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

[Gederas]

Well, before I forget to post this before work on Friday, might as well post it now before I go to sleep :lol:

 

 

Missa pro Defunctis

"I am curious Shas'Ui, why does Aun'Vre Mu'gulath command us to scout this area? Our scans haven't detected any gue'la forces in this area."

 

Shas'Ui Velk'Han Ar'ko looks over his fire warrior team, twelve in total including himself, before looking at D'yanoi Rileth who inquired about their mission. He makes a mental note to inform the ethereals about Rileth's minor insubordination after the mission is done. He nods before responding.

 

"Because Rileth, it's not that our scans haven't detected any gue'la forces in this area, it is that our scans haven't detected anything in this area. As such, Aun'Vre believes something is masking the area from our scans. I believe she said it appeared 'like a yawning black void' in the center of our scans of this area. It is prudent that we discover why this area is seemingly non-existent to our drones. Now, we are nearly to the center of the area that is non-existent. Let us find what the source of the interference is."

 

Rileth and the other ten fire warriors nod.

 

 

 

 

 

* * * * * *

The fire warrior team comes near to a clearing, Shas'Ui Ar'ko noting an odd static coming from his helmet's radio as they approach it. As they near the clearing, Shas'Ui Ar'ko motions for his team to get low to the ground, hiding amongst the thick foliage. Shas'Ui has fought against the gue'la of the Imperium of Man before, including seeing their genetically engineered super soldiers, the Gue'ron'sha. He recognizes the design of the vessel in the center of the clearing, one of the gue'ron'sha's transports. A Thunderhawk.

 

It's unlike the others he has seen however. The vessel has reliefs on the sides, showing scenes of debauchery, along with trim that is far more baroque in its design. He can recognize an imperial number on the side, III, along with a golden eagle's wing ending in a brutally sharp talon. Another recurring symbol is what appears to be a circle with a crescent moon extending from it.

 

The fire warriors can see a large number of gue'la, all females, milling about the area. They are clothed in armour and leather of pale lilac, gold, silver and black, with what appear to be dark red leather. Many of them have tattoos or scars in a similar shape to the other symbol on the thunderhawk.

 

Most disturbing to the fire warriors however, are the gue'ron'sha themselves. Most are in armour enameled with garish hues, purples, golds, all sorts of shocking and colours that make it hard for the fire warriors to look at the gue'ron'sha for more than a few dec’taa at a time. The ones in the bright, clashing colours also all carry weapons that are different from what Shas'Ui Ar'ko has ever seen gue'ron'sha using.

 

Ar'ko sees his fire warriors begin to move to better firing angles. He quickly motions for them to stay still.

 

The closest gue'ron'sha wielding one of the unusual weapons immediately turns, facing the group of fire warriors. Ar'ko feels his breath catch in his throat, seeing the marine is looking directly at him, as if it can see him, despite the dense foliage. Ar'ko hears Tsuaon move to his right, and the marine instantly brings his unusual weapon to bear, pointing it directly at where Rileth is. A sudden incredibly shrill, near-deafening sound echoes through the clearing from the marine's weapon. Despite the deafening cacophony, Ar'ko hears something that sounds almost like a rupture, a very wet explosion, shortly before feeling something warm and sticky land on his hand. Looking down, he sees the dark cobalt fluid. Blood? He looks to his right, and sees that Rileth's body has seemingly been vaporized, all that is left of the fire warrior his weapon on the ground, covered in slick gore.

 

"You wish to hear our music? I am amazed your leader only sent twelve of you!"

 

It was at that moment, hearing the gue'ron'sha who just slew Rileth taunting them that Ar'ko realizes that Aun'Vre Mu'gulath unintentionally sent his la'rua to their deaths. Before letting out a shout, commanding his remaining fire warriors to open fire, Ar'ko desperately activates the distress homer, hoping the interference from whatever the gue'ron'sha are doing does not mask his distress beacon.

 

 

 

 

 

* * * * * *

Twelve fire warriors were not nearly enough to even threaten the force of the Third Legion, even a small group such as this. Ansiel looks over the t'au, shaking his head, the numerous piercings in his ears jingling as he does so.

 

"Mmm... I barely felt any sort of rush from that."

"Perhaps that was because you barely did anything dear brother?" Ansiel hears his brother Centussus, always a good companion, say to his left.

"No... I-"

 

Ansiel's response stops as he notices one of the t'au still lives.

 

"Oho! This one still breathes!"

"Not for long. I can hear his organs bleeding."

 

Shas'Ui Velk'Han Ar'ko is loathe to agree with monsters such as these, but they are correct. He looks up at the two from the ground, glaring through his ruined helmet. One of the gue'ron'sha, one who is much taller than the rest, in armour making him appear like a walking tank, easily as large as a battlesuit strides out of the clearing towards him. As the enemy commander reaches him, the giant kneels down, servos in the marine's armour whining as he does so.

 

"My brothers are correct. Only a small squad of fire warriors? Your leader is very foolish to send only you." The warrior motions to the thunderhawk. "You think there's only myself and this small group?" He laughs, a dull echoing sound from the warrior's helmet vox.

 

"It is so amusing that the t'au are always so adamant in their nobility, their... justice of their 'Greater Good'." Another chuckle from the enemy leader, Ar'ko grimaces as the warrior taunts the core of the T'au. "It is amusing. You believe yourselves to be equals or betters than the other species of the galaxy. I had fought in the Crusade. Ones like your species were extinguished in the hundreds, thousands. I strode amongst the galaxy amongst gods."

 

The warrior removes his helmet. His face surprises Ar'ko, bearing no blemishes, no tattoos or scarification like the others. It is almost cherubic in a way. The marine's icy blue eyes pierce into Ar'ko, more-so than the helmet that was just removed.

 

"But, I can assure you of this. I will gain such... enjoyment in doing battle against your kind on this world. Perhaps I'll even spare your leader as another pet of mine."

 

Such an insult to Aun'Vre Mu'gulath enrages Ar'ko, he lunges at the marine with the last bit of his strength. The warleader lets out a laugh, a cold taunting thing. Ar'ko feels his chest cave inward as the marine slams his great fist into it. As his blood drains, Ar'ko can hear one of the gue'ron'sha call out to their leader.

 

"Lord Alvarias! The fleet has picked up the signal from the Rapture. They will arrive within the hour!"

 

Alvarias chuckles.

 

"Good. Let the t'au hear us and tremble. Slaanesh is with us brothers! Children of the Emperor!"

"Death to his foes!"

 

Also in case anyone was wondering:

After doing research, I found out that depending on the frequency, (lethal) sonic weapons do one of two things. Either it'd essentially vibrate something to pieces at low hertz, or make it explode at high hertz.

 

In this case, T'au + Blastmaster on Single Frequency mode (high frequency) = popped like a blueberry

[Kierdale]

Thanks for the entries!

It’s been a hell of a week and I haven’t got the update ready yet, so I’m closing the topic now - judgement can be made - and I’ll get the next topic poster ASAP. It may be ‘Inspirational Sunday’ this week :D

[hushrong]

It was awesome to read about Tau vs Slaanesh-worshippers. I’m a bit torn between these two but my judgment of victor is Kierdale. I enjoyed the skirmish between Ar’ko and his fire warriors versus Alvarias’ noise marines but I loved the Tau’s interaction with a liberated Imperial world.

[Gederas]

It was awesome to read about Tau vs Slaanesh-worshippers. I’m a bit torn between these two but my judgment of victor is Kierdale. I enjoyed the skirmish between Ar’ko and his fire warriors versus Alvarias’ noise marines but I loved the Tau’s interaction with a liberated Imperial world.

Ah well, I had a feeling I wasn't going to be victorious with going against Kierdale's amazingly-written piece :lol: I had originally planned on it being much longer, but after writing it, I felt that ending it where I did makes what happens afterwards much more ambiguous and sinister .

 

In any case, congratulations Kierdale!

 

This did however help me with getting a personality for my Emperor's Children though.

 

Plus, I now have a name for my eventual Terminator Chaos Lord. Hopefully I'll be able to make him up in Tartaros armour in a manner that fits my idea of him in my head.

[The Nephilim]

When will the next topic be up? I missed out on this.

[Kierdale]

Thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2018: Chaos versus the T’au.

As I said, I’ve been very busy recently so haven’t yet read my rivals’ entries :D but promise to do so soon.

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.

And thanks to Hushrong for choosing mine as the winner! Which puts me in the position of choosing the winner of the next theme...

And here begins our ninth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2018: When Old Meets New

Astartes have been corrupted and manipulated by, and entered into the worship of the Chaos Gods since the Horus Heresy: the Sons of Horus, the World Eaters, the Thousand Sons, the Iron Warriors, the Night Lords, the Word Bearers, the Death Guard, the Alpha Legion and the Emperor’s Children.

And over ten thousand years more have fallen. The Seekers of Truth fell prey to Tzeentch and became the Scourged. The 8th company of the Emperor’s Wolves were corrupted by Khorne to become the Blood Disciples. Slaanesh took the Shining Blades and turned them into the Flawless Host and the Purged worship Nurgle. Then there are those who do not worship the gods of Chaos, but have fallen from grace and turned from the Imperium for various reasons: the Company of Misery, the Red Corsairs and more.

For those who have been fighting the Long War since the Purge and the flight to the Eye there is great pride - as well as ten millennia of corruption and madness - and they look upon those who fell later as ‘Thinbloods’.

Tell us a tale of the old meeting the new. Be it outright combat, manipulation, comradeship...

As judge of this theme I’m keen to see stories which are not mere pissing contests :D I’d like to see how Astartes have changed over the ten millennia, and what differentiates both the ‘old guard’ from the newly enlightened and those who have worshipped a particular deity for all that time from those more recently favoured (or indeed those who have shunned the gods for ten thousand years compared to new renegades).

IF2018: When Old meets New runs until the 18th of May.

Let us be inspired.

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

The winner of IF2018: When Old Meets New shall claim the Octed amulet:

...and the honour of judging the next challenge (which they can forfeit to me if they wish).

[Leonite]

.... yeah, ok, I like this. And I might even have an idea. I think I'll call it: Old vs New: Five Faces of Chaos.

[Scourged]

...The Seekers of Truth fell prey to Tzeentch and became the Scourged...

Bah.. the Seekers of Truth. What a foolish name we had for ourselves. There is no truth to be found in this galaxy, only endless lies cascading in a disingenuous torrent of falsehoods and deceptions. Mankind has not known truth since it left the cradle of its birth. Misdirection and betrayal are the foundation of humanity's sordid history, and the core of the Imperium taint running rampant through the stars. Yes, we sought the truth, but all we found were lies...

 

~Toren Telioch, Sorcerer of the Scourged

 

...anyway, after reading this prompt I can hear the whispering of Tzeentch in my mind once again. I shall return with a story for you all soon.

[Leonite]

Hmm, actually... Khorne could be interesting myself...

[The Nephilim]

So we just post our story?

[Kierdale]

Yes, like entries earlier in this thread, it’s good if you can put it in Hidden tags for neatness, but yes please post stories here :)

[The Nephilim]

I give to you my offering. I can't wait to do more of these.

 

The sun warmed his lavishly decorated tartaros pattern tactical dreadnaught plate. It still proudly bore the the wings of the aquilla on his left shoulder pauldron, though the meaning behind them was different now. The amethyst paint of his armor almost radiantly glowed in the sunlight. He looked down at the golden phoenix on his right legging. The gold and jewels briefly catching his interest as the gems sparkled. The wind teased his long, silver-white locks. Before his gene-sire had ascended into what he now was, there was a time when the brothers of his shattered legion would have marveled at his likeness to their primarch. The alabaster skin of his noble Chemosian brow was creased. A wry, almost amused smile played across his lips, a smile he rarely deigned to display. So few things caused real delight anymore, yet still, he bore the smallest of smiles. He watched them as he stood on the balcony overlooking the streets below. His pale, purple eyes displayed the delight similar to that of a father looking upon his children playing, but these were not his children.

 

Slaangors, daemonettes, and devadasi cavorted, pranced and murdered their way through last of the meager planetary defense forces and civilian population. There were already plenty of slaves and playthings captured. He had unleashed them now for their own pleasure. His eyes shifted upward and he watched the ramagaing fires and clouds of smoke dance through the hab-stacks in the distance. A distant memory tugged him from the present. He was reminded of the delights of sacking Terra. What he would not sacrifice to relive the Siege. He shook off the reminiscence, there was still much to accomplish here.

 

The Imperial gardens of Kadupul, named after a long extinct Terran fauna, was one of the many pristine pleasure worlds kept sacrosanct by the Imperium, and Kadupul remained mostly intact. It’s starport secured, it’s three hive cities lay in ruin, but the vast planetwide gardens remained. He had painstakingly made sure of that. The profane statues of Imperial heroes and what he imagined was to be the exaggerated likeness of the corpse god were gleefully pulled down and removed to preserve the gardens by the menials. The devadasi would soon erect pylons made of living flesh and the planet would be consecrated to Slaanesh. He could already sense the coalescing power of the warp. He could almost feel it caress his consciousness. He could taste the power. It would be soon.

 

His heightened hearing picked up delicate footsteps approaching from the corridor behind him. A voice rasped out from the shadows, almost as if it were to reach the sunlight, the sound would stop entirely. “Sire, they are ready and assembled waiting for you.”

 

Darius Valerius turned and addressed the warped thing behind him. “Very well, Kasra. Take me to him.”

 

Darius followed Karsa down the marbled corridor. Even with his augmented eyesight, he had trouble tracking the exact movements of his pet. Kasra had long ago underwent the binding of a daemon to his flesh. Karsa’s flesh and that of his daemon counterpart, fought for primacy in realspace. This wasn’t due to lack of mastery on Karsa’s part, Karsa knew that the visual discomforted many. Darius frequently had reminded Kasra of how repulsive he was now that his flesh and that of the neverborn were merged. He was no longer pure, after all. Yet, his faithful minion still served many purposes, primarily as his herald and equerry.

 

Kasra lead him to the grand foyer and for the first time, Darius saw the chief librarian of the Ether Wardens. The librarian had already removed all Imperial imagery from his errant pattern armor. His armor was painted a nebula purple with spectral blue accents while the trimming of his armor and his badge of office were picked out in the finest of silvers. A cloak of the purest white lay pinned upon his shoulders and a book, one that he could only assume was bound in humanoid flesh, was chained to his waist. The most intriguing of all of the Ether Warden’s features were that of his albinism. His white hair and purple eyes that mirrored Darius’ own.

 

“It is an uncommon request you have made of us, Aeneas.” Darius said.

 

“I have plumbed the depths of our librarium the answers were found wanting, only half-truths and ill shrouded mysteries. We have bargained much to gain further truths from and all paths lead us to here.”

 

Karsa passed Darius a dataslate and he glanced over it before returning his gaze to Aeneas. “What were you hoping to find? A family reunion? Brothers long lost, clasping one another in joy and a feast to accompany such a momentous event?” Darius sneered. He already had little patience for the renegade.

 

“We want to know the truth of our gene-sire,” Aeneas said.

 

“The truth? It’s all true. The Emperor lies in a comatose in a death slumber. Harmony is in the Warp, and the neverborn thirst for our immortal souls.” Darius laughed. The sound was amplified through his armor's shreikers and the psychicsonic burst cracked the marble around Aeneas’ feet and the librarian staggered. “Fulgrim is our gene-sire. Though, good luck finding him. We searched for an age before giving up on that ghost.”

 

Aeneas regained his footing and stared. “You think so little of him?”

 

Darius’ pale purple eyes glared into Aeneas’, his pale skin reddening with anger. “You were not there, whelp! You don’t know what he did! He left us! Betrayed us! He ascended and left us to rot on an Eldar backwater world!” Darius spat and then his face calmed. “I will tell you this, Aeneas: you join us, join your gene-brothers and you’ll find the answers to more than you knew what to ask.”

 

Aeneas nodded. “Not all of them will coming willingly.”

 

Darius flashed his pointy teeth in a wicked smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time we purged those that were our own. Kasra, ready the Choir. Assist Aeneas in quietting any discontents. Aeneas, we will meet again aboard the Invicta Gloria.”

 

Kasra and Aeneas left him in the foyer. He never would have imagined to find gene-brothers now, let alone how easy it was to cajole them into breaking their oaths. His fellow lords of the Phoenix Conclave would be pleased. He made his way through the ruined muster yards back to his thunderhawk. Where was the Mechanicus storing Fulgrim’s gene-seed, he thought to himself. Another question for the Spider. He knew more that he ever cared to let on. If he wasn’t so damned useful, he would have been murdered long ago.

 

The ramp into the thunderhawk closed behind him, the incense within giving him a brief heady delight. He opened a vox channel to the command bridge of the Invicta Gloria. “Send a message to the Soul-Severed. Our ranks swell with new blood and with pure gene-seed.”

[Kierdale]

Scientia potential est

Hidden Content

“B-but, my lord, they have been driven from the holy soil!”

Blood flecked the deckplates as the kneeling officer was backhanded. Powered armour drove the blow, and the signet ring upon the wearer’s finger slashed the man’s face.

“But what brought them here?” the inquisitor leant forward to put his face, eyes wide and nostrils flared, before that of the Imperial Guard officer. To his credit, the officer had not been driven to the floor by the slap. His face had snapped back immediately. Defiantly. “Chaos all too often seeks out Chaos. Taint attracts taint, brigadier. How clean is your soul?”

The officer raised first his chin, “It is as pure as the Golden Throne,” and then his truncated left arm, “And I sacrificed more than just my men in the defence of this world, my lord.”

Does the Emperor protect you, brigadier?”

“If he does, I pray that he continue to do so. If he does not yet, then I pray that he does so.”

The inquisitor grunted but gave an approving nod.

“Then what brought these renegade astartes here to Froforgast Prime?” He motioned to the salvaged, tainted wargear that was laid out on the flagstones of the yard before the temple. Evidence provided by the regiment to the visiting inquisitor. Masked priests of the Imperial Creed paced back and forth before the temple entrance, gentling swinging smoking censers so that no malignance from the wargear of traitors might contaminate the house of the Emperor. The inquisitor took a deep breath of the fumes as the nearest priest strode past, having to step aside the inquisitor’s towering companion. This giant paid little attention to the man of the Holy Orders or the commander of the Guard, but was studying the gathered bolt guns, chainswords and pieces of punctured powered armour.

“They fell upon Eastport, master. The industrial quarter: manufactorums and mines. We believe it to have been a supply raid.”

“Yet post-battle census indicates hundreds of missing civilians, brigadier. Their fifth column?”

The Imperial Guard officer looked the power-armoured inquisitor in the eye. His armour was red, as was favoured by many of those agents of the Emperor’s Most Holy Orders, but he was helmetless. The veins of his face were swollen and distended, as if purple worms writhed beneath his flesh and snaked back over his hairless scalp: a result of a decompression accident some years ago. His eyes too were permanently bloodshot.

“I have faced the forces of Chaos before, my lord.” He nodded toward the north side of the city and the Guard barracks there. “I realise that my men head now to no decontamination showers, and that your `census` no doubt sought out more for the Ordo Hereticus’ cleansing. I know too that when renegades attack they seek not only material goods, but bodies. I pity the poor bastards who were taken. Better that they had died. My lord.”

Before the inquisitor could speak, the vox of the giant behind him crackled to life.

“Bolter impacts. Liquefaction of the body due to sonics.”

This drew the attention of the two humans.

The giant was an Adeptus Astartes. The limbs of his armour (a build far larger than that the inquisitor wore) were pristine white, though those close could see chips and gouges in it that had been painted over. The body, helmet and backback were a dark forest green and upon his left shoulder pad was the head of a predatory bird in scarlet.

The marine removed one hand from his bolt gun and extended a finger to point out some of the pieces of armour. “These marines were not slain by Guardsmen.” Though he had stood motionless since their arrival at the temple, he now strode out amongst the rows of evidence, fearless of any taint.

With raised eyebrows the inquisitor turned to the kneeling officer for explanation. The other man frowned and shrugged. “You ask me to explain the actions of mad men, my lords? Indeed, they were observed to fire upon one another. My men had little time to ponder the fractious loyalties of those who shun the God-Emperor! We took what advantage we could and-“

“Ran?”

“-repositioned to take out whoever survived, my lord.”

“Do you recognize these colours, these markings?” The marine again.

Both men looked over to where the marine stood amongst a collection of powered armour shoulder pads. To the eyes of a techmarine or enginseer they could be grouped by mark: the trimless pads of mark six Corvus armour, the thin trim of mark four Maximus plate…and some unidentifiable due to the taint of the warp. Flesh melded with metal. Dead eyes peering from slits in the armour.

The brigadier found the inquisitor’s eyes upon him.

“I know not the significance of that marking, my lords.”

It is the mark of Slaanesh, the inquisitor said to himself. Even he would not use that deity’s name aloud, And I see that you lie, brigadier.

Some of the armour and weapons were painted black, others ranged from a deep purple to shocking fuschia or pastel pink. Others were decorated with other pale shades –blues, greens and purples- alongside the pink.

“The fallen Third Legion,” the inquisitor spoke, nodding to himself and turning back to the Guard officer who still knelt.

“No, my lord,” came the marine’s reply. This halted the inquisitor mid-turn.

“Explain yourself.”

The marine still had his gaze fixed on the armour at his feet. He spoke openly now of Chaos, either satisfied that the Guard officer would be subsequently granted clearance – or execution – or not caring either way.

“These are indeed armour from a warband of the traitorous Third Legion, aye.” With his boot he indicated pink-trimmed black armour. “But these,” he extended a finger to gesture at armour a roseate pink, some trimmed in pale blue, other pieces green, “Are not.”

“They all bear the mark of the Prince of Excess,” the inquisitor said dismissively, “It matters not.”

The marine nodded at his master’s point, planting a boot atop the mark of the masculine and feminine combined and muttering a hex under his breath. “The Psychopomps, master, formerly the Stygian Guard, daub their armour in pastel shades. You will find no black, no gold as you would in the war bands of the Third Legion.” Both were careful not to give the name of the Third Legion: the brigadier’s life was already forfeit, but to mentioned the Emperor, tied to a traitorous legion, when stood only meters from a temple of the Imperial Creed would surely invite ill omens.

“My Chapter faced the Psychopomps on Phioria Seven some years ago. They are of Dorn’s seed.” The marine shook his head, surely in disapproval for astartes could not be touched by sadness or disappointment, “Once paragons of asceticism, I am told they upheld duty over all else: at the expense of brotherhood, remorse and even honour – that earned them the ire of their cousins of the eternal crusade. Though they bear similar arms they do not fight for, or as, the Third Legion does.”

“They were destroyed by people of my Order, and those very Templars, on their homeworld. The taint cleansed,” the inquisitor stated.

“My apologies, my lord,” the marine looked up from the broken armour and weapons for the first time, “but yours is a most secretive organization. It keeps information from the greater Imperium for the safety of the masses. What chance it also keeps secrets from its own? My chapter fought the Psychopomps decades after the Emperor’s retribution was delivered upon their world.” The marine stamped its boot down, crushing the damaged shoulder pad. “And they were here, too.”

“An allegiance with the Third Legion, then. The renegades have turned mercenary,” the inquisitor surmised.

“Yet they fired upon one each other?” the marine asked rhetorically. “There are no records I am aware of stating the Psychopomps to have fought for others. Do those who worship the Dark Prince not have unbearably great pride?”

The inquisitor cocked his head as he regarded the marine. He and his squad had been assigned to the man of the Order Hereticus for this mission, but he was starting to believe this Mentor knew all too much about the pawns of the Gods.

The man was about to confront the Astarte on this point when the giant knelt, nodding to itself. There was almost a trace of excitement in its voice when it spoke again, extracting something small from the armour and holding it up.

“Shuriken.” It turned to nail the Imperial Guard officer with a stare, “you have Eldar upon your world, brigadier.” Then looked to the inquisitor. “I do not presume to know the reasons, but I do know that there is no love lost between the perfidious Eldar and the servants of the Dark Prince, my lord. While the Third Legion are slaves to excess in all its forms, the Psychopomps bear a singular...,” it searched for a fitting term before finally resorting to “...hatred...for the Eldar.”

“You know this because?” the inquisitor pressed.

“They were not on Phioria Seven for supplies – arms or slaves – but because there were Eldar ruins beneath the surface.”

“The industrial quarter. The mines,” muttered the brigadier, to which the Mentor Legionnaire nodded.

“I believe this,” the marine encompassed the scattered armour, evidence of the Emperor’s Children clashing with the Psychopomps, “was a coincidence, my lord. And while the valiant action of the Imperial Guard may have driven off the Third Legion with but a handful of slaves, I believe the Psychopomps and agents of an Eldar craftworld may still be present here on Froforgast Prime.”

The inquisitor activated his comm, “Inquisitor Calderon to Guard Barracks. Priority Alpha: I hereby rescind order for all surviving guardsmen to undergo cleansing. Get everyone armed. The job is not yet done.”

Calderon turned back to the brigadier and offered him his hand, “brigadier? A chance at salvation.”

 

Notes

Hidden Content

I couldn’t get into the differences between the `Pomps and the Children as much as I’d like – the Pomps’ Infernal Engine, for one thing – but that’ not stuff the Imperium would know about, and I wanted to write this as an after-battle report on the Imperium’s side. Writing it as the Pomps actually facing the Children just didn’t work out when I tried it! Plus I’m judging this time so I didn’t need to force it

[Dizzyeye01]

Music:

 

 

A Company of Bitter Rust

 

 

 

 

"Tell us about the Siege of Terra."

 

​Silence loomed on the small camp as the question is raised. The legionnaires pause in their actions: the adjustments of sights, the securing of clips, the scavenging of armour. It was clearly a matter which hit home to them. The renegades amongst their ranks though seemed unsettled, cautiously looking to each other, daring to see who would press the issue further. Off in the distance, the Dark Mechanicus allies sullied further along withe battlefield, something which appeared more like a massive grave than something to have fought over. And yet the ragged squad of outcasts and traitors stood in limbo, the tension rising just beneath the surface.

 

"Be glad Valkor didn't hear you mutter those words," Sergeant Odium grunted, his power fist clentching ever so carefully as he turned towards Jurtur, the one who had dared speak, "Else your throat would be on the ground before you could so much as draw your blade."

 

And yet the same time old question did not distill the tension that was in the air. Each time the Siege had been brought up, the response was to crush the curiosity that had showed this. However, today would have a very different result.

 

" I am sick of be denied the truth!" spat Jurtur in response, pulling out an ancient pistol older and more twisted than himself, "We all know the end result and yet you never speak of your part in it. Why? Are you ashamed of your failure?"

 

"Enough," replied Odium roughly, his voice snarled by the vox caster in his helm, a clear sign of repairs that are needed but have never come, "You want to know why we never speak of the Siege? That is because that was the place where having Iron in your blood did not stop it from snapping into a  thousand pieces."

 

The squad turned to look at their Sergeant, some wary of what was to be spoken but the veterans of the Long War what came, "Horus called on his legions to strike in order to strike the head of the Imperium and yet he only succeeded in shattering his own forces. Brother legionnaires went mad those days. Discipline and order was thrown out an airlock and look where it got us," he opened his arms up, ushering in the general area, "This graveyard pales in comparison in what was reaved that day. Had it not been for Valkor we would have lost ourselves in the bloodlust those days and nothing, and I mean nothing, would be standing here today."

 

Silence filled the air for a moment as the Sergeant let the situation become clear to the new renegades.

 

"We have all killed who we thought to be our brothers, that is not the issue. The problem is that we all looked into the abyss and almost fell into madness. Almost. That is why there must be discipline. That is why there must be control. That is why..." Odium looked down for a moment, "That is why we must fight. Do you understand?" He stared down each renegade in his squad, his anger and resentment clear even with his helm on. Each renegade nodded their heads slightly and went back to work. The tension dissipated and the squad returned to what they were doing before.

 

Odium knew though that this was far from the end.

 

The Long War marched on.

 

---------

 

Notes:

Thew, glad I was able to write something out for this Friday. Main idea I was wanting to touch on was that the Siege of Terra didn't only just spell out a lose for Chaos but also how everything fell apart with Horus' death. The idea of companies falling apart as orders are thrown out the window and people left to die is one thing people don't tend to think about with it so I thought why not?

[Scourged]

Meh. Life and such got in the way a bit, so this may not be as polished as my work normally is, but I shall present it nonetheless. Enjoy. 

 

Hidden Content

The Accord

Hundreds upon hundreds of them marched in a slow procession, bound to those in front, behind, and beside them in heavy chains. The battalion of human slaves pulled on one another, meekly united in joint purpose as they pulled themselves and their cargo: a collection of T'au gunships reclaimed from the sun-drenched sands of the latest conquest of the Wayward Sons. Though their task was aided by retrofitting barges with salvaged T'au anti-gravitic tech, their drudging steps carried endless weight nonetheless, as their ultimate fate waited in the heart of Hell-Forge before them.

Lord Azeban, regaled in full battle plate near identical to his bodyguard cadre, addressed the Heretek shrouded in dark-dyed robes and a mass of semi-sentient mechatendrils.

"Here is my offering, Aboninae. To what do you give us in return?"

The shrouded, hunched machine-man said non words, made no sound, and moved no part of what would be considered it's 'body.' Instead, one of the many holo-lenses serving as sensory input reversed its lens and projected an image outward, detailing the full list of compensation for the former Legionnaire's 'donation.'

Lord Azeban appraised the list with caution, finally giving a near imperceptible nod.

"Acceptable."

But quietly, to himself, behind the the mask of his ancient battle helm, he was smiling, just as he was sure his battle brothers were behind theirs. Azeban transferred his digital signum though the noosphere connection to the Heretek, watching it appear at the bottom of the projected inventory before him. With all transaction and formalities complete, the Lord and his retinue turned and walked away. Far more business needed attending to before departure of the Hell-Forge, including a follow-up with-

“There! That’s him, I swear to you!”

Not ten meters away from Azeban kneeled an emaciated man draped in torn ribbons of fabric, frantically pointing and shouting at the Wayward Lord and his cadre. His eyes were sunken and cold, and filled with fear. His skin was both lacerated and bruised all over, cauterized with psychic shock. Much to Azeban’s surprise, he knew the pathetic-looking human pointing him out: Operative Δ5784-8Θ1, known colloquially as “Tishoc.”

With a threat immediately recognized, the four Astartes behind Azeban responded in synchronous action, raising four combi-bolters in a simultaneous instant at those holding Tishoc on his knees. Their targets were two Heretical Astartes, adorned in ceramite of rich sapphire and midnight garnet.

The two Renegades were a stark contrast to the five Legionnaires. Their armor was ornate and trimmed on every edge with shining gold, making their armor gleam like gemstone beset in jewelry. Mutation had run rampant on the pair, forcing smooth edges to turn jagged and serrated, teeth and faces to growing into new life on the inanimate ceramite, spikes and horns sprouting from once flat surfaces. They wreaked of Chaos taint, especially the one holding Tishoc’s head in his armored fist.

Where the other figure could pass for any other Chosen Renegade, this one was obviously the leader. Eyes of glowing green covered his armor, eerily matching the subtle glow of the Force Staff held aloft in his other hand. Multiple tomes were strapped to him like sidearms, and a dark aura seemed to flow out of his spirit like a heavy fog. This one was a Sorcerer, and a powerful one at that.

“He… he is the one that set me… sent me to-”

“Yes, you made that clear. Thank you.”

The Sorcerer’s aura glowed darker as Warp energies flowed through the conduit of his staff and into his soul. The hand clutching Tishoc’s skull blazed with a white light and was then consumed in aetherial green fire. While the energies lapped harmlessly at the armored fingers, Tishoc was subjected to pains impossible to describe with mortal tongues. The flames engulfed his head and flowed in through every hole, drowning the man in fire. He had no time to scream as both his brain and mind were burned to less than ash, pouring out of empty eye sockets as his corpse slumped to the ground.

Then, for pointless emphasis, the other Astartes charged his power fist and slammed it into the empty skull, removing every last trace of Operative Δ5784-8Θ1’s head… and every shred of knowledge held within.

He knew the two of them, though only from holo-picts and tactical summaries: Scourged marines, and their leaders no less. Azeban immediately appraised the threat, running simulations in his mind to assess feasibility of tactics. His bodyguard had obviously been doing the same, as their distinct tactical analyses were all streaming over the shared vid-feed with his own. As a unit they suggested, amended, discarded, and recommended various gambits all within fractions of moments, and in silence. With all things considered - and they always were - it was clear that only a single option was feasible among the forty-seven distinct courses of possible action: diplomacy.

“Well met, Brothers Dhelmas.”

The Scourged Lords, there presence now very-well established, walked forward to close the gap between the two small group. Rahaund’ul moved with slow, casual steps, clicking his force staff on the ground with every other step as his ornate robes constantly ruffled with invisible aetherial winds. Scindus moved with far less grace and far more threat, his steps heavy and his weapons covered in arcing powerfields over claws and fist. The closer they came, the more Azeban could see the irregular, corrupted, otherwise Chaotic look of their baroque armor of various marks - It beared little resemblance to the pristine Mark IV plating he had maintained for millenia.

“I’ll be honest with you, Hydra Lord… given what little we know about your ilk, I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted that you decided to attempt to infiltrate our ranks.”

Again the data stream in Azeban’s field of vision was scrolling with analyses and declarations from his squad. They were poised and ready to strike, already planning countermeasures for impending retaliatory actions. It was standard practice, but no less impressive each time. But, right now, it was not necessary. The Lord blink-clicked the rune to stand down, which was quickly followed by four simultaneous requests for confirmation. He did, and his stalwart guardians slowly lowered their weapons, holding them against their breastplates.

“The extent of your… abilities needed testing. Given the short duration of Operative Δ5784-8Θ1’s occupation within your warband, it’s sufficient to say the stories surrounding your ‘gift’ are not exaggerated.”

“Ugh… when he speaks it’s like needles of fire in the brain,” complained Scindus to no one, “like every breath he takes is spoiled with lies…”

The Sorcerer Lord glanced at his brother and nodded. The both briefly laughed together, sharing some kind of inside humor in the moment. So, too, did some of the daemonic faces entombed within their armor laugh with them, disconcerting Azeban ever so slightly - though he was no stranger to Chaos, the Wayward Sons did not employ its touch so… willingly as the Scourged.

“How long did you really think a spy would last on a battle barge full of lie-detecting psykers, Hydra?”

Operative Δ5784-8Θ1 had endured a full Terran year of intense hypno indoctrination, subliminal encoding, psychic neural restructuring and shielding, memory implantation, countless mental failsafes and deadlocks, and a final conscious mindwipe. In theory, the erasure of all conscious thought would leave him susceptible to hypnotic instinctual suggestion, driving his actions in a way that could not be perceived as disingenuous.

“...longer than four hours.”

“Two,” corrected Scindus, “the other two were spent trying to find you within the Hell-Forge.”

“Perfect.”

To their slight confusion, Azeban reached up to remove his ancient helmet, baring his head. He looked at them through eyes of glowing blue. His head was shaved bald and set with a heavy brow, his skin flushed with just a hint of copper hue. And beneath each of their Mark IV helms, the four Astartes behind him looked nearly identical, save for tiny individualized differences between them. As a squad, and as a warband, they shared a face as they once had as a Legion - that of their Primarch. And with the face of Alpharius, Azeban warmly addressed the two Renegades.

“Please, be at ease, Brothers Dhelmas. My efforts were not an insult, but an invitation. Operative Δ5784-8Θ1 was meant to attract your attention, as well as finish my research.”

“That research being…?”

“If the stories concerning your warband are true - and they are. You both know better than nearly all humanity how rife stories and tall tales can be amongst humanity. There is a comfort to be found in cold certainty of unbiased fact.”

Scindus, albeit cautiously, finally deactivated the power fields on his weapons, and was quick to question the motives of Azeban.

“Invitation to what?”

“Your gift… curse… ability is something I would seek to employ in our own operational efforts. For our preferred methods of operation, having an alliance with living lie detectors would be quite beneficial.”

“And what’s in it for us, Hydra Lord?”

Azeban smiled with his thin lips, almost baring his teeth with gleeful pride. His gambit worked, and they were interested… they just needed that last little push to join him and his Sons.

“You have not earned many… friends within the Eye since you turned. The Despoiler tolerates you, thanks to your efforts in the 13th, but that carries no real weight. The Death Guard and World Eaters would slaughter you sooner than speak to you. The Night Lords care not for any of us anymore, and the Word Bearers and Iron Warriors can’t be bothered from their own pursuits. Even the Thousand Sons have a deep distrust of you, despite your shared allegiance with them. And I cannot speak to how many other renegade warbands you have offended, or at worst destroyed.”

“Your point?”

“You will die without allegiances. It’s the irony of our kind - we reject the blind subservience of the Imperium and embrace the independence of life outside its shackles… but it leaves us all so headstrong and selfish, seeing so many die before asking for help. The Long War is only successful when we unite. Ally yourselves with me, and you will see your ranks swell with the strength and resources of a Legion.”

“Hmph. The Legions. As if your ancestral tenure in this fight ensures you have any greater strength or clout than the rest of us. We don’t need your-”

The Sorcerer Lord rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder, wordlessly silencing him. Scindus may have his old grudges still holding him back, but Rahaund’ul was very interested in the prospect. And thankfully for Azeban, all final decisions were for the Sorcerer to make.

“What such resources…?”

The Lord of the Wayward Sons would have responded with plain words, but serendipity was on his side this day. In his peripheral he saw the procession coming, the payment of the heretek coming toward them all, and nodded toward it to draw the attention of the Scourged Lords accordingly. Three hulking Obliterators were slowly plodding along, their arms constantly shifting and mutating with new and different armaments as their augmetic eyes scanned the crowd and read their weaknesses. They headed the processional of cult-slaves and forge-thralls from the Forge of the Omniscient Cog-Maw, their autonomous numbers hauling heavy rune-encrusted chains and dragging their imprisoned quarry: a massive hellforged beast, half daemon and half machine, burning with an ectoplasmatic fury. The two renegade Astartes seemed thoroughly impressed.

“So then… do we have an accord?”

 

[Leonite]

Blech, I'm not happy with my work, I'm not submitting it this time. 

[Kierdale]

Thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2018: When Old Meets New.

Firstly, Leonite if you do get your work to a level that you feel like sharing it, by all means post it here sometime :)

The Nephilim told us a tale of the Emperor’s Children, in the wake of ravaging an Imperial world, encountering a renegade, seemingly a gene-sibling. Often we hear rumours of traitor geneseed being used to create post-heresy chapters so it was nice to see this plot point. I hope we see more of this particular tale in the future!

A Company of Bitter Rust was Dizzyeye’s entry this time. All the entrants this time looked at the theme from different angles, which was a great pleasure for me (both as I set the theme and have to judge it!) and this entry showed us newer members of the Iron Warriors asking the veterans of the legion about the Siege of Terra.

Scourged gave us The Accord. I certainly didn’t expect the Alpha Legion (but who does?). The story detailed a meeting between the commanders of the Scourged and the Hydra lord of the Wayward Sons. While I had expected a meeting - or clash - of the Thousand Sons and the Scourged, both being pawns of Tzeentch, that the Alpha Legion sought the Scourged was so much more fitting!

I’m sure the Alphas will try to exploit the Scourged at some point in the future...but will the Scourged see it coming?

And I gave you a tale of a rash inquisitor having the differences between seemingly similar traitor Astartes pointed out to him.

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.

And here begins our tenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2018: Solo Mission

Astartes are trained and conditioned to operate as part of a squad. One element of a cohesive unit. And such is no different for traitor legionaries or renegades. What then might see a lone marine dispatched on a mission?

Tell us a tale of a solo mission, be it espionage, assassination, theft or sabotage. For what reason was one marine dispatched rather than a squad? And why was this marine chosen? For his skills and experience? Is he a glory-seeker who volunteered? Or is he acting of his own volition? Disobeying his commander? Acting upon a god-given vision? Is it a suicide mission or is the marine a sacrificial lamb, a pawn in some greater scheme?

Note: I’m keen to do ‘survivor’ as a future theme so I’d rather members avoid having the protagonist as the lone survivor of a squad sent on a mission.

Note2: that the theme coincides with the new SW movie is in fact a coincidence. Let’s not have 8ft arboreal sidekicks.

IF2018: Solo Mission runs until the 8th of June.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Me...and I choose Scourged as his entry was at the same time surprising yet also had a ‘yes! That’s so what the Alpha Legion would do!’.

The winner of IF2018: Solo Mission shall claim the Octed amulet:

...and the honour of judging the next challenge (which they can forfeit to me if they wish).

[The Nephilim]

Congratulations, Scourged! I really enjoyed reading your tale.

 

 

The Nephilim told us a tale of the Emperor’s Children, in the wake of ravaging an Imperial world, encountering a renegade, seemingly a gene-sibling. Often we hear rumours of traitor geneseed being used to create post-heresy chapters so it was nice to see this plot point. I hope we see more of this particular tale in the future!

It was something that I wanted to touch on. There's a lot of speculation and rumor around certain loyalist chapters being of traitor primarch gene-seed. Well, what would happen if that Chapter learned the truth? With the Ether Wardens, I presented a snapshot of the finale of that particular quest for them. Not only did they learn the truth, they met their gene-brothers.

[Scourged]

Why thank you, all. Guess you could say I was able to "sneak" in a victory, ha... ha...

 

But this one was fun. I've had a blast running my Alpha army with an attached renegade detachment of my Scourged. Blast the sapphire and garnet up the field to wreck face and get wrecked while the Wayward Sons chill in the back and clean up the mess. So naturally I needed a fitting narrative to accompany such glory.

 

So then, my solo operatives, share your field reports. I shall collect them from your dead drops and review your operations status.

[Kierdale]

There’s still almost a week to go, but I know I’ve been very busy recently. Would anyone like the deadline pushed back a week?

[Gederas]

There’s still almost a week to go, but I know I’ve been very busy recently. Would anyone like the deadline pushed back a week?

I know I would, if only so that I could have time to proof-read my entry. I dunno about everyone else though :lol:

[Kierdale]

Another week it is then :tu:

Things are generally a bit slower during ETL anyway :)

[The Nephilim]

I've been swamped in real life. I'm trying to get this one done, but I don't know if I'll be able to get it finished.

[Kierdale]

I've been swamped in real life. I'm trying to get this one done, but I don't know if I'll be able to get it finished.

There’s still more than a week to go so keep hitting that keyboard (with fingers or head, whichever works).

[Kierdale]

A couple of characters I haven’t touched on in a long time, and another whose bitz I possess for future construction.

 

A Dark Renaissance

Hidden Content

Fang-filled maws yawned wide, cords of ichor the colour of blood dripping from peeled-back lips. Though the neverborn breathed not, hot air wafted from their mouths. And their screams; he heard them in his mind, excoriating him. Threatening to crush him, to pull his skull from his head and feed upon his soul.

But they would not. They could not, for the Red Knight was bound by hellforged chains Thenaros himself had forged.

 

On Ferrumont they had captured it, a once noble knight that had fallen under the sway of the Lord of Skulls. The knight had bested its rivals and carved out a fiefdom over decades; the spirits of the knight’s ancestors within the machine becoming corrupted by the neverborn and through them the mind of the knight and the body of his war-engine. Lord Sophusar of the Psychopomps had declared that he wanted the Red Knight to kneel before him and his war band had made it so.

Unknown to the renegade Astartes, they had also been settling an old score. Their own corruption had been a wager between the Gods. The Lord of Blood had challenged the Dark Prince: which of them could succeed in the corruption of an entire chapter of the God Emperor’s angels of death. Slaanesh had accepted with the caveat that he could choose the chapter, selecting the ascetic Stygian Guard - scions of Dorn. And in turn Khorne had chosen the stage, much to the chagrin of the youngest god: Cyprius III, a cult world that She Who Thirsts had long held as a prized bauble. The game set, Khorne had succeeded in corrupting the chapter’s veteran company to worship him while the Dark Prince managed to sway the rest. Neither had succeeded in making all their pawns, but Cyprius III had been devastated.

Thus the Keeper of Secrets Ki’mahgur’eh had guided the Stygians-turned-Psychopomps to Ferrumont and a chance at revenge.

 

“I shall set about cleansing it of the daemonic taint immediately, master,” Thenaros stepped forward only to find the haft of his lord’s weapon, the Falx Horrificus, barring his way. A chain adorned with severed ears was wrapped about its length, said to be mementoes of those who failed to hear the music of the spheres as lord Sophusar did.

“You would strip it of all that made it great?” came the lord’s voice from the brass grill of his mask. His eyes, both his warm brown irised one and his bulging baleful green one, were locked on the fallen knight, not sparing a glance at the renegade master of the forge.

Thenaros bowed his head.

“Then I shall exorcise the neverborn of the Prince’s rival so that more malleable, pliable denizens who share our loyalty can be imprisoned within it.”

The former chapter master shook his head.

“Can you do that, Thenaros? Really? I believe it beyond your ken. Your predecessor, Zenelaius, was weak but ambitious. He understood the neverborn as you do not. He made pacts with them and secured their power. You seek to enslave them. Until you embrace them you will never master them, and they will oppose you at every turn.”

Lord Sophusar then turned to those who stood at his other side.

Master of Sanctity – what a jest that title now was! – Angra held his head high but met the techmarine’s eyes. The right side of the chaplain’s face was as that of other astartes: the human features writ large, but the left side of his head was that of one of the Q’tlahs’itsu’aksho – a daemonette. While all too often the daemonette side of his face betrayed the feelings his stoic human side kept hidden, the scorn Angra felt for Thenaros was clear upon both sides.

And next to him stood the naga sorcerer, Holusiax, rearing up high on his serpentine lower body, his lower pair of daemonic arms folded over his belt.

“Make an example of it. Lash it to our will, Holusiax.”

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

Some said that Inpu had once been an Adeptus Mechanicus forge world though no records upon Terra or Holy Mars remained of its existence. Tales were told that the Magos of Inpu gave in to dark temptation when his world faced Xenos invasion and opened long-sealed crypts of knowledge. The Xenos forces were not merely turned back but were devastated and glory would have been showered upon the defenders of Inpu were their...augmentations – the newest contrivances of the Magos, not deemed heretic by his superiors on Mars. Judgement was said to have been pronounced yet not delivered, for when the fleet from the Red Planet arrived, the planet Inpu was no longer within its orbit nor within its star system. It is said the Magos bargained with the Gods whose whispers he now realized he had long listened to, believing them the wisdom of the Omnissiah. The Architect of Fate snatched his forgeworld from the heavens and took it to the cradle of Chaos.

The Eye of Terror.

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

Even as a scout, undergoing his initial training back on their now-devastated homeworld of Fulcrum, he had shown an aptitude for technology. His marksmanship had been the best of his squad not by dint of training but by the painstaking maintenance and peerless understanding of his weapon. Whereas some, almost heretically, saw it as but a tool, he had understood the machine spirit within his bolt gun. He had communed with it.

He recalled his first pilgrimage to the Red Planet. Holy Mars. When he had undergone the training of a techmarine. Sworn vows to the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Ominissiah. Divided his loyalties betwixt Mars and Terra. Devoutly learned the restrictions set upon machine spirits.

He remembered how he had looked out the shuttle porthole at the peak of Olympus Mons, piercing the atmosphere of Mars itself. And how the deckplates, imprinted with the Cog rather than the Aquila, had shook in thermals from the fields of manufactorums below. He had shared a look with his fellow marines then and now, as his ship dropped toward a twisted cousin of Holy Terra he looked across the cargo bay at the ship’s only other occupant.

Zenelaius.

The hellbrute’s sarcophagus was carved with intricate images of nymphs dancing and cavorting about a man, each of the fay figures would have been beautiful were it not for their horn-spurred feet, that each bore a claw-like hand and devil-like tails emerged from the rear of their skirts. The man was mesmerized, entranced...enslaved.

Thenaros had carved these images, for he knew they enraged the remnants of his former master who was entombed within the twisted dreadnought.

Master of the Forge Zenelaius had been a genius, a hero and an inspiration to Thenaros. The techmarine had followed his master into the embrace of Chaos. As their chapter had fallen, Thenaros had blindly trampled his oaths to Terra and to Mars, in Zenelaius’ footsteps. Their minds and their work unshackled by reason, the years after Cyprius III had been halcyon days indeed. But Thenaros had followed his master into the figurative embrace of Chaos, while Zenelaius had made that pact literal, taking one of the maidens of the Dark Prince as his concubine, he sought sensual excess and claimed in frenzied monologues to his apprentice that his mind had been opened by his consort to vistas of existence unimaginable to human or post-human minds. Soon after, he and the apothecaries Polus and Kuru had devised the Infernal Engine, but as the years wore on Zenelaius had spent less time in the forge and more traversing the immaterial, locked in the embrace of a neverborn.

And he had died so, or very nearly.

When their corruption was discovered the Templars had been the hammer of the Emperor’s retribution and, discovering Zenelaius suspended within a nerve glove, copulating with a lilac-skinned monstrosity, they had turned flamers upon him.

Thenaros had found his charred remains, barely alive, the ichor of his paramour burned into his peeling flesh. He had cut his fallen idol down and, cursing, dragged Zenelaius to the shuttles.

And entombed him.

 

“Where are we, Thenaros?” the voice of the old Forgemaster was strained and distant through the voxgrill. “I hear the song of the warp. Their ululating call.” His voice grew stronger, but Thenaros did not step back. The chains within which he had bound the Hellbrute, claiming it needed repairs and making an excuse for this venture, were of his own crafting – like those they had bound the Red Knight with – and were perdurable.

“We are bound for the palace of the Prince,” Thenaros whispered, unable to keep a smirk from his lips.

“You mock me,” the Hellbrute’s tone turned grave. “Have you learned nothing, my apprentice?” There were almost hints of sadness.

Thenaros stepped back then, gesturing to his armour and body, adorned with the octed and the symbol of Slaanesh, but pure of form. He was still master of his mind and body. “I have learned from your mistakes, have I not?”

The deckplates shook as the shuttle landed.

“You shall remain here, old fool.”

“To what fate?”

“I may have need of you. And I promise it will be most unpleasant.”

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

“Who are you?”

“I am Thenaros, warpsmith of the Psychopomps, formerly the Stygian Guard.”

The being before him was so tall even the Astartes had to crane his neck back to look at its face. And it could barely be described as a single being, for the one he addressed stood atop a platform, a weapon-studded pulpit even, held aloft by a three-faced misshapen beast larger than two Ogryn – and about as fragrant as four. The bulging muscles of the palanquin-bearer were studded with metal plugs and bunched cabling emerged from open wounds in places, snaking across the unnatural contours of the creature, to disappear into the flesh once again elsewhere. Warnings, barcodes and binary had been tattooed or branded into the skin almost everywhere. And the master that stood atop that platform was similar, indeed so had all those denizen of this world that he had encountered after his arrival. If this world truly was Inpu as his contacts had claimed, he had expected far more metal and far less twisted flesh, even for a forgeworld of the Dark Mechanicum. The master’s torso was bare and an iron Octed rose from his shoulders like an accursed halo about his horned, faceless helm. He gestured toward the renegade tech marine with an axe that arced with power, a deep bass laugh emitting not from his helmet but from the three conjoined faces of the palanquin-bearer simultaneously. The master looked down upon him and he felt as if its gaze penetrated his armour and his flesh.

“You are no warpsmith.”

Thenaros adjusted his grip on his own axe, the smile of which was cog-toothed, and spoke once he managed to unclench his jaw.

“I am Thenaros, warpsmith of the Psychopomps and I seek the master of this world.”

The laughter came again and he would have thought it came only from the bearer-beast but for the fact that the master’s head moved as if laughing, while the faces of the beast shewed no mirth, and when the voice came from the beast’s faces the master’s head moved as if conversing.

“To what purpose, Thenaros of the Psychopomps? Your war band has never had call to make port here before. Always too busy hunting the sires of Slaanesh.”

So the Dark Mechanicum knew of the Psychopomps, or at least these Dark Mechanicum did. And knew of what drove Sophusar’s renegades.

“I seek learning. I would apprentice myself to the master of this world. To learn the ways of the warpsmith, of the Dark Mechanicum. To bind and enslave the daemon. To imprison its flesh and neverborn soul in metal of my forging.”

The figure atop the platform leaned forward, studying him.

“A dark renaissance of your time on Holy Mars, tech marine?”

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

Faces seemed to form in the clouds billowing from the gargoyle-mouthed chimneys of the fallen Mechanicus world. A byproduct of the soulforges which burned day and night, innumerable slaves toiling endlessly in the mad schemes of the planet’s twisted masters. Those who fell were cast into the fiery, baleful pits. Nothing was wasted.

Thenaros soon learned the greatest irony of the world he had come to. Metal was scarce. That that which the Mechanicus used so readily, replacing the very meat -their flawed flesh- with was rare here was at first inconceivable to him, yet it explained the bioengineering and fleshcrafting that he saw everywhere. Long ago, he was told, the planet’s metal resources had run dry and so its masters had turned their damned craft to what remained. The teeming populace.

One uses what tools and materials one has. That had been one of the earliest lessons he had learned on Holy Mars. The Dark Mechanicum had simply taken the axiom to its extreme.

He wiped sweat from his brow and turned from the view of the city. The perspiration was no result of the heat of the planet, but from his mental and physical exhaustion.

Mu-Iota, as the palanquin-rider was apparently called, tutted. The sound came out cut with static. He turned, his dark skirts hiding his lower body, and gestured to the ichor-stained pools on the workshop floor.

“You seek to enslave the neverborn, to bend them to your will via the might of your own. A will which is lacking. You see them as naught but metal and promethium; materials in your great design. And when you fail, you cast them off like flawed ore.”

“What would you have me do?” the Astarte spat, his anger flaring.

”Each must find his own way. Some are god-guided, others forge their own key.” Mu-Iota paused and a static-filled titter escaped his vox. ”You are as a Khornate sorcerer.”

Thenaros clenched his burning eyes and massaged his aching temples.

”Those who worship the Lord of Skulls do so via brute strength, force of arms. You, marked by the Prince, try to do the same...and you question why you fail?”

Even now the master spoke through the mouths of its mount. In face Thenaros had never seen the dark Magos not atop the palanquin, and his legs – if he had any – were swathed in dark cloth. Perhaps he had no lower limbs and was hardwired into the platform. That his voice was emitted from the beast that bore him was perhaps the least of their links.

He looked about the remains of the daemons he had summoned, attempted to bind, failed and had slain. Was this bastard suggesting apostasy and conversion to... The Stygian Guard’s first company had bowed their knees to the Blood God – even in his mind he dared not name his patron deity’s rival – and the survivors now lived in chains in the Psychopomp flagship’s dungeons.

No, excess was his chosen path. All else was madness. But he would not give up himself to the daemon, he would enter no pact with them, he would bow to no denizen of the warp. He would surpass all that he had achieved. He was surpass all that his predecessor had achieved.

He looked from the stained floor to the small daemon engine construct he had been attempting to bind the daemons into. It was no larger than he, and should have been trivial. He closed his eyes as the bearer-beast began to pace, at a mental command from Mu-Iota no doubt, and the floor shook beneath its great tread.

Months had passed already. Perhaps he was wasting his time here. A forgeworld without metal!

”Those daemons you do succeed in enslaving are weak. Your will is built upon fractious foundations, Astarte.” The Magos lectured as his palanquin-beast paced. ”You have spat upon your oaths to the Terra-shackled Omnissiah, and the Pantheon has opened your inner eye but a fraction.”

“Then teach me!” Thenaros spat.

”In exchange for the secrets of your sonic weapons.”

“No. Not yet. When I choose to leave. But I offer myself, and my weapons, in your service until that point.”

The palanquin-bearer came to a halt exceedingly close to the renegade marine, towering over him.

”I could crush you and take them at any point.”

“And their secrets would die with me.”

For the next few seconds the only sound was the heavy breathing of the palanquin-bearer as Mu-Iota wordlessly studied the fallen techmarine.

”Compliance. Yet I fear you lack the patience for the deepest truths.”

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

”Lacking force of will; by name or by pact. That is how one enslaves the daemon. A quest for knowledge: learn the true name of the daemon and it will do your bidding until such time as it may betray you-”

“Hardly attractive.”

”-or a pact: the daemons of Khorne serve upon the promise that they may shed blood and take skulls for their master. Others might render services in exchange for power; elevation. Or sacrifices: the magos or warpsmith offers souls, or of themselves.”

As my master did.

Mu-Iota’s head cocked to one side as if he had half-heard Thenaros’ thought. ”Yet you fear losing yourself. The greatest power is bought with the greatest sacrifice. You attempt to enslave through force of will...yet I fear you lack the strength of will.”

Thenaros held his anger in check this time.

“Learning names leads to betrayal and frankly takes too much bloody time.”

 ”Your skills in the forging of arms and armour are excellent,” Mu-Iota looked over the weapons – ballistic, energy and sonic – that Thenaros had crafted with what little components he had managed to scrounge...in fact he had taken onboard Mu-Iota’s methods of fleshcrafting with ease upon the wall rack of the small workshop he had been assigned was a sonic cannon, the vital internal membranes of which he had crafted from the flesh of slaves he had hand-picked from Mu-Iota’s stables. Some he had sensed were touched, as he was, by the Dark Prince, and gave their bodies willingly. Others he had chosen because they had been marked by the Lord of Blood and these he took to spite that god and gain favour with his own patron.

Lesser, flawed specimens had been picked out and used as targets.

”Who created these weapons?”

“I did.”

The dark Magos shook his head. ”I sense your lie. You made them, but to whose design?”

He turned his back. “Let me try again,” Thenaros wiped his brow and cast the rag –once the loin cloth of one of the slaves – to the ground. “I shall show you I have the strength of will.”

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

On Mars the apprentice techmarines had encountered such wild variety in the physical forms of Magos that the enginseers and Mechanicus forces they fought alongside upon returning to their chapters were positively uniform. While the advancement of technology – original design – was anathema, such strictures did not appear to apply to the enhancements Magos wrought upon their own forms. Some floated, grav-plates built into their feet; other slithered on segmented lower torsos akin to serpents or millipedes; a great many had clusters of servo-arms arcing over their shoulders, the arms they were born with withered and unused if not entirely replaced; one Thenaros had been taught by had kept their arms of meat and bone from the shoulder to the wrist but their fingers were bifurcated again and again into dozens upon dozens of fine gold-plated digits.

 

And yet the rival Magos that lay on the catafalque-like table before Thenaros awakened in him surprise he had not felt since his arrival on Mars. The small figure did not appear lashed or secured to the table, but upon closer inspection wires ran from sockets in the catafalque into jacks at the base of the Magos’ chrome skull. What manner of scrapcode was being pumped in via those altas-jacks he did not know, but it paralysed the captive completely.

Mu-Iota had not spoken of how he had captured his rival – be it infiltration of his enemy’s forge, offworld bounty hunters...Thenaros neither knew nor asked – but they both regarded the small humanoid now. Less than a meter tall, it resembled a chrome-skinned child -a putto - though there was a face upon each cardinal side of its head, each wrought in the expression of one of the classical temperaments.

When Mu-Iota dialed down the scrapcode infiltration of his rival’s cortex the mouths upon all four faces snapped open and emitted a binaric scream. On Mu-Iota’s warning, Thenaros had worn his helmet and his auto-senses immediately cut all audio channels. His lenses even darkened as the sources of the scream: the mouths – most horrific of which was the sanguine face: such a peaceful image yet its mouth yawned wide in terror – glowed with sonoluminescence.

When the assault ended and his powered armour’s systems reset, Mu-Iota seemed to have disabled the chrome putto’s cry. Its glowing amber eyes watched the Magos and the fallen techmarine. When it finally spoke it was with the saccharine voice of a child, most fitting for its form, yet completely at odds with its position as the head of a Chaos forge.

“I know not how but uou have me, Mu-Iota. I can feel your scrapcode inhibiting the erasure of my memory coils.”

”Your forge will be mine in good time, too, Putra.”

“But my knowledge, first, of course,” the chrome-skinned child replied, almost as if the two were discussing an academic matter.

This interrogation took place within the very crucible of the forge: Mu-Iota’s own workshop. After months, Thenaros had been invited within, and it soon became apparent why.

“I will of course present you with information as corrupt and useless as possible, fighting your scrapcode invasion of my cortex at every moment.”

”Of course.” The Mago nodded from the top of his palanquin, ”Your memlocks are as legendary as the sonic weapons you craft, Putra...” and, perhaps at a mental command from its master, the palanquin-beast rested one of its great hands upon Thenaros’ shoulder.

”But I now possess the ability to crack you.”

Thenaros set up a blast master on each side of the catafalque, pointed at the metallic child. According to the dark Magos, his rival’s own technology utilized sound – not primarily as a weapon but as a security measure. That sound and vibration could be used to null scrapcode or the noosphere was technological nonsense as far as Thenaros could comprehend – there was either daemonic knowledge at play or secrets of old that the priests of Mars denied.

Either way, Thenaros used the blast masters by turns as a tuning fork, scalpel and a crowbar. He connected a cable jack from the catafalque’s terminal to his own atlas sockets, and as the mind of the putto magos was laid bare, chrome faces and inner panels opening wide like alloy petals to reveal the grey matter within, he deliberately but momentarily canceled the nullification of the putto’s scream.

Mu-Iota staggered backward, his bearer reeling, as the unexpected assault came. The combined master and servant crashed into several half-made constructs which lined the workshop’s walls like statues, and toppled.

Thenaros quickly removed his helmet as its systems rebooted and reached his gauntleted hands into the opened skull. With a sickening wet sound the brain came free and he gorged himself upon it.

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

Betrayal. Accusation and counter accusation. Had Mu-Iota used him to access his rival’s mind so that he no longer needed Thenaros? That Thenaros had allowed Putra to use his weapon once more they both knew, and Mu-Iota came to begrudgingly accept that perhaps his apprentice did have the strength of will to master the neverborn.

He certainly now had the knowledge, having digested and assimilated a score of daemonic true names the rival Magos had known, amongst other dark secrets of the craft.

 

The passage of time was hard to mark within the Eye, and Thenaros’ studies continued, under the tutelage of Mu-Iota in his forges of flesh and metal. With greater ease he summoned the neverborn into vessels of alloy and bone, wire and skin. Pacts were forged, sacrifices made, but still he remained pure of body and uncompromised in mind or soul.

 

They stood within one of the cavernous chambers of Mu-Iota’s forge, having returned to it for the first time in several months. The forges of Putra, Chthom, Iseth and other Magii were now either conquered or vassal states to Mu-Iota, yet the Magos had called a halt to their crusade and brought them home once more to his forge.

They stood in the shadow of a Decimator – a construct of metal and daemonic flesh that towered over even the palanquin-bearer – aetheric mist rising from its twin soulburner petards. The Octed and the symbol of the Dark Prince marked its armoured plates. Rare metal that Thenaros had won – the spoils of war – from the battlefields of these past months.

 

”You have made me proud, warpsmith Thenaros.”

“As well as rich and powerful, Mu-Iota.”

This elicited booming laughter from the palanquin bearer, and Mu-Iota himself slapped the twisted railing of his platform with mirth.

”Indeed. Yet there remains but two tasks before I believe your time to leave comes.”

Thenaros, seeming to ignore his master, stepped toward the Decimator, appreciatively stroking a coil of flesh-sheathed cables that ran up the rear of one leg.

”A test of your abilities, your construct here...and the matter of the secret of the sonic weapons.”

A sly smile spread across the warpsmith’s face and it looked from the iron face of the Decimator to the Magos’ own. “Indeed. Perhaps the two can be combined.” He then spoke a word of the Dark Tongue, the name of the daemon which inhabited his latest construct and was enslaved to his will. Its eyes flared and light grew within the petards at the ends of its arms. With a hiss that was as much hydraulic as it was serpentine, the Decimator took a ponderous step toward the Magos.

Mu-Iota stood his ground, though the warpfire lance, voidcutter and other weapons mounted upon his palanquin rose to aim at the oncoming monstrosity. He nodded.

”You came here with nothing. A failed student of a lost master!”

“Oh?” this raised the warpsmith’s eyebrows and he laughed.

There then came a squealing of hinges, barely audible over the thunderous tread of the Decimator, and light flooded in from the far end of the vault.

”Aye, for your attachment to your old master is your undoing.”

A boxy shape was silhouetted in the doorway now, beneath the forge’s spiked portcullis.

”No one keeps secrets from me on my own world.”

The ground shook as the dreadnought strode into the chamber.

”I found, within your own ship, warpsmith, he who can make good on the promises you cannot.”

Zenelaius, unbound.