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

[Carrack]

The Battle of Garland was fought in the void of the Garland system, and saw the heretical Black Maw victorious over the heroic Angels of Immolation. But all is not lost, although too late to save the day, a righteous fleet of His Finest arrived to drive off the traitors, and gave pursuit. In the confusing aftermath of the battle, one loyal chapter serf had bravely recovered the Aspis Eternal, the relic for which the subsector was named, and fled to the surface of Garland in a salvation pod. The relic was hunted by parties from the Black Maw Warband, the surviving brothers of the Angels of Immolation, and the relieving Dark Angels fleet. The hunting parties were left on their own as their respective fleets chased each other through the warp. The brave Angels of Immolation were the first to recover the relic. All want the Aspis Eternal for themselves.

 

Eye to the Heavens

Captain Garaduk One-Eye glanced again at the heavens above the Garland Desert. Another flash of light brightened the night sky. Concerned, he entered the main shaft of the Florentine Claim. The mines were once rich in high-grade industrial diamonds, but the quality was worsening the deeper they dug, along with the quantity. The mines now were barely profitable and close to being played out. This suited Garaduk. Two guards at the entrance to the shaft turned to face Garaduk as he entered, and were promptly cut down by two of his retinue. The guards had to turn to face the entrance, they were directing their attention inward to keep the miners from stealing, rather than intruders from the outside. This too, suited Garaduk. He led his entourage onwards to the last elevator in the main shaft, after signaling for two of his servants to strip the keys from the guards.

 

The last elevator was the only one still in operation, and furthest from the entry of the mine. As he walked to the end of the main shaft, Garaduk looked to his entourage to see how they were acting before he did what he came here to do. The cultists he had gathered from the desert tribes acted fervent in their faith and resolve, muttering hysterical prayers that some of them had inelegantly conceived. Beneath the surface of their open displays of allegiance to Garaduk's patron, was a deep and consuming fear of that same patron, the Grandfather of Plague. The cultists were praying that Nurgle would have mercy on them, and relive the suffering of their own disease ridden bodies. Selfish fools, everyone of them. They were willing to share their "gifts" of Nurgle with potentially everyone on their world, in the misguided belief that they could save themselves. Foolish, for Grandfather Nurgle was a loving god, and he would not want to see these cultists leave his embrace.

 

Beside the cultists, were the survivors of Garaduk's retinue, the Astartes of the Vulture Raptor Cult. They were as happy as can be, even joking on private vox channels. They were but a different breed of selfish fools as far as Garaduk was concerned. They had given themselves over to the Lord of Rot in exchange for power. They were willing to do anything for their god, with the hope that he would reward them for their obedience. It mattered not what Nurgle asked, they would unquestioningly comply. Although they were Garaduk's most powerful minions, like the cultists, they were naught but slaves to their god.

 

As always, Garaduk was accompanied by a cloud of flies. They served as a living banner to proclaim for all the allegiance of the one they pestered. Garaduk himself was most often the intended audience of that message. After a fashion, he was no different than the other slaves of Nurgle in his retinue, but at times at least, he was disobedient one, and the flies were there to remind him of his master. So was his moniker, "One-Eye". The eye that had been shot out in Callebra Hive had never healed, and rejected every implant, sorcerous or technological, in spite of his super human regenerative capabilities. The wound served as a lasting reminder of his disobedience to his god, but Garaduk intended to use that reminder for another purpose here in the mines.

 

They reached the last elevator and brought it up. An irate foreman, armored in some antique jack of layered bronze scales and wielding a badly sparking shock whip, was cursing at the unscheduled rise of his lift. Cursing until he saw the one-eyed giant of Captain Garaduk towering all the way to the ceiling of the shaft in his black and gold armor. The foreman let his whip fall, and briefly considered drawing his sidearm, but either fear or wisdom stayed his hand. His paralysis was as meaningless as any futile gesture he might make with the pistol, for Garaduk merely picked him up by the collar of his jack and tossed him back to his cultists for interrogation. He then looked over the lift.

 

The lift was old and in a dangerously poor state of repair, but still functional enough for bringing up carts of ore. More importantly, it had all of the mine's lines bundled together in a brass pipe attached to the lift mechanism. There were water lines to cool the drills and quench the thirst of the miners, their were two power lines, one for the strings of lamps hung at the vein, and the other for running the power tools the miners used. There was a gas extraction line, to suction off dangerous gasses exposed during digging, and most importantly, an oxygen intake line to pump fresh oxygen to the bottom of the mine. Captain Garaduk signaled Nezzor, the champion of his retinue, to get to work on the lines. Within moments the gas extract line was spliced into the oxygen intake line, and Garaduk had removed one of the shrunken heads from his belt that served as his plague grenades. With his lighting claw, he ground the grenade down into dust, and fed the dust into the spliced line. This was just the foundation of the plague he was building.

 

Garaduk commanded his cultists to return the foreman to him. The foreman was still alive, but wishing he wasn't. Eager to please, the cultists had tried to extract whatever secrets the foreman might have kept. They were unsubtle in their methods. Garaduk was not interested in information, the foreman would serve another purpose. He appraised the foreman with his single, experienced, eye. The middle aged, slightly paunchy man was roughly thrown to the floor before him, wincing as his battered knees struck the dirt. The foreman's fingers were curled and torn, each one broken in multiple places. He bled from numerous shallow wounds, but not with life threatening severity. The face of the foreman was a bloody pulp, with one of his own eyes completely bruised over. The beaten foreman looked up at Garaduk with hope in his eye, Garaduk chuckled a little at that. One Eye knew that this foreman was more scared than hurt in his presence, but also hopeful, at least for a quick death. Garaduk would have to dissuade this fool of his unfounded hope.

 

Years of learning what people were made of, and what they were capable of in the extreme, had led Garaduk to be a master of the human will. The beating of the foreman might be enough to break him into divulging his deepest darkest secrets, but it was not enough for the foreman to lose sight of what his fate would be, and that there was no way he was going to walk away from Captain Garaduk. The foreman was hopeful that the one eyed captain would kill him and end his torment. To that end, the foreman was presenting his throat and waiting for the death blow to come. Instead, Garaduk picked him up by his exposed throat and brought his face within inches of his black, horned, helm. With his freehand, Garaduk removed his helm and showed the foreman the eternally festering wound where one of his own eyes had once been. Whatever hope the foreman felt dribbled down his leg along with his dignity. Yet Garaduk didn't slay the foreman. He did far worse. He grabbed one of the foreman's broken fingers and stuck it into his own eye socket, the one that Nurgle had never allowed to heal. The foreman screamed and Garaduk read the signs, the dilating pupil, the quivering heart, the mental and physical breakdown of the foreman was complete. He read the same signs in his own body, and in spite of his indomitable will, he couldn't stifle a scream of his own. It felt as if the mortal's finger was touching every pain center of his brain. Finally, Garaduk removed the foreman's finger from his eye socket with a wet sound and a putrid odor, knowing the foreman's life would be measured in minutes from this point. The relief he felt from withdrawing the finger was so great it almost felt as if the wound had been healed. After a moment to recover, Garaduk threw his host into the lift, along with the guards' keys, and sent it down to the mines.

 

Garaduk's cultists, even his retinue, were in awe at what their captain had done. He told them to leave immediately, stealing nothing, and regroup back in the desert.

 

*******

 

Out in the desert, safely away from the Florentine Claim, Garaduk gathered his forces in the lee of a dune, watching the mines from a concealed position. They couldn't help but notice the continuing flashes from the heavens above the desert. Within minutes, miners started to leave the claim in heavily laden, and no doubt stolen eight wheelers. They scattered across every road and trail leading away from the desert back to civilization.

 

When the last of the miners had left, Champion Nezzor asked Garaduk what was the purpose of this raid. He hadn't cared beforehand, and was only idly curious now. Nevertheless, Garaduk One-Eye enlightened him, "Those flashing lights above this world are the assorted scavengers of the void; salvagers, rouge traders, pirates, and opportunists of all stripes are picking over the battlefield of our last victory over the loyalists. Before long, one of them will decide to see what is happening down here, and what they can exploit. When that happens, the loyalists dogs who still have the Shield will try to flee the system aboard one of their ships. I have prevented that from happening. I have just unleashed a plague, blessed by Nurgle, unto this world the likes the Imperium has not felt in ages. I have infected the worse sort of miners, self-serving scum that are used to hiding from society, and will spread the plague far and wide before caught. None of those profiteers will be making planetfall as soon as word of the spreading disease reaches their ears. Make no mistake Nezzor, I will kill every living thing on this planet just to keep the Shield from slipping from my grasp."

Edited May 8, 2017 by Carrack

[Kierdale]

Carrack, thank you for your entry in Inspirational Friday: The Ends Justify The Means.

I thoroughly enjoyed your piece, Eye to the Heavens. At first I was unsure about it – how was poisoning one mine going to top an Inquisitorial Exterminatus? – but Nezzor’s questioning of Garaduk revealed the true implications of the act. Great stuff.

Sadly it seems no one else could come up with any tales of big-scale mayhem. Not even I! I had a couple of ideas floating about but a busy couple of weeks meant that I didn’t have chance to work on them into anything useable.

Here ends Inspirational Friday: The Ends Justify The Means 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 tenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2017:

The Witch

The rogue or unsanctioned psyker.

The human mind is a tender fruit, ripe for corruption and consumption by the denizens of the Warp, or perhaps one might be strong enough, burn brightly enough, to draw the attention and favour of one of the Gods: to amuse them and become their pawn for a time, perhaps even allowed to dream of elevation to daemonhood.

In this IF theme we look at the Witch: be they an Imperial psyker that has gone wild, pushed too far or been corrupted, or one who was never discovered by one of the Black Ships. Perhaps they discovered their abilities of their own accord, were tutored by others of their ilk (well-meaning or otherwise) or were corrupted by a voice from beyond the veil. What are their goals, their desires, their powers? Who are their foes and allies, and what fate awaits them?

Tell us this time a tale of the Witch.

Inspirational Friday: The Witch runs until the 26th of May.

Let us be inspired.

And not only us of the Chaos Space Marines forum, for I have also posted invitations in the Lost and the Damned forum and that of the Black Templars (the latter apparently having something of an issue with witches, or so I hear...).

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

That there was only one entry notwithstanding, Carrack’s story was well written, crafted, and built to a very good ending.

Carrack, step forth and claim your prize:

[Viddik]

Hello all. I'd like to take part in this challenge. I hope I am doing this right. This is my entry for THE WITCH.

 

T'saii knew little of the God-Emperor. Sure there was a cathedral in Bayur, the village not more than 30 yalms away, but T'saii's father never forced them to attend. His father would split the head of a grox with his hammer and say between heavy breaths as he cleaned & dressed the animal, "This blood here, this hard work, all the offerings the immortal God-Emperor needs from simple folk like us."

He'd then slap the back of T'saii's neck and urge him to get the bucket, double time. Wasted blood means less blood pudding after all.

 

This was T'saii's life. His family and their farm. Only the cloying stench of grox manure and piss to keep him company.

 

And the headaches.

 

And the nose bleeds.

 

He quickly placed the bucket under the ruined head of the beast, whose belly had already been opened deftly by his father's knife. Organs and slabs of beef dropped into the bucket with an audible splash.

 

T'saii stared out, away as his mother called it. He strained to listen; he thought he heard something carrying on the wind. All that met him was the whistle of the breeze, and that thrum in his mind growing denser.

 

 

Late that night as his family slept, T'saii shuffled out of their home and made for the provisions silo. Had his father seen him, he'd surely beat him within an inch of his life - the grain and offal within was not to be touched by any but the Baron's men, who arrived at the end of every cycle to take 80% as tithe. Of that T'saii understood the Baron and his men only kept 20%, the rest going to the planetary Governor. These crops belonged to the God-Emperor, and all in the Imperium ate what he allowed.

T'saii payed no mind to this as he tapped the activation runes upon the console in order. With a small chime of acknowlegement the silo door slid open, and T'saii entered, shutting it behind him.

 

Palms pressed to temples that felt on the verge of fracturing, T'saii screamed through clenched teeth. The sound did not escape the plasteel walls, even as those very walls trembled at the force uncoiling in the boy's mind.

 

When this episode passed, T'saii slept. Usually after such episodes he was plagued by nightmares of what would happen if his family or the nearby villagers came to realize he was wyrd. He would dream of being burned alive as a heretic in the town square, a sacrifice on the pyre to the God-Emperor. Even worse was the dreams of what he had only seen twice in his life yet knew on some level was his innevitable fate - the black ships that would silently appear in the sky, only to leave with their terrible cargo.

 

This night however, T'saii dreamt of none of these things. Trembling from pain ans exhaustion, T'saii found in the darkness of sleep the sound of fluttering wings awaiting him.

It almost sounded like laughing.

 

 

"Come lad! Enough dawdling," T'saii's father chastized him. For a moment the boy feared his father knew where he slept the night before - perhaps woke to find him not in his room. Alas, his current behaviour said this was not the case. Instead he was focused, and panicked, by something else.

From the stables ahead he could hear his mother cry out to his father, "Stayven, please hurry! Something is wrong with Myrna!"

 

T'saii swallowed hard. Myrna was the family's prize broodmare. If something befell her the family would lose a valuable asset - one his mother came to personally adore. At times, thought T'saii, more than himself.

This had been no normal pregnancy for the old girl, but she was strong and had never given a stillbirth. So what graced the family that day drained the blood from all their faces.

Myrna lay upon her side, one eye staring upward, barely blinking; a motionless pond at midnight. Her flank raised and lowered erratically. Nearby in the straw layed her offspring. Shrieking. From both its tiny mouths. T'saii's father covered his mouth with the back of his hand in horror and revulsion. "Lauren fetch me rifle and make it quick! This horse is unnatural. Taint is on it!"

T'saii's mother handed his father the rifle, and silently he fired twice. Once for the malformed colt and once for the suffering mother.

The three of them sat in silent horror.

"Has someone cursed our land Stayven? Have we crossed someone wicked?"

T'saii's father took his wife's trembling hand in his. His other hand went to his son's, almost crushing it.

"Things happen is all," he said quiety. "The boy and I will bury the remains and we'll not speak of this. We still have our grox cattle to draw from."

 

That night, deep within the silo after another episode, T'saii dreamt of the woods beyond the farm. He dreamt of a great darkness spreading out from within it, smothering him and everything he knew.

 

It was a few weeks later, just as things began to calm, that T'saii's mother told her husband that something was wrong with the hydro-processor.

Both the boy and his father ran through the various safeguards and filter-checkpoints. Everything seemed working as intended. Only when they turned it on and twisted the nearby faucet did they see the water. It ran black - so black you couldn't see through it - the surface catching the light in a myriad of shifting colors.

T'saii croaked the words through dry lips, "Dad... the water's gone sour."

A sharp 'SHH!' left his father before he abruptly turned the faucet and shut down the processor entirely.

"Not a word to your mother until I can summon a repairman from Bayur. We'll draw on the reserves for now."

T'saii barely heard his father's words. His migraines had been getting progressively worse. Earlier and earlier he's been sneaking to the silo, each episode longer and more intense. It felt like his mind was on fire, the blood seeping from his nose and gums copious enough he'd taken to burying his night clothes. He felt incandescent on these nights - as if he was a torch in the darkness.

 

As he slept, T'saii dreamt of a city before him. One that had spires that went upwards forever. Walls and towers of obsidian, that reflected purple and blue and red as the light hit it. High above it's colossal doorway was a single, unblinking eye, massive in size and as blue as the clearest sky. T'saii felt it was staring into him and seeing his secret places. T'saii turned away, only to find somehow the city was -still- before him.

 

And ever closer.

 

Above the towering eye, a bird as black as death perched and regarded him with the same scrutinizing stare before it took flight and swooped down towards him....

 

T'saii awoke, and was horrified to find it was by his arm-clock mid-day. Panicked at the thought of his parents frantically searching for him, he stepped out of the silo.

Despite the time, it was darker than sunfall. As dark as the darkest night.

The air smelled -wrong- somehow. Terribly -wrong-. He put one foot out carefully into the dark, then the other. The ground gave beneath the soles of his bare feet. He furrowed his brows at the sensation. Eventually his toes brushed across something course yet slick protruding from the ground.

It moved.

T'saii tried to scream but no sound left him. Light of various hues pulsed out of the ground. Out of the trees. The thing he had touched he now saw was the side of a grox -melted- into the hard packed soil somehow. Nearby, the trees glowed blue as lightning crackled out of them, upward into the sky as branches melted like candles.

He saw his father crawling from around the side of the house. He was sobbing. He was afraid.

"T'sa..."

The words were cut off as a large form landed atop of him. Armored and winged. T'saii could hear his father's spine give under the weight of the being with a wet crunch. The thing unfurled it's black-feathered wings like some terrible angel and drive one gauntleted fist downward. Armor turned to ivory flesh and bone in seconds as the creature drove it's newly formed talon through the back of his fathers head, dragging the serrated blades downward, opening his body fully to the unnatural night sky.

T'saii stood, silent. Partially in shock. Partially in understanding.

The others came. All shifting their power armored forms as they saw fit. Black helmets with balefire red eye lenses cracking and melting away, revealing alabaster faces with vacant obsidian eyes meeting his gaze. T'saii swallowed, and nodded.

"I'm ready," he said without opening his mouth.

They responded in kind, as one yet many voices in his head.

 

"Ẃἔ'vἔ вἔἔᾗ łὄὄќἷᾗʛ ғὄʀ ẏὄὗ..."

 

By the time Nikos Bolvai the Third, planetary governor of Ynnen had recieved the report of potential taint in the duchy of Baron Stavros it was too late. The world itself had somehow changed into a shifting ball of maisma. Of screaming living tissue and molten core. What populace the planet had was now a roiling storm of morbidity. From his orbital station Nikos sent the report that would no doubt reach His Inquisition, and summarily put the laspistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. Better that end than interrogation at the hands of the Ordos.

The planet would be declared Exterminatus, and Inquisitors from both the Hereticus and Malleus branches would argue about whose juristiction this was and what it all meant. If maybe this unimportant planet was just too close to the newly formed gash of unreality dividing the galaxy. Most of them in their natural lifetime would not see the long term effects the loss of this planet would have for its System, or the fate of the unchecked psyker who would end up part of a traitor Legion that was not supposed to be...

 

- The End

Edited May 15, 2017 by Viddik

[T-Rock]

A Black Templar's take on the prompt.

 

I believed once. I believed in the omniscient power of the false emperor. I believed in the insurmountable might of his Imperium. I believed in the strength of mankind—but I believe no longer. We are fools. I was a fool. Humanity is nothing more than a speck in the great abyss of eternity. We are but mewling children lost in endless darkness. We are naked in our ignorance; blind to the precipice before us. Our God is a corpse on a throne of gold. Our Empire is a crumbling monument to our failure. Our end will not be one of glory or defiance. Nothing awaits us but the slow rot of decay.

 

But not Pyrriah! I will not allow my dearest Pyrriah to die in silent ignominy. I will spare her the suffering. I will purge her in hellfire. Only then may she to be reborn. Only then may she survive the days to come.

 

Only in darkness may we find illumination.

Only in destruction may we find salvation

Only in death may we find strength

All power demands sacrifice. And pain.

 

*       *      *
 

Brother Chaplain Letholdus had committed these words to memory. He used them as kindling. They stoked the flame of his hate. They fueled the furnace of his righteous zeal. It had been two days since he first saw them in his pict stream, written in blood on the wall of a padded cell. The witch should have been never been detained. She should’ve been purged on sight. The warp is a poison chalice, and those that drink from it invite their damnation. There is no hope for their redemption. They offer nothing but lies and heresy. The Black Templar understood this better than most, and none more than Letholdus.

 

In total, only nine knights remained on Pyrriah, remnants of the Promethia Crusade. They were to pacify remaining pockets of heretical resistance as well as establish a chapter keep to begin recruiting potential aspirants. Though not a glorious task, one each initiate took with on with grave severity. Their preparations would wait however, until the rogue witch burned.

 

The chaplain’s voxfeed hummed to life.

 

"Our sweep of the militarum barracks is complete, Brother Letholdus. There is no sign of the witch," a voice crackled across the vox.

 

"Affirmative," he clicked in reply.

 

"Be wary, Amalric. Our enemies hide in shadows even our ocular enhancements cannot pierce. Darkness is the witch’s bridegroom. Our zeal must light the path."

 

"Our faith is our shield," Amalric intoned. "Relocating to rendezvous point beta now. Awaiting your instruction."

 

"Hold position at beta until I arrive. Letholdus out"

 

The vox feed went out in a wash of static and the Chaplain motioned for his squad to move out.

 

Their search of the militarum base had been equal parts slow and methodical. Though the very existence of the witch boiled the Templar's blood, rage fueled haste would not be a boon in their search. It had taken them an entire day to sweep the western quadrant of the camp, and they had not found a single trace of their quarry. Letholdus could feel his knight's impatience. It simmered in the chilled night air. A single building remained in the western compound, positioned between the muster hall and rows of barracks. It was identical to every other structure around it, save a rusted imperial aquila jutting up from its shingled roof. As he walked towards it, Amalrich and his crusaders appeared from behind one of the barracks. They nodded at one another and approached the large, double iron doors.

 

Anticipation scratched at the corners of Letholdus’ mind. The initiates flanking them had already drawn their bolters, chains clinking as they were pulled close. The heavy, oxidized doors were foreboding, as if withholding secrets from the world outside—but there were no secrets a member of the reclusiarchy feared. The boot of his MKIV armor kicked open the door, and they were immediately bathed in light.

 

It was a simple chapel, with several rows of pews and a dais opposite the door. Offerings and trinkets were placed around an alter shaped in the visage of the God Emperor. The initiates filed inside, the muzzle of their bolters searching every inch of space within. There was no crevice, room, or alcove that could hide the witch. The chapel was a single chamber, still lit by a flickering holo-light and some fake electric candles. The building was empty.

 

Naclides, the newest of their recently acquired neophytes, groaned. Letholdus began to chide him, but Amalrich beat him to it.

 

“Temper your battle lust with discipline, neo—" the thoom of a firestorm pattern shotgun blasted against the Sword Brother’s helmet, shredding through the ceramite and careening him across the chapel. Letholdus turned. The look on Naclides's face was one of horror and pain. His movements were unnatural as he struggled against his own body. He danced as though unseen strings moved him like a marionette.  His groan grew to a bubbling cry, until it was silenced by the Chaplain’s crozius. The holy relic crunched the neophytes unarmored skull in a single blow.

 

Suddenly, the chapel was filled with swirling shapes, as fiends from the warp flooded the chamber.

 

“Smite now the scions of the witch!” Letholdus roared, carrying the momentum of his first swing in to a lunging demon. The bark of bolter rounds joined in his chorus, as they fought back the shifting tide of warp spawn. From their midst, the outline of a female form took shape, floating above them, brazen in her naked blasphemy.

 

“Grant us the strength to pierce their unclean flesh!” a crusader boomed, charging towards her. For a shining moment, it looked as though he would sever her in two, but his power sword exploded in his hands, inches before it made contact. The impact sent the knight sprawling. Letholdus fought through the press of demon’s towards the witch, thirsting for vengeance.

 

“To cover their fields with the pale form of the blasphemous dead! To drown the thunder of guns with the shriek of their dying!” He squeezed of round after round from his bolt pistol, tearing through the demons assailing his brothers.

 

“To lay waste to their citadels with hurricanes of fire!” a crusader bellowed, evaporating a fiend with his melta gun.

 

“To wring the hearts of their kin with unavailing grief! Another answered, his chain sword whirring through the flesh of his foe.

 

“To send them into the waste of their desolate land in rags and hunger!” Letholdus growled, deflecting the notched blade of a hissing demon with his pauldron. He saw the knight to his left get pulled down under the weight of flashing claws and gnashing teeth. The witch cackled, hurling orbs of fire at another crusader, his plate exploding in flames. The remaining crusaders joined shoulder to shoulder next to Letholdus.

 

“Broken in spirit, worn with travail”  they chanted as the witch focused her fell sorcery on them. Their blood boiled, but they pressed on. “And begging for the refuge of the grave!” The remaining crusaders faltered in unison, their helms folding in on themselves, crumpling at the psychic weight.

 

 Veins throbbed at the witch's temple as she redoubled her effort. Sweat poured off her shaved brow. She shrieked in inhuman elation—but Letholdus would not be undone

 

The heat seared the chaplain’s skin. The acrid smell of his own burnt flesh stung his nostrils. His eyes began to flicker. He reached deep within, pulling from the wells of hate he had stored for the mutant, heretic, and witch. In a final act he channeled all of his zeal in to one final, righteous swing.

 

“We ask it, in the spirit of wrath, O Master of Mankind!”

 

And the  Crozius Arcanum, the symbol of his faith and tool of the emperor’s will, answered his prayer with blood.

Edited May 19, 2017 by T-Rock

[TheOneTrueZon]

I bring a tale from the Templars, unlike you have ever heard of before...

 

Pt 1 - Nightmares

The nightmares never stop. The reek of dried blood, human and orc, hung in the air as the constant reminder of bad death. The din of battle fogs the sound, but the great weight of the nightmares shakes the ground. Tells of it’s coming, inevitable, inescapable. It smells the fear, piss and sh*t from our battered defenses. From the choking smoke of ruin they come loping with red eyes wild with rage. The berserk do not suffer the timid, and to see them run drives them madder still. The nightmares come faster and faster. They are on them now. On her. Friends gurgle screams suddenly from choking throats filled with their own blood. They are consumed, they are trampled into gristle, they are nothing but dried blood on hard cold ground.

 

The sound of the next cycle’s reverie yanked Nakano from her uneasy sleep. Even now, with a bolt pistol hanging from it’s holster inches away, lying in the berth of a Black Ship surrounded by Black Templar Marines, the nightmares still came to her. The searing anger that knotted up behind her chest every time she thought of those invading Orcs filled her waking life. It seemed fitting that they should haunt her in sleep as well. She had convinced herself that it was just a fact of life now, that there would be no cure for the horror she fought through. The lives lost and friends killed before her eyes, helpless. Sorrow into anger, anger into rage, rage into sorrow again. She begged for the sorrow to leave, but keep the anger, keep the rage. She wanted to save that for her revenge someday. And as she thought all this, she was going through the routine of squaring away her bunk, getting dressed for training and standing to attention as their Astarte trainer, Brother Marius, entered to begin their regimen. But her thoughts betrayed her, and as she dwelt upon the past her face became aware of suddenly contacting the floor. The pain soon followed as her vision went white for a moment, followed by the bellow of Marius.

“Neophyte Nakano, you were 1.2 seconds late in coming to attention when I commanded. Get up.”

Holding tightly to her will, desperately trying not to groan, she picked herself off the cold plasteel floor that bore her offering of blood.

“You mind wanders Nakano,” Marius continued once she was standing, “you lack focus, and it will kill you if I don’t do it first.”

And then he was gone, turned and walking away down the line inspecting the rest of the neophytes in line.

“Today we begin with a walk, move out!”

To Brother Marius, a walk was a brisk run that lapped the Aegis Deus three times, followed by drills, then tactical analysis, more drills, study of historical battles, then close combat drills, sometimes a class by Valdena. Somewhere in there they fit in shoving down protein packs and hydrating on stale recycled water when they weren’t field stripping bolters. At the end of the cycle Nakano was finally allowed to report to the apothecary. A minor topical for the swelling and a chewable to re-set the teeth Marius shook loose when he shoved her to the floor.

 

The neophytes in her cycle had one time unit to themselves before lights out. Vicca had rigged an old console readout to display video feed from the archives, tonight her and few others were watching battle cams of a massive LRC spearhead from M39 taking on 5 orc gargants. Nakano was lying on her bunk staring at the ceiling, the sedatives from the topical turning the burning ache of her face into a dull tingle. Xin walked up and sat on the edge of her kit case and gave her a smirk.

“Brother Marius has it out for you.”
“Don’t I know it,” she answered slowly through the haze of pain killer. The sound of cheers came from those watching the vid as a gargant exploded gloriously.

“When you wake up, it’s hard not to see how you look at cycle-start. Like you just went to war again,” he trailed off for a moment, lost in his own thoughts and memories, “you need to know that you probably saved more of our lives than the ones lost in Helsreach. At least among us. If we make it through training we’ll have every chance to get back at the greenskins. But you have to make it out of here first, hear me?” He patted her on the shoulder and managed a smile, “nod if you can understand what I’m saying.”

Nakano nodded slightly, and mumbled back a terse thanks and rolled her back to him, ending the conversation. More cheers from the vid watchers. She heard Xin walking away and then let out a low sigh as she let her mind drift against her better judgement, not sure if it was the sedatives or her subconscious, and thought back.

 

One does not brag about being from Helsreach. Not even before the first invasion. It mattered only because of its output, of its measure of production, not the wealth of population. Yet from that brutal grind came greatness. Nakano came from the Daughters of the Emperors Hope Orphanage, like many of her current companions & survivors. Plucked from the street by those silent nuns, she found herself in good like-minded company. Supposedly born under a bad sign, a child unwanted, all abandoned and shunned for one reason or another. No one knew how the members of this peculiar order came to Helsreach, but they seemed to have always been there in the background, minding their own business, tending to the little. Perhaps they were small enough that no one ever thought to pay attention to them. Nakano never heard the headmistresses ever utter a single word, not even in anger. Her ancillaries themselves only ever spoke in dire consequences. And in the months before the invasion which would alter Helsreach forever, their mysterious disappearance confused her all the more. Did they leave because they knew what was coming? Then why leave all their adopted children behind? Could they really have been actual Sisters of Silence?

 

Nakano knew there would be little she’d ever be able to know for sure. The more she learned the less certain she became of everything. She had been so confident before the war, so self-assured from growing up under the strong hand of her caretakers. Even when the walls of Helsreach fell, her garrison held and fought longer than most. And then the Inquisitor, Valdena. What an odd lot she turned out to be. Now it seemed all too convenient, her showing up just before the invasion. The stranger in the big hat came to the garrison commander. Plainly commanded she would be attached to their unit to observe. Observation quickly turned into fighting, and then leading as the chain of command whittled away. Many times she was saved by the many tricks and weapons of the Ordo Hereticus, stuff unlike anything she’d ever seen. Inquisitor Valdena saved lives, led well, and in the end saved as many as she could given the circumstances. Gave them a second chance at life, and possibly vengeance. But now Nakano wondered why, why save this group of orphans and outcasts. Blanks. A new word, one she sensed she’d better get used to. It was all happening too quickly for her, all too unreal. One moment clinging on for dear life shooting xenos point blank in the face, scooped up by Stormravens, brought upon the Eternal Crusader itself before being processed and boarding the Aegis Deus and offered a chance to be a Black Templar. Before the orcs came she had never seen the Adeptus Astartes except on badly compressed vids of some distant world fighting a war for people she’d never know or care about. The moment she saw them first hand is etched into her mind forever.

 

The wall in their sector breached two days after the first section fell. Their garrison was slowly getting parts of other PDF groups falling back. Two slabs of rockcrete had fallen perfectly in front of Bunker 83-B to make a formidable kill zone. The orcs had no other way get at the bulkhead to the underground sanctuary where millions waited out the war. There were few options other than bringing the entire block down on them, which would deny them the slaughter they so deeply desired. Three waves tried to crash through the gap. Three times they held. The orc numbers seemed unending, but the focused barrage on the choke point held them back for a time. The withering fire wore down the gap, the the rent bodies began to pile so high it began to give the wretched beasts a means of cover. The fourth wave was different, and now they faced the terror of greenskin armor. A lone Lehman Russ Vanquisher took five scrap-tanks down before suffering a fatal strike that popped it’s turret off like a toy. The garrison’s fire superiority was gone, and the defenses began to give way to the pummeling of artillery. Suddenly the lead orc tank erupted into a fireball of intense heat, raw iron peeling back in orange melting sheets. Through the billowing smoke five black figures screamed through the air. Landing before the gap, the Assault Marines took a defensive position while the Sergeant came before the garrison and called out to whoever was in command. Valdena came forward and exchanged some quick words before a signal from his battle brothers turned his attention back to the gap. Another wave incoming. Incensed at the destruction of their battle wagons, the orcs were now in an all-out frenzy for revenge. The lead Marine called out to the Inquisitor, pointing at our garrison.

“This position can hold. We will take their charge head-on, give us suppressing fire!”

Hi bolt pistol drawn and chainsword primed, he took to the air in a quick burst, was through the gap and with his troops. They all turned to face the coming wave, and they looked among each other. Nakano wondered what they were saying in that moment before they charged.

 

She picked up her lasgun and charged through the gap, her compatriots of the garrison behind her, and Inquisitor Valdena running at her side. A bolt of silver gleamed in the Inquisitor's Condemnor combi-bolter as the group passed through firey ruins, past the mouth of the gap and into the street full of broken carnage. Nakano could see both ends of the block choked with the ruins of armor, the north end was the orcs, the south was the smoldering ruin of a IG blockade. The Marines were almost upon the orcs when Valdena began shouting orders.

“Nakano, take your squad and cover the east side of the street, don’t let the Marines get flanked!”

Valdena turned to her Nakano’s friend, Herod, and started to tell his squad to cover the west side when he suddenly burst into a cloud of red mist. Valdena dove for cover and turned back to the stunned volunteers.

“Don’t stop! MOVE! Cover their flanks, go, GO!” she screamed.

Valdena was dancing among the tracers getting the garrison in position as the orcs began to pile past the rubble of their tanks. Only then did the adrenaline truly kick in, and time slowed just enough that Nakano watched the Marines in a brief glimmer of a glorious moment of battle. Such brutal, precise poetry. No movement wasted, every strike placed for maximum effect. They cut the orcs like paper, parried and fired bolt pistols with a grace she had never known possible. Sparks flew from the glancing hits upon the black armor, now stained with the thick oil of xeno blood. Still the orcs pressed, Nakano called out targets and with each trigger pull prayed to the Emperor that they’d survive the day. The group protecting the west flank took a direct hit from a grenade and was no longer there. The invaders saw their chance and charged the right flank hard. The inquisitor saw it too. A gold orb with a blue flashing light took a high arc towards the oncoming swarm, and burst into a white cloud. The orcs at the front of the charge stopped in their tracks, suddenly befuddled. Valdena had used a psychotrope grenade, and the beasts began to turn on each other. The ones who got the gas turned and raged at the others behind them, causing a moment of chaos that the Marines seized all too gladly.

“Now’s our chance, mow them down!” Valdena commanded with renewed hope.

Nakano’s aim was true, as was her company. Soon, the tide had turned. The final stroke came as two Baneblades came upon the fight as they sought the fate of the fallen blockade, and quickly turned the remains of the orc charge into pulp.

The Marines didn’t linger.

“You fought well Inquisitor, though your methods lack honor.”

Typical Marine, Valdena thought. Always something.

“If the result is dead xenos, I’m all for it. Your honor is well intact, Battle Brother. Where does the war take you next?”

“The war is everywhere Inquisitor, you waste time with such questions.”
“Wait, can you give Grimaldus my report as I requested?”

The Marine stood quiet for a moment, Valdena wondered what would come next.

“I cannot raise him on vox. We take our leave. Fight on Inquisitor.”

Nakano watched as Valdena spoke to the Marine, the Templar standing more than a foot taller than her. The unflinching bravery of the Inquisitor was amazing to Nakano. Being able to speak to such warriors would have left her speechless before such might.

As the Marines strode away to the next fight, one of the Baneblade commanders came to Valdena.

“You’re in command here?”, he seemed unphased by the presence of the Ordo Hereticus.

“Yes, I am High Inquisitor Valdena of the Ordo Hereticus.”

The commander stiffened slightly and remembered his place.

“How can I serve the Inquisition,” he said plainly.

“Report, what’s the status of this sector.”

“We’re falling back on all fronts. The docks are falling, but there’s word more Marines dropped into that area and are holding. Our orders are to defend this position at all costs. Reinforcements from two other armored divisions are en route. We’re turning this choke point into a stronghold. By the Emperor we’re going to make them pay.”

The commander and Valdena talked more details as the ground beneath them began to tremble. The Guard commander sprinted back to his tank in a panic, Nakano overheard him yelling into his vox trying to find out if it was a friendly titan or not. Valdena looked worried for the first time. A xeno titan this far into the Hive spelled a certain kind of doom for them all. A moment later the legs of a Warhound strode by a block south of their position. Their perimeter guard had arrived.

 

Pt 2 - Fire from the Sky

Kulik knew the signs, remembered the words the seer-men whisper in ears.

 

Always watch for fire from the sky,

Bringing terrors black and brazen,

Keen to make all kinfolk die,

From them there is no haven.

 

“What luck! What wondrous luck!”, he greedily thought to himself. Wandering the mountain vale, he saw the fire in the sky. Four streaks of fire falling in perfect harmony, passing over his head and disappearing behind the peak.

“I must tell the Seer! Oh what luck! I will be blessed a million times over! What luck, what luck!”, he cheered aloud bounding along the boulders of a riverbed. Though Kulik had many miles to travel, his glee of witnessing prophecy come true gave him unnatural speed. It was not long before he was at the gates. Two brutes stood guard before the massive logs bound together to form a crude barricade. The encampment it protected served as the base camp leading up to the mountain fortress.

His approach at speed caught the guards unaware, and they came at Kulik with a start.

“Running up on us in the night you maggot!?”, one of them barked as a barbed club rose to strike.

“The fire, the fire, the fire in the sky! Did you see? Did any of you see?”, ranted Kulik, hopping excitedly with a gleeful grin, unaware the brutes were about to test the crush resistance of his skull. But at his words, the guards blinked, looked at each other and before they could realize Kulik was already past them and in the camp. He was screaming now, waking the whole camp in the dead of night.

“Fire from the sky! Fire from the sky! Blessed are the seers, it is true! Fire from the sky!”

Shaz the seer emerged, a burning rage on his painted face, war staff in hand. He caught sight of the interloper and immediately flattened Kulik to the ground with a flick of his staff.

“Filth! You disturb my meditations!” seethed Shaz, and with another flick of his staff he brought Kulik into the air and slammed him down into the dirt with an audible snap and pop of bones, but Kulik was laughing all the while.

“Yes, YES! A million blessings upon me! The seer must hear, listen! Listen to me now seer!” he coughed up blood but continued, “the fire in the sky, it has come. I saw it fall to the east of the great mountain. Terrors black and brazen come! Fire in the sky!”

Shaz stopped the force that was slowly crushing the life out the wretch before him. Could it be true? The prophecy had been told for so long. Or could this ghost of a man be out of his mind from eating too much mountain moss. No matter, he realized, it was not for him to decide. He called for three runners.

“Leave now for the wall, get to the grand seer and give him the message that fire in the sky has been seen to the east,” the runners stared at him for a moment in shock, “Go! Now!” Shaz roared. The runners scrambled away, knowing their lives well depended on it.

Shaz looked back at the groveling Kulik, who was looking up at him with a bloody toothy grin.

“I have saved us seer, I bring the word, I bring word of the fire. Bless me please! Please please please bless me!”

“So be it,” Shaz calmly replied, and with an outstretched hand above Kulik’s head, felt the warp surge come through him as a bolt of purple laced through his arm and into his hand, cleanly vaporizing Kulik’s head. The decapitated body slumped over as a wisp of smoke drifted from the charred neck stump. Shaz kicked the body away from him into a nearby campfire and looked to the gathering on lookers.

“A sacrifice to our glory! Blood for the blood gods! Fire from the sky comes to test us. To war my kin! TO WAR!”

The runners could hear the cries of slaughter as the war drums sounded behind them. By dawn’s break they would be at the peak to deliver the message.

 

And at the dawn the first runner made it before the massive walls of the ancient fortress, a mountain onto itself. For over a hundred years since the first of their people came upon it, they have struggled to gain entry, discover it’s secrets. The great seer must have felt their approach, for he stood awaiting them at the perimeter of the encampment. With ragged breath the runner gave the word of fire in the sky. The great seer turned to his host of followers and gave a wild cry.

“The prophecy is upon us! Make the preparations with haste, do not fail me now or I will be your death. The dark ones have promised to guide us by their hand!” The grand seer made way back to his sanctum, the largest of the tents, adorned with the skulls of many sacrifices and those who failed him. Once alone he drew out an ornate oval box, a design beyond the skill of any craftsmen of this world. Passed down to all the great seers by either blood or age, they all knew what to do if the time of the prophecy was at hand. He felt the pull of the clasp as the void-chant of awakening unlocked the seals that safely kept the relic from prying hands. The jewel inside was of the darkest obsidian, save for a faint swirling inner glow that pulsed crimson. Holding it in his hand, the seer regarded it for but a moment before throwing it to the ground and shattering into a million tiny shards. They slowly dissolved into a black mist that rose into a lithe humanoid form with angled features. Whispers filled the grand seer as his world turned into a vortex of shadow.

“Death comes for you seer,” a female voice hissed, “that which is hidden can see many secrets. Let death back into it’s home, and we will come to claim it and give you new life”.

The mist dissolved, and the grand seer fell to his knees as blood ran from his eyes and nose.

“I shall remain hidden as my dark lords command.”

 

Xicala rose from her trance, languishing in the dark confines of the spire in Commorragh that has served as her self imposed prison for the three centuries. Waiting in a restless slumber, letting her murderous soul drift through the nightmares of the webway, dreaming of a revenge most sweet. Finally the signal stone sent word, the time had come to claim the key to finding the craftworld that would be her greatest prize. The only thing that stood between her and the prize was a fortress monastery filled with those reviled Black Templars. Luckily she had an entire planet filled with murderous psyker cultists to throw at them until she arrived.

 

Pt 3 - The Chaplain Cometh

Brother Marius walked in step behind Reclusiarch Grimaldus into a secured annex nested deep within the ship’s chapel. The few holy relics that the Aegis Deus housed awaited their use. A black sword on a stone dais carved into the Imperial Aquila, the ancient blade hungry for war. Relic armor from Holy Terra, bourne into countless battles hung secured in an ornate nave behind the sword. A battered banner bearing the crest of the Armageddon Crusade, draped upon a sculpture of Dorn. Before the banner, Grimaldus bowed his deathly visage in silent remembrance and prayer for his fallen brethren, a memory still far too near. Marius mirrored the Reclusiarch, chanted a silent devotional with a bowed head, and waited. Grimaldus then looked to the sword, and then to Marius.

“Someone from this Crusade will bear the sword and armor of the Emperor's Champion.”

Grimaldus took a few strides around the dais, regarding the blade, now standing across from Marius.

“Will you accept whoever is chosen?”

Without hesitation Marius responded a simple, “Yes Reclusiarch”.

“Ah, but your lack of hesitation gives away your true intention.”

“I do not understand, please tell me how I have misled you Reclusiarch,” Marius answered, his tone unsure.

“In your reports, you believe that these Neophytes are not worthy of our mark.”

“Training progresses well Reclusiarch, but without actual testing of their abilities these Neophytes cannot become Astarte. Training upon this ship cannot continue indefinitely.”

Grimaldus turned suddenly to the wall behind him and depressed a glyph carved in high gothic. Marius was still shrouded in a fog trying to understand what the Reclusiarch was doing.

Grimaldus turned back to the sword and Marius, holding in his hand an ornate data cube bearing the sigils of a holy relic from the Eternal Crusader. Marius quickly made the sign of the templar cross with his gauntlets.

“Brother Marius, can you tell me why we’re here, in orbit around this planet?”

“I am here to serve our Lord Commanders will, if it is the honor for me to know the designs of the High Marshall, enlighten me Reclusiarch.”

Grimaldus lofted the cube into the air and at it’s zenith, instead of falling it hung silently, slowly rotating on it’s center axis. In a quick burst of blue light, a hologram of a sphere grew from the cube, snapped out and enlarged becoming a detailed planetary map.

“Until now you have known this as Theta 517, the fourth planet of 12 in this binary system.”

Grimaldus touched a coastline on the northwestern hemisphere and the holo zoomed into a topographical map. Marius instantly recognized a familiar profile. A mountainous shoreline that rose out of an ocean bluff that rose above the cloud line, a solitary, massive horizontal cut was visible on the largest of the peaks, adorned with battlements and strong points of a Templar chapter house.

“This is the system of Hephaestion, and this is a Chapter stronghold that once served as garrison to this system, and has lain dormant for nearly four thousand years.”

“Why was it abandoned?”

“The crusade which served here was called to hunt the Xeno presence that once threatened this system. They were purged but not after they had destroyed much of what was of any worth. After our brethren left to pursue and purge the fleeing filth, most of the population of the inhabitable worlds, Hephaestion III & IV, moved on as well.”

Marius looked about the planetary map and saw the faint lines of old superhighways and two ruined hives further inland. Indeed the diaspora after invasion left the worlds to fallow, but not dead enough to forsake all life. Among the carcass of civilization feral tribes arose, the traces of territories and crude fortresses resolved in the holo-image.

“Enough time has passed that the remnants of those left behind have turned into a cult of pskyers. Hardly of any consequence, but they have recently discovered the existence of our Chapter house.”

The holo abruptly shrank back into the cube, and it slowly descended back into the waiting hand of Grimaldus.

“I will accept no desecration of our house.”

The deathmask of the Reclusiarch was focused intently on Marius now.

“You have been training the Crusade which will cleanse our holy site, and prepare it for use as an active Chapter house.”

Marius looked back upon the Reclusiarch with pride.

“We will make ready Reclusiarch, shall I inform Marshall MacLaren of our orders?”

“The Marshall has his orders, however you have not been introduced to the Reclusiarch who will accompany you planetside. I being recalled the Eternal Crusader.”

As if on cue, heavy steps echoed behind Marius, who turned to see who approached.

The towering mass of starless black night moved forward into the dim light of the annex. The Chaplin stopped before him, a full foot taller in ornate Terminator armor adorned with grand scrolls and seals. A voice deep and resonant rumbled from the vox.

“I am Reclusiarch S’dain, Brother Marius.”

He looked from Marius to the black sword and stepped before it.

“This sword is truly of ancient Terra, a blade with billion souls upon its edge.”

Grimaldus and S’dain looked to each other.

“The rites will be performed in due time, as it will be my honor”, S’dain said, “Though if what you say is indeed true, Brother Grimaldus, it will be a miracle of faith for a Pariah to receive a holy vision from our Emperor.”

“Surely it will be one of the ordained Initiates that will receive the vision, all tested and true. Until the Neophytes pass the final rites there is no chance of such a thing,” Marius said assuredly.

Grimaldus gave the slightest of nods and replied, “The light of the Emperor shines through us all Brother S’dain, I find it curious to see if these Pariahs can be touched as well, as they say the Sisters of Silence once were.”

S’dain openly scoffed, “Tales and stories, which can make their legend no more real. These Neophytes will have only their training to see them through the trials of blood,” he looked at Marius, “If you have taught them sufficiently, that is.”

Marius was not accustomed to critique, but before a Reclusiarch he would permit no trespass which would cause any doubt.

“The Chapter hold will be reclaimed, the Initiates of our Crusade leading them have seen wars on many fronts, there is no failure to be had here.”

Grimaldus interjected before the exchange became any more heated.

“I am to depart shortly. I leave the command of the Reclusiasm to you S’dain. Marius, begin preparations for an aerial assault.”

Grimaldus stepped from the annex and left the two in an uncomfortable silence which hung for many moments before S'dain took his leave, but not before be spoke his peace.

“Do not delude yourself Brother, I am here to save this Crusade from itself should it prove necessary.”

Marius looked squarely at S’dain.

“You have just arrived, have you not? In time these Neophytes, Reclusiarch S’dain, will only surprise you my lord.”

Marius snapped into a brisk salute, as the Reclusiarch made his way out of the annex, and as he passed, offered his final remark of the meeting.

“Brother Marius, I will only be surprised if any of these Pariahs make it past the first day ground side.”

 

Pt 4 - Groundside

The drop from orbit wasn’t unlike the simulations she had run a thousand times already. The imperceptible click of the release clamps, the pod turning over to internal power, the lights turning deep red. There was almost no sensation of falling for a few moments other than her internals counting the falling altitude and rising velocity. Neophyte Nakano heard the voice of the mission commander, Brother Marius, over general coms.

“Ten seconds to atmo re-entry. Com discipline until all squads disembark.”

Nakano looked across to the Initiate opposite her as the restraints locked down. She couldn’t tell what Brother Dromor was thinking behind the red lenses of his MkVII “Crusader” variant helm, but she was sure nothing would please him more than to see her fail. He had said those exact words mere moments after her initiation into the rank of Neophyte. Once they were alone, he quickly grasped her by the throat, easily lifting her off the deck and held her against the cold bulkhead. She tried not to make a sound but his grip would surely break her neck if any tighter. As her last breath gurgled out between clenched teeth, she looked into the impassive eyes of the Templar and saw no emotion in his face as he spoke.

“Know this, mutant. It would be an honor to end your miserable life. But I will not disobey my orders or my Marshall, such is the depth of my devotion to our Templar order. MY order. I will train you as any other. But you will fail, and have wasted our time and efforts. And for that it will be I who will end you. Believing otherwise will deny you a good death.”

He released his hold and Nakano fell hard to the deck, gasping for breath on her hands and knees. But only for a moment, and with a painful groan she pulled herself up to her feet, looked up with every bit of will and defiance to meet Dromor in the eye. Her voice was nothing more than a rasp.

“Yes my lord.”

“Combat training in the great hall in 10,” Dromor ordered. Nakano saluted and followed as the Initiate turned and double timed out of the inner sanctum.

 

The silence of the drop pod quickly escalated into the din of re-entry. Her headset automatically shielding her newly enhanced ears from the sound as the turbulence hit. The upper atmosphere of Hephaestion is dense, twice that of Terra. The shocks that hit the hull of the pod were hard, and her internal readouts were showing multiple lightning strikes had landed while passing through the stratosphere. The five second timer popped up in her field of view, warning of the retro burn before making landfall. Her harness gripped even tighter, taking her back again to that moment of Dromor personally accrediting the fate he would deliver. Her vision narrowed as the G-forces crushed down as the retro-burn initiated, the tunnel of black in her vision turning red, then suddenly released as the pod made contact. All the while the feed line to her neck was pumping stability stims to keep her heart from collapsing, neo-blood pumping and enhanced lungs breathing. A sweeping sensation of ice covered her body as the adrenaline boosters kicked in. The world rushed back into focus, the restraints popping open and without any thought Nakano was out the hatch and beginning to secure the drop site. The five pairs of Initiates and Neophytes got visual confirmation of the other three pod landing sites, all roughly a click apart. It was now a race to see who would reach their positions first.

The four teams would approach the fortress from the opposite side and recon the base of the mountain while staying out of sight. Two squads would then cover each flank of the fortress when the main frontal assault takes place. The Reclusiarch chose to arrive in full Templar style with a strike team in Stormravens loaded for bear.

 

The scout squads had landed just before dawn. From their current position they had one full local cycle, about thirty hours, to cover the forty kilometers of thick woods and ascend the mountain, all without alerting a soul. The pace was hardly daunting to the Neophytes after the endless laps around the Aegis Deus. Though outwardly calm, all of the recruits shared an elation to have a sky overhead, and a far horizon after being confined to the ship since leaving Armageddon. Through the forest they loped silently, the Neophytes finally getting a true taste of their new limits, thanks to the first phases they have undergone. With newfound stamina they moved ever closer to far edge of the mountain, where the true test would begin.

 

The summit of the mountain fortress was 7,107 meters above sea-level. But still they advanced unhindered, reaching the perimeter of the summit and within unassisted sight of the fortress itself just before first light of the second cycle. Nakano’s squad was second the reach the summit, and felt the tinge of bitterness for the retribution she’ll receive from Dromor once back on the Aegis for not being first. IF she makes it back to the Aegis. To her it seemed as if the Initiate would at any moment kick her off the closest cliff in order to unburden himself of her presence. Surely he could attest to any number of things that would justify his actions, but since his first and only threat to her life, he was like any other Initiate in the squad. Our orders were always clear, but all things Astarte carries a certain level of complexity. The four squads formed the over watch for the assault team. All the Neophytes were armed with standard issue sniper rifles, the Initiates watched and observed as spotters, approving or correcting how the Neophytes assessed the battlefield. Fields of fire were checked, zones assigned, and when the Sergeants from the four squads all agreed it was time, the strike was called in.

 

The alpha strike would be timed just before the Stormravens arrive. Nakano and the other Neophyte snipers tagged their targets on the perimeter. The tech level of the cultists was barely above the iron age, but in the twilight before the dawn all four squads were observing what looked to be hundreds of psykers in the camp. Some could be seen practicing throwing pyrotechnic witchfire into the night, as if they knew the Astarte were there and taunted them. Nakano almost believed they could see them. Though almost 800 meters away under the cover of a therm-optic camo cloak, she saw one of the savages peer directly at her, as if he was looking right back into her sights. She knew it to be impossible for someone to see them with the unassisted naked eye, but still the cultist held his gaze for many moments. With a thought she tagged that cultist as her first target once they were weapons free.

 

General coms opened back up and the order has come in.

“Assault team on approach. ETA ten minutes. Tag targets and stand by for alpha strike.”

Zones of red, green, blue and orange popped up in the Neophytes tactical overlay, tagged targets lit up Nakano’s field of vision. Two others in Nakano’s squad were making adjustments to their targeting pattern from the Initiates when she spotted something moving on the battlements of the fortress.

“Movement, outer wall on the northern battlements at my 10, verify,” Nakano announced on squad coms. Brother Dromor was at her side lying prone, his built-in optics zooming in on position. A moment later his feed cut out and switched to a direct line to the assault group, and Nakano knew why.

“Assault team, fortress AA defenses are coming online, repeat we have visual on a single defense cannon coming online and tracking your approach.”

 

Aboard the Stormraven “King David”, Reclusiarch S’dain heard Brother Dromors’ warning. The techmarine pilot Brother Carrus verified the transponder was working and broadcasting their ID. The fortress should recognize them as Templar, but the words of warning from Forgemaster Vauxo came back to S’dain, he knew that the fortress machine spirit would indeed test their faith.

“Take us in low Brother Carrus, the King David will see us to the front gate. Let it sing our arrival.”

 

The Reclusiarch answered over general coms.

“King David on hot approach. Initiate alpha strike.”

 

The morning was coming and Mukmuki was making his way to the front of the camp to gather a hunting party. The seers talked of invasion by black demons, and they badly needed supplies if they were to survive a siege. As he passed the outer huts, some cries came from the center of the camp, a grunt was pointing a finger to the battlements. Something was moving, a deep sound of metal whining in protest after long disuse, the groan like that of a beast sounding off deep within a cave. All eyes were upon it in the camp, the first they’ve ever seen of the fortress coming to life. More confusion as muffled screams began to rise from every direction. The air hissed. It was unlike anything Mukmuki seen. Pots and tents begin to dance, move and explode into pieces without explanation.  Another hunter was running flat out towards him, his face covered in blood, eyes wide and crazy. Mukmuki thought him to be in a trance, coming to kill him out of bloodlust, but he would never know for sure. A moment later the screaming bloody visage erupted into a cloud of fine red mist and chunks of shattered bone. Mukmuki was now the one covered in blood and brain matter, and fell back on his feet just in time to see another hunter running, looking over his shoulder in terror, suddenly thrown sideways as if a divine wind shoved him suddenly aside. Mukmuki saw that half of that hunter’s chest was gone as blood pumped a few last arcing geysers before the body stopped twitching. All around him, Mukmuki witnessed hunters exploding into bubbles of blood and organs, gurgling screams as some silent death befell the entire camp. He did not understand any of what was happening, and the terror grew as the fortress itself cried out. A thunder unlike any other screamed out into the morning sky with great streaks of flame. But again, Mukmuki was aghast as the chaos unfolded more agony as a rain of fire began to pour into the camp from the sky itself. He was curled into a ball, hands on his head, unable to hear his own screams over the sound of the beasts that now flew into view. Great black birds that cried out and breathed fire from their sides engulfed his field of view and rammed into his soft flesh with a wet slap. Mukmuki was now nothing more than a smear of torn flesh and gristle underneath the King David as it rammed through the encampment, grinding tents and cultists underneath until coming to a stop before the massive front gates.

 

The assault ramp lowered and S'dain strode forth as the Vanguard Sword Brothers began the sweep and clear of the area around the main gate. The Reclusiarch swept his storm bolter in wide arcs firing incendiary rounds that engulfed fleeing cultists completely. The other two Stormravens had landed to either side, one of them taking significant damage to it's port side from the AA battery, but nothing the techmarines cannot fix another day, their only task now was to coax the ancient fortress to admit them.

 

The scout squads were recalled from their positions and advanced to link up with the main assault force. The devastation of the camp had been complete, little was left that couldn’t simply be kicked over and left to rot, but such is not the Templar way. Flamers were being distributed when the scout squads arrived before the front gate. Nakano regarded the massive construct with awe. Brother Carrus, his Neophyte Varia and two other techmarines were beginning to pry open the sealed access panels to interface with the fortress when one of his auxiliary sensors picked up an anomaly. Varia noticed his attention turning away from the interface.

“What is it my lord?”, she inquired, cautiously looking over the open field before gate.

“Abnormal subterranean harmonics and thermal readings in the field…” Carrus replied.

With a start his servo harness went into defense mode, also sensing the rising danger.

His voice quickly came over general coms.

“Prepare for counter-attack, defensive positions Brothers!”

The metallic snap of bolters being primed rung out as Initiates, Sword Brother and Neophyte alike turned to the open field, seeing nothing.

“Report, what comes to us Brother Carrus,” Reclusiarch S’Dain responded.

“My passive sonar is picking up voids and heat signatures in the rock below us.”

Though no one could see, beneath the skull helm, S’Dain was smiling.

“Brothers! Our quarry has gone to ground. Search pattern Delta - find the holes they’re hiding in and bring them light and fire to the darkness.”

 

But the cultists weren’t waiting any longer. Once the attack upon them had begun, those who remembered the teachings of the seers found their way as quickly as they could to the tunnels below. Many, many moons ago, when Ogir was nothing but a grunt, the first men on the mountain tried to dig around the wall. Tried, and failed, as the walls were too thick, too deep, and often too dangerous to find ingress. But the tunnels served them well as shelter, and ample space to make for an ambush. Now Ogir was a seer, second only to the grand seer himself, and tasked to driving out the demons to the last man. They drew closer, heavy footfalls of the black demons approaching accompanied by the screams of those consumed in the fires they sent into the tunnels. Ogir held his fist high, and the scores of cultists in the tunnel behind him summoned their will. His fist dropped, and silently they charged forth into the daylight.

 

Each techmarine was leading combined forces of the assault team and scout squads. Using Brother Carrus’ sonar settings, each tech was now able to scan the ground for the openings which led to the tunnels. Most were covered with crude planks that served as floor boards for the destroyed huts. The openings were too small for an Astarte to fit through, Promethium had no problem turning the crawl spaces into ovens. The cultists didn’t even have time enough to scream before being consumed.

 

S’Dain was at the front of search formation, his internal optics searching for heat patterns below, but the rock of this mountain was solid granite, laced with rare metals that were scattering his scans. A flit of movement caught his eye to the right, and another Initiate called out the movement as well. Then came the surge.

 

A writhing mass of cultists poured from the tunnel opening hurling witchfire in every direction. With little to no cover, the Templars were in the open. Nakano began picking off targets quickly, the din of their firepower grew as the other Initiates and Neophytes began focusing fire on the tunnel opening. Sword Brothers armed with chainswords and power axes now charged into their midst, cleaving into the mass of bodies. The cultists were beginning to pile up, the ones still fighting using the fallen as cover. The screeching bolts of fire and ice began to take their toll. An Initiate was stuck with the unnatural fire square upon the breastplate and knocked solidly to the ground. A Neophyte screamed as a bolt consumed her arm and set the flesh aflame to the bone. S’Dain was in full force, his storm bolter turning all before him into pulp, witchfire igniting the seals and scrolls adorning his Terminator armor. A cultist stood taller than the others, covered in bones and feathers, it looked to be some sort of shaman. The Reclusiarch brought his aim around, but not soon enough.

 

Ogir saw the skull faced demon at the front of the black tide that was tearing them apart. He drew every last fiber of his essence, the hate, the fear, all of the darkness he held and felt it burn within him. It reached out, begging to consume the skull demons life. His hands forward and outstretched, the incantation flowed through him and the beam of witchfire blazed forth with the power of a lascannon. But something was wrong, a sick feeling shot through him as his power was drained from him, next to the skull demon, another ran before it, a woman, face raging, eyes set upon him with murderous intent. He felt her pulling his power away, draining his will before he had a chance to use it. Rage took him, and all went red.

 

Nakano saw the cultist preparing his attack, the lessons learned from Inquisitor Valdena rang true. She knew the psyker was about to strike, and the Reclusiarch was only just turning to face it.

“My lord, look out!” Nakano shouted to S’Dain, but it was too late. The bright flicker at the cultists fingertips exploded in a beam of writhing green energy, in that moment she met eyes with Ogir and saw the fear that suddenly washed over his face. She was in front of S’Dain now, bringing her bolt pistol level with the cultists head.

 

S’Dain saw the bolt forming and braced for the hit just as movement to his right brought Neophyte Nakano in front of him. He knew it was too late but still he swung the storm bolter towards Ogir. The beam lanced toward them, but instead of impaling them with dark energy the beam fragmented against Nakano, splitting into a million little sparks and fading into nothing.

 

Nakano didn’t know what had happened, only that she was still standing with a pistol aimed directly at the head of her assailant. The cultists’ eyes were wide with confusion, but only for a moment, for Ogir then knew nothing but darkness as Nakano put a round through his skull.

[Honda]

Eternal Flame

 

 

+++

 

His world was smoke and pain.

 

And endless thirst.

 

He would have licked his lips except that they were among the extremities that no longer existed. For a brief moment, he almost laughed at the thought, for even if he had lips, there was nothing with which to lick them. His tongue had been reduced to an ashen and charred lump deep in his throat.

 

Great sheets of pain washed over his body, his muscles constricting like a writhing nest of snakes, tearing from their ligaments in a continuous scream.

 

Except, screaming was no longer possible. His throat had long since given up the ability to produce sound when his lungs were cauterized by the heat. The loss of his vocal cords had passed without notice shortly after.

 

Again, pain...white like the sun, unending, unbearable, unyielding.

 

Aexulwraith had thought he had stopped being able to feel eons ago, but within seconds, a new wave crashed over his entirety, ravishing his desiccated  flesh before eventually blasting the sheets of ash and blackened skin, muscle, and sinew to the roaring winds.

 

Eternity unwound in mere seconds.

 

+++

 

By what measure he had been brought low, he could not ascertain.

 

When he had finally become more aware of his surroundings, it was clear that he was no longer in the bowels of the hive, nor the walls of his Temple, perhaps not even on his planet.

 

A flash of anxiety caused perspiration to form on his brow, which then ran annoyingly into his eyes. The position of his head was fixed, only rapid blinking allowing some of the stinging sweat to roll down his cheeks.

 

There was a pounding ache at the base of his skull, which made thinking difficult. It was as if his thoughts had to crawl through layers of gauze to reach the light of his conscious mind. That same gauze also seemed to screen out the thoughts of others, which began to frighten him. He had never known a time in his life when wasn't able to hear what others were thinking. Puzzled, he wondered  what unseen force could cause this impairment? It wasn't a chemical agent, his metabolism was no longer subject to anything so primitive, yet something was interfering with his ability to tap into his power, the power that had always allowed him to change the reality of those around him...and there had been millions within his hive.

 

Squinting between the greasy hanks of hair masking his eyes, allowed him to see who his captors were.

 

They were giants, clad in armor as black as night, yet bearing shoulders of white with crosses. Not a word was exchanged between them. They stood in silence, a half circle of iron in front of him, large caliber weapons leveled at his person.

 

Ordinarily, he would have laughed, for their attempted demonstration of strength would only have allowed him to effortlessly twist them into smears of bloody jelly and metal debris. Yet despite his repeated attempts, nothing would manifest.

 

Still they were foolish not to fear him. Did they not understand what he was?

 

One of the giants approached him, grabbing his hair and brutally yanking his head back, exposing his pupil-less eyes to a bank of harsh lights and forcing a pained grunt from deep within him.

 

Instinctively, he responded by reaching out with his powers to melt the brain of his tormentor, but this thought was immediately interrupted by a blindingly cold chill driven into his temples. The giant behaved as if nothing untoward had happened.

 

Soon a nagging uncertainty, a doubt began growing in his heart. The feeling that now "his" reality had changed and that he was no longer at the apex of an existence that revolved around him. Somehow he had fallen. He was no longer a god, the object of worship by millions. In fact, it appeared that he was not even the most powerful being in his immediate surroundings.

 

A second giant came forward.

 

He was clad differently than the others. He only wore black with a stylized skeletal face for a helm and it was obvious that the rest of the giants clearly deferred to him.

 

The voice that emanated from his helmet was a deep rumbling, growl, like distant thunder.

 

"Your end has come. We are here to remove you and the blight that you represent to the Imperium of Man. Your heresy will not be allowed to continue."

 

+++

 

For a moment I was silent, then I spit in his face. I realized that the effect was lost on someone within a helm such as he, yet gestures are important. I had to regain the initiative.

 

I gathered my strength and hissed, "You cannot end the likes of me. I...am...eternal! I cannot die, I no longer exist exclusively upon this plane you fool, I am beyond your reach!"

 

Looking around with my eyes, "Do you see all this? These restraints, these surroundings, all of this will be gone and I will still continue. Even you. I shall dance upon your pitiful grave, spitting on you again in triumph. I will never cease, never end, NEVER!"

 

For many moments there was silence.

 

As if finally arriving at a decision, the skeleton faced giant calmly replied, "I suspect that you shall discover that "never" is a very long time."

 

+++

 

The hood was violently yanked from his head.

 

As his eyes adjusted to the blinding light, he became aware of a multitude of dark metallic, conical jets surrounding him.

 

"W-what is this?"

 

The skeleton faced giant appeared in his field of vision replying, "This? This is eternity...your eternity."

 

Aexulwraith stammered, "w-what do you mean?"

 

The giant continued, "I must admit that I was intrigued by your challenge. I have not confronted one such as you before. Your ability to completely heal from apparently severe injuries is quite impressive, quite beyond the norm for humans."

 

"Which caused me to wonder, how long is this restorative...witchcraft able to continue? I suspect that neither of us truly knows. I am determined to find out."

 

"Shortly, the jets surrounding you will ignite and continuously bath you in flames. By my command, this flame is to never extinguish. Ever.

 

"Should my service to the Emperor end, my replacement will be responsible for ensuring that no interruption occur in the flow of promethium so that the flame will continue. His replacement as well."

 

"There will be no end."

 

"In short, the flame shall be eternal as well."

 

Stunned, Aexulwraith looked at the exhaust jets in panic.

 

"And now, I leave you to...eternity."

[Othniel's Blade]

Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaang, Honda.

[Trevak Dal]

Yeah being perpetual/perpetual-ish is awesome until something like that, or being buried alive, or being used as a food source, or being used as a Astartes replacement platform (repeatedly harvesting Astartes organs).

 

Death can be an escape-unless you are perpetual.

[Kierdale]

Manifestation

Hidden Content

 

"Reinhardt, what do you believe happens after we die?"

The inquistor's voice: a warm, rich accent that often softened people's natural defences. Defences they put up as soon as the tall man strode into a room, and defences which hardened -born of fear- should he display the palm electoo of his Ordo: the image of a witch bound to a breaking wheel, their body cut and burned - indeed digital flames danced and swayed upon the heretic's kindling flesh. Upon the figure's chest was branded the icon of the Inquisition.

"My faith in the God Emperor is impeccable, master." The armoured figure sat opposite his master in the shuttle's shaking cabin bowed his helmed head and stroked the stock of his bolt gun where he himself had carved prayers to the Master of Mankind. Entreaties to make his aim true. All the better to slay the heretic and the traitor.

The shuttle bucked as it was caught by a turbulence, and seemed to plummet a hundred meters or more before the pilot servitors got it into a steady decent once more.

Inquisitor Tobias Fen let out a hearty laugh, unperturbed by their ride's rolling and shimmying.

"Of course, my man. Who if not I would know had you transgressed? But my question was not a test of your piety. I merely inquired as to what fate you believe awaits us after we depart this mortal coil?"

Reinhardt, a man of laws and violence, frowned at the florid language and the invitation to ponder. It was not the first time the inquisitor had posed such a curious question and the enforcer was pleased he wore his helmet, its full-face mask hiding his expression, though he did not doubt his master sensed his uncomfortableness nonetheless. He leaned forward, letting out a grunt as the injury in his side pulled tight. A souvenir of their last mission. He hoped his master did not hear it over the sound of the engines. "The God Emperor protects, master. In this life and the next."

"Then you believe there is life after this?"

Reinhardt shrugged, carefully. "I send your foes to meet their makers. If He is pleased with me, I believe I will be rewarded when my time comes."

"Then you seek reward? You are motivated by greed? An all-too common human weakness," An edge crept into Fen's voice now and Reinhardt knew his master had chosen that last word carefully, knowing it would cut the warrior's pride. Had he noticed that Reinhardt favoured his left side? He has told the inquisitor that he was fully healed and mission-worthy.

"No," he quickly replied.

"Then explain yourself. Can I trust one who might disobey an order and instead choose an action he perceived might grant him the favour of a deity in an unproven afterlife?"

Reinhardt unbuckled himself from his restraints with a speed which betrayed his decades of service in the Scions, injury be damned. That speed had aided him in escaping more than one Valkyrie crash. He prostrated himself on the shaking deck before his master, his bolt gun held up before him for his master to take and do with him as he wished. Fen had not flinched at the sudden movement.

"Your loyalty is to me, Reinhardt. And through me to the God-Emperor. Service to Him is its own reward. Be seated."

Once his bondsman had secured himself once more Fen's smile returned.

"I haven't handled a bolt gun in some time but I am aware it's inadvisable to discharge one aboard a small shuttle such as this. Flagellate yourself, Reinhardt, upon the completion of our mission. Purge yourself of such greed and baseless beliefs."

Moments of silence passed.

"Might I enquire as to the nature of our mission, master?"

"You believe in an afterlife," Fen held up a hand to stall the enforcer's protestations. "What then of ghosts?"

 

 

A glance out of the shuttle's portholes shewed naught but endless fields crisscrossed by canals. Another glance an hour later might trick one into believing that they had not progressed and that the vessel was stationary, for the landscape would not have changed. Horae III was an agriworld, a basket which fed the Imperium's masses. It also fed its armies with a steady stream of fit youths, hardened by toil, who made fine Guardsmen. The Fulcrumese regiments - Horae III was too minor a world, too lacking in status for it to be worthy of granting its name to the regiments it founded. No, they were shipped out in their millions and their regiments were founded on Fulcrum, capital of their sector.

Two such regiments - thousands of souls - had recently seen combat against the twisted, fell denizens of the Empyrean and their mortal pawns on Chiari Prime. Inquisitor Tobias Fen had not taken part in the fighting but he had no doubt that one from the Ordo Malleus would have had his or her hand in the defence of that world and the crushing of the daemonic incursion. He had read reports of the war and had nodded approvingly that the commander in chief had directed one of the Guard regiments against those foes who had turned from the God Emperor's light and one regiment against the warp spawn. Fortunate that such had been possible to some degree. Blessings upon him or her. The latter regiment had, after its victory, been understandably executed under the guise of decontamination, while the former regiment had received blessings from their priests, a purging for the occasional trooper within whose head too many questions formed, and eventual reassignment. The busy mind did not ponder. Did not question.

None had returned to their birth world, nor were ever likely to.

And yet there had been reports here of the sighting of a guardsman, and of the nightly visitation of a spectre.

A ghost.

 

Fen fingered the gilt Aquila which hung from the brass torc around his neck as he explained that he suspected it to be nothing more than a deserter from the surviving regiment, having somehow found their way home -seeking reunion with family or loved ones perhaps- abandoning their regiment and their duty to the saviour God-Emperor. But there was also the possibility that it was a survivor from the executed regiment. One who had gone missing during the fighting. That this individual might bring word of the horrors it had seen, or Terra forbid: corruption, could not be risked.

 

 

The inquisitor overrode the planet's lone traffic controller, who had insisted the shuttle make port at the planet's capital city - likely on orders from the governor wanting to make the acquaintance of a member of the Emperor's Most Holy Orders. Instead he had ordered the hardwired pilot to bring them down right in the square of Arym, one of countless unremarkable towns scattered across the planet. The location of the sightings. The town itself was small, barely three kilometres in diameter, with most of the registered citizenry living and working in the farms stretching across the countryside around it. Those buildings here in the town were dedicated to trade, refreshment and entertainment. And as with human settlements since the beginning of time, at its centre was a fane.

Men, women and children ran as the shuttle came low over the thatched rooftops and slowly lowered itself to the ground. No doubt few had ever seen vehicles which were not pulled by animals, let alone witnessed the landing of a trans-atmospheric craft.

Thus inquisitor Fen and his bodyguard made their entrance.

 

Some of the gathered rabble of townspeople had blackpowder rifles and they soon lowered their weapons when he announced that he was an agent of the God-Emperor and parted his robes to expose the electoo of the enthroned Master of Mankind upon the pale flesh of his own chest.

This made foreheads touch the dirt and none rose until he bid them do so.

He soon learned that the highest authority within Arym was the priest (not a pawn of the governor, he was pleased to hear) but was then disappointed at the news that the preacher, one father Edmunce, had perished of a pox a season earlier. Requests for a replacement had been dispatched to the capital, to no response.

"He dead, nor even old maid Eophe been able to save 'im."

Eophe was apparently the town's closest answer to an apothecary. An kindly old woman who mixed potions from the local herbs. Likely little more than placeboes, he surmised. In time he would question her. Perhaps it was her concoctions responsible for the illusions.

He would question them all.

Though the sky was already darkening he announced that he would take up residence within the chapel, at father Edmunce's old abode, and then read a list of citizens registered to the town. A dozen families in total. Families whose members had served in the regiments that fought on Chiari Prime. Those to whom deserters might have returned.

"Should we not also summon those who have witnessed the phantom, master?" Reinhardt inquired as he looked about the unkempt interior of the chapel, sweeping his bolt gun back and forth, clearing the building by habit.

"Tomorrow, Reinhardt. For now I'll speak to those who may have seen the living. Not the dead."

Night had fallen by the time the families arrived. Simple peasants, they were unaccustomed to travelling at night, especially on account of recent events in Arym. Fen had them wait in the chapel nave, setting them the task of clearing it up.

"Instil a little more piety in them. I fear their faith has grown slack. Father Edmunce's spirit be damned, this place is decrepit!" Fen muttered under his breath as he took in the unkempt interior of the chapel. The stained glass windows were dulled with layers of dust and grime so thick that their imagery was twisted.

Reinhardt kept watch on them, not allowing them to converse, and Fen took them one by one into the vestry where he interviewed them.

 

 

Reinhardt's eyes snapped toward the narthex - the entrance to the church - at the sound of commotion from outside, followed by a peasant running in, saying not a word before they darted off to one side into the bell tower, the peal of bells coming a second later.

The enforcer was twice the man's size and hauled him from the ropes with ease.

"The wraith! The wraith is come!"

"MASTER!"

 

 

A family who lived toward the middle of the town had been visited. While the children and the husband had been unable to give useful accounts between bouts of sobbing and begging for blessings, the wife had managed to describe a humanoid form wreathed in blue fire, helmed and carrying a long weapon across his back. She had noted that it had strode through the door with ease, seemingly searching the house, room by room, and had only paused when it had found her daughters. She had screamed at it, banishing it in the name of the God-Emperor and it had disappeared.

"Lies, master?" Reinhardt joined the inquisitor upon the porch of the townhouse as Fen lit his pipe, looking to the sun as it rose in the west.

"No. She speaks the truth, or as she understands it to be." Reinhardt knew not whether his master was truly blessed with the Sight - Fen had neither confirmed nor denied it and it was not Reinhardt's position to ask - or was simply skilled at reading people, but he was rarely wrong.

"What of the families of the guardsmen?"

Fen sucked at his pipe, a long, carved piece of xenos bone, and shook his head. "I managed to interview all but one of the families before this morning's interruption. I will return to the chapel and finish with them now, but I fear this is not a case of a deserter returning home."

 

The last family proved fruitless, as did interviews with many of the traders and the tavernkeeper (lest his brews be responsible for the sightings), but for more tales of a lone phantasm roaming the town at night, searching houses.

Reinhardt looked at his master sat at the preacher's desk, his face drawn, bags under his eyes. "What of the sightings of a guardsman, master?"

"Our intel was incorrect, it appears," Fen shrugged. He then looked up, studying his bodyguard. "How many times have bested you in combat, Reinhardt?"

The sudden change in topic was not unusual for Fen, but still caused the Reinhardt to tilt his head to a side.

"Never, master."

"I fear we may be confined to Arym for some time. I would not have my bodyguard's skills blunted by inactivity," he said this as he rose from his desk, motioning toward the enclosed courtyard at the rear of the church.

Reinhardt smiled, "master, you are tired. Perhaps after a rest?"

"I can think of nothing better than combat to wake one up."

"The town square then? Let the citizens know their protectors are strong." Reinhardt asked this as a test.

"I think the courtyard, out of sight, for now."

He knows. He knows I am not fit.

 

"Unarmed?" Reinhardt asked, watching the inquisitor unbuckle his holster and its attached knife sheath and lay them on the grass by the wall. The courtyard was surrounded by high walls decorated with faded, chipped mosaics. On one wall an image of the Imperial Guard: the hammer of the Emperor. The artist had likely been from Horae as the guardsmen bore Fulcrumese banners but some also held unofficial banners incorporating their regimental iconography with other symbols such as scythes and sickles. Reminders of home.

On another was a crude representation of Adeptus Astartes, but who could blame the artist for likely he or she had never lain eyes upon one of the Emperor's Angels of Death. Few did, and those who did were both honoured and damned, for the space marines brought death and destruction wherever they trod.

The third showed the priesthood of Mars with red-robes cyborgs tending to the machinery common to agri-worlds: gigantic harvesters and processors, anointing the installed servitors with unguents and holy oils.

And the final shewed images of priests of the Imperial Creed, bringing the Emperor's light to all of Mankind. It drove back the darkness, made the crops grow, it parted the clouds, cured the illnesses of the depicted peasants and brought smiles to the faces of the masses.

"Aye, unarmed," Fen answered. "If we are accosted by the spectre in the night we may find ourselves unarmed."

This elicited a grunt from Reinhardt. He was never unarmed. He was never without a weapon close to hand and even stripped naked his limbs were deadly. He made a ceremony of laying down his own arms: carefully laying his bolt gun before the image of the Mechanicum priests and saying a prayer over it. He drew a huge knife from the sheath upon his thigh and lay it before the Astartes in remembrance of who had gifted him it, and before the image of the Guard he lay his old service-issue laspistol, a pair of las-derringers, shock-nucks, a garrotte and a punch-dagger.

"Naught for the Creed?"

Reinhardt almost mistook Fen's words as a reference to that great commander before realising his master referred to the Imperial religion.

"Only this," he said, making an Aquila salute over his heart.

The inquisitor nodded approvingly, "then let us begin."

 

Tobias Fen was a good student. He had learned from the inquisitors he had served as an acolyte, and from those he had served alongside: crusaders, assassins, priests and more. He had learned the face of Chaos in a bound daemonhost. And from his own bodyguard he had learned much of the pugilistic arts.

In perfect health Reinhardt would have taught his master yet another lesson -never to let the enemy find you unarmed- with his superior strength and speed, but it was soon evident that his left ribs were not yet fully healed. Yet neither spoke of it. Fen hammered them with kicks and bodyblows until they broke more and Reinhardt spat blood, but neither would speak of it. It was either punishment for his deception, a test of his resistance to pain, or both.

"Enough," Fen announced. Both still stood, though both were bruised, cut and panting.

"Get yourself to the apothecary. Have her tend to your injuries," the inquisitor ordered. "And check her out. Report back to me tonight."

Reinhardt picked up on something in that last sentence. "Tonight?"

"Aye. We're going ghost hunting."

 

 

The apothecarion was a small hovel in a backstreet just off from Arym's main square. A single storey, he estimated it could consist of no more than a couple of rooms, and he was right. The wooden door creaked open to reveal a small shoppe dimly lit by glow-globes, with a curtain separating it from what he assumed to be a combined sleeping area, living quarters and kitchen, thickly woven carpets covering every inch of the stone floor. The walls were lined with shelves upon which were various herbs and the bottled body parts of animals. The smell was repugnant. Had whatever pox that had taken father Edmunce infected the room he was treated in?

His discovery of a withered corpse in a chair in the corner confirmed this until the corpse shifted, withered hands raising to part its lank silver hair and reveal the face of an old crone not quite dead.

"So one of the offworlders visits old Eophe at last."

As she tended to his injuries, batting his hands and questions away as she daubed his bruised chest with salves, they were joined by a young girl from the living quarters, no more than five standard years he estimated. Her eyes were wary but when he threw a casual salute to her her bright smile and the sheer energy of her youth brought a smile to the old soldier's face.

"Your granddaughter?"

Eophe shook her head. "My charge," she said in a low voice. "Girtle, dear, put on the kettle for mister Reinhardt here."

When the girl had gone once more she continued.

"I must thank you. She has not smiled since her father was shipped out and her mother fell to the pox."

"Shipped out?"

"Indeed," the crone nodded. "He was drafted. The last founding. The Emperor's armies suck our world of our strongest, our fittest."

"So that they might protect you and other worlds," Reinhardt put in, firmly.

The woman tilted her head her head diffidently and continued, "Girtle became an orphan. I took her in. She is young, but I teach her my craft."

Reinhardt was about to inquire more until he noticed that his pains and aches, even the feeling of a couple of rib-ends grinding together, was gone.

Eophe smiled. "The pain is gone, but you need time to heal. You need rest."

"That is unlikely."

"You have a harsh master." As she worked he had told her a little of his master, keeping to facts he deemed safe to let slip.

Reinhardt closed his bodysuit as he rose, not wincing as he did so for the first time in weeks.

He turned to find Girtle had returned and was watching him from the doorway, her face framed by her curling blonde hair.

"I too am an orphan, Girtle. Raised in the Schola Progenium, to worship our God-Emperor and serve him," the warrior smiled. "May you too grow up to serve your master well," he nodded to Eophe. Or at least until she croaks it, kid, which might not be long.

 

 

Night fell and inquisitor and enforcer patrolled the moonlit streets of Arym, Fen with a lantern in one hand, the other hand free though never far from the holster of his laspistol, and Reinhardt with his bolt gun and darkscope googles on though pushed up onto his forehead. The moonlight was sufficient. They separated to cover more ground, keeping in contact via comms.

The locals had not taken well to the inquisitor's insisting that the tavern close early until he had commented that they would do better to go home and pray for the God-Emperor's protection through the night. Thus the town was soon quiet but for the whispered chanting they could hear as they passed houses.

Reinhardt stopped under the eaves of one building to take a swig from his canteen -filled with a healing draught Eophe had pressed into his hand upon his departure from her shoppe. He could hear chanting from within but could not make out the words. These people spoke a strange dialect of Low Imperial Gothic he had to strain to catch the words of at best of times. Still, better they prayed than drank.

Boots.

A soldier since he had been old enough to aim a rifle, Reinhardt knew the tread of boots. The footfalls of a professional soldier, and one clad in better footwear than any of the Arym peasantry.

He raised his bolt gun and set off toward the sound emanating from a couple of streets over, triple-clicking his comm as he did so. He received a double click in response.

"South-west quarter, third street," he whispered before rounding a corner, bolt gun levelled, and saw the apparition a mere dozen meters before him.

 

Peering into the window of a house on the north side of the street was an Imperial Guardsman clad in grey camouflage fatigues and black flak armour, his lasgun slung across his back. The figure was wreathed in roiling blue incandescent fire but stood looking into the house as if the fire was not there at all. It gave no cry of pain nor batted at the flames which would have consumed a normal man. Reinhardt could not make out the Guardsman's face due to his helmet and the angle.

Reinhardt's shot hit the Guardsman dead centre and by rights should have disembowelled him yet it passed straight through, exploding against the stonework of a house at the end of the street. Partially in disbelief and partially trying to convince himself he must have missed, he triggered another two shots, the weapon's bark and the rounds' blasts deafening in the quiet night as they struck mere centimetres from where his initial shot had hit.

Screams emanated from the house the ghostly soldier was observing and Reinhardt began to run toward his quarry.

The phantom turned from the window, double-timed across the street and vanished through the house there.

Reinhardt checked into the house window, finding a pair of wide-eyed young girls there, screaming their hearts out at the sight they had witnessed. Their parents rushed in and, seeing they were unhurt, Reinhardt rushed off in pursuit of the ghost.

"Southbound now. Engaged the gho- the target with bolt gun. Three rounds ineffective. Pursuing now."

 

"You witnessed it?"

Reinhardt nodded.

"A daemon?"

He hesitated before answering. "In all my years of service to you, to the Scions and to the Imperium I have faced varied spawn of the Warp but none such as the ghost I witnessed last night."

Fen studied his bodyguard carefully for several silent minutes before sighing and shaking his head.

"I refuse to believe this is a ghost. An illusion conjured by a tainted mind, perhaps. The projection of an undisciplined rogue psyker, perhaps. But the manifestation of a dead human soul? I refuse to accept it."

"It was searching, master."

The ghost had vanished into the night. One moment Reinhardt had been in hot pursuit, chasing it round a corner only for him to find the alleyway empty.

Reinhardt did not suggest they contact a member of the Ordo Malleus – the Daemon Hunters – for he knew his master to be too proud. It was a pride which had set them both in peril innumerable times in the past, but Reinhardt had convinced himself that each time had hardened them, made them stronger and surer of their purpose.

"Could it not be the ghost of one of Horae III's dead guardsmen, returned seeking it’s kin?" Reinhardt ventured.

Fen's eyes lit up at that, but it was not a light that brought any comfort to the soldier's heart. It was a look which inevitably brought screams. Reinhardt's was a heart of stone, but it was hardened to kill those he knew to be the Enemies of Mankind. Inquisitor Fen all too often, Reinhardt had observed, had to inflict pain upon those whom doubt fell upon, teasing out innocence or guilt from a base state of agony. For a moment he questioned himself: who was it who told him who was foe and who was friend?

No. Doubt was a step on the path to chaos and oblivion.

"A fine idea, Reinhardt." In minutes the inquisitor had checked his records. Four guardsmen from Arym had died on Chiari Prime, three of whom still had family in the town - the family of the fourth having been recorded as dying of the pox after the Guardsman's departure. "Have these three families brought to the chapel tonight. I shall keep them under observation. If your 'ghost' seeks them then he will find them here - I wonder if he can tread on holy ground?" There as a mocking undertone in the man's voice. "Or if the apparition does not appear while they are with me then I judge one of them to be its conjurer. If I cannot identify which by dawn then the lives of all are forfeit."

"I tire of this place, these people and this game, Reinhardt," he added in answer to his man's look.

"In that case, I volunteer to patrol the streets again, master. To check if the manifestation appears again, and if needs be to draw it here."

“Rather you than me, Reinhardt, rather you than me,” Fen replied, looking out from their position at the top of the church steps, across Arym town to the darkening sky and the thickening clouds. Off to the north the view was blurred by a downfall.

A storm was coming.

 

 

Not all that fourth family had fallen to the pox, Reinhardt was sure. A daughter had survived, hadn't she?

Why then had he not told his master? He shook his head to clear it. His reasons were obvious enough to himself. He did not wish to dwell on them or on his act of treachery in withholding the information. Surely it was no great heresy, for the child Girtle could not be the summoner of an entity from beyond the veil, could she?

 

Rain indeed fell heavily that night and lighting rent the heavens. He cursed himself for leaving his master’s side: he was his master’s bodyguard, and the roaring rain hid all sound. Certainly even the footfalls of a phantom Guardsman. But then again he did not truly intend to patrol; making a cursory sweep of the village, his darkscope goggles glowing an eerie green under the hood of his poncho.

He pushed on as the ground softened to mud, and eventually came near full circle: the town square laid before him once more, the chapel to his right. And thus he turned left, heading down a side street and a single turn brought him to the apothecarion.

 

He approached it slowly, not wishing to waken either those in the houses about him, nor Eophe or Girtle. He would wait out the night under the eaves, occasionally circling the building, until dawn came or his master summoned him. Checking the chamber of his bolt gun once more he leant his back against the house.

 

“Come child. It is time. You want the nightmares to stop, don’t you? Drink up!”

Crying.

“Dry your tears. Do not cry for your parents, dear. The cycle of life and death cannot be stopped, only embraced. So my Grandfather taught me. There there, dear. Do not cry. A waste of such a pretty face, such a fine, vital young girl. Drink up, drink up. The ghost will bother your dreams no more.”

Reinhardt had tensed, but relaxed a fraction. If Eophe’s potions aided the girl with her mourning as well as they had healed his injuries, he was pleased.

“But Eophe, I see you in my nightmares too.”

The old woman’s voice hardened, “Ingrate! You still moan on!”

The sound of a slap cut through the downpour rattling on the slate roof.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry my dear!” Eophe was near tears, “I would no sooner hit you than hit myself! Please forgive me!” Her voice softened once more as Girtle’s crying continued.

“Drink this, dear. Drink up and you will sleep well, and tomorrow you will feel completely different.”

“There, there.”

Reinhardt could imagine the old lady laying the girl down in her bed now, stroking her golden hair. He had no children of his own, nor had ever considered it. From the little he had seen of them, they were more perplexing and vexing than the Eldar.

Eophe’s voice came again, though in no tongue familiar to the well-travelled soldier. No dialect of Imperial Gothic, high or low. The sound of her words raised the hair upon the back of his neck and brought a bitter taste to the back of his mouth, like the residue of vomit.

Easing himself from the wall he made his way round to the front door and knocked gently upon it, just loudly enough for it to be audible over the rain. His first knocks were swallowed by a rumble of thunder but his continued rapping could not have gone unheard in the small hovel. Yet Eophe did not come.

He rapped harder, a bad feeling growing in the base of his stomach, and the sound of Eophe’s chanting grew in volume and speed within. Over his own banging and her cantillation he barely heard the triple click of his commlink.

But he ignored it, putting a boot to the wooden door.

As soon as he burst in, bolt gun raised, sweeping the room as he had hundreds of rooms across scores of missions in the past, paralyzing nausea erupted in his guts and pain wracked his chest, rippling out from his left side. His weapon slipped from his now-limp fingers as he collapsed to the flagstone floor, the carpets now pulled back to reveal a trefoil symbol which pulsed with baleful green light.

Eophe stood in the doorway to the other room, the curtain pulled back to reveal her young charge in her night robe, laying asleep or unconscious upon a bed, an empty vial in her hand. The crone, her filthy robes making her more ghostly than the phantom guardsman, stepped forward, her haggard face rent by a toothless grin.

“Curiosity killed the Gryinx, dear Reinhardt,” she mocked. “But not quite yet. The concoctions I laced your injuries with will not kill you until I command it. You’ll suffer. You’ll suffer much that Grandfather has to offer. And you’ll see! You’ll see me play my own little trick on Grandfather. Life and death, death and life. It can be cheated, Reinhardt.”

She stepped back into the other room and Reinhardt watched as she knelt over the little girl and stroked her brow.

“The soul is eternal, even if the flesh is not.”

Lightning split the sky once more but the room did not darken once more, even after the boom of thunder a second later. He tried to cry out as his darkscope goggles were overloaded, blinding him, yet naught but bile and slime dribbled from within him.

He felt someone tread past him and Eophe cried out in horror.

“NO! NO! NOT NOW! GET AWAY! SHE IS MINE! MINE I TELL YOU! YOU ARE DEAD!”

 

 

“Reinhardt! Reinhardt!”

The soldier awoke as his master struck his face with one of his groxhide gloves.

They were both soaked to the skin, and daylight poured in through the open doorway of the hovel.

“You slew her,” Fen said with admiration as he pulled his man to his feet. Through the doorway into the other room he could see the still, withered form of Eophe, her eyes wide, pupils rolled back.

“Where is Girtle?” Reinhardt started, looking about in a panic.

“Her name was Girtle?” the inquisitor asked, indicating the body. “Whoever the witch was, she’s dead. And you’re quite the hero.” He hooked a thumb back toward the town square.

As Fen began to catalogue the heretical apparatus scattered about, Reinhardt stepped into the hovel’s living quarters, holding his side. There was no one else there.

 

THE END

[Kierdale]

Thank you to Viddik, T-Rock, TheOneTrueZon and Honda for your entries! A lot from the Templars. I’m glad I challenged you!

I must admit I have not read any of the entries yet as I didn’t want them to influence my own, which I just managed to submit this morning (a plot I originally thought of for a fantasy RPG and never got around to using. I think I managed to hammer it into a 40k shape well enough).

I’ll get them read soon though.

Here ends Inspirational Friday: The Witch 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.

And here begins our eleventh challenge of Inspirational Friday 2017:

Rivalry of the Gods

Khorne versus Slaanesh.

Nurgle versus Tzeentch.

The rivalries between the gods of Chaos are well known, full of endless bloodshed, cunning deceptions and maddening bitterness. Entire worlds have been destroyed in the games played by the aspects of the Primordial Annihilator.

Be it one of the traditional rivalries mentioned above, or one lesser seen, tell us this time a tale of rivalry between the Chaos deities played out at any scale, from godly machinations to the bickering and dueling of their mortal or neverborn champions.

Inspirational Friday: Rivalry of the Gods runs until the 9th of June.

Let us be inspired.

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

To the champion chosen by Carrack, step forth and claim your prize:

Should it be won by one of our more ZEALOUS writers, they can choose to relinquish the honour of judging the next challenge to me if they wish.

I will add a teaser that the 12th challenge of IF2017 will be another The Primordial Annihilator against... but the identity of our foe I will not reveal until June 9th. If it had worked out to be the 13th IF of 2017 that would have been most portentous, but alas...

Or I could always skip 12. Skipping numbers never stopped Microsoft.

Or Cawl.

[Conn Eremon]

Nice to see this is still going strong! They've been great help developing my Warband DIYs, so I definitely gotta get back into this.

 

Hm. I've got a Warband whose got a thing for cult armies, cult armies everywhere. Each cult is subservient to the Warband, but independently formed and across the whole spectrum of possible Chaos worship.

 

Plenty of room for internecine rivalry. I'll get on it!

[Carrack]

I'm looking forward to reading the entries, and should have a winner picked by tomorrow evening CST. From what I've seen so far, I've been quite impressed, even with the stories that portrayed witches in less than favorable light. ;)

[Carrack]

Remember Cadia Project.

(Kasr Woolten Artifacts 22-16D)

 

 

 

We must never forget great Cadia. I have catalogued a few documents that were recovered by my team before extraction, and am submitting them into our archive for posterity. These notes are believed to have been taken during an intelligence briefing at the Castellum Woolten Drill Hall assigned to the 226th Cadian Youth Army. The briefing was titled Recognizing the Witch, Indicators that Require Mandatory Reporting to the Commissariat. . The briefing was for surviving parents expecting to host their sons and daughters while they returned to their Kasr and families on rest and recruitment grace, prior to being assigned to an adult regiment, as was custom for Whiteshields in the Youth Armies before the terrible Fall.

 

I. Inappropriate use of personal grooming and weapon maintenance time.

A. Reading of books that are not issued training manuals, or from an officer's required reading list. Particularly books with symbols from no known unit on them, or written with not-to-standard paper and black ink.

B. Chanting or singing of non unit specific cadences, or approved hymnals from the unit's Ministorum Priest.

 

II. Unnecessary Associations

A. Meetings with one or more, but especially 6,7,8, or 9 total guardsmen, whom are from other units, beyond what is ordered by the guardsman's chain of command.

B. Meetings held outside the normal unrestricted areas, often past curfew.

C. Associating with animals not issued from the Militarum; such as cats (black), owls, or rats.

 

III. Gross Uniform Discrepancies

A. Wearing of pointy hats.

B. Carrying non-issued equipment like straw brooms, potions, cauldrons, or daggers without a barrel ring for mounting onto a M36 las rifle.

C Wearing of robes. (Immediate Reporting Required)

 

The rest of the notes were burnt beyond recognition. Remember Cadia, and their brave sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers.

Edited May 29, 2017 by Carrack

[Carrack]

Dig through the ditches,

Burn through the witches, -ancient Terran folk song

 

Viddik

+ I appreciated how you used the old imagery of witchcraft in your story, particularly with the foal being born with two heads.

 

T-Rock

+ The words written on the cell, and Chaplain Letholdus's reaction to them, are excellent, as is the climactic battle.

 

TheOneTrueZon

+ Perhaps for the first time in the CSM sub forum, let me say, "What heresy is this?" :) In all seriousness, your ability to tell a story from several different points of view is impressive, especially considering how much depth was created with Nakana's character.

 

Honda

+ Grim and dark tuned to 11.

 

Kierdale

+ Personally, I find writing suspense a difficult task, particularly in a short story. You seem to suffer no such difficulty with Manifestation. I also enjoyed your world building with the agri-world, and the relationship between Reinhardt and Fen.

 

 

All the stories were entertaining. I enjoyed everyone. Two struck out as being possible winners, the stories of our host Kierdale, and of one of our guests, Honda. However, I must choose a winner, and I choose Honda.

Edited May 29, 2017 by Carrack

[Honda]

First off, thank you Carrack for this honor.

 

When Kierdale came into our forum to throw down the gauntlet, my first thought was, "Dude, are you crazy? Don't you know what we think about witches?"

 

Then after my choler had subsided, I realized what a smart move it was to challenge us.

 

From there it was more of "Ok tough guy, what are you going to write about?" The very first thing that popped into my head was the phrase "Eternal Warrior" and it all sort of went downhill from there. :)

 

The toughest part to write was the first bit. I wanted to try and describe how much pain the character was experiencing and I was never really sure if I got there or not.

 

As a concept, I think Inspirational Friday is a great exercise. Thank you guys for opening it up to us.

 

See you 'round the pyres!

[Teetengee]

Honda, you aren't wearing your prize. ;)

[Kierdale]

I should be able to post my entry for the current theme today.

 

Anyone else? :)

[Teetengee]

I know I have been in a waiting period just sort of processing all the fluff/rules changes to 40k for the last few weeks/months, so I imagine I can't be the only one who finds writing fiction right now more than I can handle.

[Conn Eremon]

I should be able to post my entry for the current theme today.

 

Anyone else? :)

I've got to focus on some Liber business, but if I get it done quickly enough, hell yeah.

 

But if not, at least this thread will show in my feed again and I can make an effort later on.

[Kierdale]

Trial

Hidden Content

Bone striking bone made an unmistakable sound.

Be it the thud of a head butt into a foe’s face with the snap of gristle as the nose broke and blood flew, or the knock of femurs used as drumsticks by primitive tribes within the Eye, hammering rhythms out on the sun-bleached, skinned skulls of their enemies.

The clatter of the skulls adorning Bisrul’s chainmail skirt was ceaseless as the former Angel circled his opponent, each of them darting in to stab and swing at the other, kicking up dust from the rubble-strewn street. He caught an overhead blow on the wing-shaped ornamentation behind the blade of his great axe, opening his mouth to gloat and mock the other’s choreographed attack, only to duck back a microsecond later, nearly losing his balance as a blast of plasma seared past his wrath-distorted face.

He blinked as stars and nebula danced before his eyes, swinging his axe in wide arcs; not for a moment expecting to cleave his foe in half but simply to force him back. His action was not in vain for he heard the roar and felt the heat of the bastard’s jump pack as he leapt away.

Bisrul swore at the brightly coloured figure as it alighted upon a fallen statue a dozen meters distant, blowing away the smoke that coiled and rose from the barrel of the plasma pistol in its left hand. The sword with which it had distracted him, almost as long as its wielder was tall, hung casually in its right hand. Unlike Bisrul, his foe fought unhelmed: he had a Mohawk of orange hair above features which had the classic gigantism of the Astartes, though this one’s flesh had been darkened with tattoos. From the rear of his scalp on his right side coiled sable tentacles and about his left eye was a ring of black, from which stretched back across that side of his head the symbol of his patron deity. A merging of the ancient symbolsof Mars and Venus, the masculine and the feminine.

That most hated foe of Bisrul’s own lord.

“One uses what one has.” The Slaaneshi champion smirked, twirling the pistol idly about its trigger finger.

“I’ll have your head, you bastard! I’ll plant your skull before the skullthrone myself! Get over here and finish this blade to blade!”

Clad in armour of roseate trim with pale blue panels on one side, while the other was sculpted as if exposing purple musculature, upon the Slaaneshi warrior’s back was a jump pack sporting a magnificent pair of gleaming armoured wings, each feather blended from a deep blue through to jade green.

Bisrul bellowed at the peacock once more and charged him. He half expected his quarry to fly away once more and was prepared to throw himself into a roll should the bastard open fire again, but he grinned within his skull-faced helm as the peacock stepped down to meet him, holstering its pistol and taking a two-handed grip upon its sword. He would need it, too, for Bisrul’s armour barely contained his arms: his own post-human musculature enhanced beyond the Emperor’s designs via the diabolical gifts of his new patron.

He roared as he swept his great axe around to take the peacock’s head from his shoulders - the collar of spikes rising like a gate before his face would prove no protection – and his foe’s sword met his blow.

Before his fall, Bisrul had been his company’s champion and it had been his martial pride that had been his downfall. How many foes had he toppled in service to his company, to his chapter, to Terra? And how many had he taken while others had screamed at him to stop? He had taken theirs too, damn them. Weapons and shields had been unable to arrest the battle axe of Bisrul, splintering under its smile.

Yet, in a flash of sparks, their blades met and the axe’s swing was halted. The peacock’s teeth were set on edge as the metal of their two weapons squealed against each other.

Though he attempted to keep his eyes on those of his foe, pushing with all the might of his thews, Bisrul could not stop his eyes being drawn to the sword the Slaaneshi champion wielded. It was not the elegant, slender rapier-like blade he expected of one of the Dark Prince’s fop-like servants. Its turquoise-tinted blade was long and wide, its edge rough as if made to saw and tear rather than to slice. The sigils down the length of the fuller appeared to dance as if ephemeral - as if they had not been struck upon it by whatever devilish smith had originally forged it.

“Quite enchanting, is it not?”

His opponent’s voice actually served to cut through his contemplation of the weapon and Bisrul drove the forehead of his helmet into his foe’s face. This separated their weapons and sent the peacock staggering backwards, but the spikes arrayed before the bastard’s face had stopped the full strength of the blow. They, deceptively keen it appeared, had also carved deep grooves into his helmet’s face. One handed he removed his helmet, the cuts across its eye lenses too much of a risk, and tossed it away. Bisrul grinned at his foe, his teeth had long ago been driven from his skull by bone protrusions, forming a great fanged maw in his face.

The peacock watched with a bloody grin of his own, now missing a few teeth, raising his sword before his face to kiss the crossguard. Here was ornamentation at odds with the brutal nature of the weapon’s blade – Bisrul had to admit he liked the sword and looked forward to taking it from its current wielder. Skull for Khorne, the sword for himself. Yet the weapon’s crossguard was overly large, formed seemingly from a pair of large jade masks, one set upon each side of the sword, their daemonic visages leering at both the wielder and their foe. Horns protruded from foreheads like four spikes, and a tongue lolled out one of the masks to guard the swordsman’s hand. Bisrul would smash them and tear the embellishments from it, he decided, before realizing once more that he was transfixed by it.

“Do you recognize it? Recognise a gift of your lord?”

Even as they continued their duel - thoughts of their comrades and the war raging about them all but forgotten - the peacock mockingly told him about the sword.

“Yeeees,” the raptor lord smiled, the bleeding in his mouth already stopped though leaving him with lips stained ruby-red like a player with a painted face in some ancient theater. He swung the great sword in circles, deliberately stopping now and then to break the rhythm and show the weapon to his foe. “A hellblade. A sword of Khorne.”

“Then I shall return it to my lord, your head impaled upon it.” Their blades clashed once, twice, thrice more.

“That’s what he said, I don’t doubt,” the peacock smiled. “He who was first gifted it.”

“Then I shall avenge him, too!” With a roar Bisrul swept his axe low attempting to cleave through his foe’s knees.

At this the peacock took a step back to a safe distance, holding his arms out to the sides innocently.

“Ah, but it was not I who took it from him. And from what I hear, he gave it willingly!” A pause for laughter before the peacock launched himself back into the fight, continuing his story as the two struck and parried, kicked and barged.

“A mighty champion of the Lord of Blood, he was. Countless were the fair daughters of the Dark Prince who lost their heads when the Lord of Pleasure set them upon him.”

In his mind’s eye Bisrul saw dozens of lithe, lilac bodied figures, each neither entirely male nor female in form, bounding across a foggy battlefield toward a warrior clad in a manner similar to the peacock and himself, though an earlier mark of plate. It had once been painted white and blue, but that livery had long since been worn away in many areas, scratched down to raw ceramite, and stained with the blood of countless species. He swung the hellblade - its blade glowing red and coated with the blood of foes turned to soot upon its scalding surface, yet it was unmistakably the same weapon - with a prowess Bisrul immediately envied. The daemonettes were decapitated, disemboweled and bifurcated, heads and clawed limbs falling to the mist-sheathed ground, their pale blood spraying the swordsman. Each cut was precise, each swing measured perfectly.

As the horde came on, the bloodshed appeared to feed the warrior and his fighting became more brutal: he smashed androgynous faces with the pommel of the sword before splitting them from crown to groin, he booted one away so that he might turn and take the head of another. He began to grunt, louder and harder, the tide of would-be-killers unabating, and Bisrul feared the warrior might slip in the slurry of gore he now waded through. The grunting grew until Bisrul could recognize it as more than a mere animalistic exertion, but a word. His own hearts beat harder at the sound.

“Khorne. Khorne! KHORNE!”

With each blow, the swordsman took an unlife, and dedicated it to his patron. He prayed not for protection, nor guidance, nor even strength; only for the martial lord to witness him. To see the skulls he look in His honour.

At an unseen signal or a call only the devils could perceive, the assault ceased and the handmaidens of the Dark Prince began to circle the warrior, dancing and pirouetting, tittering laughter passing like waves through their ranks. Some called out to him making outrageously lascivious offers while others exposed themselves. Whether they actually meant to seduce him mattered not, for he was above such matters. In two great bounds he crossed the no-man’s land of corpses they had made about him, and he set about them once more, their keening wails echoing through the mists.

 

Bisrul grunted with satisfaction as the two broke once more, each stepping back to look at the other, checking the damage to their own armour and that they had inflicted to the other.

“They could not slay him. It doesn’t surprise me. The spawn of your weakling lord are fast, but they are no match for those who serve the most ancient of gods.”

The peacock nodded, “Indeed. They didn’t slay him. They…” his words were drowned out by the roar of his jump pack’s engines as he shot into combat once more.

 

The mists parted and the ground before the warrior shone as the light of the sun above reflected off six hundred and sixty six of the finest blades he had ever encountered. From poniards through sabers, tulwars and katana, great bastard swords to the finest powered blades of Mars, from glaives to halberds and falx. The spikes of morning stars gleamed and he could almost hear the purr of the ranks of chainswords arrayed before him.

He breathed slowly, carefully, as he took in the proffered gifts before him, lowering his hellblade to his side.

Taking this as a signal, one of the daemonettes stepped forward, the sides of her mouth pulling up as she set one foot before the other, stepping nimbly between the weapons which lay atop the corpses of her sisters from the earlier slaughter.

“All of these...for me?” the warrior’s voice could not hide his surprise. He had never been gifted anything. Not as a mortal, nor as Astartes – his armour, his implants, all he had earned, and the hellblade...that he had taken.

The daemonette nodded slowly, the very movement sensuous.

“I need not so many weapons,” he shook his head and the herald visibly stiffened, unkeen to meet the same fate as those who had been sent before her. “Shew me only the finest.”

Her smile returned, widened, and she bent over to retrieve a slender saber, its gold hilt encrusted with gemstones, from the ground between them. A pearlescent stone, which seemed to swirl and shift, formed its pommel. He shifted his hellblade to his left hand and took the new sword with his right, hefting it to check its weight. He took a couple of practice swings, noting it sang as it cut the air.

He turned his attention back to the herald, his head cocked to one side and she immediately began to back pedal. He advanced, raising the sword.

“This is no weapon of a warrior!” He spat, “’tis a bauble!”

He drove it through her as she turned, and pushed it deeper as she fell, pinning her to the ground. In a moment his hellblade was back in his right hand, rising and falling to take her head.

 

“Aye, we have no need of gifts!” Bisrul grinned and swung his axe again and again, yet each time his gaudily armoured foe danced out of reach.

“No greed?”

“None!”

The peacock’s face fell for a fraction of a second, splitting into a smile the next as if he had heard the punchline of a joke whispered only to him. “And yet this sword...you want it so badly, do you not?”

Bisrul’s momentary hesitation let the other land a clean blow, yet the Slaaneshi champion did not drive the sword through him, rather he kicked Bisrul backwards. Did he not want to kill his foe?

“He turned down weapons. He turned down armour. He turned down the generalship of vast armies,” the peacock continued, gesturing with his hands as if eager to finish his story. “But eventually they found his weakness.” He closed his open hand into a fist.

Bisrul did not deign to ask, but stared at his foe through the shattered lenses of his helmet. The other took his silence as a prompt.

“His match.”

 

 

Another battlefield, another clash between the forces of those two rival gods, upon a world whose twisted, tangled and wrenched surface could only have been found within the Eye. Night had fallen, and with it brought deathly cold that had even cooled the tempers of those who had fought so madly within the light. Those blood-splattered slaughterers in blue and white and their violet-clad foes, post-human though they all were, had been driven by the impenetrable darkness to seek shelter and heat. Silence would have descended upon the battlefield but for the cries of one madman who saw neither night nor bitter cold as excuse to relent in his butchery. The flamer in his hands roared, sending gouts of fire tearing through foxholes, bunkers and ruined buildings. Friend and foe, both he put to the torch.

“To your feet! Wretches! Get on your feet and fight! Kill! Maim! Burn!”

 

“There,” a slender lilac arm extended past his face.

The warrior of Khorne knew not how he had been brought to this time and this place. It was a battlefield he knew from legend, and the betrayer who strode across it, slaughtering indiscriminately, was of course known to him.

“You accept not the gifts and promises of the Dark Prince,” the pair of heralds – twins it appeared – continued, speaking as one, their jade masks pressed close to his ears. “He offered you perfection. Accept then his challenge.”

His hands shook as he raised the hellblade and stepped into the shadowy street.

 

 

“His broken body was borne to the great Palace by the heralds and six of their sisters,” the hellblade struck Bisrul’s axe once more, biting chips from the haft as the Slaaneshi peacock drove him back.

“His measure had been taken and he had been found wanting,” a kick to Bisrul’s knee sent him down and he looked up to find the point of the hellblade before his face. His axe had slipped from his grip. What had happened? Had his lord forsaken him?

“He presented his sword to the Dark Prince in exchange for life and for training, for secrets,” the peacock grinned wickedly, teasingly. “Who knows what he got? I’d have humiliated the fool and bound him for an eternity of exhilarating agony. But those sisters, those heralds...,” the peacock shifted the sword so that Bisrul could see the jade masks set into the hilt once more.

“Slaanesh tired of them too.”

The peacock leant on the blade, pushing it against his foe’s helmet, pinning it to the ground. A little more pressure and it would slip through the ceramite and into Bisrul’s head.

“And I tire of you,” the Slaaneshi then cocked his head to one side, studying his fallen foe, “But do I offer you the chance to serve? To dance at my side? My drudge, my thrall, my chattel...”

Bisrul’s eyes flicked from his conqueror to the sword and back.

“I think not.”

 

Hidden Content

Dophesia, 'The Peacock', lord of raptors, Psychopomp, former 8th captain of the Stygian Guard

Slaaneshi Raptor Lord by Nehebkau, on FlickrSlaaneshi Raptor Lord by Nehebkau, on FlickrSlaaneshi Raptor Lord by Nehebkau, on FlickrSlaaneshi Raptor Lord by Nehebkau, on FlickrSlaaneshi Raptor Lord by Nehebkau, on FlickrSlaaneshi Raptor Lord by Nehebkau, on FlickrSlaaneshi Raptor Lord by Nehebkau, on FlickrSlaaneshi Raptor Lord by Nehebkau, on Flickr

 

[Kierdale]

I know I have been in a waiting period just sort of processing all the fluff/rules changes to 40k for the last few weeks/months, so I imagine I can't be the only one who finds writing fiction right now more than I can handle.

Understandable :)

I did my entry this week as a way to get way from thinking about 8th edition for a bit!

With the next theme I'll set it for a month to give plenty of time :)

 

 

 

 

I should be able to post my entry for the current theme today.

Anyone else? :)

I've got to focus on some Liber business, but if I get it done quickly enough, hell yeah.

But if not, at least this thread will show in my feed again and I can make an effort later on.

Good to have you back :)

[Kierdale]

Well, I guess everyone was too busy! Mine was the only entry in Rivalry of the Gods, so perhaps we’ll revisit the theme again sometime in the future once the furor over 8th edition has passed.

And here begins our thirteenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2017:

The Primordial Annihilator versus the Sons of Guilliman

Paragons of what it is to be a space marine, the 13th Legion Astartes and the myriad chapters it spawned have clashed with the forces of Chaos on countless occasions. Indeed the Betrayal at Calth was one of the first acts of treachery in the Horus Heresy.

The Word Bearers on Calth, the Alpha Legion on Eskrador, the Iron Warriors invasion of Ultramar, the Black Legion’s 13th Black Crusade and the Death Guard’s Plague Wars are only some of the many battles Guilliman’s sons have fought against the forces of the Primordial Annihilator.

I invite you this time to tell us a tale of the forces of Chaos versus the Sons of Guilliman (in any setting from 30k to 40k).

Inspirational Friday: The Primordial Annihilator versus the Sons of Guilliman runs until the 7th of July. You have four weeks this time as I realise everyone may be busy playing 8th edition and brushing up on the new fluff.

Let us be inspired.

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

With only one entry in Rivalry of the Gods, shall we call it a no-contest and would you mind instead judging Inspirational Friday: The Primordial Annihilator versus the Sons of Guilliman ?

The champion chosen by Honda (or me, whichever of us judges this 13th challenge), shall claim the Octed amulet:

[Scourged]

I wish I had the time to write like I used to! I miss it. Just as I miss the camaraderie of this board and topic. But wow, my muse has not been with me in my down time for quite some while. Still... with nearly a month to play with for this challenge, I think I'm overdue for something. After all, what could be more tempting than a chance to take the Sons of Guilliman down a peg or two? I used said Sons for recruitment fodder amongst the Scourged in one of my favorite stories long ago, so a precedent has been set. But then... I have been gradually building squads of those who serve the Hydra, so that tempts me too... 

 

Mark my words, Kierdale and friends: In the coming days and weeks, I shall have a contribution. 

[adreal]

I have a tiny fluff piece used as a back drop for a game I had recently

 

 

Sargeant Justus felt the rage overtaking the tried and true doctrines taught by the codex astartes. He had seen his squad mates cut down with contemptous ease by the scaley green traitors.

 

"For the emperor and ultramar" Justus cried out as he charged into the traitors, the bloody need for revenge carried him through the surprised and wild surpressing fire the enemy tried to muster.

Barrelling through toward the one who looked in charge of the squad, Justus swung like a beserker, trying to get revenge for his fallen brothers, but his rage took the skill out of his attacks and all were parried aside with ease

"Fight me" he cried, again trying to press his charge.

Suddenly Justus felt a sharp pain in his ribs, in his haste he had allowed himself to be surrounded.

 

"Do you traitor bastereds have no honor?" He spat

"Traitor? Honor? Come now little eagle" the marine who held the knife in his ribs replied as he withdrew the blade.

Justus fell to his knees, blood seeping out of the wound, strangly the other traitor marines didnt press thier advantage, they mearly circled the fallen sargeant. The attacker removed his him, and looked down at Justus, his iris shifting from a green to blue.

 

"Little eagle, we are not like the whores who sell themselves to the primordial for glory, we still serve our fathers ideal, a unified humanity standing against the galaxy"

Justus squinted his eyes, part in pain and part trying to understand what the traitor was saying

"You spat on your oaths to the emperor " Justus replied

"We chose a third path, and we are close to seeing it to the end" the marine replied, anger flaring in his green/blue eyes.

 

Straining Justus rose to his feet and looked the marine in his eyes, just for a moment the marine infront of Justus seemed larger and more intangible. Shaking his head "damnation, who are you?" Justus demanded.

 

The marine smiled "why little eagle, I am Alpharius", suddenly Justus was overcome with the impossibility of the majasty of one of the emperor sons and he stumbled backwards.

"Sorry little eagle" Alpharius said with a kind smile as he raised his bolt pistol and aimed it at Justus, "for the Emperor" Alpharius said as he pulled the trigger.

[Kelborn]

Thank you for posting this in the Fanfic forum as well.

 

Would have missed this one.

 

Are there any restrictions regarding our contributions except the time frame?