidden Content

His suspicions had been confirmed by the attack in the engineerium. As soon as Hirenzhoba had reported that they had escorted Rho-Hachi, and had lied that they were returning to the bridge, Jonisar had had the enginseer force the Jenner II’s machine spirit to open all the airlocks and vent the ship’s atmosphere. Firstly as a test of Rho-Hachi’s abilities, and secondly on the off-chance that the stowaway was not what Jonisar suspected it was. It also served to prove his guess that Rho-Hachi could survive vacuum, which was a useful fact to file away.

Minutes after the last traces of oxygen had been sucked out into the void of warpspace Rho-Hachi had been attacked. The stowaway was a crafty bastard: the lack of atmosphere silenced his approach and let him use his firearm with little risk of being discovered.

Two bolts had disabled what passed for the dark enginseer’s legs and put him down onto the deck – the stowaway hadn’t killed him outright – and the shooter had then emerged from cover...into Hirenzhoba and Nelael’s sights.

That the stowaway hadn’t been more cautious hinted that he had somehow been tapping into the squad’s comms and had believed the two escorts were bound for the bridge. Perhaps he had taken the commlink of one of the cultists he had gutted.

Hirenzhoba had only managed to drive off the intruder, at the cost of Nelael’s life, but he had also brought back information about his comrade’s killer.

“Mark two plate. A very dark blue or green if not black. He had a dirty brown cloak over him but that bulk is hard to hide, and I saw enough of his gauntlets and greaves to identify his armour.”

Jonisar steepled his fingers as he sat in the captain’s chair.

“Our stowaway is an Astarte...” he considered this for some time, “And Rho-Hachi?”

“Still functions. He is undergoing self-repair. Eronso guards him,” Hirenzhoba reported. His god-given agility had saved him in the engineerium and even as he spoke to his squad’s champion he checked and rechecked his bolt gun, eager to hunt down his comrade’s slayer. Not for vengeance but to test himself against this stalking killer.

“What does he want?” This came from Siso at the helm. He had stripped his powered armour off and removed the top of his black bodyglove so that a juryrigged MIU could be plugged into his spinal jacks. While Tehot’temiel piloted the ship here in the warp, Siso kept an eye on the possessed’s navigating lest the neverborn’s whims take them off course or smash them into a literal whirlpool of madness. “What’s the bastard doing here?”

“He’s mine,” whispered Hirenzhoba, popping and replacing the magazine of his weapon once more.

“We are on a bulk hauler a kilometer in length. There are countless rooms, corridors and ducts that even one as large as we could hide in. It could take us forever to track him down...,” Jonisar spoke as he mused. Had they a sorcerer with them they could have called upon neverborn to hunt down the stowaway.

Neverborn.

He looked up from his reverie and opened the squad’s comm channel.

“Xeaph, maintain a guard on our ship-”

The small short-range shuttle they had used to lure in the Jenner II’s crew was now docked in one of the freighter’s few empty cargo bays,

“Eronso, keep an eye on Rho-Hachi-“

He didn’t mind that the stowaway was likely listening to everything he said.

“Hirenzhoba, I want you to booby trap both port and starboard escape pod chambers-“

If the stowaway went for either and got off the Jenner II that was fine by Jonisar. This move might prompt the stowaway to do so.

“Siso, prepare to decant back to realspace.”

That, he hoped, would force the bastard’s hand. No one in their right mind would get into an escape pod and launch it while in the warp, but here Jonisar was all but offering him a way off. With Hirenzhoba sent as a boot to help him on his way.

He cut the channel and spoke his last order to Siso and Hirenzhoba directly.

“I’ll be letting Tehot’temiel out as soon as we decant. I’ll let him off the leash and see if we can catch this rat.”

 

Part Four

Hidden Content

Navigators - those humans blessed with a mutation which, besides making them bald, gave them a third eye in the middle of their foreheads through which they could see the currents of the sea of souls (and kill with a look) – were almost always frail of body, spending the vast majority of their time either in the faux gravity of starships, or weightless within their crow’s nest-like navigational bubbles. Some even submerged themselves in sensory deprivation tanks so as to aid their craft. This meant that they were not usually accustomed to, nor built for, combat missions. That was why the Psychopomps had brought Tehot’temiel. Jonisar considered the Possessed as he made his way from the bridge to the crow’s nest. He was not a former Stygian Guard like Jonisar and his squad, quite the opposite in fact: he was one of the hated Black Templars. That chapter which had been responsible for the destruction of the Psychopomps’ homeworld of Fulcrum, driving the Slaanesh-worshippers into flight. A great many brothers had been lost that day, as well as the millions-strong populace the fallen chapter had brought under the sway of the Dark Prince.

The Psychopomps took what opportunities they could to exact vengeance, and the Templar whose body Tehot’temiel now possessed had been captured aboard the Argent Blade many years before. Those Templars that master Sophusar had managed to prevent his men from tearing limb from limb had been subverted, corrupted, and possessed. The spirit possessing this Templar, having twisted his body into one as much beast as it was post-human, was as fickle and mercurial as any daemon of Slaanesh Jonisar had ever encountered, and accordingly he kept his eye on it. The Templars were strong of body and mind, and he could not be sure the daemon had succeeded in devouring or locking away the marine’s consciousness. Zeal had a way of burning through.

He was about to release the seals of the navigational pod when the comm came alive.

“Escape pod fired. Escape pod fired.” Siso’s voice, on the bridge.

“Bastard made a run for it as soon as we decanted.” Eronso, guarding their shuttle.

“I’ve got him. Firing now,” Siso replied. Though the Jenner II was a freighter, piracy was rife in the Imperium of Man, with both human and xenos privateers falling upon any prey they could find. Hence the freighter had a single turret-mounted cannon.

“Shot a rat in a barrel!” the pilot announced triumphantly, but Jonisar had a sinkinig feeling in his gut.

He opened the comm, “Hirenzhoba come in. Hirenzhoba. Hirenzhoba?...Hirenzhoba!”

Static.

The bulkhead buckled as he repeatedly slammed his fist into it, the noise drowning out his curses.

 

 

The stench of brimstone wafted from within the crow’s nest as the portal irised open.

“Why?” At first Jonisar, even with his enhanced hearing, had barely been able to make it out, but the voice grew from a whisper to a wail as the question was repeated a dozen times and Tehot’temiel stepped from within.

The boots of the Templar’s armour had split into cloven hooves and the legs had extended such that the greaves and thigh armour now covered only the upper two sections of bestial, double-kneed legs. The body was bent over not by the cramptness of the compartment the possessed had inhabited during their time in the warp but due to further transformations the daemon had forced upon the body of the Astarte it now resided within. The arms were elongated as with the legs, ending in talons each as long as a lightning claw. These now raked at the walls, tearing through exposed pipes and wiring, sending steam and sparks flying. But it dared not attack its warden.

“Why did you force us from the sea?” the monster wept, tears running down its scarred, bestial cheeks to sizzle upon the deck. It tilted its head, eyes wandering, voice quietening once more, “my siblings, my kin, their sweet songs,” and then rage returned, “but you bring us back to this realm of order, of meat and filth!”

Jonisar held up his hand before him, showing the Possessed the amulet he had been entrusted by the naga sorcerer, Holusiax. Tehot’temiel stopped in its tracks.

“Hunt down one soul, and we can be on our way.”

 

 

It was a stench he had not smelt for millennia, and had hoped to never again. He would not admit he had been running from it, but it brought back a great many memories at once. None of them good. His first quest through the vast, dark forests in search of a Beast...After his elevation, discovering that such monsters were not only native to his home world, and his duty to his legion bringing him to slay a great many more of them alongside his brethren...These were fond memories yet tinged with sorrow for ties later broken...Ordered to return to the homeworld, a veiled reprimand...to a homeworld not as pure as once thought.

He shook himself from his reverie, the last time he had smelled that warp taint lingering in his mind: the warp storm that had torn them from their home in that most cataclysmic moment. He had neither seen his homeworld nor any of his legion since. If rumour was to be believed the former no longer existed and the latter had, like the rest of the Emperor’s Angels, been riven.

He knew not how many years had passed, nor how many worlds he had travelled, nomad-like, aimlessly wandering the fringes of the Imperium of Man. An Imperium he had seen change greatly. Gone was the glory and the honour of the Great Crusade and its high ideals. Instead he had seen a steady descent into madness. Slavery. Sacrifice. Tyranny. During the crusade the legions had put an end to countless despots and empires like this. He had once attempted to make his way to the cradle of man, but the grim darkness only grew blacker and blacker the closer he got and the realization that the heart of man was now soulless and mad had shaken him as hard as the loss of his homeworld and his legion.

These marines now hunting him, upon them he had smelt the taint too, and had immediately killed the first of them. The dead marine’s facial disfigurements and the taint, not so much something he detected olfactorily, more a revulsion within his mind, had stopped him from devouring the brain of the marine and learning more about them. It had not stopped him from taking the gaudily-armoured warrior’s ammunition though. He smirked that while the galaxy spun on toward madness, the forges of Mars had not changed the design of bolt shells one bit.

 

He sensed the taint, the spoor of the warp, once more as he slunk through the great freighter’s corridors, making his way away from the escape pod bay. He had killed seven of their mortals and two of the marines themselves now – he knew not how many there were but judging from the shuttle he had spied in one of the bays (the guard had not even attempted to hide himself) there could not be more than a squad of them – and they had sent something else after him. He could feel its attention upon him as if its eyes were able to see him through the walls of metal. He had initially moved out as he would have if being tracked by humans or other astartes: not moving in a straight line, but by putting corners between himself and his hunters, but now aware of the unnatural nature of the creature on his tail, he changed his tactics. He ran.

 

Part Five

Hidden Content

In his violent salvation he had also succeeded in stranding himself. The beast which it seems had somehow doubled as their navigator, he had trapped in the ship’s garbage compactor and crushed.

He had returned to the engineerium once more and mown down the twisted tech-priest and his escort.

He had slain the rogue Astarte guarding the shuttle, springing their leader’s ambush in the process. That one had fought hard, damned hard. Perhaps the astartes of this time were not as degenerate as he had thought. Or perhaps it was he who was becoming worn out. Thick blood dribbled down from his wounds, his Larraman cells not what they once were.

Slumping down on the shuttle’s ramp he had reloaded his bolt gun with a clip from the dead leader before stowing all the other supplies he could in his belt kit and the internal pockets of his cloak. He stifled a curse as he pulled himself to his feet. He had not killed these two because he wanted the shuttle. He killed them so they could not support the one who remained.

The pilot.

 

 

A mortal would have wept. He lowered the smoking muzzle of his bolter and watched as the pilot collapsed to the floor. The bastard had not surrendered, even after being told his comrades were all dead. It would have been a long shot to get the ship anywhere without a navigator, but anywhere was better than this unknown, uncharted system devoid of signals.

But he was astartes. He wept not, yet despaired inside, and dragged himself toward the controls.

Though he was no pilot he knew the rudiments and was able to set the freighter on a course to enter a rough orbit about the nearest rocky planetoid. He knew the freighter had stores enough to maintain him physically for centuries, and within the shuttle he found a stasis chest as he had expected: surmising that no one would have willingly travelled with that monstrosity.

It seems that the travels of this nomad would cease here, for the time being.

[Warsmith Aznable]

Inspirational Friday threads are the only place I really post anymore, so I will post this personal message here.

 

I'm taking a break from both 40k and the B+C forum for a while. Hopefully I will regain my enthusiasm for the game and the setting and come back full of ideas and projects, but right now I'm gassed out and need to concentrate on other things in my life.

 

To the people who have read my stories here, I thank you and appreciate your feedback and comments. I have enjoyed reading y'alls stories very much as well.

 

+Lurk mode activated+

[Kierdale]

Thanks for all your excellent work here in Inspirational Friday, Warsmith Aznable. Have a good break, relax and do stuff other than making toy soldiers and writing about them ;) And good luck with the Real Life stuff that needs dealing with.

 

Eagerly awaiting your return,

Kierdale

[Carrack]

Inspirational Friday threads are the only place I really post anymore, so I will post this personal message here.

 

I'm taking a break from both 40k and the B+C forum for a while. Hopefully I will regain my enthusiasm for the game and the setting and come back full of ideas and projects, but right now I'm gassed out and need to concentrate on other things in my life.

 

To the people who have read my stories here, I thank you and appreciate your feedback and comments. I have enjoyed reading y'alls stories very much as well.

 

+Lurk mode activated+

:( your stories are a highlight of this topic and this board for me. They will be missed.

[Kierdale]

Trevak, could you edit your story to change `Chaplin` to `chaplain`? When I read your story I keep getting images of a suit-clad Astarte with a small moustache and a bowler hat.

And you’re finishing the story there? I want to know more!

 

 

 

And judgement time.

I thoroughly enjoyed both Carrack and Scourged’s entries. Both were rather short compared to entries we’ve had other times, but I think it showed that they can write riveting pieces without them being so long.

I liked, in Carrack’s piece, the seductiveness of the voice over the vox. The comparison to chocolate was nice, and how the effect the voice had on the guardsman got stronger and more seductive as the story went on.

And the fact that the corruption was happening in the colonel’s vox man, someone placed so close to the top yet someone whose corruption might easily not be noticed, was great. The change in how the officer addresses him, a cause of resentment on the trooper’s part too I liked.

That by the end the man was eager to hear the voice, to take him away from the madness of war, was quite understandable.

 

Though I already knew that the Seekers of Truth become the Scourged, it was good to see Scourged going back and showing us cracks appearing in the faith of chapter master Gallus Herodicus (great name). I liked that it was the death of a nobody (it brought to mind the page-edge fluff piece in all 40k rulebooks about everyone being naught but a spark in the darkness that will not be missed) that shook Herodicus’ faith in the Imperium and its ways. And Herodicus’ turning to prayer to seek the answer to his questions was quite believable (a common choice by a great many people in the modern world and no doubt in the Imperium of Man). And, as we all know, Herodicus gets exactly what he asks for.

 

It was an exceedingly difficult choice as I think both pieces perfectly fit the challenge of IF: Seeds Sown, and I very much look forward to reading more of both - particularly the story of Carrack’s voxcaster-guardsman – though based on this challenge’s pieces alone, I choose Scourge’s entry as the winner.

[Trevak Dal]

*facepalm* I feel like Zapp Branigan with 'Champaggon' I got to add more to it, work had been hectic. Edited February 25, 2017 by Trevak Dal

[Scourged]

Finally checking in after a bit...

 

Aww, just as I was starting to get myself involved here again, Warsmith Aznable is taking his leave. Shame to hear this is the case, but I understand completely. Good luck to you, and we'll all be here waiting when you inevitably return. 

 

And then yay, I won this round! Though to be fair to your praise, Kierdale, I can't take credit for naming Gallus Herodicus. GW gets all the credit for that one, thanks to the paragraph of fluff in our most recent (well, now four and a half year old) codex. Still, glad you liked it, and I look forward to judging this round. I'm happy to be back, and happy to have my fingers typing away once more. Now then... off to continue work on Parts III and IV of our campaign challenge.

[Kierdale]

With a bit over 24 hours to go we have but two entries.

Any more to come?

[Carrack]

Note, I couldn't come up with something new this time, so I edited down the conclusion of The Wanderer campaign, my story arc before the war in the Aspis subsector.

Here is the nine part series in its entirety. http://www.bolterandchainsword.com/topic/316163-the-wanderer/ some of these parts showed up here a while back.

The Wanderer

 

Unraveling my curse could have meant the salvation of man. The enemy believed this to be so, why couldn't you, my estranged brothers. I came so close.

 

When the events that brought about the end of fair Caliban came, I stood with the damned, yet I had no part in there revolt. My only blame was that I failed to stop them. I should have died trying. For my failure, I was delivered into the hells of the Eye of Terror, and laid at the feet of the Great Schemer. Yet he could not have me, due to my sinless soul.

 

Instead, the Architect of Fate cursed me. He bound my soul to the Eye of Terror, forever damned to its hells unless I could find the Secret Path. The one and only path out of the changing miasma of hell that was predictable and stable. The Gate was barred to me by the cursed pylons. So I wandered. I traveled the hells ceaselessly, ever searching for this Secret Path. With it, I would return to the Realm of Man with a map that could be used by the Emperor to launch an invasion of the Eye, and cleanse the galaxy of its stain forever.

 

From time to time I was able to venture outside the Eye, but these trips were short, both in distance and time. I was still tethered to the hells I was cursed to, yet able to slip some of my bonds through methods too esoteric to explain. I paid dearly when these forays were brought to an end. My captor was not pleased with me testing the limits of his leash. I learned to make the most of such carefully orchestrated attempts.

 

This last foray was the culmination of centuries of planning. I believed I would finally have achieved success if I had been allowed to complete it unhindered. The strange radiation of the moon of Odeanta provided a lens to view the Eye of Terror and discern a pattern to its fluctuations. I was so close. My map was almost complete.

 

Yet the warden of my eternal imprisonment must have realized how near I was to truly escaping. The Great Schemer knew I would bring knowledge of the Secret Path to the righteous defenders of humanity. He sent the dogs of the gods' favorite, the Black Legion for me. They are about to overtake me now. I send this message to you my brothers, the first time I have communicated with you in 10,000 years, along with my almost complete map, in the hope that you can forgive me for my failings, and complete my work so my efforts will not have been in vain. As ever, For the Lion!

 

-message scarred into the soul of the mayor of Magurn, by The Wanderer, Fallen Angel and Daemon Prince of Tzeentch.

 

 

It is unknown if the message was received before the Dark Angels purging of Magurn. Likewise, the fate of the Wanderer remains a mystery.

Edited March 3, 2017 by Carrack

[Kierdale]

Thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday: The Fallen.

We had only three entries but each looked at the Fallen in a different way.

Trevak Dak gave us the story of an mutated, unrepentant Fallen – and a Perpetual too if I’m not mistaken - captured and tortured by the Unforgiven. Adrastus finally makes a break from his imprisonment with the aid of a possessed, but did he succeed in his escape?

Carrack’s entry, The Wanderer, told us of a son of Caliban cursed by the Architect of Fate. Scheming while bound to the Eye as a servant of Tzeentch, The Wanderer probed the expanse of the Eye, seeing the Secret Path through which he might escape with his discovery, back to the Imperium of Man...and salvation? Personally I loved this piece for the depth it contained in such a short piece of writing. The determination and loyalty in The Wanderer despite his curse, his becoming a pawn of Tzeentch (a daemon prince in fact) and the fact that we readers know that if he did succeed in escaping and bringing his discovery to the Imperium his words would fall on deaf ears.

Echoes of Magnus, there.

And in my own entry, the Psychopomps stumbled over a Fallen stowaway. Shocked at the changes that had come over the Imperium since the warp storm which tore him from his homeworld (and that homeworld apart) he wandered, perhaps seeking solitude...only for the ship he was aboard to be hijacked by Chaos space marines, who got more than they bargained for when the veteran of the Great Crusade took off his gloves.

Here ends Inspirational Friday: The Fallen though if you have more pieces on the topic, as always feel free to post them at any time with a suitable title to the post.

Here begins our fifth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2017:

Chaos Bikers

”... broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, “Come.” I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.”

Fulfilling the role of scout and saboteur, Chaos bikers are mounted upon huge motorbikes capable of smashing their foes to the ground as well as carrying out lightning strikes with the weapons mounted upon their rides.

But who are these astartes? Are they addicted to the roar of engines, the stink of promethium and burnt rubber? Do they delight in harassing and chasing down their quarry? Do they favour stealth or violent, all-out assault? How are they seen by their comrades? Are they rivals of the warband’s raptor units? And how do the riders see their fellow astartes?

And are they dedicated to one of the Four? Are they pale riders devoted to bringing Pestilence, Famine, War and Death in the name of Nurgle? Do they bring about a tide of Change in the name of the Architect of Fate, bringing their weapons to bear swiftly and tipping the scales as their patron dictates? Do they eschew reconnaissance and raiding, preferring to bear down upon their enemies at breakneck speed, slamming through their foes like knights at some infernal joust in Khorne’s honour, adorning the trophy racks of their rides with skulls? Or are they addicted to raw speed and the exhilaration of the hunt, beseeching the Dark Prince show them greater sensations? Others renounce the Infernal Powers, like the bikers of the Night Lords, feeding upon the fear of those they stalk.

In the fifth challenge of 2017 tell us a tale of your Chaos bikers.

Photographs of completed models are much encouraged!

Inspirational Friday: Chaos Bikers runs until the 17th of March.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Scourged

To the chosen victor: step forward and claim the Octed Amulet:

[Scourged]

Those were some fun and varied entries. Three very different perspectives on singular Fallen.

 

In the end, I have selected the work of Trevak Dak as the winner. While all three stories gave great perspective into the mind of the Fallen, yours added something I haven't really seen in a lot of stories: an attempt to escape the endless cycle of war. Adrastus, having been torn from his Legion and abandoned by his Imperium, eventually tired of the vengeance and the war and wished to have a quiet life all his own. But then the Angels came, reminding us all that there truly is no escape from the grimdark world of 40k. It added a great ambiguity to the disparity between the Dark Angels, and that ambiguity is exactly what makes it so intriguing to absorb.

[Carrack]

Black Riders of the Third Seal

 

Garland Desert

It was the third time this fateful day a seal had been broken from the war-torn heavens above Garland. The first two times had been from drop pods crashing onto the morning sand, from which Angels had stepped forth to wage righteous war on the enemies of Man. Those Angels had driven back the Arch-Enemy, and recovered the Aspis Eternal, and hopefully the fate of the subsector the relic represented. However, the opening of the third seal, was not done by the righteous, but by the profane. An ancient storm eagle had touched down and opened its sealed hold to unleash suffering on the land. Three riders in black were the manifestation of that suffering.

 

The riders roared their smoke belching, mechanical steeds across the Garland Desert. Sand and dust stirred in their wake, which mingled with the sandstorm that blew over the desert for seasons after seasons. Somehow, in spite of the relatively small clouds kicked up by the riders, the storm grew darker, and more ominous. Something terrible was riding across the desert, and making its way to oasis-town of Water Gardens.

 

At the far edge of Water Gardens, young men and women were out grazing their camules on the sparse grass. Their thick goggles and protective robes and masks cut their visibility down to a few dozen meters, but their camules were bred for these conditions, with long cilia lined snouts and thick membranes over their eyes. The camules started to bray, stomp, and spit. All of them did, not just the more difficult of the beasts. The superstitious handlers guided their panicking beasts towards the Water Gardens' gates. The Camules followed, with unprecedented cooperation. This remarkable cooperation made the handlers themselves nervous, rather than pleased.

 

As the gates were shut, one young handler looked back over the uneaten grass. It was turning black and withering. The young girl made the sign of the Aquila and turned to bring her herd to her family's pen, when the gate guard stopped her a moment with a hand on her shoulder. She cringed, for such contact was improper, but the guard handed her his field glasses and pointed outside the rampart. She took the glasses and looked where the guard pointed, the crest of a dune just past the grassland. Three riders sat upon the crest, armored and mounted on steeds of black metal. Guns and spikes protruded from both armor and mounts. The two outriders had fearsome and twisted horns cresting their helms. The center rider's head was bare, yet somehow more terrible to behold. It looked like the face of a man who had died in the desert, and desiccated instead of rotted. In his arm he held aloft a scale, and the look in his horrible visage was as if he was weighing the fate of all of Water Gardens. The scale was far from balanced. The guard lowered the gate, and the handler returned the field glasses with shaking hands. Trumpets blared. They sounded the Doom of Water Gardens.

 

By most standards, the tribe of Water Gardens were capable warriors. They had to be, to maintain control of their precious, permanent, oasis. With long barreled flintlocks and cruelly curved sabers, they had fought off thieves and raiders for generations. Their earthen walls and scavenged metal gates had kept less fortunate tribes at bay. Although they maintained herds, and even small gardens in their oasis home, hunting was still a tradition, and everyone old enough to ride, could shoot a flintlock or bow from camule-back. There fire was insufficient to unseat the riders. Their sabers scraped off the slabs of armor. The rampart was tall, but not steep enough, the black riders rode up it and launched into town, not even slowing at their jarring landing that would have broken the legs of the strongest camule. All the resistance the tribe could muster, failed to slow the riders.

 

There was slaughter of the tribe, but it was not as great as it could have been. For the most part, only the warriors who rode into the path of the Black Riders were killed. They did not hunt down those who retreated or shot from concealed positions. Instead, they weathered the fire off their impenetrable armor and drove to the center of Water Gardens. There, the two outriders struck down the antenna dishes and beacons of the tribe, and blew them apart with thunderous fire. The Black Rider with the scale dismounted and went to the main well. He dropped the scale into the well and remounted, leaving with his outriders the way he came.

 

The loss of life from the Black Riders' raid was survivable, seven dead and nineteen wounded. The antennas and beacons hadn't been used in living memory. However, the main well went deep into the water table, and it now bubbled with a black and foul liquid. The grasses, not just the areas profaned by the Black Riders' hoof less steeds, were turning dark and sickly. The Doom of Water Gardens was inevitable.

 

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

 

"Captain Garaduk. Champion Enshagag. I have cut all communications out of the desert, and removed the oasis as a potential refuge for the loyalists. Any survivors there will be in the Grandfather's embrace within days. Your Champion out."

 

-Vox transmission intercepted by Brother Sergeant Laviel of 3rd Company, Dark Angels. Translated from Cithonian Battle Cant.

 

Edited

Edited March 6, 2017 by Carrack