Final Inspirational Friday - Legends of Chaos (until 11/9)

[Kierdale]

Another Way

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Word has it that the most militant of us, the Rebirth of Ancient Days, is broken.

A new religion has risen, a death cult, and with it a new god has joined the sad ranks of our deities. A lonely pantheon indeed: the Bloody-Handed God of Murder, and the First Fool. A more pitiful Pantheon than even that of the greenskin’s twins!

Asuryan, Vaul, Kurnous, Lileath and even old Morai-Heg are gone to us.

A death god for a dying race!? I am told that the converts in their robes and armour of crimson preach that there is power in death, be it that of our foes or ourselves.

And I can only see death down the path they tread. The path that they preach leads to our salvation! Their ‘Seventh Way’!

No. We will not see our ancestors’ souls burned up in their mad crusade. My kin has cast out and exiled the bearer of the staff of Ulthamar. Sadly we watched as even members of our own world took up the crimson and followed this new god and his prophets into the Eye, seeking Belial IV.

And I too set out on a journey into the Eye. I have gathered to me those I deem strong enough of body and mind. We seek not swords on a lost world, we obey not a prophetess from the pits of Commorragh. Nor her god of death.

For we seek she who birthed us.

The missing goddess.

A goddess of life.

Isha.

 

We venture into the garden of Nurgleth to free her.

 

 

Just a quickie, because...

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...no one has yet done one about Nurgle and Isha. :)

[Warpmiss]

  On 2/14/2018 at 7:34 AM, Kierdale said:

Another Way

Hidden Content

Word has it that the most militant of us, the Rebirth of Ancient Days, is broken.

A new religion has risen, a death cult, and with it a new god has joined the sad ranks of our deities. A lonely pantheon indeed: the Bloody-Handed God of Murder, and the First Fool. A more pitiful Pantheon than even that of the greenskin’s twins!

Asuryan, Vaul, Kurnous, Lileath and even old Morai-Heg are gone to us.

A death god for a dying race!? I am told that the converts in their robes and armour of crimson preach that there is power in death, be it that of our foes or ourselves.

And I can only see death down the path they tread. The path that they preach leads to our salvation! Their ‘Seventh Way’!

No. We will not see our ancestors’ souls burned up in their mad crusade. My kin has cast out and exiled the bearer of the staff of Ulthamar. Sadly we watched as even members of our own world took up the crimson and followed this new god and his prophets into the Eye, seeking Belial IV.

And I too set out on a journey into the Eye. I have gathered to me those I deem strong enough of body and mind. We seek not swords on a lost world, we obey not a prophetess from the pits of Commorragh. Nor her god of death.

For we seek she who birthed us.

The missing goddess.

A goddess of life.

Isha.

We venture into the garden of Nurgleth to free her.

Just a quickie, because...

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...no one has yet done one about Nurgle and Isha. :)

I would have had my DG boys talk about Isha if I had the time to actually sit down, read more about the Eldar and then come up with a way to introduce my characters. But alas, I don't think I will have the time (unless I suddenly do on Thursday and Friday but I doubt it).

[Scourged]

Envoy

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Envoy

As before, the robed Astartes walked at a comfortable pace within the uncomfortable halls of the vessel. As before, he observed the designs and contours of the structure, stirring his thoughts and  inspiring a singular word in his mind. The term was one Amnir had always loathed, due to its crass simplicity and dogmatic connotations, but no other word would suffice when in this situation: this vessel was absolutely alien.

Yes, it was a xenos craft - but the foreign nature had developed roots far beyond the surface-level designs of the Eldar craft. This cruiser seemed to be only built for battle in the most minimal of ways: weapons and shielding for all manner of void warfare, but room for little else. The interior was less like the practical industry of an Astartes battle barge and far more a dizzying array of decedent construction. The maddening architecture served to overstimulate and torture a weaker mind in equal parts to the… physical torture that no doubt took place behind engraved doorways.

Toxic incense clouded around and out of vents throughout the halls. The poison was far too weak to be lethal, as that was the intent: to breathe in the fumes would only aggravate the senses and produce a dull pain in mortal bodies. Though his Astartes multi-lung filtered the weak toxin with ease, he could sense enough of its properties to know any mortal chaff would feel sore joints and a minor headache. That it was masked behind the musky, cloying aroma of burnt oils was a delightfully deceptive way to combine pleasure with pain. Respectable, if debauched.

Amnir noticed more and more of these details with every visit, making note of them in some archival part of is mind. He would have catalogued all that could be known on his first passage within the cruiser, but nothing seemed to stay persistent within the ship - the designs and decor were always shifting with a tempermental flux at the whims of the Blackened Tear. Still, he memorized them all. Though he did not know if the knowledge was useful to himself or his warband, but, well… the endless acquisition of knowledge was a part of his gene-seed that would forever motivate his actions.

His journey through the carpeted halls was unguided. Amnir’s periodic visits as envoy of the Scourged ensured he needed no escort when walking within the ship. Though unguided, he was not alone, as a pair of Rubricae followed him in lockstep. They were his entourage and bodyguards, forever armed and keyed to his mind. Should any distress befall their sorcerer master the cerulean and gold automatons would spring to life and protect Amnir amidst a hail of inferno bolts. But the envoy’s visits here had never necessitated their intervention, and his cadre of Rubricae diminished in number with each return - though he was not foolish enough to bring none at all.

For whatever reason, Amnir took a moment to enjoy a pointless irony. There the two souls of his Rubricae walked in armor devoid of bodies, as he walked between them as a body with no armor. His formal ceramite plating had been left aboard hit shuttle, no longer having need for it on these parlays. To wear such protective plating now would be an insult to his hostess.The Archon had insisted quite early in their first meeting that armor was not only unnecessary but unacceptable. She did not wish for the meetings to be weighted with the trappings of war, tainting their dialogue. It was not a prospect Amnir wished in any part to entertain, but he arrived as a diplomat in a foreign world, and he would respect her wishes.

So it was that on his second visit he was greeted by one of the Archon’s courtesans, offering him a robe, though to use such a simple name to describe the garment was woefully inappropriate. The simple cloths Amnir draped upon his bulk when resting in his hab were a robe; this was an artisanal masterpiece to be worn by nobility. The material was near weightless with how it draped on his body, but yet kept him comfortably warm in all environs. When cinched it hugged his frame to perfection, having been somehow tailored to his exact measurements in a way it never came lose or rested on him in an unfavorable way. And the color was an exquisite ruby with golden trim, but in a way that held such profound meaning to the son of Prospero. The fabric and its colors reflected the light and shone with a brilliance of the polished ceramite of his dress armor, a memory of days forgotten millennia ago.

Shedding the cumbersome blue plating and donning the brilliant crimson cloth had become a luxury Amnir had grown to crave as time progressed - a brief escape to a time and place of glory and pride.

As he approached his destination within the vessel, Amnir noted an increase in the volume of voices over the norm. Far more of the Drukhari were assembled for this meeting than he had come to anticipate. The Archon was never without her retinue - just as he was never without his Rubricae - but it was seldom ever more than a handful of other bodies. The presence of new souls did not alarm him, but centuries of warfare had taught him better than to disregard it. Subconsciously he took stock of the larger crowd - their numbers, proximity, emotional tones in their voices - and assessed the threat. Across the mental link the Rubricae responded in kind, almost seeming to tense with muscles they didn’t possess. Now prepared, Amnir parted the decedent curtain to the hall and stood at the entrance, flanked by his bodyguards, and with every eye now upon him with every mouth briefly silent.

With his entrance made, Amnir greeted the room with a customary bow that his Rubricae did not share. The gesture brought scoffs from some and haughty laughter from others. His presence upon the cruiser was at best tolerated by the majority of the Kabal, and that was an infrequent opinion among the spoiled nobility. More often those of the Blackened Tear viewed him with a contemptuous distaste,  as if they were forever tainted my simply sharing space with a… mon-keigh. Only one figure in the room observed his bow with respect, and thankfully it was the only soul here that mattered amongst the twisted Asuryani. Archon Yaelindra smiled wryly at his arrival, waving an open palm to her side, inviting the Astartes into the chamber.

Amnir walked through the room toward the invited seat at the top. The collected Drukhari made no effort to clear a path for him, though the glowing green gaze of Rubricae ‘eyes’ served as motivation enough for the crowd to eventually relent and part. At no point did the confident - if a bit arrogant - gait of the Astartes falter as he powered through the amassed xenos. Their opinions of him were meaningless, and their judgements were pointless. Let them have their petty thoughts, and let them cling to a false superiority. In the end, all the waif-thin beings in the room would answer to their Archon - a subservient position far beneath Amnir.

The hulking warrior gently took his seat in a comfortable leather chair - though he had never dared from what species the hide originated - and greeted his hostess with a smile and respectful nod.

“Lavai, Yaelindra,” Amnir spoke, managing to minimize his human accent as much as possible.

“Hello, Amnir,” replied his hostess.

Amnir saw her grinning at his continued attempts to learn and speak one of the many Asuryani dialects. It had been a custom all their own, to greet one another by their prefered tongues. A sign of mutual respect, and an undisclosed admission of curiosity in the other. A unconscious, cursory scan of her radiant emotional field told him she was amused and pleased by this, although still viewed his attempts as blunt and crass, like all mon-keigh.

She leaned in as she had done many times before, leaving a quick kiss on each of his cheeks, first left then right. When asked in the past, Yaelindra explained she had learned of the ancient Terran custom through some manner of Rogue Trader or Imperial officer. It was a bygone tradition of Terra’s early days, a colloquial greeting between friends and compatriots. She told Amnir she found the action quite amusing, if quaint, and quickly adopted it. But the gesture came with her own twist: the twin kisses left streaks of violet-black pigment on his cheeks, the weakened Lhamaean poison within just potent enough to leave a subtle, lasting burn as they spoke.

“Your High Gothic has improved, Archon. Your accent would pass for - and I mean this as no insult - human.”

“And your skills, dear Amnir, are quickly advancing as well. Another decade of study and you will speak with all the grace of a Drukhari infant.”

Her verbal barb was a harmless one, and one of a great many that she had delivered in their casual conversations. Each was a half-insult of sorts: born from a place of her species self-imposed superiority, but delivered in a manner to be playful and disarming. She always meant what she said, but never enough to offend the Astartes at her side. And to his credit, Amnir had started to learn how to play along… at times.

“It sounds like you’ve confused ‘infant’ with ‘elder’. Don’t worry - your vocabulary will get better… eventually.”

“Now then, have you brought was we agreed upon?”

Reaching into his robe - an action catching the eye of every guardian courtesan surrounding the seated Archon - Amnir removed a single black crystal. Yaelindra eyed it with curiosity. Perhaps it reminded her of an carrecenad - a Craftworlder’s spirit stone. He could think of no other reason she would view the mundane mineral with such interest. The stone itself was not remarkable; it only served as a conduit between Amnir’s mind and the tiny pocket dimension he had created before this meeting. This method served him a lot better than transporting live cargo physically would.

Standing from his seat, with all Drukhari eyes in the room on him once more, Amnir tossed the pebble into the heart of the chamber - a circular area subset into the flooring by around a meter, roped off with intricately woven strands of velveteen netting along the perimeter. The stone just sat there, dormant and immobile, confusing and irritating the crowd with its inactivity. They had assembled for a show! And a show Amnir would give them.

Pulling the corners of his mouth back in a smarmy grin, the sorcerer closed his eyes and focused his mind. He channeled his thoughts and energy to create a link between himself and the pocket dimension, all done through the black crystal. Were any of his external senses still connected to his mind, he would have seen and heard the violent protestations of the fearful Drukhari nobility. How dare he bring his sorcerous ways so close to them?! Did the reckless mon-keigh not care for the danger it brought?! She Who Thirsts is always watching!

He knew Yaelindra would be quick to silence the crowd as he concentrated and worked, though. She always did. His indulgences with sorcery were something the Archon had tolerated since their initial meeting, just as Amnir had tolerated her parasitically sadistic indulgences. It was an armistice of mutual understanding between them. Each were touched by the Ruinous Powers, one denying the touch while the other embracing. They were chosen to serve and ultimately suffer, forcing each to find means to survive and change their curses into gifts. This current parlor trick was just one more example of exactly that.

Soon, the door between dimensions opened, and a new guest arrived. It stepped into the shallow pit, clawed hooves clacking on the elaborate tilework. It wore armor of silver and gold and bore weapons of the same, all bejewelled with brightly shining stones. The bare and muscled blue skin was dotted with downy feathers in patches along its arms and shoulders. It’s caprid-horned head swayed back and forth, clicking its beak to chat to itself in a forbidden tongue. Once within this realm, the doorway closed and all assembled viewed the beastman with detached intrigue, finally relaxed that the sorcerous show was over.

Amnir calmed himself, taking his seat once more and looking to his hostess for her approval. To his own delight, she seemed absolutely raptured with the arrival of the strange beast. She had quickly leaned forward, eyes wide as she studied every detail, long-nailed fingertips tapping and scratching at her angular face as she absorbered herself in the moment - one of her unusual ticks.

“It is… just as you’ve described… Quaan NovineKuron Ann… it is beautiful…”

“We just call them Tzaangors, if we refer to them by any name at all.”

Yaelindra finally sat back and focused on Amnir again, occasionally darting her eyes to the pit whenever the Tzaangor made a new noise. Her mind seemed to feast upon the name of the beast, rolling it around, dissecting it and savoring the syllables. Her mouth slowly moved to try and replicate the noise, replicate the word, assimilate it into her lexicon.

“Tuh-zahn… Tizha… Sangor… Tsangor… Tza-an-gor… Tzaangor. Tzaangor!”

“Well done, Archon. It is a special breed of Bestigor, a beastman from my home on Sortiarius. Once human, these races have devolved into man-beast hybrids. Some are loyal the Imperium, but most understand the true powers of the Dark Gods. My offering is one touched and influenced by the Lord of Fate.”

The mention of the Dark Gods brought an ill-tempered gaze to all those in ear shot, though Yaelindra quickly brushed aside her contempt for such worship. Though their kind was wrought with their own evils and sins and debauchery, the Drukhari still abhorred the Neverborn like their puritan cousins. The Archon made exception for Amnir, and the alliance his presence represented, allowing him dabbles and dalliances with his sorcerous craft… but those that served her were far less amenable to the Astartes’ wanton use of the Warp.

Growing impatient, the Tzaangor of mention was pacing in the sunken ring, waiting for a reason for it to be here. It clicked its beak soundlessly, a tick of annoyance common among the bird-men. Again and again it twirled its twin blades, clutching the grips and testing their weight repeatedly. Finally impatient enough it leaned forward, lowered its head, and screamed a bellowing, chirping bray. The raucous sound turned every head in the room, every pair of eyes focused on the loud beast, giving it the attention it demanded.

“Looks as though your new toy wants attention. Do you have a playmate for him?”

“I have just the one…”

Standing from her throne, surveying the assembled nobility and warriors, Yaelindra eventually found her target. Pointing with her embellished fingers and nails, the Archon singled-out a lone Wych from the amassed Hekatarii observing the Tzaangor.

Eager for the challenge, the Wych grabbed her pair of blades and dove into the pit, confronting her soon-to-be opponent in the ring. The Drukhari gladiator and the beastmen circled each other, brandishing blades at the ready, waiting for the command to start. They did not have to wait long before Yaelindra returned to her seat and nodded, beginning the days festivities.

The Wych and the Tzaangor launched at each other, aiming to strike a deathblow from the first moment of their fight. Thus began the weaving of blades and dancing of footwork as the two combatants worked to be the first to slay the other. This would not be a delicate sparring match or expositional fight - this was a battle to the death in a pit, the loser to have its soul bled away and fed to the amassed crowd, or She Who Thirsts.

With the crowd engrossed in the fight, cheering and heckling the combatants within the ring, the Archon turned her attention once again to the envoy. The exuberant joy of the exciting gift was passed aside for a more serious and intent gaze, the slender and pointed Drukhari features of her face focused on Amnir. Still, the sorcerer saw in her eyes and heard in her words what he always had, and would: the amused radiance his company provoked in her, and the playful entendres of her voice.

“Now then, shall we commence our business?”

 

 

Notes

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This was a plot thread I started a while ago (oh lord... nearly two years ago!) and always intended to return to. It was a fun entry in the Tales of Dishonour topic a while back. Something about the idea of Chaos and Dark Eldar having a shaky alliance always worked for me.

[hushrong]

The Feast 

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Despair always lurked in the shadow of their thoughts and danced on the tips of their tongues. It was a sensation on the edge of perception and a tiresome old nemesis of the fallen Eldar race. And again it had paid them a dire visit.

 

Tash’nae watched the display as certain doom played before her eyes. The beloved chosen of She Who Thirsts had come for them and none of her kin had seen them coming. They were blinded to all the paths that led to this moment. She could taste the vileness of the warp stronger on her lips when she licked away the sweat pooling. Tash’nae damned herself for not even sensing it before but there was little time for regret in hindsight. It was that vile, immaterial power that hid a fleet of accursed warriors until they were upon her craftworld.

 

She looked to her Farseer conducting the defense of their home and sanctuary. He coordinated and communed with the higher echelons of his warriors instructing them how best to counter the assault. Tash’nae looked back to the images dancing before her eyes. She saw the purple lacquered warriors of the astartes tearing their way through the civilian sectors, guardians and aspect warriors trying desperately to halt their advance, and the never-ending rainfall of their venomous tears. The drop pods of the astartes did not cease as they plummeted into the heart of her home.

 

---

 

It was no easy feat but they had broken the hardened shell of the craftworld. Boarding torpedoes and kharbydis drop pods followed coordinated strike vectors. Then they leached their way in by melta. When enough had torn through entire segments were weakened for gunships to blast them away. Openings large enough for flights of assault craft had been opened.  

 

Through these openings a trio of raging machine spirits found a path to deliver their deadly cargo. They howled as they left the void and into the artificial gravity of the craftworld. As they fell to the soil of this now desecrated sanctuary their retro thrusters burned softening the impact of their armored shell. Their passengers did not grumble at the sudden collision but when the drop pods shell blossomed open their vox casters emitted a siren’s call for battle.

 

The mighty steps of three gods of war carried them forward to their objectives. Their orders no longer came from pict captures and holo-feeds taken by scouts. These had been provided by the newly swelled ranks of librarians, the sorcererous-coven, whatever they were called now that looked into the Aether. They were told of a temple of black glass, towers that rose high into the false sky, and their funerary urn like shapes in contrast to the bone white of their sanctuary. They had met with little resistance and mourned that fact passing through the gardens dotted with xeno structures.

 

Reborn in armored bodies, their crippled flesh given over to the form reminiscent of the titans of old, they walked liked giants who knew no foe or rival that could challenge their might. As the contemptor dreadnoughts crossed another hill they laid false sight upon the temple of black glass. Had they still had eyes of flesh they would have swooned at the majesty of the temple. Regardless, all their pict feeds and sensors played before their now dead eyes was a target.

 

Their arrival did not go unnoticed. The Eldar guardians and their support platforms prepared their weapons. These abominations were not the first to try and attack their temple. The mounds of burning corpses of the Emperor’s Children surrounding them were testament to the tenacity and even the reckless abandon of their attackers. Although, the toll did not come without sacrifice and the number of collected soul stones grew as the battle passed.

 

The support batteries glowed before their charge was unleashed and a beam of energy lashed out at the oncoming enemy. These weapon batteries were the first to die. The contemptors braced and locked their joints as their havoc launchers unleashed hell. Their armament did not have to be entirely accurate as their tainted shells unleashed both shrapnel and warpfire. The batteries where destroyed or set alight in green flames. As the guardians recovered from this salvo they faced the brutal assault from the staccato song of autocannons roaring. As the guardians died the first of the dreadnoughts fell as heat lances struck the core of his reactor. A pair of vypers flew over head with no time to celebrate their triumph as they began to circle back.

 

The assault faltered as the remaining dreadnoughts reacted to their new assailants. Another strafing run from the vypers was an exchange of more brilliant heat lances and pounding autocannon rounds. Again, the losses mounted as one dreadnought tumbled onto its back with a smoking crater in its armored chest and the remains of an astartes evaporated into nothingness. One of the vypers trailed off as it lost power only to crash with the sound of thunder into the distant hills. Undeterred the remaining vyper made for another pass to buy the temple guardians time to recover.

 

It was a pyrrhic victory and no songs would be told of its outcome. As the vyper lined up its shot the remaining contemptor already began firing. The vyper’s tumbling form crashed end over end into the dreadnought and exploded. Through the smoke that followed the fire a broken giant tried to rise. Propping itself up upon a ruined autocannon and melted joints where its legs had been it would not falter in its mission. The guardians had reformed their defense its sensor told it. Its power was leaking, its frame would shut down, its life support would cease, and possibly worse. Unable to accept failure it fired its last shot the temple and its guardians.

 

---

 

The sound of a grenade being fired was undeniable. A single shell launched from the now collapsed dreadnought and it arced toward the defenders. The Eldar guardians scrambled for cover but what came for them was the unexpected.

 

Spherical, etched in runes, and reeking of the immaterium it landed amongst the defenders. If the seers had been there they would have warned away their brethren. Before the guardians could react the rune etched device opened. There was no explosive detonation or burst of shrapnel. There was only smoke, thick, purple, and alive. Those closest to it choked to death. Guardians barely covered in the smoke were pulled in by clawed hands. The rest looked on in dread horror as a tear in reality had been opened so close to the temple. White lightning roiled within and thunder screamed a howling wail. What followed was nightmares given form.

 

Daemonettes surged forth on dancer’s limbs through the smoke. Lithe and graceful they began to tear into the defenders. A handful and then a dozen more were locking blades with the guardians. They fought tooth and nail to save their craftworld, their home. And for it they bled. As guardians locked blades their comrades opened fire with their shuriken catapults with their marksmen precision. They hoped to scythe down the monsters before their blades glistened with more blood. It was not long until the last daemonette was put down that the Emperor’s Children emerged forth.

 

---

 

Towering, golden shields of two headed eagles absorbed the fire aimed at them. These warriors were different than their kin piled up around the temple defenses. For all their bulk and despite their heavy armor they were quick. These chosen few were swollen and tainted by chaos. They were graced lovingly by the one who laid the Eldar Empire low.

 

They drew the attention and fire of the guardians and laughed at the audience they attracted. Blades curved and black ached for blood from behind the shields. When the corrupt astartes closed with the guardians they pressed their shields against the Eldar and gleefully severed limbs with their foul blades.

 

The guardians stationed at the temple were volunteers. From the civilian path they would take up arms when the need was dire. They were strong, trained, and determined to hold against their foe in the darkest hour. Yet they would break against the Emperor’s Children and their hatred, madness, and lusts. The astartes kept pouring forth and there would be no holding back the flood.

 

Korinha had aimed his rifle as the warrior’s defense dropped. His shield moved out of the way exposing his armored chest but he brought down his blade along the Eldar’s barrel. The cut was clean and as the guardian pulled the trigger nothing roared in response. No more than a second later the Emperor’s Children brought his sword arm up, driving the gold lattice work of his pommel into Korinha’s gut. His armor took the brunt of the blow that should have shattered more bones but it was not impenetrable. The guardian stumbled back and fell as his attacker laughed.

 

Through the eye lenses of his helm he saw the giant warrior reverse the grip on his blade. Hanging it over him like a threat of death. He could not see it but he could feel it. The warrior of She Who Thirsts licking his lips and teeth set in a perverse smile hidden behind a deathmask of gold.

 

Korinha heard the word goodbye in his own tongue spoken poetically by his soon to be killer. Words uttered so sweetly laced with poison. He saw the platinum fingers slip loose of the hilt and watched as though time froze. The razor edge raced for armor, flesh and blood and all Korinha desired that his death had saved others. He closed his eyes and heard the ringing sound of weapons clashing.

 

His eyes opened wide to see the sword deflected in a flash and a singing blade spun around the slash at the soft armor of the Emperor’s Children’s throat. The giant fell to his knees and his armor crunched into the glass of the temple grounds. There was no agony but only bliss that sounded from the blood wet throat of the astartes. Then and swing of the spears blade severed the warriors head.

 

The farseer and his warlocks had come to defend the temple personally and seal the tear in reality.

 

---

 

Like a seawall against a crashing wave the Farseer and his coterie of psyker-warriors repelled the Emperor’s Children that sought entrance to their sanctum. Driven by the desire for glory and spurred forth by their warped senses and a concoction of combat-stims the first of the altered mon-keigh warriors charged forth with abandon.

 

Though enhanced by genetic tempering and pulsing with Slaanesh’s blessings the blades of the Emperor’s Children met their match against the farseer and his warlocks. Sparks flew as blades clashed and parried. Armor sparked and blood sprayed where xeno weapons had cut deep. Yet, despite their superior skill honed through selfless devotion and enhanced by their pysker might their numbers were far fewer than the invaders that still poured forth from the opening.

 

Tash’nae had thrust her singing spear forward, barely keeping her grip at the end of its shaft as the opposite, bladed point of the spear punched through the neck of an Emperor’s Children. She was repulsed as she withdrew the blade and watched the astartes collapse. The wretch’s body was wracked with spasms while experiencing ecstasy as it choked on its own blood.

 

There was no end for when she felled one warrior another of the perverse creatures stood to challenge her.

 

Tash’nae regained her composure and took a defensive stance as the armored brute marched toward her. Its platinum plated arms were opened to its sides and in its left arm it carried a towering shield of gold. In the other it wielded the curved, elegant blade known only to the artisans of the Eldar race. Surely a trophy used to mock its most desired foe. The astartes raised the hilt of the sword to its gold face plate in salute.

 

The warlock did not bother with such courtesy. There was no time for such formalities, not in the desperate push to defend her home nor against such a reviled and cursed enemy. Barely betraying her intent she launched the singing spear forward. Despite its bulkiness the Emperor’s Children brought its shield to bear, an elegantly crafted two-headed eagle adorned with jewels intercepted the strike. The singing spear scored its armor leaving behind a scar as it was withdrawn.

 

 The astartes followed up as Tash’nae changed her grip and she was forced to step back as the shield came forward to knock her off balance. With graceful footwork and a twist of her waist she dodged the swing of the shield only to have to kick back and away as the astartes sword came slicing down for her neck. Down and across the razor edge of the Emperor’s Children blade came for her and each time she brought the spear tip of her weapon to counter.

 

Having placed some distance between her and the warrior she put the Slaaneshi slave on the defensive. Tash’nae would strike at the mon-keigh warrior only to have her weapon deflected by the golden shield. It would try to bat away any attack and charge forth into the range of its sword. With speed and poise unthinkable for such a large, armored mon-keigh the Emperor’s Children pressed the attack. From behind its shield it charged forward, already over a dozen scars marred its once finely wrought surface.

 

The warlock struggled against the Emperor’s Children. It rarely exposed itself to strike, barely raising its head or peering from the sides of the shield. Only when she found herself nearly off balance did the warrior strike. Frustration began break her battle focus. Anger boiled as she was consistently countered and pushed back by the warrior behind his towering shield. The mon-keigh barely left any great distance between the two as they locked into a deadly duel. She could smell the perfumed scent of its exhaust and hear the calm rhythm of its breathing from within its armor echoed by its vox. Again the Emperor’s Children closed in and swung at Tash’nae, the shield ringing against the rune armor of the warlock where it struck.

 

Our blades are sharp and shields unbreakable the Emperor’s Children breathed through his vox as though whispering a mantra.

 

It was only as she retreated back did she hear the distinct whir amongst the battle about her. Only then did she curse herself as her eyes were drawn to its faint source. Buried in the armored chest of the two-headed eagle laid a mighty jewel of forest green. And beneath its surface a pic-captor’s eye opened and closed to keep focus.

 

With a visual feed sent to the lenses of its helm the Emperor’s Children watched and countered her moves from behind its shield. She would blind the beast and strike it down. Barely taking enough steps back Tash’nae once again launched the spear forward. With the force of a hammer the tip of spear pierced and shattered the protective lense disguised as a jewel.  With great ease it cut into the machine and then through the thinnest segment of the shield.

 

Immediately the mon-keigh disengaged the mag-lock of its shield. In a blur of movement it cast the shield aside while the spear’s blade was buried in its armor. Tash’nae failed to react quickly enough as with deft speed the Emperor’s Children grabbed hold of the singing spears shaft with its free hand. Locking its grasp on the weapon and bracing it against its side it brought down the sword wielding forearm.

 

In disbelief Tash’nae watched as her spear was shattered. The black, crystalline shaft of her ancient weapon burst into a hundred shards as the platinum plated crashed through it. As her eyes widened and her mouth opened to scream the mon-keigh back handed her. The world went dark as her helm was split open and she collapsed to the ground.

 

---

 

Tash’nae awoke from a nightmare to something truly dread.

 

As her vision tried to focus she could barely believe the horror before her eyes. She watched as her farseer and fellow warlocks fell in battle. Cut down and torn to pieces at the blade of Slaanesh’s favored warriors. She stared in mute terror as she saw her farseer beheaded and his body dissected into pieces and collected for grisly trophies by the purple-lacquered warriors. The warlocks suffered no less cruel fates as there armor and flesh were ripped apart and their organs torn free to be devoured.

 

She felt cold steel clasp around her neck and any strength left in her broken body faded. Her wrists were bound by the same cold metal. Chains tugged at them carried in the hands of the warrior that bested her.

 

As the temple and craftworld around her burned the astartes started down at her. She could hear the screaming of her dying people and their souls wail as Slaanesh waited to sup upon them. I bid you welcome to the feast, my pet. You and your warrior coven have made a fine, first course.

 

 

Notes

  Reveal hidden contents

I've had this fluff sitting around for a LONG while. When Eldar got their reboot an edition or two ago (when they got Wraith Knights) I started an army of the xenos. This was my way of tying them and my Emperor's Children together. I think I would like to touch this up later but I am very happy to have finished it.

[Kierdale]

Thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2018: The Primordial Annihilator versus the Asuryani.

EesiOh returned to IF with a song, no less! The Beginning of the End :tu: I wanted more, though! Too short!

Scourged returned to a character he introduced back in May of 2016. In Envoy we see that the Scourged and the dark Eldar under Archon Yaelindra went on to forge some form of alliance, and he tells us of a gift presented by a sorcerer of the Scourged to his debauched hosts.

The Feast was Hushrong’s entry, depicting in great detail the Emperor’s Children assaulting a nameless craftworld. The action was excellently written and I think you captured the feelings of both factions so well.

In my first entry, Riven an Eldar guardian of Biel-Tan experiences the fracture of his craftworld and the birth of the Yncarne, but rather than joining the new faction he stays loyal and becomes a guardian of one of Biel-Tan’s fragments, defending maiden worlds. But it seems the craftworld’s Infinity Circuit was not entirely purged and a tainted soul was mistakenly saved.

And I wanted to read a story involving Nurgle, the captive Isha, and Eldar...it seemed no one was writing it, so I did a quickie. Another Way was about an Eldar who rejected the Ynnari and their new death god, in favour of setting out into the Eye to attempt to rescue the goddess who birthed them.

I hereby close that topic but if anyone has more stories on that theme, at any time, please post them here with a suitable title. I’m looking at you, Warpmiss ;)

And here begins our fourth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2018: The Hunt

Since proto-man learned to savour the taste of meat, humans have hunted. Be it for a base need such as sustenance, or the hunt for one’s nemesis, the discovery, tracking and capture or killing of one’s quarry is a task which challenges the best of hunters.

Tell us this time the tale of a hunt. For a foe who has wronged and eluded your protagonist, for a vital target -living or in the form of intelligence or data-, the hunt for a grand beast or worthy foe whose head would make a wondrous trophy, the hunt for the bearer of a legendary weapon the protagonist desires, the hunt for a weakness in a seemingly impenetrable enemy fortress...

Or perhaps it is your protagonist who is the hunted? Why? By whom? Across what terrain and through what dangers? Do they succeed in evading those who would claim their scalp?

IF2018: The Hunt runs until the second of March.

Let us be inspired.

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

The winner of IF2018: The Hunt shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honour of judging the next challenge.

[EesiOh]

Due to how quickly I wrote this, I may submit a second story too (greedy me, I know) 

 

Helljumper, Helljumper, where oh where have you been 

  Reveal hidden contents

"Helljumper, Helljumper, where you been?"

 

Sgt Moriar, 105th Harakoni, The 'Helljumpers', surveyed the bar with a practiced eye. In corner were three raucous Elysians. He watched them carefully. In another a group of Vallhalan's were singing a drinking song. The bar was full to bursting with representatives of various guard regiments. Though maybe representative was the wrong word, that implied something formal, and ordered, not this drunken chaos. He looked down at his glass of cheap amasec as distant memories came back to him, triggered, probably, by the singing of two other Harakoni's outside the bar, it was an old Harakoni cadence song, and Moriar figured the singers were probably recruits

 

"First into hell and back again!" 

 

Of course, that wasn't quite true though, not for many of his comrades at least. He still remembered the campaign they earned their title 'Helljumpers'. The purge of Aegosami IV. A garden planet that grew a soft and feckless population and even softer and more feckless ruling elite. It hadn't been a surprise to anyone that the population fell to slaanesh and converted the planet into a pleasure planet. What had surprised everyone was that these same soft and feckless people had been able to completely repel the Planetary Defence Forces, and even began to make forays towards other planets in the system

 

"When I die please bury me deep" 

 

A nice 6ft grave, pomp and ceremony, buried with full honours. "Now wouldn't that be nice" Moriar bitterly thought to himself. He drained his cup and motioned to the barman for another. Fact of the matter was however, that many of his comrades had nothing but a shallow unmarked piece of earth, somewhere on some planet they had fought in. On Aegosami IV there usually wasn't enough of the men left to do even that. Of course he had to admit, the Elysian's had had it harder, but that was only because of their own damn incompetence. "If you want to capture and hold a position, send the Elysians". That was always the General's playbook. The Elysian's were happy to sacrifice the speed and surprise of their assaults if it meant they could use Valkyries to deploy men with heavy equipment and light vehicles. That sacrifice of speed and surprise got them killed on Aegosami. The entire campaign had been a cluster:cuss of overestimating Imperial Forces while underestimating Traitor Forces. The Elysians had been cut to shreds. Valkyries blasted from the sky by sentient Icarus lascannon batteries, their fusillade sounding for all the world like the mockery of the gods themselves. The men had fared just as badly, worse even. Picked off during their slow grav-chute descents by hungering Helldrakes and viscous Hell Blades. Of course, considering how the Harakoni's had been deployed, there probably wasn't any earth left on Aegosami left for burying anyone. Some bright spark in the navy had the great idea that "If the Emperors finest, his angels, can deploy via drop pod, then why not the good old Warhawks". Of course, the navy didnt actually HAVE any drop pods, so they instead jury rigged shells from the Macrocannons. The Brass insisted on calling them HEV's. Human Entry Vehicles. Those actually using them called them something else entirely. Highly Explosive Vessles. That's because the navy had decided that they shouldn't remove the entire payload of the shell, just enough that a man could fit at the very back of the shell, with the end designed to be easily removed, so that soldiers could jump out as they neared the surface in possibly the stupidest H.A.L.O jump known to all of mankind. It did of course, have the advantage of speed, and stealth. The enemy weren't too interested in shells being fired at them, especially shells that were seemingly off course. But it was too fast, and many of the helljumper's had died being unable to get out in time, or out at all, of their little explosive coffins. At least they had the satisfaction of knowing they sure as hell killed the out of some grass in their last moments of life. Moriar motioned for a third glass, downing his second one in a single go.

 

"Place a lascarbine down by my feet" 

 

Lascarbines. The other reason Harakoni's were superior to Elysians. Elysians liked to bring their toys. Longlas', lasrifles, specialist weapons like flamers. Hard to fight a bloody CQC battle in a city when your weapon is getting caught in door frames, or gives you away before you've come around a corner. The trusty bullpup lascarbine on the other hand. Well, that and a mono-knife, meant that the first and last thing many of the traitor forces on Aegosami was the faint whine of a lasweapon in the fractions of a second after the trigger was pulled but before the searing energy of a pocket sun melted their faces, the chaos worshiping bastards seemingly enjoyed the experience mostly received warp makeovers from their patrons, replacing their human looks with something else entirely. Lascarbine. Laspistol. Mono-knife. Light Carpace armour. A 'nade or two. Light, fast, and well trained. That was the way to do it. No good being an expert at so called 'taking and holding' objectives when you cant even take the damn objective for all your unnecessary gear slowing you down. 

 

"Don't cry for me, don't shed no tear"

 

Well the people certainly hadn't done that. Most of the civvies on the damn planet had turned, even if not entirely to chaos, then certainly renegade. They hadnt been too happy about their 'gallant rescuers'. The first the warhawks knew of that was when the guerrilla war started after the open war was over. :cussing typical. The entire planet had to be culled. It was nothing short of a miracle that the Inquisition hadn't ordered and exterminators, but considering those shady sonsofbitches were always up to something, plans within plans, it was almost not surprising. We hadn't exactly received much sympathy on the military front either. The Elysians hated us for doing what they couldn't. The Navy were too busy sucking their own cocks for their HEV idea and the rest of the guard were convinced that as we were now heroes, the fabled 'Helljumpers', Moriar had to refrain from spitting on the ground in his bitter disgust, we had no right to be unhappy. After all, who's unhappy about being a hero?

 

"Just pack my box with PT gear"

 

And that was just the crux of it wasn't it. "Well done chaps, only 60% of you died, we got our planet back, now off you pop to some other hellhole and do it all again, there's a good lot" grinding war after grinding war. 'Send the warhawks, they're the best, we need the 105th. only the Helljumpers will do'. At the time of course, it had seemed nice, constant praise from all sides. Everyone begging to have the fabled unit with them. Bleeding us dry, bit by bit. Too idiotic, incompetent, or worse to get the job done, always send for the helljumpers. Amazing how often the word incompetent cropped up in relation to the imperial guard. It was a wonder the Imperium had any planets under its control at all.

 

"Cuz one early morning, bout zero five" 

 

Then of course, the clandestine missions. The Warhawks had always had a fairly large sized contingent of Adeptus Scions with them, but as the legends of the Helljumpers grew, they gravitated more and more towards the 105th. The high mortality rate for being highly sought after shock troops led to a flow of Scions joining the 105th, until they doubled, and then trebled the number of normal marines. This influx of the elite of the elite meant suddenly inquisitors were requisitioning the 105th, techperiests too. No one ever really likes the inquisition, but it was during these missions that the dislike and distrust became something else

 

"The ground will rumble, there'll be lightning in the sky" 

 

And the crusade to deactivate the renegade Rhak'zan dynasty tomb world on Gobi VII had had both. Except the ground was rumbling with the stirrings of the silver hordes of the Necrons, and the lightning in the sky was the green arcing kind, the kind that flayed first the armour, then the skin, then the bone and then the very molecules off a man. That was when he had decided he was done. He wasnt a hero, he was a man, a man who didnt want to die. There's no such thing as dishonorable discharge in the guard. Not unles you're filthy rich, so he did what he had to. As soon as the Warhawks stepped onto a friendly imperial planet he had kept on stepping all the way until he he was out of sight, and, he had hoped, out of mind. Good thing he had too. Anyone left after that little foray that wasnt a storm trooper was taken somewhere quite and then... replaced with a storm trooper. He had hoped by deserting he could live his life in peace. Instead it had done the exact opposite, as he was now running from the most powerful organisation in the Imperium 

 

"Don't you worry, don't come undone"

 

Moriar didn't like the fact he could still hear the singing, and the fact that in a military bar like this it wasn't slurred. The two singing it were doing an alright job of pretending to be intoxicated, but he knew that wasnt the case. Moriar slammed back the final drink and nodded to the barman before rising. He wasn't worrying, he knew he wouldn't come undone. Feigning being drunk, he staggered outside of the bar and made his way to a side alley where he leaned up against the wall, pretending to piss. As he suspected the 2 Harakoni's moved to follow him at a discrete distance. Tempestus Scions, Moriar thought scowling to himself. Then a third figure joined them, at the sight of the I on his clothes Moriar dropped all pretense of sobriety. He immediately spun, drawing his laspistol and dropping both the Warhawks with a stolen handcannon he had procured for himself. He and the inquisitor stood facing each other, their weapons pointed at each others heads, fingers millimeters from pulling their respective triggers. "You cant run forever, you'll answer for your crimes, even if not today" The inquisitor spat venomously, Moriar shrugged "Any day that's not today sounds good to me". His bravado was false, and they both new it. An entire bar of guard had just heard two shots ring out, any second now he was going to be screwed. The Inquisitor seemingly had the same thought and quickly glanced at the front door as the sound of people getting up from bar-stools rang out. Moriar took his chance and then fanned the hammer on the handcannon, dislocating his wrist in the process. He was fairly certain the inquisitor was dead. Throwing his handcannnon as far away as he could, he dived further into the alley and then curled up, feigning a drunken coma. After his performance in the tavern, anyone that saw him would just assume he had passed out here before the action began, and if the heat got to much, he could always bail off-world tomorrow on any one of the smuggling ships at the starport. 

 

"It's just my ghost on a PT run" Former Sgt Moriar whispered to himself, before curling himself up tighter as the feigned sleep began to become a real one  

 

 

Notes

  Reveal hidden contents

Originally I had intended this to be a simple story about how the 105th Harakoni (a regiment im going to be playing in an upcoming Only War game I am in) got it's name. It's a reference to Halo 3 ODST, as the Harakonis and ODSTs are very similar, and in ODST you play as a squad from the 105th regiment; The Helljumpers. Somehow this story of what was meant to be a slighly jaded veteran recounting warstories transformed itself into, the story of a renegade, on the run from the forces he had loyally served under. However I did have an actual idea planned for this challenge, so I'm still going to enter that idea too. I swear songs arent going to become my thing, I just loved that song from ODST and thought it would be kind of cool to add to the story, as well as being another link between Halo and the Warhawks (or maybe i should make songs my thing...)

[Kierdale]

Submitting two stories? Tsk tsk tsk :D

[EesiOh]

2 stories = twice the chance of winning. Its my cunning scheme :^)

[EesiOh]

Guys I think the Chaos Gods finally gave scourged his well deserved reward, he has ascended to daemonhood and left us mere mortals behind 

[Warpmiss]

  On 2/16/2018 at 10:59 PM, Kierdale said:

I hereby close that topic but if anyone has more stories on that theme, at any time, please post them here with a suitable title. I’m looking at you, Warpmiss ;)

 

I didn't even have the time to turn my computer on this weekend. Much less to even remember about the IF @_@

 

I think the upcoming weeks are going to be pretty much like that as well.

[Kierdale]

  On 2/19/2018 at 10:40 AM, EesiOh said:

Guys I think the Chaos Gods finally gave scourged his well deserved reward, he has ascended to daemonhood and left us mere mortals behind :D

There’s no hurry for judgement. :)

 

And likewise, Warpmiss, there’s no hurry but if/when you do find the time to do some writing, please submit it here. :)

[Scourged]

I'm going to have to go with Hushrong for this week's winner. Truly a fun story to read. Congratulations.

[Kierdale]

Congratulations, Hushrong! Well done!

[Warpmiss]

Congrats, Hushrong!

[hushrong]

Thank you everyone! I am very happy that I had finally finished that short story for my Cult of Golden Tears and IF gave me that push!

 

Looking forward to The Hunt!

[Kierdale]

What lay within

Hidden Content

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

The staggering man’s body was lit by the pools of burning promethium from the crash. Thanks to his helmet’s lenses, Karam could make out bloodstains - oil and lubricant too - slicking the man’s ragged clothing and skin. But no augmentation in sight.

Karam hadn’t lowered his rifle, nor had any of his squad, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

The man collapsed to his knees, one hand still raised, the other clamped to his chest as if nursing a wound. His eyes were fixed on the lenses of Karam’s mask. His voice broke.

“Please! In the name of the Omnissiah! Please don’t shoot!”

He removed the slight pressure he had applied to the trigger, but kept his hotshot lasgun trained on the man’s head. One false move and he would blow it off.

This was him? Surely not.

[stand down. Secure the site. Find me more survivors. Chettur: check this man and get him fit to move.] Karam spoke to the other Scions over the squad channel and the squad moved quickly to obey, disappearing into the night darkness, surveying the crash site and setting up a perimeter. The fire had drawn them and no doubt it would draw the Enemy too, looking to finish what their own accursed flyer had started. To make sure there were no survivors.

The Tempestor -the leader of the squad- Karam observed as Chettur broke out his medpack and got to work. He could see the hesitancy in the man’s movements.

[Problem, Chettur?]

[No plugs, Tempestor]

The squad’s medical specialist wasn’t referring to any need for catheters or the like - he was just tasked with getting the man mobile; he’d have to do a proper job of fixing him up once they exfiltrated from the crash site. No, what caused Chettur to pause was what had almost caused Karam to kill the man on sight: they knelt in the middle of the twisted wreckage of an Adeptus Mechanicus Arvus-lighter, surrounded by dead Skitarii and even a pair of hulking Lorica Thallax - their glassy, featureless black faces cracked and drooling fluids - and a crushed tech-Priest, mechadendrites still twitching post-mortem...what was this pure-meat man doing here?

Chettur swept a small lumen over the man’s exposed flesh with one hand, running his other hand over the skin, checking his injuries - looking for broken bones that the man’s own adrenaline-flooded system might not yet know about...and for the mark of taint upon him. All the while Karam kept his rifle trained on the man’s flawless - but for cuts- shaven scalp. No cortical plugs, not even a jack at the Atlas.

There was a wet sucking sound as Chettur pried the man’s hand from his chest. Punctured lung.

[Time?] Chettur asked as he worked.

Karam did not take his eyes off the man in his sights. He looked to be in his thirties. Better fed than the majority of Usta Minoris’ populace, then again he had only seen those who hadn’t made it to the evac zones and were stuck out here in Shattertown.

[Daya?]

There was a few seconds pause before the scion replied. Karam knew that wasn’t good.

[single tracked vehicle inbound from the south, Tempestor. ETA five minutes, tops.]

[Chimera or-]

[RH-1-N-O, Tempestor]

Karam cursed under his breath. Turncoat Guard they could handle, but not a full squad of Astartes.

[We are leaving. 30 seconds, squad. Daya, you’re on point. Pranav, you’re last out]

[Oh, dhanyavaad, Tempestor]

[You’re welcome, kid]

Karam saw Chettur crack the knuckles of his left hand absent mindedly, his sign of irritation, before inserting a valve-tipped needle into the prone man’s bandaged chest.

“Can he move?” Karam said, audible to the man.

“He can, but should we take him?”

Karam knew that Chettur trusted him, but was voicing this concern in front of the man they believed to be their quarry, for confirmation.

Then the man looked from the medic to the squad leader. His eyes were wide and scared, but there was strength there. Conviction.

“I am the guardian of the package. It is safe. Secure. I am he whom you seek.”

Karam took his eyes off the man for the first time in the four point six minutes since they had found him, turning to look out into the night, toward the sound of the approaching APC’s engines.

“Not only us. Move!”

 

 

 

 

* * * * * *

The night was lit a second time, by the detonation of the Thallax’s reactors. Their boobytrapping had been Hala’s handiwork. They could only pray to He upon the Golden Throne that the blast took out whoever the rhino had been carrying. But prayers were not to be relied upon, and they did not haul ass back to the nearest ‘secure zone’ (secure in nothing but the chance of incoming fire, they all had quickly learned upon arrival on-world) like some squad of Guardsmen eager to get back to their trenches. The Scions moved off perpendicular to the easiest, fastest route. They took the hard way, as they had been trained, as they had been raised, in the Schola Progenium orphanages.

They made their way as quickly as possible, striking a balance between stealth and speed, for if any of the enemy Astartes had survived they were known to move at a fearsome pace. Through bombed out manufactorums and scorched, half-collapsed hab-blocks, keeping the man between them, until Karam called a halt in an abandoned vehicle depot. Tractors were parked haphazardly, abandoned when the sirens had sounded months ago. A powerloader stood, frozen in place, a crate held in its hydraulic grips above a flatbed trailer.

There was a desperate hiss of air as the valve Chettur had inserted in the man’s chest auto-released, relieving the built up pressure. He then set to work on the man’s non-life threatening injuries, and Karam spoke.

“Mister survivor, where is it?”

“Tilwald,” the man coughed.

As Karam brought up the screen imbedded in his left bracer the man put a hand atop it. The Tempestor had to restrain himself from violently removing the man’s hand. He did not like being touched. Him or his gear.

“Not a place. Tilwald. My name.” The man was squinting in the darkness, the only light being from the few flickering lumenstrips overhead which still worked. Karam imagined the masked helmets of he and his squad must have been quite frightful in the darkness. He didn’t care.

“Mister Tilwald. Where is the package? You stashed it near the crash site?”

The man winced as Chettur sutured a gash in his thigh, not wasting any painbalms, and shook his head.

That at least was a relief.

A thought then ignited anger in the Tempestor.

“Don’t tell me you’re a bloody decoy?” He said through clenched teeth. “Did the priests of Mars choose to send it another way?”

The man was quick to shake his head. “I have it, I have it.”

[subdermal. Internal cavity, perhaps] Without prompting, Chettur began scanning the man’s body with the auspex. Tilwald pushed it away.

Chettur cracked his left knuckles.

“No implants. It’s in here.”

The man tapped his temple.

 

 

 

* * * * * *

“The Adeptus Mechanicus had a man remember the information?” Daya’s incredulity was as understandable as it was evident in the way she spoke. “Not an implant? Not even hypno-conditioning?”

Karam nodded, rifle across his lap, looking over at the sleeping man. Chettur was slumped not far from him. While his charge slept, so did he.

“You’re supposed to be resting, Daya.”

“As are you.”

The two had removed their helmets. With the rest of the squad -Pranav and Hala- on sentry duty they needed to give their eyes a rest. The enhancements in their masks put a terrible strain on the eyes. Not to mention being sweaty and stuffy. The smell of damp and spilled lubricants and oil in the depot, and that of burning prometheum out in the city, was a welcome change from the filtered air they had breathed for over a dozen hours since deployment.

“Sure he’s not just a looter we caught in the act?”

“A looter all beat-up and bruised like that, with a punctured lung?”

“Maybe not all the Skitarii were totally dead when he arrived, Tempestor.”

Karam thought over what his sharpshooter said. He appreciated his Scions questioning him like this in the quiet moments. It helped him. And he knew they would never question him in the heat of battle.

“No. An Arvus has a transport capacity of twelve. One dead tech priest, two Thallax, eight Skitarii. And you yourself found the pilot.”

“What was left of him. That Hellblade hit it hard and fast, it seems. The bird came down nose-first,” he could not see it in the darkness but he could imagine the wince on her face. “...Perhaps they didn’t fill it.”

He would have looked at her reproachfully had she been wearing her helmet and able to see him. “That would hardly be like the Mechanicus, would it?”

“Point taken. A savant?”

“Possible. He looks a little too well fed to be Usatamen.”

The populace of Usta Minoris were genebred and DNA matched by their overseers in the Mechanicus. Bred to do their duty. Mutations were said to have been eliminated. As was all individuality, Karam had observed. And originality and creativity, if the pitiful initial textbook defence of their world was any evidence. Perhaps this Tilwald had been selectively bred too. Bred for his mnemonic ability by his master, and left unenhanced so as not to draw attention. Steganography in innocuousness? He recalled a lecture back in the Schola Progenium, a tale of an ancient Hellenic tyrant by the name of Histiaeus, who was said to have imprinted a secret communique upon the shaved scalp of a favoured slave via a primitive form of electoo. Once the slave’s hair regrew they were dispatched and their head shaved once again upon arriving at their destination.

“They wh-“

Their conversation, and indeed all sound from the constant drumming of far-off artillery to the crackle of fires in the ruined buildings about them, was suddenly drowned out by a fearsome noise. A deafening blast that sent plaster raining down from the ceiling and cracks raced across its surface. Karam immediately questioned himself: had he, in his reverie, lost focus to such a degree that he had not heard the incoming fire? He swore he was not so tired as to have missed the whine of an incoming shell or the roar of a rocket. But already his body -care of his training- was reacting, as was that of Daya and Chettur.

[battle stations. Sound off] he spoke before he even had his helmet clasps shut.

Daya and Chettur, weapons already up and aimed toward likely points of entry - the depot’s huge shuttered garage doors and the rear entrance - waited, knowing that Karam would have already seen them.

[Pranav is down, enemy is-]

The channel cut as another blast shook the ceiling. Where Hala and Pranav had been on lookout.

Their regiment, the `Naja Naja` in their own tongue which referred to an ancient serpent of their ancestral homelands, was ruled by righteousness, ethics and virtues that had been drilled into them at the Schola from a very early age. One of the utmost virtues was duty over life. It took a split second for Karam to judge that the two scions were likely either dead or so badly injured that they would be a burden to the squad, and he quickly motioned with his free hand to Chettur and Daya.

 

The engine gave a cough and a throaty growl as it awoke, Karam bowing his head to the steering wheel as he finished his mantra that had roused the truck’s machine spirit. Chettur had lain Tilwald in the back of the pickup and had been about to climb in with him when Daya had pushed him toward the cab. She, the better shot, would go in the back: keep their charge safe and keep her weapon trained on their surroundings. The medic nodded to her – Karam noticed their fingers touched briefly - and climbed in beside the Tempestor as the vehicle’s huge balloon tires began to crawl forward toward the shuttered doors.

Daya tapped the clearplex at the back of the cabin to get their attention, and unclipped a case she had been carrying, strapped under her backpack.

[Tempestor, you’ll be glad I brought this along afterall]

She unplugged the cable feed from her rifle and inserted the power feed into the newly unwrapped weapon. It had almost twice the bulk of a hotshot lasgun and had a large chrome muzzle which had been discoloured by continuous fire.

A hotshot volleygun. A most unsubtle weapon, unsuited to covert missions but wholly suited to hot exfiltrations.

[Charging]

Even over the sound of the idling engine and the rising electronic tone from the volleygun, they all heard the heavy landing of a pair of cermite-shod boots in front of the building.

Karam cursed and drove his right foot to the floor.

The truck was no spyrer’s roadster or an Elysian Tauros. Throne! it wasn't even a Taurox, and it slowly picked up speed as it trundled toward the doors, slowly picking up speed.

[Come on, come on! You Ork-made piece of-]

The shuttered door blew inward upon the crest of a sonic boom and the headlights briefly illuminated a towering armoured figure; over two meters tall and clad in powered armour daubed in mad colours no loyal Angel of Death would wear into battle. In its huge gauntlets each the size of a man’s head, it held a mysterious weapon, cables snaking from the back into its armour and the muzzle was large and flared yet terminated not in black maw from within which a blast of energy or massive slugs might vomit, but a vent of gleaming brass. Karam’s eyes locked with the green and red lenses of the marine’s helm for a split second before the truck slammed into their enemy and he lost sight of it beneath the vehicle’s engine cowling before him.

He had fought alongside space marines, loyal space marines, on two occasions and had never had need to address them. The Scions kept themselves removed from the Guard, and the Scions recognized that the Astartes operated on another level beyond themselves. But he had seen the wake of their battles, the destruction they wrought. It had been glorious at the time, but as he gripped the wheel now, foot hard to the floor, the images rushed back to him terrifyingly.

Chettur was shouting something over the comm and Daya cursed her weapon as it charged so slowly, but all he saw was the street ahead, lit by the truck’s headlights and the few lumenglobes that still worked on posts to either side. At any moment he expected to see a gauntleted hand reach up over the bonnet followed by a horned helmet. He took his right hand from the wheel long enough to press a button on his left bracer and took a sharp intake of breath as a stimmshot flooded into his system. It sharped his senses and cooled his mind, dulling the transhuman terror he had been gripped by.

He then saw it. The truck’s headlights illuminated the pocked, debris-strewn road before them in a pair of ovoids, the left canted due to damage to its mounting. But a shadow flickered across the light. And again.

The truck jumped as Karam mounted the left curb, crushing debris and exploding through a stack of refuse which had not been collected before war broke out. He did not let up on the accel as they raced along half on the pavement and half on the road. He saw a shadow pass over the headlights again. The truck slammed into a lumenpost and the Tempestor was thankful for the vehicle’s great bulk as it was barely slowed, severing the post – which slammed down, denting the roof before bouncing off. But there was a great crash out of sight at the front of the truck and the wheels jumped as they went over something dislodged.

Karam allowed himself a breath and a slight smile. Got you, bastard.

[Enemy weapon] came Daya’s report from the flatbed. [No body!]

Before he could curse, something erupted from the flooring, punching through the cheap plasplating and Chettur cried out as his ankle was enveloped by a huge roseate armoured fist.

Karam threw the truck about, mounting and dismounting the curb to try to shake or scrape the bastard from the bottom of the vehicle. He could hear the scream of ceramite and alloys grinding against the road and pavement. The hand released the Scion’s ankle only to push further into the cabin, up to its elbow. Chettur kicked at it with his good leg and fumbled for his dagger, cursing the Ordo Departmento for not issuing them laspistols. He screamed as the hand found his knee and closed about it with horrendous strength. His dagger scraped over the ceramite gauntlet again and again, finally finding a gap and digging deep into the wrist. Hot, brilliant red blood began to spray out at rate that would have sent any mortal into shock at the sight, but the traitor marine held on tighter, fingers digging into the meat of the soldier’s knee.

The truck shook more as Karam took it over larger pieces of debris, still racing along the near-black roads.

And with a final ear-splitting scream the Chaos space marine was torn from beneath the truck, Chettur’s lower leg still in its grip.

 

 

 

* * * * * *

“Th-thi-this is not what’s meant by Medice, cura te ipsum.”

Chettur’s voice trembled as much as his hands did as he prepared the dressings and unguents. Karam nodded gravely as he dialed down the power setting of his lasrifle and set the muzzle against his comrade’s truncated limb. Blood was gushing out.

Chettur stuck the sling of his rifle between his teeth and gave a curt not.

Karam fired and did not release the trigger, playing the crimson beam across the mangled end of the leg. He watched as the blood boiled and spat, as pink meat whitened, browned and blackened. The shining nodules at the end of Chettur’s exposed right femur darkened but he did not cease until the blood stopped flowing. He quickly stabbed the Scion’s thigh with the ampoules Chettur had prepared and carefully dressed it.

Chettur had passed out, as expected.

[sky’s lightening, Tempestor] Daya was on sentry duty atop the ruin they had hidden in. He had had to order her away. He didn’t want her seeing Chettur’s wound.

Karam hadn’t noticed Tilwald vomit. In fact he had barely noticed the man at all. Daya had dragged him from the truck once she had noticed Karam was carrying Chettur. Their charge was wiping strings of vomit from his chin. He had watched the field surgery on the Scion’s leg and now crouched in the corner, hugging his knees to himself, his eyes fixed on Chettur’s sleeping form.

“All this for me.”

Karam did not take his eyes off his medic. “Whatever it is they had you remember, it must be very important.”

“I don’t know.”

This made the Tempestor look to the man.

“I don’t. It’s in here,” he tapped his temple again with a shaking finger. “But I don’t know what it is. Just a string of ones and zeroes, zeroes and ones, on and on and on. Zero one zero zero one one zero zero zero one one zero one one one one zero one one one zero zero one zero zero one one zero zero one zero one zero one one zero one one zero one zero zero one zero zero zero zero zero zero one one zero one zero zero one zero one one one zero zero zero zero zero one one one zero zero one one zero one one one zero one zero one zero one one zero one one zero one…”

“Don’t tell me!” Karam snapped. “Three of my scions have died to get you and that information out.” He had no idea if the man was actual regurgitating the data he had memorized or not, but he would take on the burden of the message itself. Everyone had their duty, their role to play. Tilwald’s was to be the vessel. His was to convey that vessel back to safety.

 

 

 

* * * * * *

It hadn’t always been known as Shattertown. In fact it wasn’t even a single town but rather the vast expanse of the city’s outlying districts that had become No Man’s Land in the months since war had broken out. From manufacturing areas through hab-blocks to hydroponic gardens, what they shared was the cheap construction of the buildings. The low-grade poured ‘crete and plastibeams they were made from. They had proven poor insulation in the cold winter months when people had lived here, even poor sound insulation as neighbours heard each other rowing or rutting. Chunks the size of a man’s torso fragmented under the traitor astartes’ tread. It had followed the blood trail. It had their scent. It knew Chettur’s taste. And within its torn right hand it gripped a bloodstained Scion dagger.

The lenses of its helmet, the very armour twisted and mutated by the influence of the Eye, were mismatched colours: the left red, the right green, but both still functioned to some degree. In the astartes’ field of vision reticules swept back and forth searching for threats, attempting to match silhouettes, sounds and scents to knowledge stored within the armour’s own machine spirit. It stalked into the building, standing on the discarded memorabilia of the lives of those who had once lived here. Family picts trampled. A toy Chimera was idly kicked aside, a figurine of an Astartes in black armour, crosses upon its shoulders, was ground underfoot.

It halted as reticules settled upon a prone form spotted through a doorway meters ahead, upon a broken, stained bed. Scion armour. A truncated, bandaged leg.

Morning sunlight streamed in through bullet holes in the walls, beams of light bisecting the room like a matrix of sensor beams or lasrounds frozen in time. A few fell upon the fallen soldier and the Enemy could see the slight rise and fall of its torso as the man slept.

It cocked its head as it grew closer, attempting to see the man’s face. His helmet had been removed. His eyes were closed. He appeared to have been drugged out. Its scratched and pitted armour creaked and servos hissed as the Astarte knelt. It looked about, seeking sign of the others. Nothing. It turned its gaze back to the injured soldier. The others would wait. It would find them soon enough, even if it had to tear down the walls of the whole building to find them.

It reached out toward the man.

 

Daya strained her hearing, the audiopickups in her helmet dialed up to maximum. She dared not move, but kept the barrel of the volleygun pointed toward the wall. The exact height. The exact point.

There came a hiked, panicked breath, but not from the adjacent room. From Tilwald. She could not take her eyes off the bare, flaking paint of the ‘crete wall before her to check on Karam or the man crouched between them.

Hiiissssss

She cursed inside as she heard the valve in the man’s chest auto-release. There was sudden movement in the next room and she clamped down on the trigger.

The wall against which the muzzle of the volleygun was placed exploded away as the weapon’s twin barrels spat forth dozens of laser bolts, hurling the traitor Astarte across the room and through the opposite wall.

“GOT YOU, YOU BASTARD!” Daya bellowed victoriously despite her training, stepping through the hole she had blasted, scanning the room, squinting to see through the smoke curling from her weapon. She settled her sights on the prone form of the marine, now lying one room over in kitchenette of the small apartment they found themselves in. Karam touched her shoulder as he took over from her, his own rifle now on the Enemy.

She looked down to check on Chettur and collapsed to her knees with a distraught gasp, the volleygun falling from her hands as she saw the dagger embedded, hilt-deep in his chest.

“No no no. No.”

She stood, hefting the volleygun once more and strode purposefully into the other room, leveling the barrels at the fallen marine’s helmet. It did not move.

“Saali Kutta! Kamina!” She spat.

“Finish it and step away, Daya,” Karam ordered, his voice level and firm, his eyes darting from his Scion to the fallen enemy and back. There were smoking holes in the marine’s armour virtually everywhere. All four limbs, the abdomen and chest. The armour was cracked and leaked that bright Astarte blood. Even now, perhaps less than a minute since those injuries had been torn open, the blood was coagulating. But the wounds were deep, so deep and dark.

He glanced back to find Tilwald stood in the hole in the wall. The man looked from Chettur to Daya stood over the marine. “Is it over?”

Daya’s boots scraped over the chunks of ‘crete, broken plexi and scattered cutlery and shattered plates and she lay her weapon on the floor beside her, drawing her dagger with one hand and reaching toward the marine’s horned helmet with the other.

“Not yet,” she breathed.

“Daya,” Karam warned. “Finish it quickly.” His own eyes were on the helmet too. He had seen the gigantism features of a marine only once. He had guffawed at the hubris of them; that their officers went without helmets. But did this one look the same? Its armour was twisted – he did not know if by craft or by corruption – but had a similar transformation occurred upon its features?

With a click Daya managed to find the clasps that released the helmet and taking one of the great horns that rose from its crown she pulled. Air hissed as it escaped, air tinged with strong musks that made her blink. Blood trickled from within.

Its chin became visible, and with it fresh cuts that went vertically up the face. A mouth pierced with spikes and rings. The rim of the helmet tugged at those within the upper lip, revealing teeth filed to points. Several of them seemed to have been replaced with pearlescent material, others gold. The nose was flat and it too adorned with rings. The skin tanned and sliced, always vertically. As she lifted the helmet free she could see razor-like blades within the inner rim of the helmet. It was these that had cut the marine’s face as she removed the helmet. It seemed they had been designed thus. By the marine himself, to inflict constant pain even as he fought? The closed eyes were set under a heavy brow and upon the shaved crown – the sahasrara point, he noted - was tattooed in ebony ink a blasted sigil. The entwined symbols of the masculine and the feminine.

Karam muttered a mantra to the God Emperor to cleanse them.

Daya raised her dagger, not to the marine’s throat, but to its scalp. He knew not whether she meant to take it as a trophy or to deface and befoul the mark of the traitor’s false god but as the point of the blade drew blood the marine’s eyes flicked open and it looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. She froze to be beheld by such a penetrating gaze. It was as the entrancing gaze of the naga of legend. Its mouth spread wide into a grin before stretching wide, far wider than was natural, and from within came the scream of tormented souls, tearing into the three humans before it.

 

He was dying. Karam’s body shook as he lay upon the floor, his nerves and his mind scrambled by the aural assault. He blinked away stickiness in his eyes and spat to clear his mouth. He could near nothing. Absolute silence. An absurd question rose in his mind: when had he last heard nothing? Not even the sound of his squadmates breathing in the bunks around him? Ever?

Daya lay unmoving across the marine’s lap, blood dribbling from her mouth, ears and eyes. Her eyes were as vacant as those of a child’s doll. He struggled to get his head to move about, every muscle in his body seized by tremors as if a great quake had passed through every tissue of his body. The man, Tilwald, lay with his back to the wall, blood pouring from his orifices too.

His vision was glazed pink by the blood in his eyes but Karam saw as the marine struggled to push Daya’s corpse off its own legs. It could not rise but turned itself over and used its arms to pull itself forward, its eyes fixed upon Tilwald.

Karam coughed up blood, the mess of red pouring down his front as he struggled to still his quivering muscles and drag his rifle – his training had prevented him from dropping it even under the deafening assault – up to aim it. His vision darkened and his fingers tingled, feeling in them fading. The earliest mantra he had ever learned, giving thanks to He Upon The Golden Throne for taking him into the Schola, came to his lips and he managed to jerk the barrel of his rifle where he needed it.

Not at the marine.

His sights settled on Tilwald’s chest, the only part of the man he could target with any surety.

He squeezed the trigger but his fingers did not respond. The room lightened and darkened in his vision as if he watched a time-lapse recording of it. Strength leaked from his limbs.

The marine dragged itself next to the traumatized man.

“You shall not have him!” Karam spat, blood flecking the scant meters of space between them. He tried to fire again and the shot was nearly blinding without his helmet’s visor to protect his eyes. Tilwald’s unarmoured chest blew outward, gobs of gore and charred flesh splattering about.

Karam collapsed, his strength spent. The floor should have been cold against his cheek. He felt nothing.

He could not hear what the marine said between its twisted, pierced lips but they split wide into that grin once more and he looked on into that cavernous maw expecting to be obliterated by another aural blast, but the marine took Tilwald’s head in its hands and bit down. The human’s skull caved with ease and the marine proceeded to gorge himself on what lay within...

 

Kierdale’s notes

Hidden Content

Calling the survivor `Ivor MacGuffin` would probably have been too cheesy. but I do hope someone tries putting his message into a translator...

[EesiOh]

Honestly, Kierdale and Scourged, you two need to be banned from entering, its just cheating at tjis point :D

 

In all seriousness, though that was great. It felt like I was reading a black library book (you arent secretly a black library writer in disguise are you...?)

[Trevak Dal]

I wish you could take Scions with just regular lasguns. The hotshot is cool and all, but it looks unwieldy, you got a pressure washer back pack kinda deal with cables and all kinds of stuff to get snagged on...everything.

[Scourged]

Heh, thanks for the compliment EesiOh. If it's any consolation, I doubt I'll put the pen to the page this week. There hasn't been that whisper in my mind from the Dark Gods this time around.

[Trevak Dal]

"Thinking comes later. Write your first draft with your heart, write your second with your head"

 

Finding Forrester helped me get As on every paper in college.

[EesiOh]

Due to sickness, I sadly wont be able to hit the greedy double header I wanted to, guess I’ll just have to submit the story after the closing date

[Warpmiss]

I decided to participate in the February Rapid Fire challenge at very the last moment and I forgot to give this one some thought. :(

[Kierdale]

Winning is mere garnish. A bauble.

Post entries for past themes any time you like and any time you can :)

 

That said, there are about 36 hours until the current challenge ends. Any more for any more?

 

And, with Codex: T’au coming soon...we covered it once before and we don’t usually repeat themes, but I’m willing to if members want another chance to have sushi?

It’s not the next theme, but I can add it to the list.

 

And on that point suggestions for future themes are always welcome :)

[Dizzyeye01]

Afraid for myself I've either been busy with real life events along with unsure of ideas to go with. Though I think it would be an interesting challenge to delve into why our champions fell under the influences of Chaos, their origins so to speak.

[EesiOh]

Well what with the new stuff we've learned about the tau (an actual warp presence, daemonic possession, etc etc) I think revisiting them could be good