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

[Kierdale]

Scourged, your return is most welcome! You've been missed :)

 

Kelborn, my apologies, I should have started threads in the Fanfic area ages ago. An untapped resource! I'll be sure to from now onward.

As for the length of entries, I won't impose any limit, but do ask members to bear in mind that the judge will have to read every entry so try to make sure they're not too long (unless they're exceedingly good ;)). I myself am guilty of an entry twenty A4 pages in length way back before I was running IF. Let's try to keep them readable in a coffee break ;)

[Kelborn]

Ok. :)

 

I assume that Primaris Marines are allowed as well as long as they are presumed to be "sons" of Guiliman, right?

[Kierdale]

So long as they're Ultramarines or their successor chapters :)

 

 

We usually do a 'Primordial Annihilator versus...' when any codex comes out so I'd like to save others chapters for then.

[Kierdale]

A Lesson Learnt

Part One – A Summons

Hidden Content

A summons. To the offices of the chapter’s master of sanctity, no less.

Faryn took a deep breath, slowing his hearts, and looked at his armour as his thralls dressed him in it: the pale white of the Stygian Guard.

If this summons went as he anticipated, he would soon wear the chapter’s white no longer. He looked at his captain’s insignia. That too would be gone.

 

As he strode the corridors of their fortress monastery, making his way from the 5th company’s halls to the reclusiam, he spared glances out over the crenellated walls to the city beyond. Across the dark, deep moat, its gloomy depths covered by countless automated turrets, the city teemed with life, with humanity. Great hab blocks rose up almost as high as the chapter’s citadel, each filled with thousands upon thousands. Men, women, children, families and clans. They toiled for the good of the Imperium, for the glory of Man. Yet here upon Fulcrum, the hub for trade and worship within its sector, the people knew little of the horrors which ravished the Imperium’s borders. They knew even less of the rot all too often found festering and gnawing at its heart. Resting atop the greater toil of their neighbouring vassal systems, the people of Fulcrum were won’t to toil at the arts. The exultation of Man via sculpture, prose, song and brushwork.

The moat was the physical separation between the Stygian Guard and those they were sworn to protect, the chapter’s staunch asceticism was the other, greater factor.

 

The roar of engines slowing a descent from orbit broke captain Faryn’s reverie. He could not see the craft from where he walked but instinctively he recognized the sound to be that of a stormraven gunship on a gentle approach to the fortress-monastery. He frowned. The Stygian Guard were all about purpose. Purpose and duty, and taking the shortest route to that goal. Often that route was the bloodiest path but so be it, if that was what Terra commanded. They shed pride and honour, flensed themselves of joy, sorrow and even camaraderie. The pain glove, inherited from their parent chapter, saw to their purification.

Thus time was not to be wasted doing flyovers of the city. If some disturbance had been spotted it was to be reported and left to the arbites, or the Fulcrumese regiments if troublesome enough. The Stygian Guard dropped hot into battlezones, their white armour blackened by the ferocity of their arrival, and they flew equally purposefully upon return to their capital ships and bases.

Whoever was taking their time on that descent was likely going to be in the glove for a good length of time.

A pair of armoured battle brothers, from his own 7th squad, saluted as he passed. He knew not their names, for what need had he of them? They served, they obeyed his orders, and in time they would die, their deeds done...or fall in shame, only for their brethren to continue their duty.

 

The reclusiam was a chamber within the fortress monastery of a chapter, within which their holy relics were displayed and various ceremonies and rituals were performed. In this the Stgyian Guard were no different: artefacts adorned the walls and banners and standards hung from the vaulted ceiling; though while many chapters thus celebrated their victories, the banners and placards noting the names of the fallen were there as a reminder of lives given in service to duty, and in many cases as a reminder of failure.

Look upon the fallen, heed their names and their failures, purge their weaknesses from thine soul and body.

The stained glass windows depicted not heroes of winning victory over fell xenos and damned blasphemers, but rather displayed images of Stygians excruciating and flagellating themselves.

It had been here where Faryn, some five decades earlier, had been promoted to captaincy of the 5th company, drinking a draught from the upturned skull of his predecessor. He had then dashed the cranium-come-drinking-vessel to the flagstone floor and ground it beneath his boot, casting his scorn upon the deeds left undone by his antecessor.

Four skulls now observed him from the far end of the hall. The death’s-head visage of Angra, master of sanctity, and three of his chaplains. Their armour black as night, only their bone-coloured masks were visible in the dim light. Angra dismissed his attendants and motioned for Faryn to approach.

“You summoned me, master?”

Angra nodded. There was no small talk, no enquiries about the captain’s company – such would be as an assumption that they were anything less than battle-ready, and hence an insult.

“You wish to give up your captaincy of the 5th and become a chaplain.” Angra’s voice was level, giving away nothing. No emotion. No hint as to whether he approved or not.

Faryn saluted, his hands across his chest forming the Aquila, and nodded.

“Why?”

My men are a honed weapon, there is nothing I can teach them, first sergeant Camal is ready to lead... none of this needed saying. Angra either knew it or would have investigated as soon as Faryn’s request had been delivered to the reclusiam.

“I wish to serve the chapter, master.”

Angra studied captain Faryn. He had studied the captain’s records carefully upon receiving Faryn’s unusual request three months earlier.

Faryn had advanced swiftly through the ranks. He had taken command of his scout squad on Odia IX when their sergeant had been slain, but had not bridled when another sergeant was given command after the campaign had ended. He had served his time in the 9th, 8th and 7th companies, learning well the trade of each before being transferred to the 5th company. Chasthi Minor, Gdothu III, Viscathatai, Yresi and scores more battles he had shed blood in before being granted captaincy of the 5th upon his predecessor’s slaying. And as their captain they had served with excellence. His record was not without failure, he had spent more time attoning in the pain glove than captains Viphic or Castor of the 1st and 2nd companies, but Faryn was a balanced warrior with a cool head, unlike captain Dophesia of the 8th. Was there an element of rivalry there though, between Faryn and his peers? Did he seek chaplaincy as a way to get ahead of the cunning Castor and Viphic of the Bloody First?

The master of sanctity peered deep into the other’s blue eyes.

 

The doors at the far end of the hall opened and in strode a warrior not in the white of the Stygians nor the black of a codex chaplain. It was blue, though not the blue of one of the librarius.

“Ah, captain Jous. I have been expecting you.”

The newcomer halted as he drew level with Faryn, still facing the master of sanctity. He saluted them both, Angra then Faryn.

He wore a suit of mark seven armour, a shade of blue a fraction lighter than that of the Ultramarines, trimmed in white. Upon his right pauldron was ornate giltwork combining the Imperial eagle with the inverted Omega of the 13th legion, and on his left pauldron was the white head of a destrier, a single long horn extending from its brow.

“Captain Jous, of the Knights of Ultramar’s 2nd company, meet captain Faryn of our 5th.”

Removing his helm, Jous bowed to his peer. If his chapter’s name and the decoration upon his armour had not been indication enough, his face had the look of one born in Calgar’s realm. The nose, the hair.

“So, that was your stormraven taking in the sights,” Faryn realized.

This brought a smile to the Knight’s face. “It is my first time on Fulcrum, or indeed to its sector. You have a fine planet, a beautiful capital. It reminds me of Macragge, in many ways.”

“I have seen it little, being busy in its defence,” Faryn returned somewhat coldly.

“You have been to Macragge?” Angra put in. As well as tending to the spirit of the chapter, the chaplains of the Stygian Guard also liaised with other chapters. His diplomacy showed here.

Jous nodded to the master, “I have, as all of our tenth company does, made a pilgrimage to Macragge. Only once, but all the better to know what it is we fight for, and what those before us fell in defence of.”

Angra nodded back, his skull-faced helmet still upon his face, before turning his gaze upon Faryn once more.

“One of the duties of the chaplains of the Stygian Guard is secondment to other chapters of the Adeptus Astartes. We fight alongside them. We learn from them. We bring that knowledge back to Fulcrum to better the chapter. Captain Faryn, you are no chaplain yet, but I hereby assign you and two squads of your company, of your choosing, to go with and fight alongside captain Jous’ 2nd company of the Knights of Ultramar.”

“Sons of Guilliman? Are we not a codex-compliant chapter, master?” Faryn looked from Jous to Angra.

“You have rid yourself of a great many weaknesses in the nerve glove, captain Faryn,” Angra replied coldly, his crimson eye lenses fixed upon the other, “Have you also mistakenly burned humility from your soul?”

 

Part Two – Battle Brothers

Hidden Content

“That,” Faryn waggled a finger at the two buildings on the other side of the street, is an ambush.

Hesmet, for reasons as yet unknown to the Imperium, had been targeted by the Eldar. Not a lightning fast raid as the elfin xenos were often known for, no, this time they had landed in force from jetbikes through grav tanks to superheavies and knight-grade warmachines. Ninety percent of Pithean city had been reduced to rubble and the Knights of Ultramar’s second company had been assigned to dig the alien bastards out. No matter what they were here for, the Eldar would die. Their reasons mattered not to the Imperium, only the effrontery of their presence here, and indeed their existence in the galaxy itself.

Faryn and his two tactical squads hunkered down in ruins, alongside Jous and his command squad – his other squads spreading out through the surrounding buildings along this side of the road. Across the highway that ran before them, littered with debris and burned out vehicles both human and alien, stood two large buildings. Each had taken a heavy pounding, but a good seven floors of each still stood while about them was devastation.

The Astartes’ primary target lay ten clicks beyond.

“Undoubtedly,” Jous replied with a smile.

“What does the codex say we should do?”

Jous mimed reaching for an imaginary book secured at his waist, licking a finger and paging through it, nodding to himself before straightening and turning to Faryn.

“The codex says that’s not how the codex works, my friend. Stop asking.”

This brought a smile to the Stygian’s face. A rare thing. “You sons of Guilliman have a reputation.”

“An ill fitting one.”

Faryn nodded and raised his bolter, checking the chamber and motioning to his squads.

“My devastators have not yet signaled they are in position to cover us.”

This stopped Faryn, momentarily, as he was moving toward the doorway. “It’s a hundred meter sprint. Fire and advance.”

“The enemy, who we both agree are more than likely there, are likely dug in, and at the least have cover. Your advice, when facing a trap is `spring the trap`?” the incredulity was clear in the Knight captain’s voice. “We open fire from here, where we too have cover.”

“We have a duty to do. Let’s get on with it,” Faryn motioned to his squads to move out. “Your covering fire will be appreciated, when it’s ready,” he nodded as he broke cover.

 

 

 

 

“`Gather your wits, as the traveler gauges the depths of the river crossing with the fallen branch, before wading into waters wary` not words I would have thought it necessary to remind the Stygian guard,” Jous sighed as they took stock of their casualties and played flamers back and forth over the heaped Eldar corpses.s

Four marines from one squad and three from the other, the Knight apothecary carefully handed the vials containing their geneseed to captain Faryn. He did not bow over them, nor speak any words or even glance at them as he took and stowed them. They would be returned to Fulcrum and implanted in acolytes, who would be informed of the nature of the former bearers’ failures and who would hopefully prove more devoted to the ideals of the chapter.

Six of the seven had fallen to Eldar fire from the two buildings, as expected, before they had made it half way across the highway, eschewing the cover of destroyed vehicles in favour of speed. Jous’ devastators had rushed to set up and under their support the Stygians had made it the rest of the way and into the bloodbath of clearing the buildings. That was where the seventh had fallen.

“Cover, captain Faryn. Our holy armour is not proof against all ills.”

“The objective is secured, captain Jous,” Faryn replied. “This is how the Stygian Guard fight. We are devoted to our purpose above all else.” He turned to his men, “move out.”

“I pray that enough of your survive in order to do so,” Jous said to his peer’s back.

 

Part Three – New Tricks

Hidden Content

Decades later

The strobing of lasers and tracers flickering across the battlefield were mesmerizing. He watched as a salvo from an enemy multilaser scythed through a group of men, autoguns held tight to their chests as they ran. The laser blasts punched through their armour, sometime even into the man behind. As the sound of the weapon died away it was replaced by the screams of the dying, eclipsed a second later by the blast of a battlecannon. It struck so close that his helmet’s autosenses would have cut had they not been tampered with. Instead his skull was shook by the roar of the explosion and he felt stims pumping into his system, not to numb shock as they once would, but to magnify the pain, to sharpen it into ecstasy. He leant back, looking to the fire-rent heavens, his arms spread wide as his body shook, chief Podalir’s concoctions racing through his veins. When he brought his head down once more he unleashed a bass, animalistic roar and lowered his sword, pointing it toward the enemy. His cry was taken up by those around him and they tore forwards through the smoke and dirt in a mass of pinks,purples and blues.

The enemy, their blue armour easily seen on the grey, blasted battlefield, backpedaled now, stopping their advance and seeking cover.

Bolters spat rounds with characteristic hard bangs as soon as the marines were set up in position and about him his own marines began to fall. This merely drove them on, breathing in the death about them and ravaging the battlefield almost indiscriminately with their strange weapons.

The enemy squads had sought cover as he knew they would, and he knew that the one he sought was with them, but he would not have his satisfaction quite yet: the enemy were both tenacious and cunning, for as their fire intensified it had drowned out the sound of bikers approaching from his flank. The squad of five crested a rise, their blue and white armour pristine, pennants flying from the shafts of their power-lances.

With a thunderous roar of engines which split Faryn’s face into a wicked grin the bikers charged.

“Sing! Sing my brethren! Let them hear the song of Slaanesh! The music of the apocalypse!”

Even as the bikers smashed into the noise marines, the renegades fired their weapons and waves of sonic destruction tore into the bikers and tactical Knights of Ultramar alike, cover be damned, death be damned, as the Psychopomps played their blast masters and sonic blasters back and forth, cackling at the madness of the galaxy.

 

Kierdale’s note

Hidden Content

If I ever did an Ultramarine successor, I’ve always wanted to do one with a chapter symbol of a unicorn’s head, or like a chess rook with a horn. Heavy on lancer-bikers.

I don’t know if I ever will get around to doing some, so I featured them in this story instead.

I also wanted to show that the 13th and their successors aren’t such rigid pricks, but rather they have deep pockets when it comes to tactics.

I hope I succeeded.

 

 

There are two weeks remaining

[DogWelder]

So I have the fic written. Do I just post it here?

[DogWelder]

My entry. Titled "Nemesis"

 

+++M31+++

+++Colchis, Orbit+++

 

Guilliman watched as Colchis burned.

 

Bright pinpricks of light, visible even from the bridge of his flagship, dotted the surface of the dusty planet with the telltale signs of the planet-wide destruction that resulted from the wrath of a whole legion being unleashed upon it.

 

It reminded him of Calth in a way. Ironic, he thought. For that had been the start of the events that had led him here. But those memories were of a different age. The Heresy was over now. The traitors had fled from Terra, leaving the Emperor’s loyal sons to taste the bitter victory they had won. The Great Scouring had raged for decades now. The Ultramarines, being the largest legion, swept out into the galaxy, cleansing remaining holdouts of traitors. One of their first targets was the swathe of worlds that Lorgar and his accursed sons held under their sway during the Great Crusade. For twenty years, the 13th Legion systematically destroyed every single world they came across, along with any Word Bearer Warbands opposing them. Now they arrived at the last one. The end of their long road of vengeance that started at Calth: Colchis, homeworld of the Word Bearers.

 

“The Nemesis Chapter stands ready to deliver our revenge, my Primarch” a voice behind him said and he snapped out of his reverie. The sounds of the bridge officers around him and the soft whine of the equipment they worked on filtered into his ears as he turned around.

 

Before him was Chapter Master Iasus, helmet in hand, in his black destroyer armor. The blue pauldron on his left was the only sign that he was an Ultramarine. His armor, cracked and dented, had only undergone repairs for the most vital systems. His face which had seemed full of youthful optimism when Guilliman first made him Chapter Master was now permanently twisted into a bitter, cynical scowl that had displayed nothing but contempt for those outside his legion.

 

Scarred and Brutal thought Guilliman. It embodied the Nemesis. The chapter had become the home of all the destroyer companies in the 13th Legion. In another life, he considered their methods too barbaric, too destructive. He had wanted them to change their ways and tried his best to help them along the way. Then came Calth. There, everything had changed.

 

“You’ll need to hear this,  my Primarch” said another. He looked to the figure hurriedly walking into the bridge through the entryway. It was Aeonid Thiel. The primarch let himself have a small smile. By contrast, Thiel never seemed to lose his youthful look of mischief. He was both a talented leader of men and a great warrior in his own right. His words, however, erased the smile from Guilliman’s lips.

 

“I have just received word that Nemesis units on the surface have begun their assault on the major city-states” he said, his voice unusually hard and tinged with anger. He saw Iasus and scowled at him from beneath his helm. The Chapter Master returned the gesture with bared teeth. 

 

+++Colchis, Surface+++

 

Hierax looked over his black armoured Marines and a grim smile crept across his face. The 1st Company of the Nemesis Chapter had made it. The fires of Calth, the Shadow Crusade, the journey to Terra…it had all been worth it. They would soon have their vengeance.

 

They were at the outskirts of one of the major city states of Colchis when they received the order. Having taken up positions along its west bank several days ago, they captured its main harbor and put the city under effective siege. Hordes of militia, conscripts and even throngs of civilians who had been fanatical believers in the Book of Lorgar threw themselves at the Ultramarines. They were utterly crushed of course, their broken bodies piled high before the Astartes.

 

The governor of the city had sent an equerry with an offer of surrender a day ago. Hierax simply shot the man and dumped his corpse into the fire pits. There would be no surrender for these followers of Lorgar. He had faith that his Chapter Master would see to it. He was vindicated. Standing atop a Land Raider, he addressed his men.

 

“Brothers! The order has been given. Complete extermination! No survivors!” he roared and his men responded with a flurry of cheers. “These deluded fools think they are innocent, but they are the farthest from it! Did their women not give birth to Lorgar’s bastards who betrayed us at Calth? Did they not cheer for the 17th as they boarded their ships and set off for the Shadow Crusade? Would their children not become the next generation of Word Bearers when the time came?”

 

Deafening roars of anger and frustration resounded from the hundreds of men around him. He knew he could not contain them any longer. “Our great Primarch has allowed us to bring the vengeance of Ultramar down on these heathen bastards! I implore you brothers, do not waste this chance!” He thrust his gladius at the city. “Charge! Kill them all!” he yelled.

 

Millions of civilians, who remained in the city, looked on in horror as the black armoured beasts descended on them. The young and able tried desperately to defend their loved ones with whatever weapons they could muster. These were the first to die. The elderly and sick did not even attempt to escape. They uttered words from the Book of Lorgar, tears in their eyes as they accepted their fate. Mothers held their children close, covering their eyes as the chainswords of the Ultramarines descended upon them. 

 

+++Colchis, Orbit+++

 

Guilliman stared hard at Iasus, his expression dour. The leader of the Nemesis went down to one knee, his head lowered. Even he could not withstand looking his gene-father in the eye.

 

“Is it not my place to decide when and where my warriors make battle, Iasus?” he said.

 

Iasus flinched but he did not waver. “My Lord, the men need this” he replied, his voice both unapologetic and imploring.

 

“The men?” Guilliman asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“The Calth veterans my Lord. We need this. This is our chance for revenge. Every battle we fought among the burning cities of Ultramar. Every dead Hive and defiled planet…the men need to vent their anger. This world must pay for its crimes against our Empire.” his voice was filled with a sense of righteousness now but Guilliman could see the bloodlust in his eyes. This was more than the just war of retribution he had launched after the Shadow Crusade. This was revenge.

 

Thiel snarled at Iasus, the sound like a snake’s hiss coming from his helmet vox. He turned to his primarch.. “Armed resistance on the planet and its moons ended yesterday, sir. The city-states have all signaled surrender and compliance”

 

Iasus gave a bark of wicked laughter. “Surrender? Did the Word Bearers accept such terms on the worlds of Ultramar they crushed? Did they think about drawing the line between civilian and noncombatant on Calth?”

 

“That is irrelevant” snapped Thiel, unable to keep his anger in check at the belligerent Chapter Master.  He unclasped his helm, mag-locking it to his thigh. He gave Guilliman a pleading look as he knelt before his gene-sire. “My Lord, I have fought along the Nemesis Chapter on worlds that were once part of Lorgar’s domain. The devastation they bring is horrific and merciless to the civilian population of those worlds, many of whom weren’t even aware of Lorgar’s-”

 

“Do you wish for me to task you with bringing the Nemesis companies to heel?” the Primarch said with a stony glare at the young Captain. His voice very different from what it usually was when he spoke to his favored son.

 

“My Primarch” Thiel began, looking up at Guilliman “There are billions of civilians down there. Men, women, children. The elderly and infirm. Should you unleash the Nemesis Chapter, they will gas entire cities, carry out mass executions in every population center…my Lord, they would slaughter infants in their cribs and-”

 

“And it would be a tenth of what these bastards deserve!” roared Iasus, drawing his gladius and staring daggers at Thiel. The bridge crew listened on in mute silence. Most of them too shocked to speak and others simply did their best to ignore the dispute. “You were not on Calth! You did not see the destruction the whoreson maggots who crawled from this wretched rock inflicted on us. Entire companies annihilated, cities burnt to the ground-”

 

“I fought at Calth like any Ultramarine!” Thiel was on his feet now, his own weapon drawn and his eyes filled with a mixture of pity and anger. 

 

“You fought at Calth, not on it” Iasus shot back. He pointed to the hideous, black scar that encapsulated most of his right face. “You do not have the mark, you sheltered little brat” the Chapter Master hissed. “While you fought a boarding action or two, my men faced the hellfire that the bastards of Lorgar unleashed on us. We fought our way out of five separate encirclements and raced to one of the arcologies when the star went critical. What did you do? Stand at the primarch’s side like an ornament while the real men fought your battles?”

 

“You-” Thiel began but Guilliman silenced them both.

 

“Enough” he said simply, tapping the hilt of his sword. Both warriors knelt before him, sheathing their weapons. “I have made a decision” he said and raised three fingers. Even before he spoke, he saw Thiel’s disappointment and Iasus’ savage joy in their eyes. “You have forced my hand, Iasus” he said, glaring at the Chapter Master. “I cannot order your men back now. The damage it would do to morale would be…unsatisfactory. I need the Legion united if we are to persecute this Scouring to its fullest.”

 

“Three days” he said, his voice lacking any emotion. “The Nemesis Chapter has three days to do whatever it wishes with Colchis. All actions undertaken by the Chapter will be erased from all historical records and no punishments will be meted out to the fighting men of your units. So proclaim I, Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines.”

 

Thiel sagged, almost unable to believe what he was hearing. Iasus had become re-energized. He stood up and gave Guilliman a Maccragian Battle Salute. “My Lord, we shall visit upon their homeworld ten times the pain the Word Bearers inflicted upon Calth” he said, unable to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice. 

 

“This is not the end of it, Chapter Master” Guilliman said, his gaze fixed on Iasus. “We will discuss your disobedience thoroughly after this is over. For now you are to join your men with an oath of silence about this little…conversation. Dismissed.”

 

Iasus saluted sharply and put his battered helm back on. He turned and left the bridge in dead silence save for the soft whine of the machines. Thiel eventually managed to get back on his feet after Iasus left. He put on his helmet, unable to look his Primarch in the eye, at least for now. He turned to leave.

 

“Thiel” Guilliman said, without emotion again, and fixed Thiel with a stern glare. “Order the telepaths to broadcast images and vox recordings from Colchis to all nearby systems. “If there are Word Bearers honorable enough to come defend their home, we shall grant them a swift death”. There was a long pause. Long enough to border on insubordination.

 

“Yes…my Primarch” said Thiel between gritted teeth and left the bridge faster than decorum would allow.

 

Guilliman turned and looked through the viewing port once again.

 

Once more, Colchis burned.

Edited July 14, 2017 by Caius Tadius

[Kierdale]

A quick reminder that the deadline for entries is this Friday (July 7th). :)

[Scourged]

Here's my thing. Warning: it's long. Lots of pent-up plot in me, I guess. Enjoy.

 

Hidden Content

Return to Firebrand

 

“I’m sorry, you want to do what? Where? And bring whom?”

 

Today’s heated discussion was an odd reversal between the fraternal leadership of the Scourged. For once, it was the Sorcerer Lord loudly questioning the decisions of the Martial Champion, and not the overly typical inverse version of that scenario. For the few corrupted Astartes with enough remaining sentience around the warband’s Lords the sight was a curious one to behold.

 

Scindus Dhelmas had approached Rahaund’ul unannounced and declared his intentions for an inexplicable mission in Segmentum Ultima. Such a venture would be a deathtrap to most, if not all, Chaos followers outside of the eye. The warband had not ever had a reason to enter that section of space. Traps and ambush were one thing sure, scavenging and raiding outposts another, yes, but never had a personal venture into Ultra-space ever been worth the calculated costs.

 

“Don’t pretend my intentions are unclear, brother. And this is not a request, either. The pieces have already been put into place and cannot be undone. I am merely coming to you now as a courtesy. Much as you have done with me many times over.”

 

“I suppose that’s more than I could have expected from you in the past, so I’ll thank you for that. But this… this is not like you. Your pragmatism has always caused you to avoid such risk-laden ventures, not dive headlong into them. In what way does this journey of death benefit anyone?”

 

“It doesn’t.”

 

“Then… why?”

 

“I know what needs to be done, regardless of how or why I know it. Everything has a purpose in the Great Game, even this. I have my reasons, Raha. Mine and mine alone.  Just as you have your reasons for all of your decisions.”

 

“And just what does-”

 

“We will speak of it upon my return. I’m awaited in the teleportarium. Enjoy your time on Orrea with those of the Hydra - True Master knows I can’t stand the needling buzz of their duplicitousness within my mind.”

 

That was to be the final word of it. Scindus would hear no more questions or objections, made clear by his abrupt departure from the conversation. All of this was just so… odd. Rahaund’ul tried in vain to understand, to discern his motives and decipher the intentions of this gambit, but the thought experiments yielded nothing. He was left without knowledge, without insight, and such a lack of information troubled the mighty Sorcerer. But that was not all that troubled him…

 

The True Master. His brother had invoked the name. Never, in all of their traitorous history has he ever done that. When did Scindus ever start acknowledging their fealty to the Grand Architect? At best, his attitude had been one of mild irritation at their condition, at worst outright loathing. And now… he spoke with a calculated reverence. Something had changed. Something was different.

 

But Rahaund’ul had no means or motive to stop his brother. The man was just entitled to conscript the warband for his goals and pursuits, even if Scindus had never invoked such rights before. There is a first time for everything, as has been said. Besides, if Rahaund’ul would continue to request the trust of his slighted sibling time and again, he’d have to give Scindus some in return. A quick message over a private vox signified the Sorcerer Lord’s blessing for this mission.

 

“Be safe, brother. And happy hunting.”

 

***

 

The void of realspace was motionless, soundless, and nearly lightless. It was uninhabited space, occupied by no observable matter or energy. It was a realm of the universe that was simply there while not being there. At no point had there ever been anything remarkable or noteworthy in this small, empty section of the endless galaxy. That is there never was until a wound split reality open and bled tears of magical emotion and impossible colors, belching out a miniscule scrap of matter from the Immaterium.

 

It appeared once more as it had in the past: without warning or provocation, just a subtle and gradual slip into reality from the realm of impossibility. Through no discernible power of its own it drifted and tumbled its bulk lifelessly through the empty void with a trajectory toward nothingness. It carried no cargo and housed no souls. It brandished no weapons and wielded reactors that had not been active in millenia. It was a wreck, a battered and broken vessel of war with no home, wandering the cosmos. It was the Firebrand.

 

Unlike its first entry into Sector Karthago of Segmentum Ultima, however, the Firebrand had an awaiting audience. Once before the vessel had walked this path and cast its net upon curious prey, forever stealing away ten of the finest veterans to be birthed from Orpheus Prime. Such a slight on the chapter would not be suffered again. Probes and stations throughout the sector had been calibrated to listen for the drifting hulk’s deceptive distress beacon. Now activated by the Firebrand’s siren song, countless numbers of probes began to wail their warnings back home.   

 

Through empty space the warnings traveled, bouncing from one relay to the next, the light-speed of the data easily outpacing the doomed cruiser. Though the information was vital, it could not be trusted to the faster means of Astropathic travel. The taint of the sorcerer filled the Firebrand, so such communication would surely be detected by latent psychic influence upon the ship. Or at least that is what minds within the chapter feared. Thus the more traditional radio-relay network was developed in the event of the vessel’s return. In the end the journey to reach home took the radio-bound signal three months, eighteen days, nine hours, and twenty-seven minutes. And with the arrival of the message warning runes flashed to vivid life all throughout the Labyrinthe Orphia.

 

The day had finally come. What this day held, though, remained to be seen. Vengeance was first and foremost on the thoughts of all those affected by the Firebrand’s first arrival, though it was exceedingly doubtful such an opportunity for retribution would arise. No one knew of what waited for them within the floating snare of a ship. What little information was possessed only detailed the complete and utter emptiness and lifelessness of the dead Imperial craft, save for a final burst of psychic static that ended all further efforts at recording information. The ultimate fate of Sergeant Salazar and 4th squad had remained unknown since. But if their captors could be found aboard on this day, then by the Emperor they will suffer.

 

This along with many other litanies of hatred and duty poured from the mouth of Anton Vindict. More and more he spoke of vows and vengeance, his voice bellowing from every speaker and vox within the Labyrinthe Orphia. He was rousing his chapter to battle, invigorating them with the spirit of the Primarch and the Emperor. Each and every Praetor of Orpheus listened intently to Vindict’s words, letting them sink into their minds and trigger long conditioned responses.

 

Servitors scrawled each word spoken to parchment with ink-filled digi-quills, affixing one purity seal after another to the gleaming white artificer armor adorning Chapter Master Vindict as he continued to orate. Such a display upon him was necessary now more than ever. If the fate of Salazar was as nefarious as he feared then an imposing presence of honor and the Imperium’s divine might was an essential requirement. This is why no other Astartes would lead this expedition upon the Firebrand besides himself. Anton Vindict would find his men, or find his answers. Nothing would stop him.

 

As the broadcast of his orations ended, Vindict knew what had to come next. Much to his - and soon to be his chapter’s - dismay, the Praetors of Orpheus would not conduct this expedition alone. An… understanding had been reached with the Inquisition after an investigation from the initial contact with the Firebrand. The curious actions of the vessel and disappearance of Salazar’s squad apparently matched a pattern a particular Inquisitor was following. Seems that in addition to her investigatory duties she held a particular grudge against the suspected architects of the false distress beacon. Though Vindict did not want her presence, he knew it was inevitable. With a slight clench of his jaw, the Chapter Master blink-clicked a specific rune within his eagle-winged helm, alerting Inquisitor Krejcik to the arrival of the Firebrand.

 

***

 

Six figures stood silently in the docking umbilical, waiting for the arrival of the other three. Chapter Master Vindict and his honor guard had arrived early, wishing to make some - if any - kind of impression on their Inquisitorial guest. This was their quarry, their prize to take. The vengeance was there to be had for the Praetors of Orpheus, and not to be a footnote in Inquisitorial records that none would ever see. She may be leading this investigation, but the honor of the kills would not belong to her; Anton Vindict would see to that himself.

 

The Chapter Master of the Praetors ensured his Mk. VIII plate had a fresh coating of paint and gleamed a brilliant white with shining blue accents. The Imperial Eagle proudly and menacingly adorning his left pauldron in polished gold, similar golden wings spreading outward on the faceplate of his helm. His tabard and cape floated listlessly in the gravityless chamber, just as the many purity seals and honor parchments waxed to his flawless armor did. Though the power sword and plasma pistol remained sheathed, their powerful natures were in no way belied by their dormant state.

 

To his right flank stood the standard bearer Cynar. His own armor was covered in painted script depicting the honors and victories of the chapter, emblazoning his pure white armor with black tattoos of Imperial pride. The standard held in his right fist barely fit within the cramped space of the umbilical but he would not falter in holding it aloft. Not ever. It was a tapestry of the same blues and whites of all the Praetors, the yellow sunburst within the shield of the chapter’s emblem nearly shining with its own luminescence. None questioned the presence of the standard bearer on this mission. The enemy would know the might of the Praetors, and would fear their righteousness, all thanks to the prized banner held high by Cynar.

 

To his left flank was the threatening bulk of the company champion Amaro. Compared to his brothers Amaro stood half a head taller and a full shoulder wider, his size only larger when encased in his own ceremonial ceramite. Unlike the white paint adorned to the helmets of the full squad his was a shining gold. It stood him out from the group, as both a beacon of honor and a target for the enemy’s rage. He would defend his Chapter Master at all costs, regardless of his own life. But it would never come to that. With a power sword of his own and matching golden storm shield he would cut through whatever foul prey waited inside the ship.

 

Behind the three shining Praetors stood the remainder of the honor guard: Sergeant Luxardo with his master-crafted bolter, Brother Campari ensuring - once again - that the pilot light on his flamer was primed, and lastly Apothecary Contratto equipped to both prevent death via narthecium and deal it via chainsword. As a whole the six warriors comprised some of the top echelons of the Praetors of Orpheus. Yet despite their station within the Adeptus Astartes they still stood within the cramped umbilical, unable to enter without the graces of a single mortal woman.

 

Had they the human capacity for it in their advanced biology the six soldiers would have grown impatient long ago. But such inefficient thoughts and emotions had been engineered out of the Emperor's Angels of Death. Still, the acknowledgement of their internal chronometers showed that their wait had been quite an unnecessarily long one. Perhaps the Inquisitor had encountered some form of delay on her way here. Perhaps her ship had been ambushed in a trap sprung by the enemy while the Spares Marines impotently waited. Or perhaps most likely - at least to Anton and his men - she was making them wait as a primitive human means of establishing dominance.

 

Nevertheless, Inquisitor Tsalie Krejcik did finally arrive, walking down the umbilical with her retinue. Her stride was fast with a long gait, one leather-covered boot maglocking after the other on the metal surface beneath her. The three layers of scarlet, white, and metallic grey robes fluttered behind her thanks to her quick pace, allowing anyone present to steal glanced at the plated armor of burnished bronze and copper filagree beneath. Though it looked like a relic from Holy Terra’s age of steel it was an artistic masterwork of ceramite and servos that allowed her to move and fight at near the level of an Astartes. Yet even as those robes billowed from her imposing wake the hood shadowing her face dared not be pulled back without her permission, as if even the inert fabric knew better than to disobey the mistress’s wishes.

 

Her acolyte Jaco moved as quickly as he could behind her, struggling at times to keep up. The weight of the promethium tank strapped to his back and the heavy flamer in his arms no doubt slowed him even further. But he worked hard to keep pace, forever at his mistress’s side wearing a tunic and robes of the same three colors. And while the Inquisitor chose to hide her face with the shadow of her cloak Jaco instead masked his with a curved plate of featureless burnished bronze - same as the armor Tsalie wore. How the man saw through a plate of solid metal was anyone’s guess.

 

The second figure trailing the Inquisitor looked nothing like the other two, nor did it walk like them. It shambled with an uneven gait, staggering and struggling to move with the magnetic soles on its feet on the metal floor. Where the others were covered in many layers of fabric and metal the thing behind them wore only a tabard and loose mask of scarlet, leaving it nude with all of its cybernetic enhancements on full display. Wires and cables ran from spine to skull, and from shoulders to the metallic ends of its arms where dormant electro-flails waited for a simple binary command to activate. It was Xiandu 36b, the arco-flagellant.

 

At long last the nine of them stood in the same place, all of them not knowing what - if anything - would be waiting for them on the other side of the Firebrand’s waiting bulkhead. Vindict and Krejcik faced each other, each making the sign of the Aquila. As a show of respect, the Chapter Master waiting for the Inquisitor to speak first.

 

“Anton Vindict, and honor guard, you have my thanks for observing my official request regarding this matter. I have been following the signs and patterns of the Scourged for quite some time, so you can imagine the reappearance of this vessel comes as welcome surprise to me.”

 

“Of course, Inquisitor. By your leave, shall we begin?”

 

“Of course, Vindict. Let’s.”

 

***

 

Without warning, Scindus looked up from his meditative gaze at the floor. The small assembly of Scourged around him took immediate notice, quickly gathering themselves to the ready. Most were even capable of silencing their monotonous chanting of the lies parading in their minds enough to await their Martial Champion’s coming orders.

 

“It’s time. They are ready, and so are we. Iron Monger?”

 

Khan’tu’s hands and mechatendrils continued their work on the teleportarium console, the slightest incline of his augmented head the only indication that the warpsmith heard his name.

 

“All is ready, I trust?”

 

“Yes, Lord Scindus. All is as we have discussed. All is as planned. Prepare for teleportation.”

 

Now came the difficult part. To conduct Warp transport from this vast a distance was not without a very large risk. But Scindus knew that. The Astartes around him knew that. They simply did not care. Somehow… somehow Scindus knew they had the blessing of the True Master for this. Something inside his soul whispered that this is what must be done, what had to be done. It was already written, the outcome already known - the Scourged must simply ride the winds of Fate and experience it. And with a flash they left the material plane and rode the Winds of Change through the Immaterium, to arrive within the heart of Firebrand. Hopefully.

 

***

 

Nothing. Hours and hours of searching throughout the enormous ship had yielded nothing. But it was that absence that raised even further suspicion. How could there be nothing here? Barracks showed no trace that soldiers had ever occupied the spaces. Armoriums held not even a single shell casing or spare round. Crew quarters were devoid of even the barest of linens. It was as if the Firebrand had been stolen from the shipyards before ever seeing service, yet all records indicated otherwise. The ship was a ghost.

 

With yet another passageway and station cleared - this time one of the many communication relays throughout the ship - the assembled Imperial forces grew even more dejected by their quest. Where power weapons had once been active and alive as they searched they all now were switched off, saving power. Jaco had taken to humming a melody-less tune and sighing with every corridor. Inquisitor Krejcik paid it no mind, having long ago learned to tune-out the quiet noises her acolyte made, but his particularly human habits had begun to grate on the nerves of the Praetors.

 

What had annoyed the Chapter Master and his honor guard even more, however, was the tight-lipped nature of Tsalie Krejcik. Other than the barest of details during their introductions, she had not revealed who or what the Scourged were and why she was looking for them in this hollow void of a ship. When prompted a few times she simply ignored the questioned asked by Anton, and one indignant request from Amaro. With this latest stone upturned revealing nothing, Vindict decided to pry one more time.

 

“Inquisitor… again, I ask, what are you looking for? I have come here with my fellow Praetors of Orpheus in the name of honor and vengeance, seeking to solve the mystery of our missing brothers. But all we have found is nothing. Less than nothing. But you know something. You know what we should be finding in here. Inquisitor Krejcik, what do you seek to find that we cannot on our own?”

 

Nothing. Not a response, not a twitch, not a single shred of evidence that she was even paying attention. Just like the last time. And all the times before that. She simply walked through one hallway to the next, lifting her left wrist to consult some technical readout on her gauntlet before moving on once again. Jaco and the arco-flagellant were no help either, one refusing to speak as his mistress did and the other incapable of even doing so. They all just walked, pointlessly moving forward to search the next dead end. And the Praetors of Orpheus followed, Cynar still holding the banner aloft behind them all.

 

That is until the Inquisitor suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, her left gauntlet now alive with colors as text and data scrolled on the screen. Finally, something!

 

“Psychic disturbances detected. Multiple. Now heat blooms in… the reactor chamber. Chapter Master Vindict, we’re no longer alone in here. It’s time to move. I pray you and your men can keep pace with an old lady. Jaco?”

 

“Yes, m’lady?”

 

“Try not to fall too far behind.”

 

And with a little smirk Tsalie Krejcik leaned forward and began sprinting down the empty halls of Firebrand, moving with a speed impossible without the churning servos of her armor. Xiandu 36b was not far behind her, battle-stim automatically injecting thanks to the mindlink with its mistress, letting him run at inhuman speeds. Anton and his men were not slow to respond either, quickly grabbing blades and bolters and running at full speed behind her, activating power fields on all manner of weapons.

 

“Very funny…”

 

Clutching the heavy flamer tight to his body, Jaco began sprinting as well, but was quickly left behind the rest of the party. Even if he was unburdened with a tank full of promethium he would still not find himself able to keep pace. In moments likes these, Jaco sure hated his mistress’s cold Vostroyan humor.

 

***

 

They were already there, waiting. Five of them, clad in armor of twilight sapphire and midnight garnet, standing in the center of the reactor chamber. The plasmic cores behind them - the source of the heat blooms - were churning and spewing superheated gas behind magnetic fields, shading and shadowing the high-ceilinged chamber with ever-changing orange and white lights. The reactors noisily filled the room with a near subsonic hum, giving everything a nigh-imperceptible shake. All five of them had weapons at the ready, pointing at the Imperials as they barged through the open doorway, but none of them fired.

 

On instinct the Praetors of Orpheus all moved into combat positions, seeking out cover and bringing weapons to bear, pointing bolter and pistol alike, Amaro stepping in front of the Chapter Master to lead the charge. Inquisitor Krejcik had other plans, however, and immediately commanded the Space Marines to hold their fire, or find themselves as dead as the heretics inevitably would be. Begrudgingly the warriors in white complied, standing down but ready to unleash hell upon the traitors at the drop of a feather.

 

“Now is the time for answers. Vengeance will come next. Look upon them, Master Vindict, and see your quarry. These are the Scourged, if only a handful.”

 

“They disgust me.”

 

The heretics disgusted all of them, truth be told, except for Xiandu 36b who could feel or think nothing. The  assembled Imperials recoiled at the sight of the traitor Marines. Their armor was corrupted plates from near every mark, twisted and adorned with baroque trim and all manner of talisman and trophy. An aura of Chaotic taint seemed to permeate from them all, especially the one at the center. That one, holding two power swords, seemed quite obviously to be their leader, and within him the taint oozed strongest. It was this one that Anton chose to address.

 

“Know this, heretic: should you answer my questions I will ensure your death is swift. That is the only honor I will show you this day. Tell me of the fate of Sergeant Salazar and his squad!”

 

The figure in the center chuckled, quiet and deep, amplified by both the voxgrill on his helm and the speaker implanted in his chestplate. The leader shook his head, his mocking amusement made even more clear. His reflective response was to no one in particular.
 

“Honor… what is it with the Codex-bound and their honor…?”

 

That… that voice. Inquisitor Krejcik knew that voice. It was entirely unmistakable, whether hid behind a power armored vox or not. A pain suddenly flared in her right leg, causing her right hand to tremble ever so slightly and rest upon her thigh. It was an impossible, phantom pain. It was a memory of pain, because there was no leg there to feel it. Her fingers were resting on a cybernetic limb, not the flesh that screamed in agony in her mind. Tsalie looked closely at the tainted Marine until she finally saw it: the bleached femur tied to hang at his waist. Her femur.

 

“Scindus Dhelmas…”

 

She spoke his name with a growl, old pains and rage bubbling past her well-practiced Inquisitorial calm. Ever a slave to her own theatrics at times, she pulled back the metallic grey hood of her topmost cloak, finally revealing herself to all in the room. The older Vostroyan woman kept her black and silver hair in a plaited braid, neatly and perfectly kept. Her jaw clenched with anger, half bone and half cybernetics on her ruined face. The immaculate left side of pale skin with an ice blue eye contrasted heavily with the craggy scar tissue and red-lensed augmetic lens of the right side. But her rage radiate all the same.

 

“Inquisitor… I see you remember me.”

 

In a flash her left hand was already holding her chain saber and pointing the blade at the Scourged’s Martial Champion, thumb resting on the activation stud. The sudden reaction nearly provoked each of the Praetors to open fire and end the stand-off. The opposing Chaos Marines nearly did the same, but all held their ground for the time being.

 

“I don’t know why you’re here, but I’ll see to it that you never leave this damned ship, Scindus!”

 

Anton Vindict could not help but glance between the Inquisitor and the Chaos Lord while they exchanged words, understanding now why she had been so hell bent on spearheading this mission. She, too, was here for vengeance. That, he reflected, was something he could respect.

 

“We’ll see. Anyway,” continued Scindus, now addressing the Chapter Master and his honor guard, “you all had some questions for us? About, who was it… Salazar?”

 

“Do not toy with us, heretic. We demand answers. What of Salazar and his squad? What have you done with them?!”

 

The answer did not come immediately. Both sides, Imperial and Heretic, stood immobile and silent while the reactors raged to further life in the background. Finally one of the Scourged slowly lowered his pistol and power axe, holstering them both. With three solid steps forward he stood between the two lines of Astartes and slowly reached up to remove his helm, maglocking it to his armor.

 

The… thing stood with its face bared to them all, but there was nothing to be seen. It was an Astartes head with no features upon it. There were no eyes, ears, nose, or mouth. Not a follicle of hair. All that remained was a smooth void of skin, covering the bone and sinew beneath. Small ridges gave indications that the features had once been there, giving its face the barest hint of human topography. Such a thing only made the blank-faced Astartes even more unsettling. Then it began to wave its hands in all manner of symbols and gestures. It continued like this for some time, until finally resting its arms to the sides once more and standing motionless.

 

“What is that supposed to mean, heretic?”

 

That’s when another of the Scourged spoke up. Apparently this one was the translator for the faceless creature.

 

“He says ‘Fate writes different paths for us all. We walk them, ignorant. But a few find enlightenment. A few learn to read the Tome of Fate. It cannot be changed, but it can be understood. From this clarity comes pure Truth. Salazar learned the Truth and will speak no more Lies.’”

 

Recognition came once again. As everyone stood with weapons still held up and ready to fire, Contratto lowered his blade and stepped forward, through the battle line of his brothers. His voice was filled with disbelief and relief simultaneously, then tinged with regret, and finally dogmatic hatred.

 

“Teshin! You live! But you have turned against the Emperor! What of Salazar, and the rest? Have they forsworn their oaths as you have?”

 

The Scourged with holding the autocannon, translator to the faceless warrior, Teshin the Praetor, responded with a heavy sigh.

 

“It’s… you can’t know, Contratto. None of you can. They changed us. ‘Gave us the Gift’ as they call it. We hear - I hear - everything. Your lies. His lies. And his lies. Her lies. Every lie. All the lies, so many lies, from all across the galaxy. You just… you can’t imagine what that’s like.”

 

“Impossible!”

 

“No, Vindict,” interjected Krejcik, “it is truth; they can’t help but speak the truth anymore. The Scourged have been tainted by Chaos, forever damned to hear every lie spoken or thought by all of mankind. I have seen it. I have heard it. Their… ‘Gift’ is real, but no excuse to defy the Emperor.”

 

“But it is, Inquisitor… I know so much, have learned so much. We hear lies of present, and future, and past. We know truths you’d never believe. The rest could not bear the weight. Their minds and bodies fractured. And Salazar… Anton, he heard the Primarch speak. He heard his words, his voice, and they were all lies. Lies so damning they would ruin you all. Thus he swore to be forever silent.”

 

The mention of the Primarch sent a murmur through the Praetors of Orpheus. To speak of the Primogenitor with such familiar tones was unheard of! Only the heros from Macragge itself could swear to know such things. But to call the Primarch a liar… that is a heresy beyond all others!

 

“If Salazar has heard such things, bring him here and let him speak of the Primarch himself. We will break his vow and learn the supposed “lies” that Chaos whispers to you.”

 

Teshin did not speak. He waited, knowing what was to come. Knowing what Scindus had planned from the start. Knowing why the Lord brought him and Salazar on this mission. Knowing that this was not about killing the chapter, but breaking it. So Teshin waited, until the Astartes with no features clamped a fist to his chest and leaned forward in a deep bow. After a few long seconds, Salazar the Silent stood straight once more, returned the helm to his head, and returned to the Scourged battle line.

 

“No…”

 

Anton did not want to believe it. Salazar had been one of the best of them all. He was beyond temptation, beyond corruption. He was imbued with an Imperial zeal second only to the chapter’s Chaplains. Never would Sergeant Salazar have been found lacking reverence for the Emperor and the Primarch. Yet here he supposedly stood, flesh corrupted by Chaotic taint, mind ruined even further by the twisted delusions of heretical beliefs. He and Teshin both, tainted beyond any manner of reconciliation. They may as well have died with the rest of the squad.

 

The tension of the room had reached a final breaking point. It would only be a few seconds before someone snapped and the stalemate ended and the firefight began. Both sides of the room could feel it, and slowly readied themselves with tiny motions. But Scindus was calm. This all felt… familiar. It was not as though he had foreseen it like one of the Diviners in the warband. His mind was not gifted that way. But something whispered to him that this was all performing exactly as choreographed. This was how it was supposed to be, and the outcome was certain. And he was ready.

 

“Oh, and Inquisitor?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Before this gets loud, you should knwo: I brought another friend of yours to this reunion,” he cryptically spoke, blink-clicking an activation rune with a tiny grin.

 

“Throne, no… Anton, get-”

 

She never finished the statement, not as far as the Chapter Master could tell. Instead she was cut off by twin beams of concentrated heat blasting between them, the rapid expansion and contraction of air forming a small sonic boom, silencing Tsalie’s words. The twin beams managed to avoid hitting either of them, instead striking a tertiary target. The twin melta shots evaporated the majority of Apothecary Contratto’s lower half and right arm. Immediately he fell to the floor a cauterized stump as the melta-bearing behemoth announced itself with a mechanical bellow.

 

Krejcik! Your lies, your lies loudest of all!

 

The Helbrute emerged from the shadows, barrels of its multi-melta still glowing red hot as it stomped forward. Its fist swung in a wide, low arc, knocking Campari roughly into an adjacent wall and smashing his treasured flamer to pieces. Shot after shot fired wildly at the charging brute, pinging helplessly off of its thick armor plating, doing nothing to slow its charge.

 

Tsalie grabbed her inferno pistol even as she rolled away from the enraged monstrosity, seeking cover to avoid the hail of fire from the Scourged coming her way. The clever bastards… they turned on the reactors to mask the beast’s presence. Sparing a quick glance over her shoulder she fired a quick shot at one of the Scourged, but at this range and having to hide again so quickly the shot went wide. The one with the autocannon - Teshin - was pummeling her location with shot after shot, slowly weathering down the ferrocrete slab of her cover. She’d have to move soon.

 

Krejcik!

 

The brute was coming for her again. It cared not for any of the Praetors, charging through them to get to her. It knew her, somehow. But it would have to work harder than that to get her. With but a thought, endless stims and shocks coursed through the tortured body of Xiandu 36b, reviving him for battle. Her augmetic eye quickly scanned the flailing warmachine and identified it as a priority target. That was all the arco-flagellant needed. The electro-flails came alive with a charge and the penitent slave wailed with a blind ferocity as it hurled itself at the tainted dreadnought. That would afford her some time to escape her pinned position, but not much.

 

Meanwhile the rest of the fight was well underway. The remaining Praetors within the honor guard were firing and charging, battle rites from the Codex Astartes ringing in their minds as they moved from one stratagem to the next. Cynar and Luxardo were each slowly moving to the flanks, trying to contain the enemy with bolter fire. Luxardo had to duck quickly as a stray plasma shot flew in his direction, nearly taking off his left shoulder. He turned and aimed at the source of the shot, bolter shells flying at the traitor, hoping to land a killing blow.

 

Amaro had scanned the heretics for the greatest threat and immediately moved to engage the one called Scindus, blocking one blow with his storm shield while parrying a second with his blade. The two champions dueled with lightning speed, trading blow after blow. The warrior in white was slower, opting for heavy, killing strokes and a stalwart defense with his shield. The fighter in sapphire moved with a fluid dexterity, dodging and weaving as power swords carved through the air. Neither could gain a killing blow in the other’s defense, but Amaro was slowly having to backpedal from the assault.

 

Anton Vindict found himself equally occupied with his own fighter, fending off chop after chop from a power axe. Salazar had come for him, attacking without a sound save for the electric hum of his weapon’s power field. The two had sparred many times before, countless times as both training and demonstration. Each knew the others’ moves and techniques. But for the first time in their joint history they fought as enemies, intent on killing the other. Deep down, beneath the rhetoric and hatred in the Chapter Master’s mind, beneath all of his training and indoctrinations, he felt regret at what had become of his battle-brother.

 

In one moment Inquisitor Krejcik looked to her flank to see Xiandu 36b dancing and screaming around the behemoth, flailing at it again and again while dodging the giant fist punching at it. It wasn’t going to survive, but it would buy her time. She spared a glance over her cover once more and fired another fast shot. This one connected, however, piercing the protective shielding of a plasma gun and leaving one of the Scourged a smear of gore on the decking floor. Quickly she replaced herself behind the shredded ferrocrete again, but not before a chip of shrapnel pitted her augmetic lense. Another glance to her side and it was clear Xiandu was losing ground. Where the Throne was Jaco?!

 

Amaro continued to defend each and every strike Scindus threw at him, but his retaliatory strikes were coming fewer and farther between. More and more he was forced to step back, closer and closer… to Chapter Master Vindict! No! The damned swordsman was pushing him back to strike at Vindict. He would not allow it. He would defend him, and the chapter.

 

“You will fall, heretic! You will die this day, a footnote in annals of the Praetors of Orpheus. By the will of the Emperor you all shall face His divine wrath! In the name of the Primarch, I promise your defeat!”

 

Scindus chuckled, for once amused instead of annoyed with the prattlings of the indoctrinated Imperials. Maybe he had heard all of the lines enough times to find humor in them. Or perhaps it was the addition of former Praetors to this fight that added an ironic hypocrisy. Or maybe it was the fact that his opening was finally available and he could strike true.

 

“You forgot to mention honor, blue-blood.”

 

Kneeling, Scindus held up his left blade to block a deep slash from Amaro while cutting his right sword low at the other champion’s ankles. Predictably, Amaro stepped back to avoid the blow to his balance, but the error of that action dawned on him too late. The sword kept swinging wide and to the left, the edge of the tip cutting behind the knee of Anton Vindict. The power field of the sword cut easily through the softer connective material of the armor, tearing the muscle and tendon inside with ease. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it was enough.

 

Vindict collapsed onto his left side, footing lost with his knee giving way. He tried to slash as Salazar on the way down, but the strike was nowhere close to making contact. Salazar, however, had the opening he needed, having read Scindus’ movements, and swung his power axe in a wide, horizontal slash. It flew over Vindict’s head as he fell to the floor, missing completely, but instead lodged itself in the power pack of Champion Amaro. The joint assault of the Scourged had work, leaving the Chapter Master limp on his side and the champion a slave to his powerless armor.

 

Teshin, seeing an opening, spun his autocannon slowly, away from the entrenched Inquisitor and toward the newly exposed Luxardo. The honor sergeant ran quickly, leaping forward to go to ground and lay prone and avoid the heavy shots coming his way. With a crash his armored bulk landed behind one of the many fallen slabs of wall in the chamber. Luxardo had made the leap and was safely behind cover, but that had not stopped the explosive round from blasting his stomach open while still midair. He was dead before he landed. Both satisfied and disgusted with himself, Teshin changed his aim once more and focused on the exposed standard bearer.

 

With the autocannon now pointed elsewhere, Tsalie had her chance to flee. She stood and ran, bolting toward the entrance and behind the dreadnought. She quickly considered firing a shot into its rear armor as she ran, but thought better of it - no sense alerting it to her escape. In ten meters she would be out through the archway and into the labyrinthine halls of Firebrand, with the daemonic construct far behind her. That is, she would have been had the limp body of Xiandu 36b not slammed into her and knocked her to the ground. Damn. She waited too long.

 

Krejcik! You won’t escape Gallus!

 

Gallus?! That… that thing is Gallus Herodicus? Oh, by the Throne, that’s what Scindus meant by ‘reunion.’ The damned chapter master that ruined them all was now entombed in that… that thing. And just like before, it wanted her dead. And this time, it looked like Gallus would get the job done. By the time she got to her feet it will have already either fired its melta and incinerated her or taken two steps forward and slammed its fist into her. Seems she wouldn’t escape after all.

 

Then the entirety of Gallus was engulfed in a torrent of flame. Jaco! That slow bastard finally made it, and saved her skin once again. Both Jaco and Gallus yelled at one another as the heavy flamer doused the Chaotic walker in burning promethium, charring metal and fleshmetal alike. It wouldn’t be enough to bring it down, but it was enough to distract the brute so Tsalie to get to her feet and run. And that she did, testing the limits of her own muscles and her armor’s servos to run as fast as she could.

 

“Jaco, run!”

 

“Aye, m’lady!”

 

For the second time today, the Inquisitor sprinted past and far ahead of her acolyte, leaving him behind. This time, though, it was devoid of any humor. The man in the bronze mask turned and fled right behind her, working to shed his weapon away as fast as possible, leaving it in a heap on in the halls of Firebrand as he worked to catch up. Neither would know the fate of the Praetors this day, and at that moment neither cared. But the tally of Tsalie Krejcik’s vengeance grew ever larger.

 

***

 

When they returned, The Sorcerer Lord was standing in the teleportarium awaiting their arrival. After giving him a moment to recover from the stress of individualized Warp travel Rahaund’ul approached his brother, taking note of the two absent Astartes and single prisoner with a golden helm. The remaining two Marines carried their captive away, off to who-knows-where within Deception’s Call.

 

“Two Scourged for one Imperial seems like an unfair trade, brother.”

 

“Would you at least care to hear what happened before you judge my spoils, Raha?”

 

Rahaund’ul sighed, nodding and turning to walk alongside Scindus and out of the small, cramped chamber. The warrior removed his helm and carried it under his arm, walking with his brother through the tainted fleshmetal halls of their battle barge.

 

“That Imperial is the chapter champion of the Praetors of Orpheus. Remember them?”

 

That was not something Rahaund’ul had been expecting. After stealing away a squad to use as recruitment fodder, he assumed that would be the end of their ties to that chapter. And why would they need to seek them out again? Segmentum Ultima was not a place he wished to venture.

 

“That is why you insisted on bringing Salazar and Teshin?”

 

“Yes. It added some much needed poetry to our fight. It also helped weaken the resolve of the still-loyal Praetors. We will see if this one is as receptive to the Gift as they were.”

 

“So, what… all of this just to get one recruit?”

 

“No, Raha… I had two reasons. One was to create a reunion with our dear Inquisitor friend and poor, deceived Gallus. Oh, the look on her half-face when she realized… priceless. She still lives, true, but our fun was had regardless. That is a story for later.

 

“But the real reason for this mission was to break a chapter’s spirit. A death knell is ringing for Ultima. I’ve… heard it somehow. Despair is coming to the failed second Imperium. The plague winds are blowing toward Macragge. All will be fractured and broken, with only hope to guide them. But with my actions today, they will have one less source of hope to aid them.”

 

“And how have you broken them?”

 

“Their love of honor ruined their hopes at vengeance. Their champion is our prisoner, their relics and standard are our treasures. With these taken from them they’ll mourn for the rest of their lives. These wounds will cut them deep.”

 

For emphasis, the Martial Champion gestured to the extra weapons attached to his armor that Rahaund’ul had failed to notice. A third power sword and an immaculate golden bolter could be seen, both bearing the Imperial hallmarks of eagles and skulls.

 

“But I have also dealt them a mortal wound. Their chapter master is left for dead. He is chained to a reactor as it burns bright and the ship heads straight into the heart of their home world. Left alone, it will plummet straight into the planet, hopefully damaging their fortress. Knowing Codex protocols, they’ll blast the Firebrand out of the sky and destroy their own chapter master in the process.”

 

“That’s very clever, Scindus. However, what’s to stop them from boarding the ship and rescuing their master?”

 

“Nothing. In fact, it’s highly likely they will.”

 

“...which renders your machinations moot, and throws away the Firebrand to accomplish nothing.”

 

“No, Raha, that’s the best part. Even if they rescue him we still win. He is tainted now. Ruined. If rescued this ruinous taint will spread through his chapter.”

 

With honest disbelief, Rahaund’ul asked his brother how that would happen.

 

“I told him Salazar’s secret: the lies of their Primarch.”

 

That is… beautiful. Such a thing would rot them to their core, and could even spread throughout the Segmentum. But how had he known this would happen? How could he speak of a future to come? He had never been gifted with prescient sight, not like Rahaund’ul.

 

Scindus smiled, as if reading the sorcerer’s thoughts. It was a cold and prideful smile, a sneer that curled up one side of his mouth. And his eyes, his eyes flared with a new fluorescence of brilliant blue light that had never been there before. Something had awoken within Scindus, and Rahaund’ul could not be sure if that was a good thing.

 

[Spinsanity]

Alright, this was sketched a lot more quickly than I had wanted to, but you guys unfortunately twisted my arm...

 

I recently decided I'd paint my soon-to-be marines army in the Nemesis chapter's colours, and had come up with some (imho) very nice fluff to back it with which I'm sure the CSM forum here would be delighted with. Alas, I realized two days ago that the focus of the Inspirational Friday this week was the Sons of Guilliman, so I had to rush things a bit to get this story up in time...

 

I know quite a few people here were unhappy with some of the retcon that was seen in the recent Dark Imperium novel. Maybe this will help you guys come to grips with some of it...

 

"Remember, Commodore, you will be fighting alongside the Primarch in this campaign. Make sure you do our chapter proud."

- Moritat Prime Acestes, Captain of the Nemesis 1st Destroyers Company

 

Captain Alivander Corrigan was an apt commander, who had spent the last 163 years ferrying ammunition for the navy and militarum troughout the wider Ultramar sector at the helm of the Resolve of Eternity, a Carrack-class supply galleon. Although he had succesfully defied dozens of blockades and survived countless warzone supply runs, his proudest achievement - and the one his crew relished retelling most whenever they docked - was the one time he had stared down an imperial Commissar.

 

That the poor bastard's drink had been spiked was irrelevent, of course.

 

"I assume, captain, that realspace translation is due to occur within the hour as expected?"

 

The question snapped Alivander out of his reverie. He was surprised to realise he had almost managed to forget about the astartes that was on his bridge. Then again, the marine had stood at attention, silent, ever since he had boarded the ship more than a hundred days ago. The warrior could have died within that featureless armour and he wouldn't even have known yet.

 

The brute was a mystery. His battleplate was bare ceramite, lacking any single identifyer or honor mark except for the Imperial Skull on an emerald green field on his left paultron, probably a chapter symbol. One that wasn't familiar to Alivander, however, nor to any of the databanks on his ship. The marine had boarded the galleon on Konor stating that he was bound for Macragge, petitioning for the ship to abort its cargo resupply and depart at all haste.

 

Somehow, the bastard had the credentials to enforce the request.

 

Unfortunately for the captain, the sigil of authority he had been presented didn't identify him, or who it was from, which only heightened the mystery surrounding the nameless warrior.

 

"Of course, sir. Translation will occur in... 57 minutes, now."

 

"Thank you, captain. Please note that any penalties for your incomplete cargo shall be assumed by my chapter. No charges of dereliction of duty shall be addresses to your or your crew as a reault of the services you have rendered. In exchange, I would require one last service of you. Please have an astropathic dispatch be sent to the Cavascor. My chapter already has a company currently at high anchor in Macragge, waiting for my arrival. Let them know when we are bound to arrive in system so an escort can be sent to take me off your shoulders."

 

"And who shall we tell them is arriving?"

 

"Brother Latarius, of the Nemesis chapter."

 

---

 

The Primarch was majestic.

 

Chapter Master Latarius hadn't expected he'd ever get to meet him. He had, like many of his brothers, made a pilgrimage to the Temple of Correction on Macragge, but that was 300 years ago, when his father was still in stasis. Back then he hadn't believed in the rumours, the fables that said Guilliman was healing.

 

Yet here he was.

 

Latarius hadn't bothered listening to the rumours and hearsay as to how it had happened. Theoreticals like this bordered on the heretical, and he tended to be a practical man. Perhaps too parctical, sometimes.

 

The plan was sound, he knew it. And even through all the resentment, his captains did, too. They had all agreed to it. The only thing left to do was to convince Roboute Guilliman to go ahead with it...

 

The silence was daunting. As Latarius had stepped into the Primarch's chamber, he had felt a sense of fulfilment the likes of which he had never felt before, as though his very being had, finally, settled into its destined shape. Guilliman had let him speak, let him explain the opportunity he was offering the Primarch and the resources and opportunity he was requesting in exchange.

 

He had expected an exchange, but it had been a monologue. His sire hadn't uttered a word, listening, and now remained silent still, deep in thoughts. Latarius didn't know what to expect.

 

He feared a rebutal. Feared that the Primarch would take the suggesting as a sting. As an insult.

 

"The plan is sound, but I will not, can not, enforce cooperation on any chapter but my own. I will plead for your with your fellow brothers, but will do no more. I will not enforce my will on them and question their Chapter Masters' authority. Unless you agree to these terms, I cannot condone your resolution, however noble it might be."

 

As the words sank in, Latarius felt a sort of elation.

 

He knew the Primarch had never agreed to the chapter's methods, to its culture. That they were sometimes referred to as the Unspoken, their very existance kept a secret, their name deliberately kept from the Apocryphas and other records of the second founding.

 

This was vindication.

 

"Thank you for this honour, Sire. With our campaign against the Arch-Arsonist at an end, the Lex Talonus is currently anchored in the deep void, a quick jump from Konor, where it can receive all the necessary repairs to be once again fit for duty, and be rechristened the Macragge's Honour so that your soldiers can remain ignorant of the loss that the Imperium suffered.

 

"Thank you, Chapter Master. I look forward to your sucesful return from this campaign. I will ask First Captain Agemman to assign two squads to your assistance."

 

Performing the sign of the Aquila, Latarius rose to depart.

 

"You grace me and my Chapter with great honour, my liege. When we next meet, we will each return to the helm of our respective ships. I know you will take care of mine while it is in your hands."

 

For those unfamiliar with the chapter, the Nemesis chapter was first (afaik) mentioned in HH:5, where it was mentionned that during the scouring they succesfully captured the WordBearers's own Gloriana class ship. Since theirs - renamed the Lex Talonus - is the only one, beyond the Macragge's Honour, in posession of one of Guilliman's chapters, I figured they could let him borrow the ship, thus explaining how he commands his flagship in Dark Imperium even though he lost it in GatheringStorm3

 

+ Edit : I know it's not the best of prose and could use some tuning... A more adequate version is due once I have some models to post in a WIP thread in the Forge...

 

+ + Edit : Lo and behold, it seems that when I C&P'ed the story in here I somehow missed a paragraph... Sorry.

Edited July 7, 2017 by Spinsanity

[DogWelder]

This is my second entry. It is called "Shape of Vengeance" This is Part 1:

 

+++Calth, 007,M31+++

 

Anger.

 

Sergeant Daken of the Ultramarines felt it course through his body, somewhat numbing the pain of his leg being split open. Ithaka starport was in flames, its vast landing fields in ruins; Legion shuttles, Thunderhawk gunships and cargo transports lay in flames amidst the upturned ferrocrete and steel. Looking up at the burning sky he saw brilliant blue streaks of light descend upon the surface of Calth, setting the cities in the distance ablaze.

 

He snarled with rage and curled his hands into tight fists, limping away from the rubble he was buried under. Let his Primarch or his officers worry about why the whoresons of Lorgar turned against their brothers. He was Nemesis Chapter; he could care less about the motivations of the enemy. Only that they were dead.

He did not get far before he heard savage shouts and Colchisian war-cant echoing through the ruins of the terminal building. The wreckage before him was teeming with the soldiery the Word Bearer’s had brought with them. Even before this betrayal , to call them soldiers was an insult to the proud and disciplined fighting regiments of the Ultramar Auxilia. They were not soldiers, they were cultists.

 

Adorned with grizzly trophies taken from their victims, and inscribed with cultish runes from the Book of Lorgar, the savage butchers went about gutting any of the terminal staff that survived the collapse. From the corner of his eye, he saw a woman in a blue/orange technician uniform struggle to free herself a fallen column of cargo crates as a party of the cultists circled her prone form.

 

Daken roared and charged at the group, moving unnaturally fast even with the gash in his leg. His armored fist caved in the head of one of the savage men as the others hurriedly brought up their lasrifles. Effortlessly dispatching another with a chop to the neck, he brought up the body as a shield against the hurricane of las shots. The corpse turned to a steaming slab of meat as the cultists foolishly expended all their charge firing at the Ultramarine.

 

“Ill-disciplined savages!” roared Daken as the hail of shots came to a close, the cultists now realizing, as they fumbled to get new clips into their rifles, that they were now defenseless against the Space Marine. Hurling what remained of his meat shield at one of his hapless assailants, the Astartes broke into their firing line, every punch, kick and occasional snap of the neck sent another lifeless cultist stumbling onto the cracked floor.

 

His armor was pitted and scarred in the places the shots had struck home but it was mainly superficial damage. He heard the click of a spare charge cell being slotted in and whirled around, catching a lancing blow to his pauldron. His hand instantly went down for his sidearm It was unloaded and he had lost his magazines to the rubble. So he threw it as hard as he could, aiming for the man's face. The pistol hit its target, snapping the cultist’s head back and causing him to collapse into the dirt.

“Overseer! Overseer!” he heard a voice yell as he crushed the throat of the last man before him. The last cultist, an elaborate crest on his helm identifying him as the leader of the war party. The man was scrambling away from the Ultramarine towards a shattered entryway of a terminal gate. Daken snarled and started after him but stopped when he recognized a familiar shape lumbering through the debris and mist.

 

Stone cracked underneath its tread and large chunks of debris were swatted aside as if they were weightless. The figure soon resolved itself into the menacing form of a Word Bearers Terminator. The crimson giant leveled its stormbolter at the Ultramarine, the visor of is Cataphractii reflecting the fires around it and giving it a demonic visage.

 

The cult leader had stopped beside the figure and was smiling deliriously at the Ultramarine. No doubt he was ecstatic at having one of the Sons of Guilliman at his mercy, though the shaking of his fingers belied an ever present sense of dread.

 

“Now you die, you fugging-” he managed to get out before the bolt round turned his head to a pulp.

 

Behind the Ultramarine, the technician he had saved earlier was lying on the floor, nestling a smoking bolt pistol between a large crack in the debris to offset its recoil. The weapon, meant for an Astartes, had still given her a considerable kickback and her face was grimaced in pain. It took a moment for Lycus to realise that it was his unloaded bolt pistol.

 

“One in the chamber” she said between gasps of pain, her uniform streaked with blood and dust, indicating she had clawed her way out of the rubble.

Using the distraction, Daken sprang at the Word Bearer, his face a twisted mask of rage. He got within five paces when his left pauldron came apart in a shower of ceramite and blood. The Ultramarine cried out in pain as he fell onto his back, carried by the momentum of the shoot. His larraman cells were clotting the injury but the pain was unimaginable. As he struggled to right himself, the Terminator appeared above him, the Storm Bolter pointing downwards.

 

An eye-searing burst of light filled the air, followed by an explosive boom that almost shattered the Ultramarine’s eardrums. To Daken’s surprise the Word Bearer had not fired his bolter at all. It lurched awkwardly and fell face-first into the rubble, missing him by a few centimeters. As he awkwardly craned his head forwards, he saw a gaping hole in the back of the Terminator. Its armor had been wrenched open from behind and the figure inside burnt to a crisp.

 

“Anti-armor missiles” the black-armoured Devastator marine said, moving through the smoke and looking down at his handiwork. “I was always curious about their effect on Tactical Dreadnought armor”. Daken could hear a glint of feral glee in the Ultramarine’s voice. He liked this one.

 

Struggling to his feet, he made himself level with the Legionary. “Name and rank, marine” he said, his voice hoarse but stern. This marine was from one of the many Destroyer companies in his Chapter. Volatile, destructive and highly aggressive, the Destroyers made up the bulk of the 22nd “Nemesis” Chapter. They were rarely used in the Crusade, however; his Primarch wishing to avoid the absolute carnage they usually left. Like many things about his Legion, Daken was sure that was about to change from this day forth.

 

His savior snapped to attention, cradling the missile-launcher in his arms. “Pellaeon, 5th Squad, 7th Company, Sir”. Despite their brutality, the reverence for the chain of command was present in him, such as it was in all Ultramarines. “We were conducting weapons drills on the range when the bastards hit us. Sergeant Ionus is dead and so is much of my squad. Linked up with several more remnants on my way to the terminal buildings.”

 

Daken raised an eyebrow. “You headed deeper into the Starport instead of regrouping on the outskirts?” he asked.

 

“Our best toys are on the Landing Fields” he started. The sergeant gave him an inquisitive look. “The Destroyer weapons, sergeant. Rad missiles, Phosphex bombs...our weapons.”

 

“When a units have lost cohesion and face a larger enemy force, they are to retreat from the frontline and regroup at a secure location” the sergeant quoted his Primarch, fixing the Destroyer with a stare. Then, his expression softened. “But there is nowhere on Calth that is secure today. Good work, marine. Let us-”

 

A scuttling noise interrupted their conversation and Daken turned to see the technician who had fired the shot stripping a cultist of his lasrifle before scavenging the rest of the bodies for extra clips and grenades. Her eyes widened as noticed the marine looking at her and straightened to attention immediately.

 

“Radar Officer Letina, First Class” she almost shouted, her voice slightly on edge at being in the presence of two of the Ultramarines.

 

“Impressive shot for an engineer” the sergeant remarked.

 

“I hit the range in my spare time sir...it’s a hobby” she managed, gulping as she struggled to hold his gaze.

 

“I see” the Ultramarine replied. “You are a civilian, Officer Letina” he said as he started to walk away from the rubble along with the Destroyer. “I have no authority to order you into the fight. You may do as you wish”.

 

As he made his way towards the black armoured figures in the distance, he heard the light footsteps of the technician behind him. She forced herself into a jog to keep up with him.

 

“Where are we going, sir?” she managed between heavy breaths.

 

“Where else?” he said gruffly “To kill Word Bearers”.

Edited July 8, 2017 by Caius Tadius

[Kierdale]

Thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday: The Primordial Annihilator versus the Sons of Guilliman!

Adreal gave us a story that I’m calling Little Eagle, Old Serpent, narrating the clash between one of the sons of Ultramar and an Alpha Legionnaire. Just which of them truly serves the Imperium and the interests of Man?

I gave you A Lesson Learnt in which one of the Stygian Guard captains is seconded to the Knights of Ultramar, befriending his captain peer but finding differences in the two chapter’s methods, with them coming to blows years later as the Stygian Guard have become the Psychopomps.

Caius Tadius’s entry was Nemesis – the first but not last entry in this theme to use the Nemesis chapter – showing Guilliman and his chapter in orbit over the Word Bearer homeworld of Colchis in the wake of the Horus Heresy. Chapter master Iasus and his men are thirsty for vengeance, and will not be stopped...

Firebrand was Scourged’s entry this week, marking his return to IF and the return of the Praetors of Orpheus to the ship Firebrand. I remember when Salazar and Teshin were taken (years ago now, I guess it was!) so for me personally it was a great pleasure to read this story. Not such a pleasant reunion for the Praetors and inquisitor Krejcik though...

I loved the bit where she recognized the bone. I can’t imagine how that would feel.

And Spinsanity gave us the fifth entry and second to feature the Nemesis chapter (popular boys!), detailing chapter master Latarius’ meeting with his genesire (and clearing up a fluff flub, apparently!).

I hereby close the 13th challenge of IF2017, but if anyone has more stories on that theme, at any time, please post them here with a suitable title.

And here begins our fourteenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2017:

Death Guard

The 14th legion, the sons of Mortarion, warriors of Barbarus, formerly the Dusk Raiders. The blessed of Grandfather Nurgle.

Once warriors of strength, strong will and stern resolution, they were ravaged by plague whilst trapped in the warp enroute to Terra. Their lord, Mortarion, swore fealty to Nurgle and saw his sons transformed into Plague Marines; their flesh bubbling with corruption, their innards spilling through lesions in their putrid skin and their bodies and weapons oozing with slime.

They rule over the Plague Planet where sickness and pestilence are the norm, where miasmic clouds bring contagion and death and where the diseased pray to Nurgle for relief from their constant agony.

When the Death Guard march from the Eye, or the Cicatrix Maledictum, there goes before them countless pandemics which ravage those who would oppose them even before the Plague Marines strike and bring the blessings of Grandfather Nurgle...

Inspirational Friday: Death Guard runs until the 11th of August. You have lots of time as I’ll be away on holiday for a portion of this time.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Honda (unless he wants to relinquish the duty to me).

To whomever is chosen as the victor goes the Octed amulet:

...and the duty of judging IF: Death Guard.

And to whomever wins IF: Death Guard goes the Pox Amulet...

BEHOLD!

[Honda]

There can only be one...

 

Hookay, you guys really put the "new" guy through the wringer on this. It was obvious that a lot of thought was put into these entries and that several really should be developed into longer stories.

 

At the end of the day, one particular entry kept drawing me back and that was Caius Tadius entry, "Nemesis". I really liked how the Thiel and Iasus perspectives on Colchis were both right and wrong. The fact that something was lost between Thiel and Guilliman was also significant.

 

So well done everyone and congratulations to Caius!

[Kierdale]

Congratulations, Caius!

Be sure to display your Octed Amulet where we can all see it (e.g. Your signature)...or hide it away as Honda did with his if you're a loyalist (if I remember correctly Honda told me he launched it into a sun but I think he has it under his pillow).

 

This also means you have earned the right to judge IF: Death Guard if you're up for it?

[DogWelder]

Firstly thank you guys so much :) I'm still relatively new to the 40k fandom (got in about half a year ago) so I'm really grateful to receive such feedback on my stories.

 

Secondly, sure! I'd love to judge IF: Death Guard

[Kierdale]

About two weeks to go.

 

I'm working on my entry and hope to have it done in a couple of days.

[Kierdale]

Within a cloud of flies

Hidden Content

The braying had turned into a wet hacking; a wheezing of terminal breaths through lungs clogged with fluid. The beastman's legs no longer kicked nor did it's hooves scrabble at the smooth stone ground.

Holusiax, sorcerer lord of the Psychopomps, cradled its head in his gauntleted hands and wept as he took in the devastation being wrought upon the Child of Chaos' once-beautiful body. It's once vivid fuchsia skin was now pale, yet not in the same way as the pastel of the warband's armour, rather it was sickly. Muscles withered under his gaze and he gave thanks that the Child's eyes were misted with cataracts lest it see its own body so quickly falling to decay.

He looked upon the mutant's chest, rising less with each choked breath, and observed the bilious green rheum dribbling from its sole mammary, once fine and swollen with the milk of Slaanesh.

The sorrow welling up within him thrilled him despite the anguish he felt, for his patron deity had instilled in them all a lust for the extremes of every experience.

As the Slaangor breathed its last he craned back his head and unleashed an excruciated roar.

 

 

Their quarry had been found: one of the Crone Worlds - former worlds of the ancient Eldar empire that had been swallowed by the Eye. Yet they were not the first to find it and those who had come here before them had left their mark.

The pox of Nurgleth.

In days of yore, at the height of their Empire the worlds of the Eldar had been flawless paradises befitting that finest of races, with emerald green plains and sapphire rivers and oceans overlooked by towering minarets psychically sculpted by acute, exacting artisans to whom naught but perfection had sufficed. That thirst for perfection, for sensual exploration, had been their downfall and the birth of the Psychopomps' patron.

Yet even in the millennia since this world's abandonment the elements could not have wrought the destruction the renegade Astartes found about themselves. Gemstones which had likely once been receptacles for souls were now clouded and dull, devoid of the nourishment and sacrifices that Holusiax had sought. Indeed the wraithbone structures themselves which should have stood the test of countless ages were crumbling, some covered in webs of cracks while the very stonework of others seemed bruised and poisoned, thick mucous running from sores on their surface.

Even as he had lain the diseased Slaangor scout to rest, directing the accompanying raptors to incinerate the corpse, he had felt voracious phages from the corpse attempting to invade his system, penetrating the filters of his powered armour and his cybernetic mask and had had to focus his psychic might to obliterate the virus before it overcame him.

He now looked about the crumbling cityscape, questioning his mission. Was their venture for naught? He feared lord Sophusar's displeasure.

And he could not turn so easily from this world, he found. Their journey through the madness of the Eye had been long and difficult and he sensed the desire of some of his men to return to their ships and be off, leaving this husk of a world - not out of cowardice at the disease that had ravaged one of their scouts (though the only one of many sent out whom had managed to return) - but out of realisation that this world no longer held that which they sought. Yet he himself could not bring himself to order their retreat.

What had brought the Nurgle-worshippers here? Had it been simply a world found upon the rampage-path of a warband of the God of life, death and disease? A world devastated for no greater reason than random chance, that the movement of the heavens had brought it before the vessels of renegades? Or by some whim a bevy of daemons had emerged here and cavorted madly as they sewed foul rot hereabout?

He could not help thinking there was some greater purpose.

The nameless planet had been found half enshrouded by the clouds of a miasma-like nebula. As soon as the Slaangor had returned to them, collapsing into his four arms, he had ordered their ships to battle stations despite scans upon arrival having failed to detect any other vessels in the vicinity.

"Initiate full-spec augur scans of orbit and surrounding space," he ordered his ship, Naga - the vessel having been gifted to him and named thus in reflection of his own body: reforged by the power of Slaanesh so that his lower half was serpentine. "They are here."

"Surely, if the planet is as decayed as you say, they may be long gone?" Ontasas: one of Holusiax's apprentices. He had not been one of the Stygian Guard and had been made by the chapter after its Fall. Identified as having the Sight, he had been indoctrinated and initiated into the warband's sorcerous coven. He was obedient, but wilful enough to question his betters outside of immediate combat.

Holusiax observed the other's hololithic projection floating before him. He did not berate or scold the other, for the distance was too great for Ontasas to feel what he himself now felt.

"They are here. Either they always have been and were shielding themselves somehow, or our scouts disturbed them and they now awaken. But I feel a presence now, aroused by the pox's feeding upon the Slaangor. Ontasas, have the ships sweep local space and secure it. Have Naga maintain position over us here. I would have her lances at my beck and call."

With a mirthless grin his servant bowed and cut the channel.

Cantor, formerly the chapter's second-company captain and now one of the most powerful champions of the Psychopomps, turned from his troops - squad upon squad arrayed our around them in a defensive perimeter: from raptors and noise marines to a squad of novitiates with trophy-festooned sniper rifles - as he heard Holusiax deactivate the comm. The sorcerer had no doubt that Castor had eaves-dropped on the entire conversation. Such was his prerogative: lord Sophusar had designated him second in command for this mission, and either way Cantor always operated best when fully informed, unlike his greatest rival within the warband - the peacock duelist Dophesia - who was best pointed at the enemy and unleashed.

"We're going hunting then?"

At Holusiax's nod Castor raised his power axe high and a discordant roar of sound went up from the assembled squads as weapons were checked and the noise marines began testing their peculiar, howling arms.

 

The first indication of their presence, but for that which Holusiax felt as an itch within his mind, was a black mist which appeared to sweep through the ruins, swathing the fallen towers and arches and looping meters into the sky only to fall like waves as it advanced. As it drew nearer it became apparent that it was no mere mist but rather a cloud of flies. Billions of them. The droning of their wings grew and this soon stoked frustration amongst the noise marines. The Slaangor keened and retreated, fearing the plague which had so easily slain their kin, but the noise marines swore vehemently at the incessant bombination and stroked the controls of their weapons until they shrieked and as soon as the wall of blow flies drew within range they opened fire, the howling reports of their weapons eclipsing the droning, and the blasts dropping countless thousands of bugs with each blast, the vast majority of them pulped. Voids were temporarily cleared in the cloud but were soon filled as the teeming mass drove onward.

The march of the Psychopomps had been as a tattoo, the heavy stomp of ceramite boots upon the wraithbone ground, but it was softened, weakened, as they now trod - their pace slowed - and they marched upon the cracked carapaces and mulched innards of innumerable insects.

There had been no time to call a lance strike from Naga before the small ground party was engulfed. One raptor tried to blast his way up, to get above the cloud, only to fall back to earth hard, the turbines of his jump pack clogged. Blades were ineffective so they played their sonic weapons back and forth, driven as much by discipline and Castor's drills as a maddened urge to put an end to the monotonous droning. There were bleated screams as beastmen, presumably their own panicked Slaangor, were struck unintentionally by blasts, but no other enemy seemed to present themselves. This brought a measure of relief until one of Castor's men collapses, fingers scratching at the vents of his helmet, visibly clogged by hundreds of squirming black bodies. They could not bodily penetrate the filtration systems of powered armour but mindlessly the bugs threw themselves at these weak points until the putrid, liquified mess of their bodies dribbled through. The marine soon fell, drowned in filth. The novitiates did what they could to shield their heads but two fell, one clawing at his eyes as bugs began to feast upon them, the other running madly out into the darkness, his ears filled with teeming flies and maggots, the calls to hold position unheard. He ran into the line of fire of the noise marines and was struck down by their indiscriminate fire.

As the cacophony of their fire intensified, joined by the roar of Castor's heavy flamer incinerating thousands of bugs with each blasted sheet of fire, Holusiax cast his mind wide searching the mists of the astral for one who might be controlling the flies.

There he was. A sole sorcerer, or whatever the witches who swore their souls to Nurgleth named themselves, at the very heart of the darkening brume. His mind showed the intense concentration and effort he was exerting and with a smile Holusiax raised his bolt pistol in the direction of his target.

The first shot detonated before it struck his wretched compeer, the mass of insectile bodies in the air so thick that the bolt believed it had penetrated its target.

About him he heard the choked, gagging screams of more of his men, the song of their weapons fading and the infuriating hum of the flies grew, wearing at his concentration. He astrally sighted once more and sent a burst of bolts at the Nurgle sorcerer. Again one detonated prematurely but the second clipped the marine's plastron and the last struck it in the gorget as it staggered.

It fell and simultaneously the cloud of flies rose in a spiralling column. The Psychopomps about him, unaware of the cause, unleashed screams and continued their sonic onslaught, firing upon the ruins about them too as their target and tormentor dissipated.

Holusiax slithered across the ooze-slick ground, joined a step behind by Castor, his heavy flamer's pilot light still burning, ready. They approached a fallen figure in an old, old mark of powered armour coloured like filth-encrusted ivory and marked with trefoil symbols. It at first appeared as if Holusiax's fire had penetrated deep into the marine's body and the explosive rounds had forced intestines out of entrance wounds but it soon became apparent that his body was hideously malformed, with loops of intestine dropping from several rents in his plate, some ends severed and leaking ordure and other foul matter, and others even snaking across his armour to merge with the ceramite.

His head had almost been removed by the final shot and Holusiax knelt, noting that while blood still seeped from the wound, the fallen sorcerer's limbs seemed inert. He was alive, but only just.

With a hard pull he removed the plague marine's helmet to reveal a visage ravaged by plague. In some sickening twist it appeared that the flesh of the boils and buboes, the lips of the unhealed wounds, was far healthier that than of the marine himself. As if the very pox itself was malignantly virile.

Castor signaled for what appeared to now be the last of the novitiates to come forth. He had the youth crack open the back of the old marine's skull with his combat knife.

The youth did well to hold his gorge as puss dribbled from the opened cranium and rheum-misted eyes turned to watch them, but little more than a gurgle escaped the paralysed marine's lips.

He could not withhold his vomit and openly let it flow upon being ordered to consume the diseased brain matter before him.

Holusiax and Castor lay him down as the novitiate's body was wracked with spasms and his enhanced organs digested the meal.

His eyes rolled back and he began to babble.

 

When he finished and his eyes fluttered, sense returning, Castor turned his flamer upon him.

They could not risk contamination.

 

Upon return to orbit they learned when they had been unable to detect the Death Guard vessel, which had put paid to two of their own cruisers in search of it: the vessel was so diseased and twisted, an amalgam of flesh and machine, that sensors had failed to register it as ship nor life form, dead or alive.

Whatever the purpose of its presence and the sorcerer on the surface, the Psychopomps made good their escape.

 

Epilogue

Hidden Content

"What did you learn?"

The question came not from lord Sophusar, clad in his ornate terminator armour, upon his throne. Nor did it come from the two-faced apostle Angra at his side, both his human and daemonette eyes fixed upon the returned Psychopomps with great interest. It came from Ki'mah'gureh the towering Keeper of Secrets at their lord's other side, and was said in his oft-patronising, teasing tone.

"Of what fate truly befell that world, we can only assume that the Death Guard ravaged what remained there, for whatever reasons their lord or patron might have," Holusiax reported, prostrating himself before his lord.

Servoes hissed as the great figure shifted upon his throne. His displeasure was evident.

"Yet we did learn something of their patron, my lord. We learned that within the garden of Nurgleth resides, as a captive, one of the riven pantheon."

"A goddess of the Eldar."

[Kierdale]

Next Friday is the deadline.

Are there any more entries? Anyone want to tell us a short tale about their Death Guard? Their Plague Marines? Nurgle Chaos Lord? :)

[Azekai]

Going to finish mine in a few days... looming deadlines are great motivation!

[Teetengee]

Sorry, I am running 2 rpgs right now and obviously haven't been terribly active on this thread for a while anyways.

I may have something for Friday, but no promises.

[Kierdale]

Here's another from me :)

 

All Life. All Death.

Hidden Content

The people of Hinodaei III knew not what splinter of which hive fleet it was that appeared in their star system, only that they had heard much of the Great Devourer's assaults upon the worlds of Ultramar and Baal and so lord-governor Urnus initiated system-wide drafting and the forges on Hinodaei II and IV went into overdrive to arm the populace of the third planet.

The bugs were alien beasts yet unmistakably possessed of some form of base cunning and tactical comprehension,for the gargantuan mollusc-like vessels of the tyranids first swept down upon the system's two forge worlds and silenced them, smashing their skitarii and mechanicum defenders with shocking speed.

Their hunger far from satiated, they turned their attention to Hinodaei III, the lush jewel of the system.

Few captains managed to escape with their ships - to escape the system itself under the auspices of seeking aid, or to escape the confiscation of vessels for military use. Many of these latter vessels were retrofitted with explosives and were flown into the oncoming Devourer fleet in an attempt to behead or cripple it. Again, the biomechanical killers were no fools and countless drones and soldier-beasts threw themselves upon missiles and kamikaze-vessels in order to protect the greater monstrosities.

And the Guard dug their trenches deeper as the skies of Hinodaei III darkened with the spores of the Great Devourer...

 

 

Respite came unannounced as Astartes vessels appeared in orbit, devastating those of the tyranids in an unexpected and unrelenting onslaught. Such news had barely been announced to their commanders in their secure bunkers before those who now fought bayonet-to-talons saw the streaks of inbound Astartes gunships and drop-pods.

None questioned the curious form of the ships which flew overhead, spitting fire, laser, missile and other unknown munitions into the massed xenos, for to question deliverance was blasphemous folly and in truth few amongst their officers or veterans even had ever seen let alone served alongside the hallowed Adeptus Astartes.

Their ground assault proved as deadly as their arrival had been and while it had taken the rapidly raised Guard regiments of the planet months to even slow the alien tide - a deed with a steep price paid in the blood of millions - in a few short hours the Astartes had torn the heart and brains out of the tyranid horde.

His highest-ranking surviving officers escorted lord-governor Baranola (he having taken up the mantle of the slain Neusio, who had been elected by the Guard command upon Urnus' suicide) to the front as soon as they deemed the war over, the Astartes guns having fallen silent and no further bug assaults having been reported.

His shining chains of command jingled as he stepped down from the Taurox and he beheld their saviours: each and every one of the marines had been injured most hideously in the fighting. Not one of them was without heavily damaged armour and open wounds that would have slain a mortal man, yet all stood tall as though they bore their injuries with pride.

He whispered an order to his aide to have every medic available redirected to this location on the double. Damn the injured of the Guard, it was these marines who had saved them all.

He prostrated himself before their stained and worn ranks.

"I am Baranola, Emperor-appointed lord and governor of this planet." A small lie, but his appointment would no doubt be approved once communications with Terra could be restored.

This, at last, caused a stir amongst the ranks of giants.

"T-take me to your leader," he added, raising his head to regard them and trying his best not to gaze overly long at protruding intestines here or seemingly malformed limbs there - no doubt the result of the fell xenos' accursed weapons, which had liquidated and devoured countless of his and his predecessor's men.

Their ranks parted and a towering warrior lumbered forth, his cracked and stained armour - how hard they must have fought in so short a time! - barely containing his bruised and cut flesh.

"M-my thanks and the everlasting appreciation of my people, for saving us and our planet from consumption!"

"All life, all death is the province of our lord," came the marine commander's voice, wet and drawn even through his vox.

Governor Baranola bowed his head to the blood-soaked mud once more, grimacing at the sight of large beetles and carrion flies feeding upon the corpses of the dead aliens and his guardsmen alike.

"You are truly the God-Emperor's Angels of Death."

The commander's boots crunched nearer and Baranola swallowed bile, his gorge rising at the stench of death which wafted toward him.

The man raised his head once more to find the marine commander, whom he was now so close to he was overcome with the condition mortals knew as Transhuman Dread. The being before him was so maimed and torn that it should not rightly live. It was visibly diseased. A revenant. A zombie.

The Death Guard commander moved so slowly, raising a jagged, tarnished and pitted blade to rest under the human's jaw, yet the governor did not even flinch, so terrified was he.

"All life, all death, is the province of Nurgle."

[Azekai]

Here is my offering. Apologies if it is overly long, or if I butchered my portrayal of the Iron Warriors... or Death Guard, for that matter
 

Aftermath

The gravity well of the artificial moon shifted, and a tremor shook the relay station. Oseon awoke from death-sleep. The last thing he experienced had been the deafening roar of an autocannon as centimeters-long bullets tore through his body. The plague champion slowly took in his surroundings. The battle was long over, and now the cramped room was dark, dotted with sleepily mouldering forms. The floor was carpeted with fat dead flies.

All was still.

Oseon settled back, content to bask in the healing process as cancerous regeneration unfurled through him with the warmth and rapidity of wildfire. The Death Guard relished the sensation, a visceral token of the Lord of All's favor. Fractured bones sealed, shredded flesh metastasized and bloomed anew... on earlier occasions Oseon had become practically giddy as he delighted in the warp and weft of each muscle and vein, each ravening division willed by the Father of Disease.

The stillness was cut by a sharp, painfully slow breath accompanied by the wet whine of failing augmetics.

A fellow survivor. Oseon twisted his head, the clumsy movement aided by the ancient blood-fed servos of his symbiotic armor. An Iron Warrior lay close at hand, his body pierced by a dozen impaling wounds. Blackened pus bubbled, leaving behind greasy streaks that obscured the chevron markings of a havoc. The Iron Warrior's cracked helmet lay nearby, half buried among the myriad flies. Oseon could see his companion's eyes were wide and glassy, his bald head beaded with sweat. Grey fungal spores crusted around the corners of his mouth and eyes.

Oseon attempted to sit up, and failed. What served as his spinal cord had been severed about halfway down his back, and his wasted limbs were largely useless; the regenerative malignancy had not yet spread to his extremities, so Oseon waited, attempting to refocus on the pleasant metabolic heat that was billowing through his innards.

The Iron Warrior let in another sucking poisonous breath, and again the stillness was broken.

Oseon decided to make the most of the situation, and his corroded voxcaster screeched to life.

“I do not begrudge you these final moments."

Oseon's phlegmatic voice was deeply slurred from eons of decay and mutation. The Iron Warrior's panted breath came again, but the dying astartes said nothing, a long line of saliva slipping from between his taut jaws. Since his companion offered no rebuttal, the plague champion continued.

"Defiance in the face of doom is an admirable quality, brother.”

Some of the cancerous growth's churning heat had begun to disperse from his core, and the Death Guard attempted to flex his left hand experimentally. The ravaged ligaments in his arm weakly responded in a series of twitchy spasms. Progress. He listened distractedly as the Iron Warrior gave a single shuddering cough... the first of many.

“I was like you, once. Others may have been more savage, more cunning, but we Death Guard held tenacity as the greatest virtue. Suffering was like an old friend to the sons of Barbarus, pain meant nothing..."

"We were as you are now. Proud."

They were idle words, nothing more than an afterthought, but they seemed to snap the Iron Warrior out of his infection-induced reverie. Fevered eyes shone in the darkness, viciously and defiantly alive.

“I... have every right to be proud, mutant! No gods, no masters, save for the Gene-Father. We never fought for The Corpse on Terra, or for the Warmaster. Glory was as nothing to us, for only duty and victory hold worth..." The Iron Warrior spoke quickly, his words hastened by both contempt and a sudden gale of fitful coughs.

Oseon listened with polite bemusement. The regenerative fire had gathered at the back of his misshapen rib cage, and the Death Guard could almost feel the nerve-tumors seeding along his spine.

“You- you,” the Iron Warrior’s eyes were glazed with fever, and he laughed. It was a hard, mirthless noise devoid of meaning. “You speak of tenacity and strength- yet you are no brother of mine! You and all your ilk are failures! You were great once, yes, until you were beaten-"

The Iron Warrior paused, but this time he did not cough; he retched, roughly hacking up gobs of tarry pus. Oseon watched in cool fascination, waiting as much for his spinal cord to re-knit as for the Iron Warrior to continue. The Iron Warrior spat out a final semisolid clot and snarled in disgust:

"I have heard the stories! I have heard of how your first captain betrayed you one and all to the Plague God. Such a thing-" The Iron Warrior was interrupted by another bout of vomiting that resulted in a watery spray of black ichor. "S-such a fate would never have befallen the Iron Warriors,” the havoc growled, fighting to bite back the dry heaves.

“Spoken with such surety.” The Death Guard’s tone held an unmistakable smile as he grinned beneath the rictus mask of his helm. It earned Oseon another look of unabated hate from his companion.

“Yes, surety! Life and death hold no meaning to an Iron Warrior. If our total annihilation would have denied your putrid daemon-god his prize, then so be it! You Death Guard did not withstand the test. Your insipid legion surrendered! The Death Guard are not strong, you are wretched beyond measure! Your will was broken, and now you are nothing more than rotting puppets, content in your total degradation.” The Iron Warrior's tirade ended abruptly, the only sound the sputtering whine as his long-suffering augmetics finally died.

The time had come. The Death Guard champion lurched forward and slowly staggered to his feet, leaving behind a sticky morass of rust, uric acid and curdled blood in his wake.

For the moment, Oseon ignored the Iron Warrior. He picked up a discarded bolt pistol, the brutal baroque casing denoting an ancient lineage. “It is only dimly I remember our time in the becalmed Empyrean.” He holstered the weapon, the movement languid and rote.

“What I recall are little more than sensations, the chief of which was agony- torment beyond measure. Every neuron and dendrite writhing as I was devoured, body and soul. It is not in vain jest that our blessed affliction is named ‘the Destroyer.’ I knew death was at hand, as one knows with the surety born of a dream. There can be no enduring that warp-wrought doom.”

The plague marine rooted around amid the bloated corpses and great piles of flies, his motions methodical and unhurried. The Iron Warrior violently forced up the black remains of his stomachs and lungs, covering his breastplate with slick effluvia. Oseon, heedless of the interruption, drowned out the ragged coughing by broadcasting his words in thick, mechanized screams.

“How long it lasted, I cannot say; weeks, months, years, these things are meaningless in the realm of unbridled chaos. All I know is that I experienced lifetimes of torment. During this interminable period, amid the unending suffering, my pain-riven mind was granted an epiphany. In my anguish, I realized had caught a glimpse of the true face of God. It was not the visage of the False Emperor, as the deluded Lorgarites had preached! No, I saw the very face of Death, and He smiled. Amid His blackened teeth I looked, and found truth."

Oseon discovered the remains of a fellow plague marine, the body melted down to the waist by an errant gout of plasma. Looped on his dead brother's belt was the prize Oseon had sought: the Rot of the Plague Father Himself, contained within a blessed death's head grenade. Oseon approached the Iron Warrior, a mountain of corrupt ceramite and twitching carcinoma.

“I understood that only the hand of God could lay low the children of Barbarus in one fell swoop. That was the real test; would I recognize this strength, or, in my agony, spurn it and die?”

“I embraced Him. I seized on the pain that threatened to devour my flesh and made it mine, and by His grace I was allowed to step sideways and become both death and life incarnate. You say you see the emptiness of the universe, the futility of life and death. I see the cycle and rejoice in it. I embody it, forever.”

The plague marine knelt. He forced clawed thumbs into the eyes of the sutured head, causing it to weep a cloudy yellow fluid. The vile stuff dripped across the Iron Warrior's exposed head and face, spattering into his eyes and running into his mouth as he fought another fit of ragged coughs.

"Nurgle's Rot. Among the most blessed of all our Father's gifts." Oseon's voice had dwindled to soft gurgle that scarcely escaped his voxcaster. Satisfied with the anointing, the plague champion crushed what was left of the hollow skull and discarded it.

The Death Guard stood and drew the bolt pistol, dropping the weapon out of reach of the dying Iron Warrior. Despite his condition, the Iron Warrior lunged, straining to reach the butt of the fallen pistol, urging his failing body onward. His rusting gauntlets carved desperate furrows amid the numberless flies. The first three-lobed blotch was already erupting across his waxy flesh, the Iron Warrior's failing immune system allowing the Rot to spread with terrible rapidity.

Oseon watched behind his verdigris deathmask, murmuring a few words from the Paean of Mortification.
“Wither and bear fruit... rejoin the eternal cycle, Iron Warrior; or watch over it, as I do, an immortal symbol of the duality of life-in-death. I care not. But know your time is at hand, just as mine once was, so long ago.”

Oseon turned, plodding up the steps that led out of the benighted relay station. Behind him, the Iron Warrior fought to move the scant meter necessary grasp the bolt pistol and end his suffering. The gnawing ache of the Rot was becoming unbearable...

Edited August 16, 2017 by Azekai

[Kierdale]

Only three entries in Inspirational Friday 2017: Death Guard, two of which were from me! I thought we might have had more from fans of the Death Guard, but sadly not.

Many thanks to Azekai for his piece, Aftermath. I must admit I have not yet had chance to read it but intend to do so as soon as I can.

My two entries were Within A Cloud of Flies: my Slaaneshi Psychopomps coming across a Death Guard sorcerer on a Crone World and coming away with a discovery they had not set out to find, and secondly All Life, All Death: I figured Nurgle, as the god of the cycle of life and death, would view the tyranids’ consumption and absorbing of life to be, well, pissing in his pool.

I hereby close the 14th challenge of IF2017, but if anyone has more stories on that theme, at any time, please post them here with a suitable title.

And here begins our fifteenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2017:

Alpha Legion

The 20th legion, a riddle wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.

Experts in infiltration, covert operations and manipulation, often the enemies of the serpent do not realise who their true foe is, and indeed the pawns of the legion may work unaware of the identity of their masters.

“Sinners in a shroud of lies” they were labelled by the Night Haunter and it is suspected that even during the Horus Heresy the legion infiltrated both their treacherous allies and the ranks of the loyalist legions.

Who truly knows where the loyalties of the Alpha Legion lie? Do they serve the Primordial Annihilator or are they still true to the Emperor’s ideals?

Tell us this time a tale of the Hydra.

Inspirational Friday: Alpha Legion runs until the 25th of August.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Caius (recently renamed DogWelder).

To whomever is chosen as the victor goes the Pox amulet:

...and the duty of judging IF: Alpha Legion.

And to whomever wins IF: Alpha Legion goes the Hydra Amulet...

BEHOLD!

[adreal]

Snake in sheep's clothing

 

Abraxxis cursed.  His first senior command had become a farce. What should have been a simple job of quelling a rebellion had become a quagmire, and now the adeptus astartes had voxed in stating they would send in reinforments to end the conflict.

 

Jr officer Whelhim had been excited buy the news, Abraxxis didn't have the heart to tell the lad what became of imperial officers after the emperors angels ended conflicts. Let the boy have his delusions Abraxxis thought, much better then the reality.

 

Sudden movement broke Abraxxis from his musings

"Sir, they are here" Whelhim said, his voice barely hiding the excitement. 'Throne' Abraxxis cursed to himself, usually the Astartes rain down hellfire with a drop pod assault, had Abraxxis lost his ability to understand a battlefield that he didn't even know they had arrived. His thoughts were racing with the implications as he followed the Jr officer into the meeting room.

 

Before Abraxxis and Whelhim stood several giants in aqua hued armour, unclear marking were scrawled all over the armour, some looked serpentine, others strange symbols that confounded the mind.

"My lords..." Abraxxis begun, he had never seen these Astartes in any vidlogs of conflict, while not unheard of for the emperors angels, it didn't sit well with him.

 

"Lord commander?" One asked as it strode towards him, the giant uncasped his helm, underneath was a clean shaven face with violet eyes,

"Lord commander?" The giant asked again, Abraxxis nodded.

"It has been brought to our attention that the rebels are proving more difficult than anticipated to put down"

Again Abraxxis nodded, not quite sure what to think of the giant infront of him.

"Be at ease Lord commander," the giant began, "we are here as the rebels scum have inlisted the might of a traitor legion"

A traitor legion!! Abraxxis mind was reeling, surely they were legends of a past time when the emperors walked as a man, obliterated in the scouring.

"Traitor legions my Lord?" Abraxxis asked, still dumbfounded at the news.

"Yes Lord commander, word reached high command that the XIIIth was on route in support of the rebels. We are here to support you"

"Apologies for my rudeness my Lord." Abraxxis begun. "We thank you and your men for your support, Lord, we shall begin a stratagem briefing to combat the traitors"

Abraxxis raised his eyes to meet the gaze of the giant, the aqua hued astartes met his gaze and smiled

"Hydra dominates"

[Scourged]

So, I tried to get something in for the Death Guard but... I just... It's just... I just couldn't do it. I couldn't will my Tzeentchian fingers to type at length about their anathema, even sarcastically! But this time, oh, this time I couldn't stop myself. Glory to the XXth. 

 

Hidden Content

In Plain Sight

The poor soul had to be strapped to the gurney for his own protection. Twice now he had already flailed his limbs so hard they were knocked out of socket. Outwardly he seemed to feel no pain, though. And strapping him down had not diminished his desires to thrash this way and that as he screamed.

On and on he screamed, the same thing over and over, never stopping to take a breath. Each time an orderly came to retighten the bed straps he would scream. When attendants came to collect samples of the calcified, scale-like growths on his face he screamed. While other patients slept quietly in their wards, he screamed. And as the doctors observed from the other side of the glass, muting the intercom for the room, he screamed.

“That the fifth one this month. Seventeenth since the first. Symptoms the same as the rest.”

“Except they have nothing in common. There’s no correlation between any of them. If this were an infection there would have to be something linking them. Except-”

“-genetic analysis reveals no connection, as well as a lack of any increased immuno-production. It’s not disease.”

They both knew that. They had been comparing notes since the first patient came to their medical wards. Each had run their own tests, then compared notes. Nothing. Not one shred connecting anything. Still, they needed to figure something out, and comparing notes once more was better than just watching the plagued man suffer.

“And we know it’s not trauma. There is no injury or scarring, internal or external, and none of the victims have any shared geologic overlap, according to the data collection from their IFD collars.”

“I remember, yes. Maybe some kind of toxin or chem…?”

“No, we already tried that countless times. Toxicology has come back negative for everything except the usual contraband. If it was something like that we’d all be infected.”

“Mind your tongue, Jonas; I’ve never been one to imbibe in contraband.”

He just rolled his eyes. Was now really the time for the holier-than-thou act? Jonas had seen enough of Harko in his personal life to know that wasn’t true. Jonas had attended Harko’s wedding, his birthdays, his second wedding, his son’s graduation, his third wedding. Harko was no stranger to contraband. Whatever. Best to just focus on the patient.

“Maybe parasite?”

“Again, all scans negative.”

“Then I’m out of ideas. Whatever has happened to them, it’s nothing we can discern. We’ll have to assign this one to Psych, just like all the rest.”

“But even they have found zero indications or evidence of any damage or disability. For all intents and purposes he, like the rest, was perfectly sane and healthy and then… this.”

The silence stayed between them for a long while. The truth was there, clear as day. Everyone knew it. Psych knew it. The orderlies and attendants knew it. The only one who didn’t know it was the poor soul strapped to the table, wailing his lungs away. It’s just… nobody wanted to acknowledge it, admit it. Because if you talked about it, it might become real.

“You don’t… you don’t think they’re telling the truth, do you Jonas?”

“I don’t know. But I hope not. It’s not for us to decide. All we can do is treat, or at least keep trying to.”

***

The briefing had been going on for the last hour, and the Lord Governor was growing very bored. Praefectus Pankur saw all the telltale signs: he was slouching in his ornate desk chair, he was sighing every two minutes, and he was tapping his fingertips to his lips when not speaking. She knew she needed to wrap this up. It’s why she saved this last item of business for last: the shock would hopefully break him from his reverie, and would be fresh on his mind at the meeting’s end.

“Lastly, we have another formal request from the Regional Diagnostician, Lord Governor.”

“Another? That man just does not quit. Fine, fine… More of the same, or something new?”

All the previous requests had gone ignored by the Lord Governor. It wasn’t pleasant news, and he didn’t like that. It was news that involved work, and he didn’t like that either. But worst of all, it was news that involved working with the higher levels of the Imperium, and the Lord Governor hated that. And despite everything Samaela did and tried, her boss had always dismissed the issue and moved on.

“More, sir. The.. er… ‘problem’ is spreading still, and faster. Reports have spread from the initial occurrence in  Hab 34A-16. There are instances in Habs 36A-12 through 24, all of Habs 21, 15, and 39, Habs 11B-02-29… plus many more, as well as remote occurrences in city-spires on the subcontinents. This is global, sir. The request for Inquisitorial intervention has been reissued, though with a double seal of Urgency.”

“This is the third time now… I still don’t understand how the Inquisition is going to help. All they are going to do is stir up trouble and make everything worse. That’s what the Inquisition does. Besides, I thought this was a medical issue?”

“Sir if, uh… if you read through the request, the Regional Diagnostician highlights that no medical or psychological issues can attribute to the… phenomenon. It’s the… the, uh… the nature of whatever it is that requires Inquisitorial intervention.”

She knew damn well he had never once read any of the requests, regardless of urgency. Once the mention of “problems” and “pandemic” and “Inquisition” popped into the conversation the Lord Governor tuned it out and dismissed it. Twat. If it wasn’t affecting him or his constituents and investors he didn’t care. But he’d have to now. She would see to it that he read what was happening to his planet and do something.

“Fine then. And just what exactly is the nature of the phenomenon?”

The formal request and accompanying dossier were forcefully thrust across the Lord Governor’s desk and into his hands. Contained within was every written word of the Regional Diagnostician on the subject, his notes, the words of the Sub-Region Medicae Chairs, their notes, the Primary Medicae Technicians’ write-ups, their notes, and so on, down the chain in all directions to the very bottom with patient zero. Not a single detail was spared. But thankfully for the situation’s importance and the Lord Governor's impatience and abstract with photos and bold lettering was right on top. And finally, seeing it for the first time, he was paying attention, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Is this accurate…?”

“Yes, Lord Governor. I have sent Field Scribes to the Regional Diagnostician’s office, as well as the various district Psych stations, Sub-Regional Offices, patient homes, everywhere to personally witness the… the victims. It’s accurate. And we need to act.”

The young man slumped in his large chair even more, his mood far less bored and far more sullen. He knew exactly what had to be done, but didn’t want to do it. He was a child who let a problem fester and now had to fess up to his parents. The reprisal would be harsh, on top of all of the other discomfort and Inquisitorial visit brings.

“Issue a formal request for Inquisitorial Assistance. Marked urgent. You have full access to my code clearances.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

They all stood in the locked office of the Lord Governor. He and his Praefectus were in full formal regalia, standing at full attention. Samaela was calm and controlled, while her superior constantly shifted and fidgeted, sweat beading the longer they waited. They both knew this wasn’t going to go well, but only she had the professionalism to hide it.

The object of their fear was the Inquisitor and his two Astartes bodyguards. The man in charge was pacing in circles around the room in a simple navy long coat buttoned to the collar, fingers cloved in a brown leather the same as his immaculate boots, and his short hair combed backward. The Astartes were statues by comparison: two elite warriors of the Red Hunters, the Inquisition’s personal chapter of Space Marines. Each held a bolt pistol and chainsword in each hand, ready for any and every thing.

They had all just finished watching a vid-feed of one of the more recent patients of the pandemic. He, or she - it was impossible to tell anymore, their body features entirely obscured by the growth of calcified scales - was tied down to a gurney, filled with intravenous lines to keep them alive, and screaming like all the rest. The audio of the vid-feed crackled and spat, but the tormented wails of the victim were clear as day: the Dark Gods come for Mallion.

“And this has been going on for how long, Governor?”

“Two years, Lord. The initial event was small and contained for the longest time. But it has recently gone wild. Given the specific nature of the situation I contacted you immediately… once I was properly made aware of it by my subordinates.”

Everyone in the room knew that excuse was a crock. The Inquisitor was no fool. But he played along, not wishing to interrupt the appointed official incriminating himself. This would be a long time coming.

“...yes, I’m sure you did.”

“Had I known the gravity of the situation sooner I would have called for aid then! I can promise you that.”

“Of course.”

“But you’re here now, and you can fix this… right?”

“Fix this? Do you even know what it is?”

“Well, I, it’s…”

Samaela intervened, sparing her boss any further embarrassment: “Best our teams of Medicae can tell it is not curable with Imperial standard practices. The ailment is either a Xenos virus, or influence from beyond the Materium. In either case, the expertise of the Inquisition is necessary.”

“Yes! Yes, that!”

The Inquisitor spared two glances. The first was to the Praefectus, nodding slightly to thank her diligence in the matter. The second was to the Red Hunter on his left, who then lifted his bolt pistol straight up, aiming at the heart of the Lord Governor.

“You see this, Governor? Here’s the solution to your problem right here. The Emperor’s finest medicine for all that ails humanity. A few rounds fired from the chamber and your problem stops before it spreads. Any good reason why this wasn’t done two years ago?”

“Wait, wha- you mean kill them? Well I just… I didn’t… I wasn’t made aware, or advised on such things.”

“The Medicae and Psych Wardens of Sub-Regions Mellion XI, IV, XIII, and II all issued requests and/or advisements to conduct exterminations. Field Commander Frakka spoke to you personally about engaging in quarantine protocols once the phenomenon reaches Hive 34A-12. The Regional Diagnostician’s first informal request-”

“Thank you, Praefectus, that is all!”

Oh, how the Lord Governor was furious at that. He was being called out on all of his inactivity and excuses, only to have Samaela rub salt in the wound. He needed it, though. And she needed to do it to him. Too long had she watched him ignore his planet if it didn’t meet his interests or his mood. But now, with an Inquisitor watching, there was nowhere to hide from his responsibilities. She planned to hold him to them all.

“Hm. That’s what I thought. So now, despite all of that, here you are demanding that I fix this for you. That’s rather presumptuous, Governor…”

“I don’t… I mean… I’m not demanding…”

“Oh? You aren’t? You have sent an urgent request for aid, for a problem that could have been snuffed out years ago. But now, thanks to your idle hands, you require an extermination force. This has spread so far that your meager defense forces are compromised and you want the Imperium proper to step in and fix your errors, is that accurate?”

“Lord, that is not-”

“And now you stand before an Inquisitor, boldly contradicting his judgment and edict, insinuating that the words I speak now are wrong, and not the Law of the God-Emperor Himself.”

“No! I swear to you that I-”

“Swear to me? I am no god. I am mortal, just like you. You should swear to the God-Emperor, peasant, not me. Now I see it so clearly - you have descended into your own heretical madness. You have forsaken the Imperium and sought to damn your world with this spreading curse. I hereby declare you a traitor to the Imperium, and sentence you to immediate execution. Praefectus, you’ll want to take about three steps to your left...”

She did just that, a bit of her smug triumph on display in her eyes. And once she had moved, that’s when the Lord Governor realized the Red Hunter still had his bolt pistol raised, aiming at his heart. He had never let his arm drop. Had… had the Inquisitor planned this from the start? But… but he hadn’t done anything wrong!

“Immediate? Wait, I-”

***

Just one shot. That’s all that was necessary to kill an unarmed man. Even a lasgun would have been enough to kill the Lord Governor with a shot to the heart. The bolt round that shredded his torso and left him as two separate piles of viscera was practically overkill. Now, finally, the Red Hunter let his arm drop and lowered his pistol.

“I never did like that man. Whiny, useless git. Handed his kingdom by accidental birth into a dying lineage. Those who don’t earn their keep never learn to respect it. You there, I never caught your name…”

“Praefectus Samaela Pankur, Lord.”

“Wrong. It’s now Lord Governor Samaela Pankur. This world is under your care now. See to it that you provide a much stronger core of leadership.”

“Aye, Lord. But as acting Lord Governor, I must demand that you aid us.”

They both laughed at that. As dark as it was, they both felt the need to share some humor at the previous Lord Governor’s expense.

“Of course, Pankur. I was never going to forsake your world; I merely had to attend to the more pressing matter of incompetent governance. Now then… I don't’ know exactly what it is you have here, but I know it bears the signs of the Chaos taint. I’ll need full access to all the specimens, as well as the names and IFD numbers of all those who made contact with them.”

“Yes, Lord, right away. But there’s one other thing…”

“Yes, Governor?”

“Initiate Bravo-Epsilon: 34X-395HF9-Ordo-408-Zilkos.”

The gibberish string of code confused the two Red Hunters standing at the Inquisitor’s flank. Was there something they had missed in the briefing? The Inquisitor seemed unphased by the random collection of words and numbers, yet they obviously held some meaning based on the authority with which they were spoke. Their instincts told them they should act, strike down the small woman speaking nonsense. But the Inquisitor gave no sign for them to do so, and there was no immediate danger or threat. What should they do?

An answer came swiftly and suddenly, but not pleasantly. Each Red Hunter briefly felt the electrifying heat of a power blade slicing through the tender membrane of their armors’ neck joints and severing their throats. The power daggers cut cleanly and quickly, leaving both Astartes silently spilling their blood quite profusely. Each would have turned to attack their assassin were it not for the abrupt twisting to each of their heads, snapping the vertebrae easily thanks to the fully-severed muscle tissue.

Two red Astartes corpses fell to the floor, pools of blood spreading out and connecting on the green marble tiles. From the shadows two more Astartes stepped forward, shedding their camo cloaks and stepping over the dead bodies to flank the newly appointed Lord Governor. Each wore armor painted a cerulean-green with silver trim, their pauldrons proudly painted with the many heads of the Hydra.

Clarity was in the Inquisitor’s eyes. The veil had been pulled from his mind once again and he was no longer acting as a conscious puppet. It felt good to be free once more, a brief and shining moment in his life spent otherwise in silent service. He kneeled respectfully to the two legionnaires and their operative, waiting to speak until he felt three more Astartes uncloak themselves from the shadows and enter the room.

“How long have I been under this time?”

“Forty-eight cycles,” spoke the leader of them all, only distinguishable by a charcoal cloak hanging on his shoulder,  “Are you prepared for a mnemonic collection?”

“Always, Lords. And as requested, these two match the required physical dimensions and are fresh from their annual mnemonic wipe. Insertion will come with ease.”

With that the legionnaire with the narthecium and the two assassins gathered the corpses and began to strip them of all armor and taking careful note of identifying markings. Samaela was not privy to this part of the plan, but she could easily surmise that two Alpha Legion operatives - probably the assassins - were going to assume the identities of the Red Hunters and infiltrate the chapter.

“Good. Leave us and discard of any evidence of today’s incidents. When finished, resubmit yourself into your mind-shielded state and resume your ‘official’ duties.”

“Yes, Lord.” He didn’t want to, but he would. These brief periods spent outside of his post-hypnotic suggestions were so liberating, but always fleeting. Still, he rose to his feet and left to do as told. It was all worth it, every single second, in the name of the Legion.

With the departure of the Inquisitor the legionnaire holding a simple staff and a thick leather tome turned to address Samaela. She used to fear them, these superhuman beasts of men in their armor like a walking tank. They could kill her with the easiest of movements, and this one with but a thought. But after having served with the Legion she no longer feared them. She trusted them, and they her. She was an equal, as vital to an operation as the rest of them and just as expendable if necessary. So when the Sorcerer stood facing her, heads taller than she could ever be, she looked up with no trepidation.

“And what of me, Lord?”

“The planet is yours, as previously discussed. The affected will soon mutate into scaled spawn after our departure. You’re to lead a planetary defense and elimination of the affected, removing all trace of the taint in the process. I’ll make sure you are provided with adequate time before I finish the incantations of flesh-change.

“You’ll receive commendations for your efforts, cementing your leadership of this world. Govern well, and continue to spread our influence as we have taught. When you or this world is needed again, we will return. We trust you to do well, Samaela Pankur.”

The two saluted one another, formally ending their interactions for who knows how long. She may never see any of them again in her lifetime. Or she may see them all in a week. It didn’t matter: if and when she was needed, she would be activated once more. And she would be ready.

“For the Hydra.”

 

[Olis]

Wait... what? People are writing stories and I didn't even notice? For shame Olis! For shame!  

 

So, uh, is the only stipulation that the story must be of the Alpha Legion? Is there a maximum/minimum word limit?