BotL - Monthly fluff challenge

[simison]

We can have negative.votes?

 

Only if you're down-voting your own legion.

[simison]

"Clan of the Dark Claw" Kriftos Plu

In life, Kriftos Plu was famed as a calm, cool-headed Septumvirate among the Godslayers. After the terrible events of Zbruch, Kriftos would emerge as an exuberant monster with a flair for the melodramatic. A century of excellent service, that would earn accolades from both his allies and his enemies, would be swiftly replaced by a leering, pox-marked face. It is unknown if Kriftos had hidden this side of him or if it was the result of his transformation. He would be only one of a few that would survive the Tragedy of Zbruch. Where so many Godslayers would be deprived of soul and mind, Kriftos, whether through an act of will or by embracing the hideous powers, retained his intelligence. 

 

Instead of lamenting the fate to befall so many of his comrade, Kriftos dominated and exploited them to form his personal 'clan'. With his new 'family', Kriftos quickly distinguished himself in war for his night sieges. First, probes were launched against enemy forces that would reveal weakspots and spread disease in their wake, opening more opportunities. From there, Kriftos would escalate his periodic assaults, increasing them in size and strength and whittle his opponents as defenders either died beneath undead claws or pulled into away from the light into the hungry darkness. In the final stages of a siege, Kriftos would reveal himself with bombastic cheers and has even been documented delivering monologues to the last survivors. Wielding a blood-and-pus-covered mace, Kriftos would lead a final assault that would doom his last opponents to death or, worse, a new unlife as one of Kriftos' family members. 

 

Unfortunately, while Kriftos has been wounded numerous times, no one managed to slay the laughing champion of the Plague God during the Insurrection or in the Scouring.

 

[is this good, Blind?]

[TheBlindPrimarch]

I like it

[simison]

Judging is complete. 

 

With no other competition, I win the Forgeworld category with 'Clan of the Dark Claw'.

 

Likewise, Beren wins the Black Library category with 'With Phosphex and with Volkite'.

 

Crimson Lions will feature for July. What do you want to see, Sig?

Edited December 1, 2018 by simison

[bluntblade]

I need to keep in mind that this is a thing.

[bluntblade]

Damn it, I can't let a second challenge go without contributing something.

 

IIIrd Legion Despoiler Sergeant

Hradros ap Gedwy

Clan Mycenor, Second ___, Thirty-Second Company, Squad Jundar

 

Sergeant Hradros is known to have received a field promotion to the rank of sergeant on the outermost world of the Qarith home system, leading his squad through several weeks of punishing warfare on the prime world after that. He showed little inclination to pursue higher rank, but served with distinction to the point that, informally, he was the company’s senior sergeant for several years before the Insurrection. Hradros perished on Han at the height of the fighting there, but not before conducting a grisly purge of several hab-blocks, killing several Warriors of Peace in the process.

 

Hradros is shown equipped in a manner typical of the IIIrd Legion’s many Despoiler squads, which outnumbered tactical squads in some companies due to the Lions’ preference for close-quarters fighting. Of particular note is his combat shield, which was near-ubiquitous not just among the Lions’ Despoilers, but also their assault and veteran units. While not offering the same degree of protection as the breacher shields that the Halcyon Wardens used just as widely, they were considerably lighter and less cumbersome. Squads such as Gedwy’s were consequently able to improvise shield walls for more aggressive purposes than their kin, often using them to break enemy lines.

[simison]

Due to how little how was accomplished (and how busy everyone is), the Crimson Lions are being given a second month, barring extraordinary protest.

[Raktra]

I might have a (very short) thing to throw in, got an idea in my head.

[simison]

The Ó thuaidh System

Nicknamed ‘the Northern Star’ within the Doinion, this system forms the most Northern point of the Dominion’s borders. Several dozen light-years north of the infamous Cadia, the Ó thuaidh was home to several agri-worlds, including an unusual ice variant, Talamfer.

Talamfer seemed ill-suited as a system capital, however the other worlds featured humanity living in pre-industrial situations. Although claimed by Hectarion, he decided against forcing a technological revolution on the occupied, while Talamfer, which had been barren of human life before, would host the Imperium’s presence and technological advancements as it doubled as a major exporter of ice and water to other Imperial systems.

For decades, this peaceful arrangement held. What broke it would not come to the Imperium’s attention until far after the fact. Late in the Great Crusade, several Eagle Warrior minor fleets would pass through the system. Each visit was followed by a brief increase in complaints from the worlds’ more superstitious folk and claims of missing persons.

Unfortunately, given the lack of technology, it is impossible to ascertain how many of these missing cases were due to the Eagle Warriors foul machinations or to the everyday struggles of pre-industrial life. It was these same handicaps that would prevent the local Lions commander from action. Although suspicious of the Eagle Warriors, not enough evidence was available to send word higher and he lacked the authority to bar the Eagle Warriors from future visits.

It would only be well after the Scouring would a scant few of these missing person be rediscovered, though none whole in mind, body, or soul...

Edited August 4, 2018 by simison

[simison]

Submission

 

The sensation of knee and hand united against stone was an odd one, Hectarion realized. Many had come to his hall and thrown themselves to the floor to beg for his mercy and favour. Never before had Hectarion kowtowed to another being. Yet, the vision of glory standing before deserved nothing less than Hectarion's complete loyalty and devotion. The mountain wind hurled itself against the pair. Beneath them, the Imperial Palace stretched in all directions. 

 

++My son.++

 

~~~~

 

"My brother."

 

Hectarion stared down. While no Primarch could truly be called 'small', there was no doubt that the one before him was nearly a dwarf compared to Hectarion. A flash of frustration rippled through Hectarion, ending in a sneer before he realized it. "You are Alexandros, the Shield-Lord?"

[simison]

With four days left, get your submissions in! And let's start voting for next month. 

 

Previous entries:

 

July/August - Crimson Lions

June - Godslayers

May - Predators

April - Scions Hospitalier

March - Elite mortal regiments

February - Halcyon Wardens

December/January - The Drowned

November - Imperial Army

October - Warbringers

September - Eagle Warriors

August - Fire Keepers

July - Warriors of Peace

June - Grave Stalkers

May - Void Eagles

April - Dune Serpents

March - Steel Legion

 

Remaining Legions:

 

I - Harbingers
III - Crimson Lions
IV - Void Eagles
V - Halcyon Wardens

VI - Iron Bears
VII - Berserkers of Uran
VIII - Godslayers
IX - Warbringers
X - Fire Keepers
XII - Wardens of Light
XIII - Eagle Warriors
XIV - Dune Serpents
XV - Grave Stalkers
XVI - The Drowned
XVII - Warriors of Peace
XVIII - Steel Legion
XIX - Scions Hospitalier
XX - Predators

[MikhalLeNoir]

Bears of Iron

[Kelborn]

Teddy bears! :P

[bluntblade]

Bears

[Raktra]

Bears.

[simison]

Bears it is.

[bluntblade]

On A World of the Lion

 

  He wasn't given a shield.

 

  The men who'd come up from Belitan, the grim old warriors who'd seen decades of war, had decided that. Shields were given to the bulk of the youths. They were usually consigned to the middle of a shield wall, where the presence and injunctions of hardened fighters would stiffen their resolve. 

 

  Vorathus wasn't among them. The war party was short on flankers and Dourain had put in a good word for him. He wasn't the biggest, but he had reach and a good turn of speed. More importantly, he’d proven he could fight, killing one man in a skirmish two summers ago and two brigands last autumn. He'd demonstrated that besides that speed and reach, he had the nous and spine for war. Dourain said that if Vorathus kept close to him, those would be good enough. 

 

  So here he was behind the big, one-eared man, with a sword tied to his wrist and a dagger up his sleeve, watching the Beroccei advance through the rain. Vasegar was having an unusually rainy summer, and thunder rolled down from the hills. On their left flank - our right, he reminded himself - a river had swollen into a silty grey torrent, while little waterfalls came spilling down the cliffs on the other side.

 

  The Oroccei were arrayed between the two natural barriers, their shield-bearers out in front. Seventy men against a hundred on that score. Luckily the Beroccei seemed to lack for archers, and the Belitan men had brought six. They were down among the bushes, waiting until the fighting began. 

 

  Drudrech were out in pairs on both sides, chanting and growling as sparks played over their fingers. Vorathus didn't know the names of the ones who were with them. They'd come with the Belitan party, and even those veterans seemed wary of them. Though from what Vorathus could remember, any one of the holy men would provoke that sort of reaction. A king might rely on a venerable Drudrech, but he was not like to call him a friend.

 

  It started slowly, the volume of threats and taunts building as the shield walls came together. Then finally their warleader set his guards to beat their shields as one, a single clang of iron on iron that silenced the other Oroccei. Then he drew in a breath and roared, and the shield-bearers advanced. 

 

  The need to keep formation stopped the two armies from charging in a sprint, but their jogging pace was still enough to create a horrible crunch as the two shield walls met, jostling as men tried to drive one another back and stabbed and hacked at openings. Around the press of warriors, flankers on both sides spread out, meeting in the middle as they tried to reach the enemy’s vulnerable sides.

 

  Vorathus came up behind Dourain’s veterans on the right flank as they crossed blades with a pack of Vasegar men with axes. Most of them went down quickly, but one felled his opponent with a blow that almost severed the man’s arm, and burst towards the Oroccei lines before Dourain or his men could catch him.

 

  Vorathus had kept low, unnoticed behind the larger warriors. Dourain had told him of how this could be used, how the tunnel vision of battle could be anticipated and exploited. So only now did the Vasegar man see him, and Vorathus’ swing was already unfurling. The sword took his enemy across the gut, and the man folded across the wound, groaning as his intestines spilled into the grass.

 

  Vorathus had no time to think after that, for now all the flankers had converged in a melee of confused, whirling combat. Time lost any meaning. He killed another Vasegar, saved the life of an ally, nearly got killed at least three times. The world had shrunk down from even the full battle. This brawl was his universe.

 

  And then. For a second, the fighters parted enough to give him a glimpse of the river. And there, waist deep in water that would sweep any man off his feet, a man stood, massive and shrouded by black robes. Watching him with eyes that glowed blue.

 

  The shock nearly cost Vorathus his life. He staggered back as the cudgel came down, smacking into the mud where he had stood. Sprang back at the man who tried to raise it again. Not enough time to get a true haymaking blow in, and his sword lodged in the side of the man’s face. A big man, whose bellow was like a wounded bull and who had strength enough to grab Vorathus’ wrist before he could work the sword loose. Vorathus felt his bones straining as the Vasegar pulled him forward.

 

  He went for the dagger with his free hand and rammed it into the man’s throat. That finished it, though another Vasegar very nearly returned the favour a moment later with an axe. Vorathus twisted, using his dead opponent as a shield, but the force of the blow was still nearly enough to put him on his back. 

  It was the cord around his wrist and the hilt of his sword that saved him as he reeled away. He’d let go in the hilt, but the knot held true, his sword dragging along the ground. The Vasegar warrior was working the axe free, but a lad of Vorathus’ age was closing.

 

  Vorathus took his sword back into his hands as the youth came for him. Their swords met three times, but then Dourain was there, opening a great wound down the Vasegar boy’s side and then taking the man through the chest. Three more line-breakers were with him, and one of the Drudrech, whose hands were awash with magefire. Tunnel vision lifting, Voratus saw that they had cleared a path to the back of the enemy shield wall. The Vasegar hadn't realised, and they didn't realise until flames doused them. 

 

  Men of Salanacur knew that to break in the face of the foe was to throw away all hope of victory and invite death. This ensured that, with proper discipline, they held firm in the face of the unrelenting violence which phalanx warfare brought. Men might drop dead beside them, leaving them slathered in gore and mired in blood and piss, but they would hold.

 

  But there were primal fears which very little could shake, and one of these was fire. Flames took hold among the ranks, catching on hair and clothes, and where it reached, the formation broke down. 

 

  The unforgiving nature of Salanacur’s wars did the rest. The Vasegar shield wall fell apart until only two knots of men stayed whole, attempting a fighting retreat as the Oroccei gave chase. Dourain called the shield less men to him, readying them for the last charge, the one that would shatter the foe utterly and leave the survivors running for home.

  But as the cry left the veteran’s throat, another voice rose to drown it out. “Be still.”

 

  The fighting halted. Eyes turned toward the source of the voice. Vorathus felt his breath catch, as he looked upon the vision he had glimpsed during the frenzy.

 

  No man was that tall, nor that broad. The colossus wore black robes akin to a Drudrech’s, but they were draped over armour unlike any Vorathus had seen. Plate armour was spoken of in stories, but none had ever made it sound so grand and ominous. Deep growls emanated from it as the giant came nearer and raised his arms, pulling back the hood to expose his helm. This was wrought in the image of a predator’s skull, like a lynx’s, but far larger, and the warrior’s blue eyes lit deep sockets.

 

  He could slay them all. Vorathus felt sure of that. The giant’s bulk, and the assurance with which he moved, convinced him even though the huge hands were empty. Because they were empty; because the newcomer stood before fifty armed men and didn't even draw a blade.

 

  Shouts went up, from both Oroccei and Vasegar throats. Men had appeared, apparently stepping from nowhere into the field. They were garbed and armed strangely, with toothed swords in their hands, peculiar armour under robes of their own and masks that skullishly echoed that of their master. They shot glances at the giant as they moved out, twenty men dispersed around the two war parties.

 

  The Drudrech began to yowl and shake their bones, while the older men stepped back and whispered prayers. Vorathus felt the other youths drawing close around him, confused which had overtaken their elders. His hands shook, but he hauled the sword back into his hands. He could guess the intent of these interlopers who revealed themselves only when one side had won and the rest were in ragged, bloody retreat. If the older men were paralysed, then the youths would have to act.

 

  He bellowed his defiance, ready to break into a run - and a staff whacked into the flat of his sword, driving it down. “Ignorant pup!” The moss-bearded Drudrech snapped, the words accompanied by a cuff around the head and no small amount of spittle. “Kneel! Down, down, all of you.”

 

  Vorathus and the others dropped to their knees, realising that the older men were already down there in the mud. Confusion and shame mingled and became a thrum in his chest, but then the laughter started, so impossibly deep that at first he mistook it for thunder. The giant in crimson armour was drawing closer, making straight for where Vorathus knelt.

 

  “Easy on the boy, Drudrech,” he rumbled. “Such boldness is rare. But anyway…” He stepped past the holy man, looming over Vorathus. “Tell me, lad. What is your name?”

 

  “Vorathus.”

 

  “I once knew the man for whom you are likely named. You even favour the sword, as he did.” The skull-helm tilted. “Do you believe now that I do not desire your death?”

 

  “I do.” With his desperate bravado gone, Vorathus was struggling to meet the giant’s gaze. “But why are you here if not to kill?”

 

  “Stand.” He rose. “You ask a just question. The truth is, my concerns are rather above the reasons for which men fight on this world, except the one which they forget or veil in myth. Tell me, what does the name Hectarion mean to you?”

 

  Vorathus almost laughed. “The same thing it means to all men.” Hectarion was the Red Lion of war who led hosts for the Peratrix, He who reigned in the heavens. Why would the giant ask him a question to which any case hold knew the answer?

 

  “All men?” The giant ignored everyone else in that field, although every warrior there was fixated on him. Vorathus risked a look around and saw that the other outsiders were picking their way across the battlefield, alighting on the wounded, even the dying. He could not tell what they were doing.

 

  He turned back. The behemoth continued, his voice carrying like a Drudrech’s saga. “I know what your lore holds, but the truth is that you stand apart from the vast majority of Mankind. Salanacur is a world of war, and yet it is favoured. The Lord Hectarion ordained it, for he saw in this world the potential to birth many great warriors. Warriors, no less, who would be worthy to stand in the ranks of his great armies…” One great hand shifted the black cloak, and revealed a snarling lion’s head painted on the shoulder guard. “Even among my kindred.”

 

  Vorathus shook. He didn't trust himself to speak.

 

  The Lion, now revealed as one of the War Spirit’s sons, seemed to be in full flow regardless. “On Saranacur men are bade to struggle in all things, that the strength of their best might be revealed. My order… you will have heard of us in whispers, though none tell the full story. We watch, and judge who is worthy. Then we say ‘follow’.”

 

  Then the glowing eyes were drawn upwards as a shrill scream filled the air. A light burst from the clouds and revealed itself to be a vessel, a vessel unlike anything Vorathus had seen, descending to the ground on stiff, bladelike wings and columns of fire. It shared blood-red hue of the Lion’s armour, and the same sigil gleamed on its flanks. 

 

  More giants and serfs appeared when the ship’s maw opened, the latter bringing stretchers onto which fallen men of both sides were hauled; only the young, Vorathus saw. The behemoth in robes turned as they went to work, facing the cavern, silhouetted by the light within.

 

  “Those who lie near to death have taken their first test. Those who stand shall face another. If you are willing to take it, then as I said… follow.”

 

  He was asking them to give up all they had ever known, save bloodshed. He was offering trial and uncertainty, and the favour of a being as distant as the stars themselves. What choice was this, when all things were weighed?

 

  Vorathus raised his head, set back his shoulders, and stepped off his world.

[simison]

It was unanimous. Iron Bears this month.

[simison]

Reunion of the Relics

 

He was no Primarch, but he commanded a Legion. So much had changed. So many broken promises and bodies, he had expected to be ignored at first. Not out of malicious intent, but due to the simple arithmetic of battlefield priority. Yet, the moment he had announced himself, scant minutes would pass before he would be ushered into a familiar presence. 

 

Or, at what point, it had been familiar.

 

Damon studied the Warmaster. The last time they had met was decades ago before the Insurrection. A simpler time. A hopeful time. A happier time. Unbidden, Damon remembered his father, and old emotional scars trembled. Back then, the biggest fear the Iron Bears had faced was fallout from the Prosecution. Rivalries best kept quiet had exploded in a public forum. The Sixth had expected reprisals from their role as defenders of mankind's purity. They had expected biting words and contentious lords.

 

Oh, how little they had understood.

 

The ache of his father's death continued to echo within Damon's soul. It did not matter a decade of war had passed. The wound felt as fresh as the day Damon had learned the truth. He suspected this was one wound that would never heal. Only death would grant him a reprieve from it. 

 

The Warmaster didn't look much better. 

 

"Damon," the Warmaster greeted with his infamous grin. To another, it might have been a convincing act. Especially in these dark times, it was imperative the Warmaster appeared confident in the Imperium's inevitable victory. Unfortunately, Damon was all-too familiar with the Warmaster. A close friend of his father, Damon had the privilege of the Warmaster's presence over a century of life. To someone less familiar, all would seem well with the Imperium's greatest defender. But Damon saw the grin as a shadow of what it once was. 

 

Damon knelt as protocol demanded. "My Warmaster. I come to serve."

Edited September 11, 2018 by simison

[simison]

The Warmaster waved his hand in casual impatience. "Rise, my old friend. It has been too long. Come, let us retire to my quarters." 

 

Although he rose back to his feet, the Iron King hesitated as he glanced around at the never-ending frenzy of a command center directing a war. "I do not want wish to add to your burdens, Warmaster."

 

"Nonsense, I insist," Alexandros countered, with just a touch of firmness. 

 

Knowing better than to deny the Warmaster, Damon yielded with a bow. "As you wish, my lord."

 

It was a familiar route to the Warmaster's quarters. What was less familiar were the changes. Damon could remember bumping into a dozen familiar faces during the walk with the Lord of the Fifth engrossed in talk with his companions. Now, the Warmaster was silent as they made the journey. Additionally, Damon struggled to pick out two or even three old friends among the legionaries he saw. Yet one more scar Icarion had inflicted upon Damon's world. 

[bluntblade]

The Hour

  In years to come, Nibaasiniiwi would look back on the incursion as the easy part. Fighting the daemons had stripped away every thought that was not of survival, of beating back the horde. When Cass had fallen, it had simply been a matter of protecting the gravely wounded commander and getting apothecaries to spirit him away.

 

  Now, as the corpses of the daemons dissolved into ichor, there was room for the full implications to sink in. Cass’ wounds were not just severe, they would consign him to a Dreadnought - if and when a sarcophagus could be readied. What remained of Sakima’s company had gone to the forges with techmarines and magi, but Nibaasiniiwi waited on their report. The enemy Astartes and the daemons had rampaged throughout the ship; cataloging the damage would probably take longer than their voyage.

 

  Instinct steered him towards the bridge, rudderless as he was, stepping over bolt casings and broken chunks of armour. The great corridor was still cratered and puddled with blood, and Nibaasiniiwi barely registered it. The centre of authority on the ship was the natural course for a warrior trying to ascertain where the orders should come from. Three of the Praetors were dead, and with Thiazzi among them there was no obvious succession -

 

  “Are you blind, whelp?” 

 

  Nibaasiniiwi’s claws were out even before he’d finished turning. 

 

  “High Shaman.” He tried to suppress the snarl. “Considering what we just came through, ambushing a fellow Astartes is not a wise course.”

 

  Aandeg met that with his usual scowl. “A shaman does as he will, and it is not for the chiefs to question why. Regardless of their rank… and rank is on your mind, no?” He snorted, somehow without the slightest bit of amusement showing in his expression. “Walk with me. You think too loudly, Achille; I could sense the shape of your thoughts at a hundred metres. You're not even much good at keeping a straight face, which is why we are having this conversation now and not on the bridge.”

 

  “Why is it suddenly important for me to mask my thoughts?” 

 

  “Because on that bridge, a thousand souls are about to pledge their blades to a new Lord Chief and it will not do for him to splutter with confusion.” 

 

  Nibaasiniiwi stared at the old warrior, who croaked something close to a laugh. “The fact that you didn't splutter here instead, Nibaasiniiwi, means nothing. Now I know you have some pointless objections to voice, but I only have time to dismantle them.”

 

  “The succession -” Nibaasiniiwi began.

 

  “Is unclear by most measures. But when you step through that door, who you expect to oppose you?”

 

  “Leonas -”

 

  “Is caught in a vortex of self-recrimination and doubt. He knows how thoroughly he lost control on the Dark Sovereign. He appreciates what you don't seem to see.”

 

  “That only I could…” Nibaasiniiwi frowned. He found he disliked that sentiment somehow.

 

  “Don't shy away from the truth for fear of vanity,” Aandegg snapped. “All around you lost their heads. I did. Thiazzi died for it and Tribe Kedin is now reduced to fifty warriors. You kept your wits and I count myself as one of those who survived because of you. Demonstrably, no one has as much right as you to command now.”

 

  He walked on for a while before he spoke. “In other times we might hold a council and pick out our new leaders from a wider pool.” That had occurred to Nibaasiniiwi; senior officers had been scattered throughout the Wartribe’s ships and, he hoped, a fair number of them might live yet. “But we are cast far from any of them, and even before our escape, you proved yourself. We have warriors from the Second, Third, Fifth and Sixth in our ranks now, and they followed you when Therox fell.”

 

  Nibaasiniiwi nodded. “We have not the luxury of time, and we can hardly afford division now. I see it.” 

 

  The mangled remnants of the bridge portal loomed, blackened adamantium showing where the copper leaf had been stripped away. As Nibaasiniiwi and Aandegg came to the crossways, twenty warriors fell in around them. Eight were the remains of Nibaasiniiwi's already ad hoc command squad, eleven more were Totem Guard, and Torach completed the twenty.

 

  Nibaasiniiwi tilted his head, regarding the Shaman. “When did you decide to take a hand in this?”

 

  Torach raised an eyebrow in a way that somehow conveyed the simple truth that there were matters for chiefs and then there were matters for the spirit walkers. But he was good enough to give some sort of answer. “The forebears bade me cleave to you, and besides, you are my chief. Where you lead I follow.” He camped his helm over his head. “You'd better get used to hearing that.”

 

  Through the broken gate they passed, into the cavernous space of the bridge. As Nibaasiniiwi entered, every eye turned to him. The hum of activity subsided, a hush rippling outwards with him at the epicentre.

 

  Ellan stepped around the breachers who guarded the command dais. She still had her sword drawn, and Nibaasiniiwi saw there was blood on it. There was more on her face and armour - little of it hers.

 

  “Achille.” Her voice was painfully hoarse.

 

  “Skjald. It gladdens me to see you alive.”

 

  Aandegg scowled, which was remarkably tolerant of him really, and stepped to the front.

 

  In nearly two centuries of service, the High Shaman had never minced his words. “Legionaries, soldiers, servants of the Legion. Hear my words. We are robbed of our Primarch, and now Lord Cass lies wounded, consigned to the vigil of iron. Thiazzi joined our master in death.”

 

  Nibaasiniiwi would have waited before, but right now he was out of patience. He stepped forward and raised his voice to a roar. “And yet we are not broken! Our Primarch gave us something more than his presence, something that will last beyond his life. We are clans, we are tribes. We are the Three Fires before we are the Sixth Legion, and I am proud to count all of of you in that.”

 

  He paused, taking in the thousands hanging on his words. Was that a half-smile on Aandegg’s face?

 

  “Our High Cleric would pronounce me Lord Chief and have done with it. But I will not be foisted upon you. If you do not know my name, I am Achille Nibaasiniiwi, Clan-Praetor of Tacharian. Cass charged me to save all I could upon the Dark Sovereign. I saw the Primarch fall. I laid hands upon him to bring his body back. I know what we have lost.”

 

  “And yet that is why we must not give in. What they took from us they will take from every Legion, every army, every world that holds true to the Throne. The hope that our master understood even before the Emperor descended from on high, of humanity resplendent, will be lost - unless we stand by one another and fight. We will rebuild, we will reforge. Brothers, sisters, I do not promise you victory, but take me as your leader and by fire and steel, I will give you vengeance. Will you march with me?”

 

  It was well that he’d never wanted them to kneel. The roar went up, shaking the bridge as fists, guns and swords were thrust into the air. Beside Nibaasiniiwi, Ellan raised her little sword. Only Aandegg kept his arms by his sides.

 

  “That’s the sign I was really looking for, Lord Chief. Now, if we may, duty beckons.”

Edited November 3, 2018 by bluntblade

[simison]

New month, new challenge. Blunt’s piece wins. Berserker‘s are for November. Try offering turkey to avoid dismemberment Edited November 3, 2018 by simison

[simison]

The Ashen Cult

 

Even before their descent with the Ruinous powers, the Berserkers of Uran were never in complete alignment with the Imperial Truth. Although the disregard for the Imperium's enlightened values and the uplifting of Man is well-documented, less known is the secret belief system that lurked in its place. For nature abhors a vacuum.

 

The seeds of this misbegotten creation originated from Raktra himself. Although careful to never sanction, Raktra had little regard for anything except strength. From the beginning, Raktra's emphasis on strength went beyond simple admiration and bordered on obsession. Rumors whispered of a battle fought on Uran before the Imperium's arrival that had scarred the young Primarch, but no Imperial scholar has been granted unrestricted access to Raktra's history or Uran's past. 

 

The over-idealization of strength took root quickly among the Berserkers. Weakness became anathema to the Legion and was to be either purged or to be disproven in the trials of combat. Combat, in particular, was key for the Berserkers were as apt to spill blood on the battlefield as off the battlefield. In between campaigns, brutal training exercises and bone-breaking duels kept the Berserkers far from the 'danger' of peace's touch. So long as the Legion's capacity for war was never compromised in these trials, the Ashen King could care less how many Berserkers ended up in the Apothecarion. However, the definition of strength was not simply limited to physical prowess. Cunning, endurance, and resilience were all seen as aspects of power to be glorified. In his own strange way, Raktra argued that weakness was a state of being of an individual who refused to do what was necessary to gain strength. This universal application is how the Berserkers would come to justify their harsh disregard for civilian casualties and collateral damage, claiming it was their own weakness which led to their suffering and deaths. Therefore, even a Berserker who had been scarred and disfigured in war could still demonstrate their strength through a keen mind. The more victories won, the more kills claimed, the greater in infamy a Berserker rose. 

 

Or rather, descended. In yet another perversion of common human belief, Raktra saw nothing empowering about being 'rising' in one's station. Instead, the Primarch preferred to reverse the concept, believing the lower one became, the greater they were. It is well recorded that Berserkers would take advantage of this linguistic twist to confuse and mock even their allies. And standing at the lowest level of this reverse pantheon was the Ashen King. In a system of belief that worshiped strength above all else, the Ashen King was considered the apex being, second only to the Emperor. It was the goal of every Berserker, whether explicit or implied, to be able to seek their Primarch's approval, no matter what form it would take. Raktra was only too happy to explit this as he cemented his rule over the Berserkers, materially and now immaterially. 

 

It would be these building blocks of subconscious philosophy that would eventually coalesce into the Ashen Cult. With so many Legions who admired and strove to be worthy of their gene-sires, the true, darker nature of the Ashen Cult went unrealized by the rest of the Imperium. In truth, had the Berserkers remain loyal, perhaps its eventual cruel destination may have been averted. Or perhaps there was no true escape once the Berserkers began this path. 

 

What is known is that the Ashen Cult shifted subtly but permanently once the Emperor was deemed too 'weak' to be worthy of consideration. Although a mere small step for the Ashen Cult's nascent theology, it's implications proved far reaching as any balancing influence the Emperor had on the secret cult was removed. The execution of the VII's Chaplain Corps was merely a physical reflection of this change in perspective. Freedom from the restraints that had long 'bound' were now broken, regardless of Icarion's intentions. 

 

The great irony being that freedom proved to be a bitter prize. While the Ashen Cult had long railed against the Emperor, the truth was that the Ashen King proved to be a sub-standard replacement. Only the Emperor could possibly claim to be undefeated, while Raktra carried scars that spoke the one truth the Ashen Cult did not want to acknowledge: Raktra himself was not all-powerful. Thus, for all of the greater zeal the Berserkers demonstrated in obeying their Primarch's every order and desire, a void now existed within the Berserkers' collective psyche. 

 

Records indicated that not even Icarion was truly aware of this state of being. Instead, another Primarch, the ever-hated Ixitptatlan, discovered this vacuum. As was stated, nature abhors a vacuum, and the Arch-Heretic was all too eager to exploit this opportunity at the behest of an unspeakable power...

[simison]

With 4 days left, there is still time to get in some submissions. 

 

The Harbingers are the final Legion to be placed in the Monthly Fluff challenge, and therefore no vote is necessary.

 

After the Harbingers, we will do a non-Legion force and renegotiate our Fluff challenge schedule. 

[bluntblade]

Working on it