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

Gederas · June 8, 2018

Decided to do something on my World Eaters.

Featuring the names of all of the characters I've made so far, model-wise, as well as some more who are in the planning stages.

Lone Hunt

Hidden Content

The sky of Cassia Secundus was slate grey. The coming storm painted the lush green plains in an evil green, its hue almost neon. The planet has been the source of a surprisingly grueling campaign, the Imperial Guard of the Valhallan 67th Regiment tenaciously holding their position against the World Renders of Khorne, the berzerker warriors of the XII Legion being ground to a halt by the Valhallans.

“We should take the fight to the cowardly Valhallans! Lord Drachstur is holding us back!” Rufar states, shaking his head.

“He believes he has a new tactic to allow us to break down their fortifications.” Andrus replies. “Ronogar has been chosen for something involving it.”

“Ronogar? That fool? What will he do?”

“Whatever Lord Drachstur commands him to.”

* * * * * *

Inside the belly of the Annihilator, Khadon Drachstur’s personal flagship, the lords of the World Renders have assembled. Ronogar, Zephon, Berogon, and Alaz’Batyr have assembled.

“The Valhallans are dug in, we could just bomb them out of their hole.” Says Ronogar.

“And what then? What skulls will be there to take if they’re all pulverized by rock and explosives?” Replies Alaz’Batyr.

“And what of Ramiel and his Hounds?” Inquires Zephon. “They could be of use, as the Valhallan’s fortress has a massive pipe network.”

“Ramiel and the Hounds are planetside, currently in a hit-and-run battle with the Valhallans. My Predators and daemon engines are assisting.” Says a new voice, incredibly deep, and brassy.

The assembled lords turn to see the massive bulk of Khrogar, the World Renders’ Master of the Forge.

“We salute you brother!” Berogon says, being the first to acknowledge the massive newcomer. “It is good to see you peeled away from the forges.”

A chuckle, almost the sound of shearing metal, emanates from the Warpsmith.

“I am here because Khadon asks me to be. Speaking of which…”

The doors at the back of the room open, the tactical-dreadnought armoured form of the Lord of the World Renders strides into the room.

“I will dispel any questions amongst you all.” Drachstur says, looking over the astartes in front of him. “I have called you all here to discuss my plan for dealing with the Valhallans.”

The assembled lords nod before Drachstur continues.

“Khrogar’s scans have pierced the Valhallan’s defenses and revealed to us that their leader squats inside that fortress. My plan is simple: We are to take his head.”

“That’s all? Well, a complex enough plan for a genius such as yourself.” Alaz’Batyr says, a grin forming behind his helm. “Are we to also march to the gates of their fortress and request a duel with him as well?” The warrior folds his coal-black arms in front of his chest.

The other lords turn, glaring at Alaz’Batyr before Drachstur raises a hand.

“While Alaz makes an… astute point. My plan is not so difficult. We will drop one operative on the mountain above the fortress, who will infiltrate inside of it, kill anyone in his way, and then kill the Valhallan’s leader.”

“Ah, there is the plan. So, Lord Drachstur, who pray tell, will be the one chosen for this?” Alaz’Batyr inquires.

“Quiet son of Vulkan, before I remove your tongue!” Says Ronogar.

“ENOUGH!” Drachstur shouts, immediately catching the attention of the assembled lords. “I have already thought and decided: Ronogar will be the one to undertake this mission. I believe it will be an… adequate use of his skills.”

Ronogar lets out a wolfish grin.

“A solo hunt? Alone behind enemy lines? My Lord, you honour me… When shall I begin?”

“Nightfall on that area of the planet.”

* * * * * *

“Tell me Drachstur, why did you choose Ronogar for a mission like this?”

“Because old friend, were it not for the colour of Ronogar’s armour and the maw on his shoulder, I believe he would have forgotten he’s a son of Angron and not one of Curze’s spawn.”

“Ah, so because of his normal tactics of leaving mutilated corpses in his wake then?”

“Precisely.”

* * * * * *

The rain has begun in earnest now, thunder growling in the distance and lighting crossing the sky. The freezing rain, shards of ice already forming from it, bouncing harmlessly off the scarlet-and-bronze armour of Ronogar as he stalks down the mountain above the Valhallan’s fortress. The single warrior looks over the fort from his position above it. He observes guards marching along the walls, but no stationary ones on the rear. Fools then.

Checking the power on his pistols and seeing their level is at max, both in charge and power setting, Ronogar brings his hand to the wicked blade strapped to his waist. Making sure the sword is attached properly, the World Eater begins making his way into the fortress. Already he feels the pulse of the Nails, they too know a ripe hunt is coming.

* * * * * *

“I swear, we must have enraged off the general. Having to patrol in the rain. What a load…”

“No, the enemy has stopped assaulting the walls. General Tornoff believes they’ll try to assault us again soon.”

“Still though, patrolling in the fort? That seems a little-”

Before the guardsman can finish his statement, a bright, blinding white flash shots from the darkness. The plasma shot vaporizes the guardsman above the waist.

“What the?!”

The second swings his lasgun to bear, the flashlight shining in front of him. Already the crimson-armoured astartes has moved, the mud splashing around his boots and the flickering field of a power weapon crackles from the rain hitting it. The blade whips through the neck of the guard, blood erupting from the stump of his neck as his head is removed.

“Two down… A lot more to go” Ronogar thinks to himself, grinning maliciously.

* * * * * *

“Why haven’t alpha and delta patrols haven’t checked in?”

“Unknown General. Perhaps the rain is interfering with their communications?”

“No. Something is wrong…”

As soon as General Tornoff makes his statement, a voice comes over the vox.

+General! Sound the alarm! The walls have been breached! A World Eater is inside the walls! He’s… Oh no, no, no!+ The guardsman stops, the sound of a lasgun firing is heard over the vox. A scream can be heard before the line goes dead.

“… Where was that?”

“I-Inside this building sir. He’s in here with us.”

“Damn it!” General Tornoff grabs his power sabre, checking the weapon before readying it. “Men! Raise the alarm. We shall find this traitor and end him. He thinks that only himself can defeat us?”

General Tornoff turns to the vox operator.

“Send a message to the men inside this building. Fan out and search for him. Ready meltaguns and plasma guns. We’ll give him something to worry about.”

* * * * * *

Ronogar grabs hold of the guard’s head, squeezing until the helmet cracks under his hands before his thumbs dig into the guardsman’s eye sockets. Twisting, he removes the screaming man’s head.

“That’s… Thirty now?” He thinks to himself. “I need to request Khrogar make a kill-counter for my helmet.”

The World Eater chuckles to himself, looking over the carnage he’s left in his wake. The fact the guard now are bringing meltaguns to bear amuses him.

“Oh, I must have made them angry…” He chuckles before looking over the schematic of the building. “The general must be in the central room… One floor to go…”

Ronogar readies his pistols, running down the corridor. Reaching the stairwell, he begins his ascent, his heavy footfalls echoing, no longer caring about stealth. He has caught the scent of blood and wants more. Reaching the end of stairwell, he presses against the doorway, his two-a-third meter height pushing his helmet’s cadaere renissum against the ceiling. He leans into the doorway, quickly looking over the hallway. Lasgun shots narrowly miss his helmet.

“And so, it begins…”

Ronogar runs out from the stairwell, plasma pistols at the ready.

“BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!” Both pistols fire, their muzzles releasing blinding flashes of hot plasma, vaporizing the guardsmen at the door.

The World Eater reaches the locked door before laughing.

“This won’t stop me!”

Reaching at the bomb strapped to his waist, Ronogar places the melta-charge against the door before moving a safe distance away and detonating it, the actinic flash vaporizing the heavy metal. He returns to the door, firing his pistols four more times, slaying the guardsmen inside the room before turning his attention to the Valhallan General standing before him. The crimson-armoured warrior attaches his pistols to their magnetic locks on his armour.

“So… Just the two of us then?” General Tornoff says, activating the power field of his sword.

Ronogar removes his helmet, dropping it to his right. He removes his own sword from its scabbard.

“Yes… I will enjoy taking your skull.”

“You’ll have to work for it!”

The general charges the World Eater, who has now activated the power field of his own sword and responds in kind. The swords clash, the power fields of both blades sparking off each other. The massive bulk of the khornate warrior pushes the human general back. General Tornoff pulls away, twisting out of Ronogar’s direct reach to try a different angle.

The World Eater whips around, his sword swinging in a deadly overhead arc, narrowly missing the general and instead slicing through the railing and one of the cogitators, the machine exploding in sparks. He begins laughing madly, swinging again and again at the general.

“I’ve fought thousands!” Ronogar swings again, the blade smashing against the general’s. “I was there when the Emperor ordered the execution of the Thunder Warriors! I’ve fought and slaughtered at more battles than you’ll ever imagine!” The World Eater finds extra purchase, tossing the general across the room. “I am Ronogar of the World Eaters. And you, will be just another head I have taken.”

General Tornoff shakes his head, coughing up blood. He stands up, grabbing his blade once more. A sharp pain rips through his chest, as he can tell several ribs were broken by the blood-maddened warrior’s strike.

“Come then Traitor. Try and take it…”

The World Eater charges, swinging his blade for the General’s neck. Tornoff ducks under the blade, thrusting his sword up and into the armour of the astarte. The blade bites in, piercing ceramite and flesh. Ronogar grunts, but stops his swing and pulls his arm back, trapping the general inside his grip.

“Got you.” The son of Angron grins down at the general.

Ronogar’s free hand grabs the general’s neck, squeezing and crushing the man’s spine. The human lets go of the sword, body twitching as the World Eater easily snaps his neck. Pulling the blade out, blood dripping from the wound but already clotting due to the marine’s enhanced physiology, the World Eater decapitates the broken body of the Valhallan General.

“Skulls for the Skull Throne!”

Ronogar returns to his helmet, picking it up and putting it back on, opening a vox channel to his Thunderhawk.

“Relay a message to Lord Drachstur. The fortress of the guard has fallen.”

+Understood my lord+

“Good. Now, I have more skulls to collect.”

Now, In case anyone is trying to put a model to the name:

Berogon, Ramiel and Khadon Drachstur are yet to be built.

Kierdale · June 8, 2018

I was worried that I was the only one inspired by the last theme, then Gederas delivers!

Lone Hunt told us of a World Eater warband assault having been dragged down into a battle of attrition by a Valhallan Guard regiment and the Chaos space marine lord’s dispatching of a lone warrior into the Guard commander’s fastness on an assassination mission. And a very Khornate assassination mission it proved, too, with a hefty skull tally!

And I didn’t know you had any World Eaters until now.

My entry, A Dark Renaissance had the warpsmith of the Psychopomps, Thenaros, seeking to learn from a master of the Dark Mechanicus. I haven’t used Thenaros for quite some time as he wasn’t really developing. Doing this piece got me to move him forward and, I’ll admit, potentially do away with him and bring his predecessor to prominence in the warband if I feel like it.

I hereby close that topic but if anyone writes pieces on that theme in the future and wishes to share them here, by all means please do so, with a suitable title.

And here begins our eleventh challenge of Inspirational Friday 2018: Prophecy

The gods whisper into mortal ears and minds, all too often with promises of power, glory or other desires fulfilled, but also on occasion with words of guidance or warning. They would not see their plans (be they grand or trifling distractions from the greater game) foiled so easily, or they lend their guidance to mortals so those plots might flourish.

Even the Corpse-God, the God-Emperor of mankind has been known to give guidance to the faithful, via his tarot or visions.

Over the next two weeks I would have you write pieces on the subject of prophecy.

From what higher power do these visions come?

Who is the mortal or mortals blessed(? Cursed?) with this guidance?

Does the prophet succeed in interpreting divine will correctly?

And what forces oppose the prophecy?

IF2018: Prophecy! runs until the ~~22nd~~ 29th of June.

Let us be inspired.

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

The winner of IF2018: Prophecy! shall claim the Octed amulet:

...and the honour of judging the next topic.

The Nephilim · June 8, 2018

I'm really bummed I couldn't complete solo mission in time. Notes saved for another day. Congratulations, Gederas!

Ohhh... Prophecy... I like prophecy. I can do a lot with this. The challenge will be keeping it short. Does it need to stay in the 41st millennium or can the story date back to the Heresy?

Kierdale · June 8, 2018

A tale spanning eras is absolutely fine. It sounds excellent, in fact! :tu:

The Templars have also been invited to the party :D

Gederas · June 9, 2018

I was worried that I was the only one inspired by the last theme, then Gederas delivers!

Lone Hunt told us of a World Eater warband assault having been dragged down into a battle of attrition by a Valhallan Guard regiment and the Chaos space marine lord’s dispatching of a lone warrior into the Guard commander’s fastness on an assassination mission. And a very Khornate assassination mission it proved, too, with a hefty skull tally!

I couldn't let you be the only entry, now could I? :wink:

And thanks for the praise. It means a lot to me to read compliments about my work (yay for terrible esteem issues) :lol:.

Also, I'm wondering if anyone caught the little teaser for one of the future Chaos Lords for my World Eaters?

Kierdale · June 12, 2018

A Golden Figure

Hidden Content

“Word is to be sent to all company officers and no further. I repeat: no further. We attack at first light.”

The looks in the eyes of the brigadier’s command staff told him how they felt, and no doubt how every officer would feel upon having those words passed on to them. And how every guardsman would feel once their commanders deigned to inform them of their fate. He shared their fear. He had fought alongside them in this trenches, as wet with blood as they were with the continuous downpours on this blasted planet. He shared their fear but by the God-Emperor he would not let it show, and he’d have the remaining commissars flog any man who did.

“Gentlemen,” he nodded, gave an Aquila suit across the eagle stamped into his tarnished breastplate and turned, making his was to his own bunker and his cot.

The siege of Pergatorii would end at dawn. The Pellan 1001st would charge from their trenches and sell their lives dearly. The Enemy could not be destroyed, for the war had depleted the 1001st of men and machines too much, but they would take as many of the bastards with them as they could, and pray that as few as possible remained to push on, for these worlds had been conquered by the Warmaster a millennia before and no God-Emperor fearing guardsman could sell their life at a higher price.

Brigadier Cabressi awoke, his eyes cracking open almost in pain with the light streaming in through the bunker doorway. His immediate reaction was to shout out, berating his batman for leaving their quarters unsecured against another of the enemy’s gas attacks but the scolding died in his throat as he marveled at the light.

They had not seen sunlight on Pergatorii since the day of their arrival, when their dropships, from Arvus lighters to the armour-carriers had descended through golden shafts of light that pierced the planet’s notorious cloud cover. The populace had given praise, proclaiming it an Emperor-sent blessing.

Over the year that followed no light had penetrated to the surface since and word was that that day the Emperor’s light had been the path to salvation. A guiding light off world, that none had taken.

He rose from his cot, automatically affixing his powersword in its sheath to his belt and checking his service pistol in its holster as he had every damned morning since that day they had arrived. He reached out his hand to touch the bust that stood upon his desk by the door in the final step of his morning ritual, his hand falling as he found the ornament unexplainably absent.

Squinting against the light he stepped forward, crossing the stained permacrete floor of the bunker. No amount of sweeping by his batman Usanol could clear the mud away, for Pergatorii was plagued by it. Constant cloud cover, unrelenting rain. The ground was as a foul soup that swallowed men and tanks alike.

Yet a shaft of light speared the entrance of his bunker.

Usanol was not at his post, nor was anyone in sight. As he stepped into the light he realized he could not hear anything either. No rain fell. No shells flew; months ago the guard had been forced to cease their constant bombardment of the enemy positions –which had been as a percussion in this song of war- as shells dwindled and resupply was postponed again and again. He could hear no sergeants barking orders to their men. No sound or smell of breakfasts being prepared nor the odour of the men’s cheap, scrounged tobacco.

He stepped onto the worn board in the trench before him, placing his gloved hands against the soaked sandbags and boards that prevented the sides of the trench from caving in on them, and peered out across no man’s land. The sky was a blanket of light grey, but the land was no longer veiled by the downpour and he could see out across the cratered, wreck-strewn battlefield across to the enemy’s own lines.

They appeared as abandoned as his own.

He climbed the ladder slowly and steadily, gingerly lifting himself up and stepping out from the trench, his eyes searching the vista before him, unable to accept the silence or the complete absence of life.

As he took a step from his lines another figure seemed to rise from the enemy lines. Cabressi stopped, almost turning back, expecting to see his trenches filled with his men once more and ordering them to open fire once the bastard was in range, but they were as empty as they had been when he had stepped from his bunker into the light.

With one hand he drew his pistol and with the other his saber, the blade humming to life.

He squinted in the light, and to make out the figure as the two of them advanced across the hundreds of meters of torn landscape. Neither side had been able to claim Renberg and the village had been pounded in the ensuing battle. No structure higher than a couple of bricks remained.

His boots sucked as he made his way across the water-logged ground, treading on bodies – guardsmen who had fallen in the last four attempts to go `over the top` - dyed brown by the dirt.

As he walked, the beam of sunlight appeared to follow him and its warmth soothed a cold that had settled into his bones and his spirit long ago. His back straightened and his stride lengthened, faltering only as he noticed that the figure mirroring his own advance was too lit by the heavens.

He was close enough now to see that the enemy officer was clad not in the tarnished carapace of the traitorous guard, nor was it one of the fearsome renegade astartes. It was clad in armour that gleamed golden in the light.

He had raised his pistol but his arm slowly fell and he quickened his pace to confirm his suspicions.

His eyes flicked open as thunder boomed.

“It’s time, sir.” Usanol’s hand gently shook the brigadier’s shoulder. With his other hand he proffered the officer a chipped mug of recaf, and a half-filled pipe.

Cabressi looked to his batman with raised eyebrows.

“I managed to scrounge a little sir. A final luxury, sir.”

The brigadier nodded grimly and downed the recaf before puffing on the pipe. He automatically fastened his powersaber to his belt and checked his service pistol in its holster before nodding to Usanol. The bunker was lit by a single lumen in the ceiling that flickered.

As he walked to the great sealed armourplate hatch of the bunker he stopped, his hand extending out to touch the bust on his desk. Lord Solar Macharius. It had been him who had won Pergatorii, Cabressi and Usanol’s own homeworld of Pella and a thousand other worlds in his great crusade.

As Usanol opened the hatch and the sound of Pergatorii’s torrential downpour came, Cabressi knew that all he had seen had been naught but a dream.

And the real nightmare was about to begin.

* * * * * * * *

“And as the firmament was rent by the wrath of their impotent heretic gods, a shaft of the God-Emperor’s own light shot forth, spearing their lines and granting me divine guidance,” Now-general Cabressi looked out across the banquet tables as he remembered that morning. “I drew my saber and climbed from my trench, gesturing forth and bellowing for every God-Emperor fearing man to follow me. And the faithful of the Pellan 1001st rose up,” he raised his voice, gesturing with his now empty glass as if it were his powersaber, pointing it out across the hall, over the heads of assembled officers, dignitaries, members of Pella’s various sects and countless nobles toward renegade-filled trenches that only he could see.

“Our artillery launched forth the last of their shells at that illuminated spot and we charged. As their leadership was torn asunder the yellow-bellied turncoats withered and we tore into them. `No man shall stop until he stands in the Emperor’s light!`” he shouted as loudly as he had that fateful morning, causing several highborn to put their hands to their chests or mouths.

His face shook with emotion as he came back from his reverie. Once again he saw the faces watching him, rapt. General Cabressi bowed his head as he turned, raising his glass once more, though this time gesturing to a golden statue that stood in pride of place behind him in the banquet hall.

“And so I – we – give thanks to the God-Emperor and his servant, who most certainly guided me that day in the protection of worlds he took in the name of Mankind. Lord Solar Macharius!”

Applause thundered louder than the storms of Pergatorii.

* * * * * * * *

“When do we ship out next, sir?” Usanol straightened Cabressi’s brassard, fastened his belt across the officer’s paunch and smoothed the curving tips of his moustache before stepping back and nodding approvingly.

The general however did not take his eyes off the bust on his desk. They were now in his private quarters: a luxurious apartment of marble floors and columns with exquisitely painted frescos upon the walls, as was the Pellan style. The black leather of their high boots shone. Gone was the filth of the Pergatorii trenches. Gone were the memories of the months of warfare too for Cabressi, for all that remained in his mind was the vision of the golden figure he had met on that mirage-like battlefield. How it had glowed with such radiance that he had hardly been able to make out any features. And how the light had shone from the heavens that morning once he had truly awoken, guiding them to victory. He nodded to the bust of Solar Macharius and said a silent prayer to the golden being who watched over him.

“Not yet, Usanol. Not yet, sadly,” he huffed. “I’d have us back out there whipping Xenos or the faithless this very afternoon, but I’ve a meeting with the bishops.” He snorted and chortled, “Seems they want a bit of my blessing.”

He touched the bust as he stepped out.

* * * * * * * *

It was just as he had seen it during his meeting that day. The doric columns of the basilica engraved with the names of saints and those who had given their lives for Pella and its regiments. Alcoves filled with the skulls of the faithful. The Grand Basillica of Pella Prime. Said to be the site where Macharius himself had first set foot upon their world to claim it during his crusade.

Yet, in the vision that plagued him that night and the next seven nights after it, the Basillica was aflame. Prayer books and scripts, regimental banners high above...all burned. Priests staggered and fell as they were put to flame. He saw masses in the square before the burning church, bowed low, their bare backs scarred with flagellation.

A golden figure stood in the middle of the prone crowd, unseen by the masses, it walked amongst them and though he could not see the tall, proud figure’s features, he knew that it wept.

“My lord-governor,” his heels clicked as he stamped to attention before the master of Pella, sat upon his throne of green-veined marble. The skulls of his forebearers were set into the armrests and across its back.

“General Cabressi!” the thin, skeletal hands of governor Phisidar made little noise as they clapped. His smile was thin but warm. “The blessed savior of Pergatorii! A future lord Solar, perhaps? Eh? Eh? Do not forget us, lord Solar, when you are warmaster!”

The guard officer cleared his throat, silencing the fawning politician.

“I have been granted another vision.”

This drew the attention of Phisidar and all those of the court assembled there. Viziers, counts, priests of Mars and the Imperial Creed. It was these last whom he was most concerned about, but he was no coward. He had been granted a vision that would save Pella.

“From the lord Solar?”

“I believe so.” He raised his head, “Pella is in grave danger from a theological imbalance, my lord.” He kept his eyes trained upon the lord-governor, though he could feel those of the assembled bishops and deacons boring into him. Whispers broke out.

“The advice of an officer of the Adeptus Milita-“

“It is not advice, bishop!” Cabressi snapped, skewering the priest brave enough to speak out. “It is the wisdom of a God-given vision.”

The murmuring rose to a clamour.

“Quiet! Quiet!” Phisidar shouted down the rising commotion. He looked to the general. “What did you see, general?” his brow was deeply furrowed and Cabressi could see the desperation in the man’s eyes. He did not want trouble between the sects of the Imperial Cult. Damn him.

“The Grand Basillica aflame. A single religion risen to prominence. Rival priest persecuted. The masses scarred and in desperation. A golden figure weeps.”

Though there were several sects of the Imperial Cult on Pella, eyes turned to the head priest of the largest of the factions.

Some even seemed to take a predatory step toward the bishop.

“No.” That single word halted all in the courtroom. “No,” governor-lord Phisidar repeated, and looked to the general. “I appreciate your guidance, general. Your prophecy is taken under advisement.”

Cabressi opened his mouth to speak but did not get chance.

Phisidar withdrew a slim envelope from within his cloak. “Your coming here was most timely, general. Orders from the Ordo Munitorum. Duty calls, and in your absence I will guide Pella’s fate, rest assured.”

* * * * * * * *

Three years later the Pellan 1001^st returned for resupply –of arms, armour and bodies- and it was with a grave face that governor Phisidar greeted the returning general from his campaign beyond the sector.

“Congratulations on your victorious return, general,” the thin man bowed his head and sat heavily upon his throne. Cabressi’s eyes, ever analytical, took in those who attended the court. There had been a shift in power in his absence. His moustache barely hid the smile of vindication that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“General,” Phisidar spoke before Cabressi could. “On your campaign did you...were you blessed with any further visions?” He leant forward a fraction, his eagerness evident.

“I was not, lord-governor.”

The head statesman of Pella’s face fell.

“I believe the Lord Solar looks out for those worlds he conquered, lord. Pergatorii. Pella. I ventured beyond the swathe of systems he claimed, and lost his guidance.” He paused, “What has come to pass in my absence?” he asked, full well knowing the answer.

And indeed in his absence it had come to pass: Cabressi’s First Law, that no sect of worship should possess power greater than its rivals. The assets of that largest of cults had been seized upon by its rivals, its priests imprisoned on charges of plotting treason, and those cults that remained heeded even more so the words of general Cabressi. As did lord-governor Phisidar, pleased to have the oracle back on his homeworld.

* * * * * * * *

“Increase the draft?” One of lord governor Phisidar’s eyebrows was arched, his head set at an angle which spoke of doubt. “But general Cabressi, our regiments swell and we can barely equip them all as it is. You intend to...?”

To finally sail to war once more? Cabressi could almost hear the governor’s unsaid question.

Though the visions had come sporadically since the 1001^st’s return to Pella, the gravity of them had prevented him from allowing himself to deploy. He had made excuses – more time for resupply, additional training needed and the like – again and again as orders came from the Ordo Munitorum over the months.

Phisidar had found his own words weighed less and less the longer the oracle roosted.

Cabressi closed his eyes as he recalled that which he had seen in his restless slumber the night before. The war-torn cities of Pella. Its beautiful architecture broken and lying in ruins while its people crawled like ants in the ruins. Gunfire rang out almost continuously and fire rained from the heavens. A storm was coming and he knew that Pella was not prepared.

“Yes, lord-governor. Conscription of every able-bodied citizen we can possibly spare. Make servitors of those unfit.”

Phisidar shook his head in disbelief. “And how might we arm them against this coming danger?”

“With anything they can get their bloody hands on, governor. I shall have my regiments requisition lands beyond the city walls to set up training camps.”

The governor looked out over the beautiful white of his capital – as white as the skulls of its founders which decorated every square and courtyard, gleaming under the blue sky.

Phisidar was visibly torn. Pella, his world, was a hub of the sector. An industrial powerhouse, but to grant the general his wish would cripple it...yet how could he deny the blessed Cabressi? It would be to doom himself and his people. How could he go against these visions from a golden figure?

* * * * * * * *

Usanol tightened the straps of the cuirass and stepped back as his master admired his reflection in the huge mirror.

The armour had been a gift from the cults and noble houses, each contributing a part, each plate engraved to the utmost ability of that faction’s craftspeople – or as good as their coffers could afford.

* * * * * * * *

Fortress Pella.

Rain fell and the clouds were dark as forges burned bright, churning out arms and armour. The marble buildings were tarnished – those that had not been daubed with camouflage paint. The art of Pella had not entirely died though, for murals decorated some, depicting a golden figure towering over the masses, guiding them. Just as Cabressi told them in his daily speeches.

Their neighbouring worlds now strained under the yolk of the general’s visions too. Their sons and daughters fueled the Blessed Regiments and their factories too had been turned over to the building up of their forces.

Repeated requests from the Ordo Munitorum and other factions of the Adeptus Administratum went unheeded. The Prophet Cabressi, his body now tattooed with the image of the aureate savior and prayers to him in strange script not native to Pella – nor was it Imperial Gothic, lived in fits of vision-plagued sleeping and spent his waking hours bent over his desk, his quill scratching madly as he scrawled down and tried to interpret that which he had seen.

Now it was Phisidar who came to the prophet. The stench of the man’s unwashed body caused the noble to cover his lower face with a kerchief.

The rotund figure clad in its disheveled uniform scrawled frantically upon sheafs of parchment. His golden armour no longer fitted him, hung upon its rack in a corner of the room.

“Further orders from the Munitorum, general Cabressi. You are to ship out immediately.”

The scratching continued unabated.

“General, I tire of this! You endlessly prepare for war and your superiors tell you that war is out there!” the thin man pointed his talon-like finger out to the dark sky beyond the balcony.

Scratching.

He dropped a scroll upon the general’s desk, noticing the absence of the bust which always stood upon the corner, its top polished smooth by daily touch. “Countless worlds lost due to your inactivity!”

The quill’s scratching ceased and Phisidar took a step back as the prophet’s bloodshot eyes met his own.

“He is coming. He will deliver us all. He had guided me all this time from afar.”

“Macharius, yes, I’m sure,” Phisidar said dismissively, eager to be away from the madman, “general, Ordo Munitorum ships are in orbit. They seek an audience with you. They order you to reply.”

“Not Macharius,” Cabressi’s voice was no a whisper. “Not he. Nor the Emperor. No-no-no. The golden one.”

“General!” Phisidar spat, “reply to your superiors’ summons or be declared traitor! You have brought his upon us!”

The lord-governor was silenced by a las-shot. Usanol stepped from the shadows as he holstered his pistol.

“You were right, general,” his servant nodded. “The governor did try to seize power.”

Cabressi grinned the grin of a madman who had been whispered to by a demi-god for year upon year now.

“Send word to open fire upon the ships in orbit. Sacrifices must be made if we are to pave the way for the Aurelian.”

Scourged · June 14, 2018

Not an easy call, as both were quite enjoyable to read for very different reasons (and very different Gods). For me, though, it came down to a simple criteria: the challenge was solo mission. And in the spirit of that source of judgement, I am happy to announce the work of Gederas. Not that I didn't love your work, Kierdale (I always do), but Thenaros didn't seek out the Dark Mechanicum in the spirit of a greater mission - just his own pursuits. Plus, there can only be one winner, after all.

Gederas · June 14, 2018

Not an easy call, as both were quite enjoyable to read for very different reasons (and very different Gods). For me, though, it came down to a simple criteria: the challenge was solo missionAnd in the spirit of that source of judgement, I am happy to announce the work of Gederas. Not that I didn't love your work, Kierdale (I always do), but Thenaros didn't seek out the Dark Mechanicum in the spirit of a greater mission - just his own pursuits. Plus, there can only be one winner, after all.

Yay! Amulet is mine :D

Kierdale · June 14, 2018

Curses! Foiled again! :D

Scourged · June 15, 2018

No doubt you say that as you shake a fist in the air while also twirling your mustache? :wink:

Kierdale · June 21, 2018

No doubt you say that as you shake a fist in the air while also twirling your mustache? ;)

But of course!

With the deadline days away - and IF always slower during the ETL - would you like me to push the deadline back a week?

Dizzyeye01 · June 21, 2018

Personally, I wouldn't mind having an extra week just to batter through it. I've got a good idea for this however I've just been busy with work and so on.

Kierdale · June 21, 2018

Then a third week you shall have!

I’ve changed the deadline to the 29th :)

Honda · June 28, 2018

The Occupant

The eyes stared out, unblinking.

A snapshot in time, taken more than 1,000 years ago. The figure seemed in the process saying something important, something significant, while his eyebrows crouched together like a pair of great feline beasts. Pale, yet fierce eyes concentrated to his front, now they focused upon a distant point, his words forever captured by stasis never to be heard.

The observer sighed as the timer buzzed, indicating that his time had expired. Slowly he stood up and stepped through the open door, guarded by a single golden giant.

The door closed with a soft hush and the observer shuffled down the hall.

+++

He was known as "The Occupant".

It was said that he claimed to have entered the palace from its bowels, though how that could be possible would remain a mystery for a very long time.

It was rumored that upon his capture, the Emperor appeared to recognize him, but said nothing.

When he was finally allowed to speak, his manner was extremely perplexing. He spoke as if he was "here" and "somewhere else" at the same time. On occasion, he was observed speaking to individuals unseen. He behaved as if his presence was always in doubt, touching random objects as if to confirm their existence.

He began to tell stories, lies, for that is all that they could possibly be. Yet he spoke with the calmness of one sure of the truth.

He spoke of an approaching madness in an Empire that was lost, a coming time when the word "brother" meant nothing to those once brothers, a Father lost and the unseen seen, a Pantheon un-imagined now manifest in the lives of Mankind, of everything that would be lost during the inevitable fall into darkness.

He said there was no future, no end, and no hope.

He called himself a Son of Prospero. He would not explain why his armor was an iridescent blue, inlaid with gold iconography and exotic jewels. Nothing like the Legion's true colors. Yet there were elements of its design that were disturbingly reminiscent of the XVth's appearance. When asked who his father was, he said nothing, only sharing a sad smile.

He refused to explain himself nor reveal his purpose.

He was immune to physical pain.

It was shortly thereafter that he was never left alone without a choir of Sisters present, continually shrouding him in silence. His nature prevented from unveiling itself, he remained an enigma to us.

I was able to ascertain some information from him without his knowledge. He had a mission. He was tasked with situating himself within our midst, a psychic pebble dropped into the calm of the Imperial pond. He came to incite an insidious and malignant change deep within us. He said he came to be an end of the beginning.

He came to put out the light.

+++

To this day, his identity remains a mystery.

Though rampant mutation infests his DNA, corrupting his geneseed as well as other internal organs, extensive testing verifies his claim. He is a son of Prospero. Which is, of course, impossible. He was produced from the technologies and processes that create an Astartes for the XVth Legion.

He cannot exist, yet he does.

I come and visit him every day, in some forlorn hope that I will be able to discern some truth from his presence.

I discover nothing new, merely reaffirming his impossibility.

Now, as Mankind turns its focus outward to the stars, eager to undertake the Emperor's vision, there lies a worm in my mind bordering on treason were I to speak it.

Is he the truth?

- Malcador, Regent of Terra, 0272999.M29

Dizzyeye01 · June 28, 2018

Something a little shorter than I was first planning but I was wanting to set the scene for a warband I'm wanting to write about for later.

A Testimony

The following is taken from the Lion of Xtero, a vessel thought to have been serving under the banner of Inquisitor Terrintor. It was found a wreck. This document shows some possible ties to his past which has been hard to find. In knowing our enemy we will defeat him. Knowledge is power, guard it well.

'The damage is done, brother. We have turned against one another and the bond trust once held has been shattered. Nothing can be done to repair it. You’ll see, you’ll see…'

Once upon a time, the Imperium fought for the enlightenment of the human race. We rod out as Legions from ancient Terra; bringing judgement against those who had oppressed us. And now...it has turned into the very thing we swore to destroy. Darkness has consumed it’s soul and there is no turning back from this point. From what I’ve been told, the Sigilite himself on the orders of the Emperor formed this so called ‘Inquisition’. Their authority? Absolute. These inquisitors can set kill who they like, torture as they see fit.They can set worlds alight if they so wished. All with the blessings of the Emperor himself supposedly.

I will not allow this.

Me and my men have been away from the light of the Imperium for too long. We set our fury into the threats that would see humanity fall thrice over, only to be rewarded with….this. Traitors attacked us as they fled from their failure. The words above were our first greeting back. Little did I know that they were not some false prophecy spouted at us but in fact the doom that had already arrived.

We will not serve the so called Dark Gods. From now on, we will fight on our terms and serve no man. And these inquisitors? They are pale imitations of the Sigilite. Should we find any who bear their seal? They will find the same death of any traitor.

You have been warned.

The Nomad

Kierdale · June 29, 2018

Thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday: Prophecy.

In my own entry, A Golden Figure I was going for a ‘self-fulfilling prophecy’. I don’t think I pulled it off as well as I could have, but I’m happy enough with it.

And I’m glad I gave three weeks for this theme as Honda came through -again- with an excellent entry: The Occupant. An account by the Sigilite, seemingly of a time traveller, bringing word of a dark future. Really, really well written.

And Dizzyeye’s entry, A Testimony, was a tale of warriors who discovered the true, original goals of the Emperor, and found the Imperium of the 41st millennium a traitor to those ideals.

I hereby close that topic but if anyone writes pieces on that theme in the future and wishes to share them here, by all means please do so, with a suitable title.

And here begins our twelfth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2018: Cry Havoc!

While some Chaos Space Marines live for the bloody grind of melee, others prefer the application of heavy ordnance from long range.

The Havoc.

Perhaps members of legion support squads or devastator squads while they were loyal, Havocs live for the roar of heavy weapons. They enjoy nothing more than wreaking great destruction with overwhelming firepower.

They see themselves as gods of the battlefield, smiting their insect-like enemies with a mere twitch of their trigger-fingers. And those who inhabit the Warp long enough find their weapons becoming a physical part of themselves. Their own veins course with the oils and power that feed their weapons. Ammo belts feed into ravenous maws and they feel the ever-present violent hunger of their weapons. Is it not the epitome of such a marine’s life to truly become one with their weapon?

Tell us this time a tale of Havocs, be they a legendary unit such as the Talons of Khorne, a band of once-legionary support marines or fallen Devastators. Do they wield heavy weapons from afar or battle up close with plasma guns, melta guns and flamers? Or what saw them find this role within the warband? What drives them? Tell us of their victories and failures, their blessings, curses, strengths and foibles. What holds this squad of destructive individual together?

IF2018: Cry Havoc! runs until the ~~13th~~ 20th of July.

Let us be inspired.

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

The winner of IF2018: Cry Havoc! shall claim the Octed amulet:

...and the honour of judging the next topic.

Gederas · July 1, 2018

All of the choices were all quite good. Honestly, if I was given a choice, I'd say all of them, but since there must be a single victor.... However, since the definition of prophecy is quite malleable, I will say this:

I've chosen Honda to be the winner.

The account from the Sigilite, it made me feel like I was reading an entry from the Horus Heresy.

Well done. Take your amulet.

Honda · July 1, 2018

Thank you Gederas, very much! :)

It's funny, it wasn't until fairly late in the writing that the idea of the observer being Malcador came to mind, but it seemed to add the twist I was looking for and provide the plot loop that will be developed in our group's upcoming narrative campaign.

I'm looking forward to developing the concept further in follow on efforts.

And now <looks over and smiles at Kierdale>, I shall place this trophy next to the other one. :rolleyes:

Cheers,

Kierdale · July 7, 2018

The Devastators of the Stygian Guard, Havocs of the Psychopomps

Part One - Cousins

Hidden Content

Through the thick mists that hung like an eerie veil above the Lemus Bog the marines looked like avatars of death. Towering black reapers and white ghasts. They hovered at the edge of the swamp, looking into its depths with senses that penetrated the haze. And indeed they were symbols of impending doom for they had positioned themselves so that their foe would have to advance across the marsh; they would reap their enemy as the mortals struggled through the knee-deep mire.

“Stygian, greetings. I am Warkworth. I had heard that what you Stygians lack in zeal you make up for in pragmatism...”

Nereth took his eyes from the mists to regard the Black Templar addressing him. His sable mark three plate was battered and chipped, the thick frontal armour favouring the Templar’s beloved assault tactics.

“...yet you bring lascannons to a battle in a swamp?” The black-clad marine pointed with the tip of his chainsword at the heavy weapon the alabaster-armoured Stygian Guard devastator marine held. His helmet’s vox grill did nothing to hide the Templar’s derogatory tone. “Enthralled to Xenos the enemy may be, but they have not been rendered imbeciles. They will not bring their Russes, nor even their Chimeras. One wonders if even a sentinel could stride though that mire.”

It was Semoru - captain of the Stygian’s ninth company - that answered their cousin’s question, allowing Nereth to resume his surveying of the withered trees and tall grass that grew in clumps on the few, soggy islands scattered across the Bog. A servo-skull hovered above the captain’s head, spine-like cables tethering it to his backpack. The service studs in its brow, and the general gigantism of the cranium itself, gave it away as the skull of an Astarte: his predecessor, Iaronius. It was said that the servo skull preserved the knowledge the late 9^th captain had accumulated in his three hundred years of service, and relayed this constantly to the new commander of the devastator company.

“Our sniper teams from the tenth company are deployed in the cities to the east. So we make do with what we have. Pragmatic, no?” Semoru’s tone was neither defensive nor confrontational. He merely stated facts.

“You intend to snipe with lascannons?”

Semoru, like Nereth, turned his head back to look out into the mists and nodded slowly – whether in response to the Templar or to some tactical advice from the skull over his head, was unclear.

Part Two - Devastation

Hidden Content

Enslavers, Psyrens, Krell, Dominators and Puppeteers...many were the names for the rare xenos beasts that could exert their will over others with such ease. Only after much blood had been shed had it been discovered that the Nantessi Insurrection was the result of a gestalt of Enslavers. About the once-meek governor a cult of personality had arisen, the changed lord of Nantessi reborn a firebrand. Sycophants had flocked to him, and the priests of the Imperial Creed had too fallen from grace, declaring him their world’s savior and the bringer of true enlightenment. All the work of the Psyrens. And to what end? It was neither known nor did it matter: Astartes of two chapters answered the call of the Inquisition and so the Insurrection would be crushed.

The Black Templars and the Stygian Guard. Both chapters Scions of Dorn yet so very dissimilar. Differing in their approaches to warfare: the Templars with their crusader squads of initiates and neophytes, favouring melee, while the Stygians followed the Codex Astartes and strict adherence to certain tenets they had inherited from captain Vladimir Pugh of the Imperial Fists, whose bloodline they were said to be born from. And the Templars, they worshipped the divine God-Emperor with a fanaticism shared by no other chapter of Astartes.

In the armies of Nantessi – regiments of Imperial Guard and even Mechanicus forces – the marines encountered a zeal which almost matched that of the Templars, though the mortal forces were enthralled by the false prophet governor that the Psyrens puppeted. To them he was the Emperor reborn.

A foul blasphemy that the Astartes would punish.

Screams died out as bodies fell into the filthy water, trampled beneath the boots of their comrades before their wounds killed them. Lacking the autosenses of powered armour, the Nantessi Guard trudged forth through the Lemus Bog as fast as they could, eager to reach the dry land upon the other side, or at least close with the traitor Astartes – get close enough to see them and fire upon them. Aye, traitor Astartes, for so the two chapters had been proclaimed upon their arrival, failing to swear fealty to the Nantessi Reborn Emperor.

One squad knelt in the mire, seeking what cover they could find behind fallen trees, as they spotted a squad of black marines in the swamp ahead. Raising their lasrifles they opened fire, hyphens of scarlet light lancing out.

None managed to penetrate the armour of the Templars. Firing a salvo of shots from the hip they broke into a charge. Two of the guardsmen died as the bolts penetrated the dead, rotting wood of the tree boles they hid behind and exploded within the men’s bodies. The rest intensified their fire as the giant warriors advanced upon them.

As chainswords were raised high and a last salvo of bolt pistol fire was unleashed, more las fire poured into the Templars from other guard squads, one Templar falling as a lucky bolt found an eye-lens. But the guardsmen before them were slaughtered within seconds and the Templars did not break their stride as they moved on toward the next nearest squad of traitors.

Witnessing the butchery of their comrades at the hands of Astartes shook the hearts of men and several of the guardsmen turned. The head of one exploded as a bolt penetrated it, but not one fired from an Astarte weapon.

“HOLD YOUR GROUND!”

The bolt pistol in the commissar’s hand bucked and another man fell.

“THE EMPEROR WATCHES AND YOU WILL NOT FALTER IN HIS SIGHT! YOU WILL-“

Where the black-clad officer had stood the mists turned crimson as the man was obliterated. Such was the result of firing at a man a weapon meant for penetrating the thick armour of battle tanks.

The Templar, brother Warkworth, paused in his stride to look back toward the dry ground they had stood upon before battle had commenced. Toward where he knew the Stygian Devastator squad were still stood, and raised a fist in salute, a smile upon his face. Never had he seen such devastation wrought upon the human form.

Water exploded upward, bodies carried with it, as mortar rounds began to fall from the Nantessi fire support on the far side of the bog. That some of those struck were Astartes and others their fellow guardsmen spoke not of the desperation setting in amongst the mortals, for few soldiers of the Imperial guard would fire upon their own even in the direst of circumstances. No, it told the Astartes that a Psyren was present and was exerting its will over its thralls, forcing them to slaughter their own if need be.

The roar of engines grew in volume as Templar outriders arrived: a flanking force of bikers who had circumvented the bog. Twin bolters blasting, they did not decelerate as they smashed into the guard heavy weapon squads forming the traitor rearguard. A sword-brother reached out, slapping a melta charge onto the side of a Griffon as his black steed took him past it. The explosions lit the mists, visible even to the Stygians on the far side of the Bog.

And so the noose began to tighten.

A guardsman held his head in his hands, his back pressed against a barricade formed of dead trees and fallen comrades. Bolter fire chipped at his protection, fragments of wood and bone and lumps of gore flying. His wide eyes searched the swamp in desperation. There were no officers in sight. No commissars. All had been shot down. He had personally seen two vanish before his eyes, blown to smitherines. No would see him run. No one would stop him.

He gingerly rose to his knees, dropping his rifle into the filth beneath him. He took a staggering step. Another and another, his pace quickening as bolts cracked past him. Twice he nearly fell as he ran as fast as he could through the marsh, unashamedly trampling bodies for they were the driest ground he could find. The mists thinned before him and his pace quickened.

A root or vine took his feet from beneath him and he fell face-first to the ground, his cheek smashing into something hard. He opened his eyes to find he had hit the head of a corpse, butting the side of its head which had not been blown away by a marine bolt. And he looked down to see what had tripped him.

About his ankles was coiled a length of wet pink flesh. In his panic he saw it as the intestines of another corpse and almost screamed. His eyes followed the wet pipe as it snaked across the marsh and up into the lower sphere of an alien body that levitated above the ground. Numerous other tentacles sprouted from it, sucker-tipped. And atop the gnarled, veined body was another sphere dominated by a large violet-irised eye. He did scream at that moment, until the Psyren cast its gaze upon him.

“Enslaver sighted! Repeat: enslaver sighted. Coordinates...” captain Semoru relayed the beast’s location to his squads.

“This one is ours!” Nereth breathed, shifting his lascannon, bringing it to bear.

Lascannons lanced out, some went wide as the xenos cast mirages of itself about in the mist, but one shot struck true, penetrating the great eye and causing the alien to explode in a burst of yellow ichor.

Nereth cried out and raised his fist in victory.

Part Three - Havoc

Hidden Content

His body was wracked with pain. From every pore upon the surface of his scarred body – mementos of the procedures that had reborn him as Astartes and of countless battles across the galaxy as one of the Stygian Guard, to that fateful mission on Cyprius III – through his gene-enhanced musculature to his reinforced skeleton, his body was aflame. And in the next second it was as if he had been dropped naked into the harshest Fenrisian storms, the cold biting ravenously at him.

Electricity shot through him, locking his muscles taut. His teeth screeched as his jaw tensed.

And then a thousand razorwhips lashed him at once.

And the cycle continued. Pain in the form of every imaginable source, and even some which were indescribable, unexplainable.

Such he had endured in the wake of the Battle of the Bog on Nantessi decades before, in penitence for his hubris, for the Stygian Guard had in those years used the nerve glove device – that gossamer web which now enclosed his body and suspended it above the deckplates – to flense themselves of all emotions but devotion to duty. They voided themselves of pride, of sorrow, of wrath, of all sensation. Via the purity of pain.

But no longer.

Not since Cyprius III.

Not since the Dark Prince had enlightened them.

Now the nerve glove elevated them. They worshipped the pain. It brought them closer to their god.

The blessed amongst them were granted visions while within the glove’s embrace.

He saw visions, memories of the fall of Fulcrum. Their homeworld and the site of the Stygian’s fortress-monastery, they had returned from Cyprius III under the guise of loyal angels of the Emperor, returning victoriously. Within their citadel they had explored the worship of their new patron; a patron that answered prayers and granted great power, asking only for worship, suffering and sacrifice in return. And though the sects of the Creed on Fulcrum they had spread their corrupted worship throughout the masses, elevating the Exalted Fecund cult above all others and thus their mortal pawns took the adoration of the Dark Prince beyond their world to neighbouring systems.

Perhaps that rapid spread had been their downfall, or the murder on Berolar XII, but the Emperor’s retribution had come some years later: agents of the Inquisition had infiltrated Fulcrum, uniting those who had resisted corruption. These along with Tempestus Scions had formed the anvil upon which a hammer had struck from orbit.

The Templars.

He recalled the fire streaking from drop pods as they tore through the atmosphere, falling like meteors. Wondrous to behold. Their roar and the thunderous cracks as they struck the city were the percussion opening of one of the hardest, most exhilarating battles of his life. How many lives had he taken? The thrill of battle had taken him, he had been entranced and alongside his squad mates they had stood proud at the doors of the armoury, firing their heavy bolters with wild abandon, not taking their eyes off they enemy approaches as they had screamed to chapter thralls to bring more ammo. Barrels had nearly glowed incandescently and smoke blew from the battlements as they had poured fire into the enemy and fleeing, panicked civilians alike. When his bolter had seized he had cast it aside, spent shells piled up about him ankle-deep, and had taken up a flamer, slinging a plasma gun across his back.

The fortress was breached and the fighting had intensified. In these close-quarters the Templars had been in their element, it was true, but the Havocs – for they were devastators no more, they excelled in the employment of all weapons – had a weapon for all occasions and no less than three of their counsins’ charges had been met by tremendous conflagrations as squads armed entirely with flamers had filled corridors with roiling clouds of fire. The flames danced and waves spread hypnotically. He could hear the air and then the very meat and souls of their enemies being ravenously devoured as if they had unleashed an ifrit of fire. He was unable to unclench his finger from the weapon’s trigger and it continued to spew forth holy promethium. Swathed in curling tongues of fire a Templar barged through the flailing neophytes and scions before it, chainsword raised. He seemed to stride forward in slow motion as gouts of fire focused upon him and the ifrit, coalesced now in Nereth’s eyes as a lithe figure neither entirely male nor female, with a shock of luminous hair, skipped toward the Templar, tip toeing across the backs of already-charred corpses, cartwheeling through plumes of fire untouched as she/he was the fire and opening her/his arms wide to embrace the black-clad Astarte. An embrace that had taken the Templar to his knees and both had vanished in a curtain of fire.

The nerve glove scorched his body with the heat of that day as the memory enthralled him. And pain, agonizing, focusing, intoxicating pain took his right arm as he recalled how that day had ended.

Master Sophusar had called a retreat. The fortress was lost but the chapter: the Psychopomps, would live on. At the dark apostle Angra’s urging the masses of the Exalted Fecund had thrown themselves upon the Emperor’s servants’ blades.

The retreat had been almost as bloody as the fighting within the fortress, for the Templars would not let them escape. His flamer spent, he had unslung his plasma gun. Its muzzle was contorted into a daemonic visage and its eyes glowed with charge. There, within the shuttle bay, his feet upon a vessel’s ramp, they had heard the rapid footfalls of their cousins arriving. Too late to stop the Thunderhawk’s launch – the Havocs would be safely away – but Nereth had been unable to stop himself from turning back and opening fire. A parting shot, one last unleashing of a blast.

And the weapon had exploded in his hands.

At the time he had wondered if the Dark Prince had wished him to stay? To die gloriously surrounded by his beloved arms? To go down in a cacophony of shells and explosives?

He had fallen backwards into the embrace of his squad mates, staring at his truncated arm.

But now he knew: it had been an necessary sacrifice, as were all those Slaanesh demanded. On the road to his fulfillment.

He sucked in breath sharply as it bit into his flesh and he felt tendrils within the weapon snake into the stump of his arm, boring their way through the cauterized skin, into the muscle, merging with his nerves and feeding upon his veins. The daemon within the cannon was ravenously hungry and he knew that while it now supped upon his astartes blood, that would not satisfy it. Only in war, reaping souls, would it find its fill.

The Thunderhawk shook beneath him as alien weapons impacted upon its armoured hull. It shook once more as its undercarriage slammed down upon the ground and the ramps were already dropping. The roar of gunfire and explosions outside reached the Havocs within and as one they sucked in the smells of promethium and weapon propellant, the sounds of battle and the fear and excitement rich in the air.

As Nereth strode down the ramp, his autocannon already bucking in his hands, he knew that it would find its fill here upon craftworld Carth-Lar. For a time.

Kierdale · July 11, 2018

Need a third week? :)

Gederas · July 13, 2018

Need a third week? :)

So it would seem....

Kierdale · July 13, 2018

So be it :)

Gederas · July 20, 2018

Sanctified with Dynamite

Hidden Content

"Commander! The Heretics have stopped their assault!"

"They seemed to have pulled back. Odd for those frenzied berzerkers.... Something's not right." The general looks over his men before speaking into the vox. "Prepare yourself men. I do not believe we've seen the last of these eaters of worlds."

* * * * * *

In their staging area, the former Master of the Forge of the Thirty-Second Company of War Hounds overlooks the auspex. Hundreds of inputs and details flash on the screen, for most of the sons of Angron, such information would be too much, too fast due to the Nails. Warpsmith Khrogar is not like his brothers. Already a techmarine with heavy augmentations when the War Hounds were reunited with their father, Khrogar's augmentations prevented the Nails' mutilation of his mind. As the rest of his legion descended into the same madness and insanity as their father, Khrogar retained his sanity.

"So. They did hear my commands." He says to himself, grinning grimly. "I was sure their voxes were turned off by the sound of butchering and slaughter.

And his wit. Khrogar turns to his collected warriors, the remaining World Eaters who retained their sanity enough to follow orders, and those who's insanity was focused, razor-edged. The remnants of the Thirty-Second Company's Devastators, his Havocs. The Teeth of Khorne. Alongside these World Eaters are Khrogar's other weapons: The armoury. Predators, Vindicators, Land Raiders, Dreadnoughts. Alongside these smaller tanks and assault guns, one of Khrogar's finest warmachines rests, engine growling as it idles. The Octavius, a blood-red-and-brass hulled behemoth compared even to the other tanks, a Fellblade, a relic of the Legion’s glory days of the Great Crusade. Isstvan, Nuceria, Terra. The Octavius saw them all.

"I have a task for you all." Khrogar says, turning and looking over his Havocs. "Set up on the ridge above the Imperial Guardsmen, and rain hell of bullets, bolts, missiles and lascannon blasts upon them."

A bellow of acknowledgement from all, superhuman voices blending together with the roar of the engines causes Khrogar to smile.

"It is time! Let us show them exactly how dangerous the World Eaters are at range!"

* * * * * *

The Havocs and their fire supporting armour near the edge of the ridge overlooking the valley that the Imperial Guard are holed up in. Kaneth grins inside of his helmet, clutching the grips of his Autocannon tightly. He looks to his right, seeing the missile launcher-toting members of squad Hrodi, and the lascannons of Gundar's squad. He turns to his left and is surprised to see his old squadmate Sinvar's Ironform having strode to the edge. A feeling of pride swells in Kaneth's hearts, seeing the tall dreadnought, the Butcher Cannon Array and Greater Havoc Launcher it carries will add even more to the tally. He sees the glowing green optics of the Deredeo dreadnought's head look towards his squad.

"Eyes forward Kaneth. Our target is in the valley, not to your sides."

Kaneth begins to laugh.

"Just like Butcher's Gulch on Malconia, eh Sinvar?"

"I would prefer it not to be exactly like Malconia. If I recall correctly, it was your fault our squad was wiped out, and I was put in this body."

Before Kaneth can respond, Khrogar's voice cuts in over the vox.

+Brothers. It is time. Let's bring them hell.+

Within mere milliseconds of Khrogar's command, the ridges on both sides of the canyon light up with fire.

* * * * * *

The canyon the Imperial Guard had decided to become their fortress against the World Eaters' assault had been, a fact unbeknownst to them, a massive, naturally-formed killing field if a force got to the top of the ridges. Normally, World Eaters would ignore such a tactic, but Khrogar's keen tactical mind noted as such before landing and requested his warriors to remain on standby until the time was right. Now, the killing had begun in earnest.

Massive bullets from autocannons, 1.00 caliber bolts from the heavy bolters, krak and frag missiles and lascannon blasts cut through the guard in the canyon. The artillery shells of the Vindicators explode around them. The boxed canyon's only entrance, their only escape is now blocked by the blood-red bulk of the World Eater's 32nd Company's Predators and Land Raiders. At the center, charging ahead of its smaller siblings, the Octavius rushes forwards, its massive cannon causing the smaller Leman Russ tanks of the Imperial Guard to detonate on impact, sending shrapnel of buckled, burning steel in all directions into the guard's ranks.

Nearly all of the World Eaters succumbed to the Butcher's Nails, becoming frothing, maddened berzerkers. Khrogar did not, and his men still follow his orders... Mostly. But if Khrogar knows one thing, it is what Berogon told him after finding the truth of Khorne:

Khorne cares not from where the blood flows, or how it flows. Only that is flows.

Khrogar merely enjoys seeing it flow in rivers after Khorne's Teeth add their fire support, causing slaughter and butchery faster than even the berzerker warriors of his Legion can in an equal amount of time.

I wrote this entire thing while listening to Powerwolf's song

, and its

on repeat. It helped with the writing. And was where I got the name of the short.

It was also nice writing something for Khrogar, and it also has some previews as to things I've got planned for my World Eaters' forces.

Kierdale · July 20, 2018

Well, I was about to put the topic of Havocs on the back burner until we got new models, but then Gederas delivered!

I enjoyed reading Sanctified with dynamite, as I’d heard of Khornate Havocs but we so rarely see them (in fiction or on the tabletop). I liked that the Guard had set themselves up in a valley, expecting their enemy - the World Eaters - would assault and so aiming to limit their foe’s options...only to find that Angron’s sons aren’t all choppy.

And in my entry I took a Devastator of the Stygian Guard (my Slaanesh marines before their fall) though a campaign alongside their Templar cousins (it’s nice to revisit that campaign again and again with different characters), to visions of the fall of their home world at the hands of those same Templars, to his arrival, transformed and one with his weapon, upon an Eldar craftworld (again, the location of a few of my other Psychopomp entries).

I hereby close the topic but if anyone has entries on the subject the please feel free to post them at any time, with a suitable title in the post.

And here begins our thirteenth (a most auspicious number!) challenge of Inspirational Friday 2018: Temple of Chaos

Ranging from towering menhirs upon which captives are sacrificed to Khorne, their blood draining into the tainted soil at their feet, through debased and adulterated former houses of worship to the God-Emperor, to grand cathedrals of non-Euclidean geometry, passageways of crystal winding impossibly and turning in upon themselves, varied are the temples of the Chaos Pantheon.

Be it a defiled chapel aboard a heretic Astates vessel or a gladiatorial ring - each fight ending with the presentation of skulls before a bronze icon of the Blood God - or a house of ill-repute run by devotees of the Dark Prince, exercise your imaginations and tell us of a temple of Chaos!

IF2018: Temple of Chaos! runs until the 10th of August.

Let us be inspired.

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

The winner of IF2018: Temple of Chaos shall claim the Octed amulet:

...and the honour of judging the next topic.

Warsmith Demetrios · July 23, 2018

Haven't done writing like this in a long while, and it's awesome to get to clean the rust off of my old skills! Here's my entry for "Chaos Temple"!

OLD LEGENDS DIE HARD

Hidden Content

Ordo Malleus Inquisitor Isaak Fulme could smell the taint in the air before the gang-ramp to the Valkyrie even lowered.

The agent of the Emperor had expected little less from a world caught in the periphery of the Great Rift, and further subjected to raids from all manner of heretic in the following decades. Once a bustling shrine world who’s inhabitants gave praise to the glories of the Emperor’s creation - crystal streams, unspoiled expanses of forest, and snowcapped mountain peaks that nearly scraped orbit – only a blasted ruin remained of Hagia III. The holy cities and cathedrals had been hit the hardest, subjected to the depredations of the Forces of Chaos and corrupted beyond recognition. When Lord Commander Guilliman’s Indomitus Crusade had reached this world, it was with great enthusiasm that Fulme had accepted the Primarch’s request for him to assess the planet’s viability for continued inhabitation.

Flanked by a retinue of Inquisitorial stormtroopers, with two massive, shadowed figures that stuck toward the back of the little band, the Inquisitor descended the ramp, surveying the landscape with un-holstered bolt pistol in hand. Over the course of the last three weeks, Fulme and his men had scoured the planet, purging what heretical filth had deigned fit to remain after their masters had fled, and handing down judgment to what “loyal” citizens had survived the Chaotic onslaught. By his own estimates, barely 23% of the local population had been considered pure enough to remain alive, with only 7% of that number being fit to avoid chemical castration.

“Eyes up,” he declared, taking point amongst the advancing soldiers as they stepped into the early-afternoon sunlight, “this place reeks of corruption.”

The plateau they had landed on had been a stronghold for “giant kidnappers and archedevils” by local accounts. Signs of heretic inhabitation were clear and present, with defensive positions, rusted pillboxes and collapsed bunkers wrapped in razor-wire and surrounded by steel L-beams made a semi-circle around an old temple to the Emperor. Slammed into the soft, bleach-white soil were steel pikes, atop which rested the decaying remains of malcontents and PDF soldiers. As they past these profane sacrifices, Fulme found the sense of warp-taint amplified. Alongside him, stormtrooper Raph hefted a large model of flamer, the young pyromaniacs finger itching as it brushed against the trigger.

Good, the Inquisitor thought, his mind recalling the burnt out remains of the once-prosperous city below, this place is looking more irredeemable by the moment.

“Inquisitor” a deep voice heavily distorted by vox filtration called from the back, “perhaps it is best if we take the lead.”

Behind the small throng of mortals, two giants in silver terminator power armor towered over everyone present by several feet. The height difference was mitigated somewhat in Fulme’s case, clad in his own gilded pattern of the Grey Knight’s plate, though he was still much shorter than the Astartes, and nowhere near as physically imposing. In one hand they held their force halberds, while their free hands were host to wrist-mounted bolters capable of blowing holes through men the size of dinner plates. The Inquisitor welcomed the Astartes presence, though he longed to be away from their scrutinizing gaze, lest the more . . . questionable members of his retinue (which he had carefully sequestered aboard his personal vessel) came under question.

“Quite alright, brothers Kreed and Slade.” he called back as he turned to face them, flashing his trademark grin with the lit iho-stick clenched between his teeth.

“Wouldn’t want our Astarte brethren thinking us mortal men can’t handle the Archenemy ourselves, would we boys?”

Fulme’s men laughed at his jest, and he allowed himself to be enveloped by his own charisma for a brief moment. It was a welcome respite from the grim work they did, though he couldn’t tell whether the Grey Knights had enjoyed his humor as much as the mortals did.

“At least allow us to guard you’re flanks then, Lord Fulme,” the younger of the two Space Marines, Slade, asked, “reports suggest the peaks and surrounding forest to be breeding grounds for homo variatus – beastmen in the thrall of Chaos.”

At that moment, Fulme was happy he hadn’t brought his own beastmen acolyte, Vor, on this little excursion.

“Beastmen are the least of my worries.” he declared, passing by a burned and torn standard flapping in the breeze. Emblazoned in the fabric were odd symbols and runes that seemed to invite aching pains into the eyes of those who viewed them. Kreed lowered the blade of his halberd to graze the cloth, which suddenly ignited in a burst of blue-tinted flame.

Slightly irked to realize that the two Astartes had approached his sides despite his protests, the Inquisitor sighed as his party slowly ascended the cracked marble steps. The doors, their once proud Aquillas defaced by blood and other less savory body waste had remained ajar since the occupants had vacated, giving a glimpse to the otherworldly darkness within. Activating their visor’s night vision, the stormtroopers entered from the sides, fanning out and forming a perimeter around their lord and his Astarte companions. Though the Grey Knight’s eyes were perfectly adapted to seeing in near-total darkness on a moment’s notice, it took Fulme’s ocular organs - having been subjected to numerous experiments by a Mechanicus biologis tech-adept – an extra second or two to catch up.

When they did, Fulme wished he could say what he saw surprised him, though that would be a lie.

“By the Emperor…” one of the troopers muttered.

Like most of the Hagia’s basilicas and cathedral’s, this shrine to the Emperor’s glory had been visited by the same corruption and profanations, though it seemed as though particular attention had been paid to the defilement of this lonely little structure. Pews had been ripped from the ground and split for firewood, with small tents and sleeping bags surrounding the burnt-out pits. Whatever relics or gilded ornamentations hadn’t been bolted to the ground had been hauled away, while those that were had seemingly been smashed apart. Once pristine murals and stain glass windows were now filled with holes and scorch marks, ruddy beams of sunlight filtering through to illuminate small areas of the structure’s interior. What windows remained intact were smeared in blood with diabolical symbols, chief amongst them being the eight pointed octed star of Chaos.

Fulme suddenly found the wriggling sense of warp exposure at the back of his mind unbearably noticeable, and in a trick he had learned from a Space Wolf he had once fought alongside, spat down at the ground to ward off the maleficarum. Finding themselves just as uncomfortable as their lord, the stormtroopers took to mimicking the gesture. With force of belief at their back, the unease quickly retreated, though it left Fulme with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could see the two Grey Knights share a quick glance beneath visored helms on his sides, and quickly moved to eliminate any doubts in their minds of his and his men’s integrity.

“What do you make of those statues?”

He lifted a golden gauntlet in the direction of the main alter, pointing out the four stone statues that lined the procession. Above the alter, the bones of whatever saint had blessed this temple had been suspended in mid-air by knots of rope, the bones tied together in the shape of yet another octed star. Though it was impossible, Fulme was almost positive he could hear little cries of torment from each pore from the defiled remains.

Now the two Grey Knights did advance ahead of their Inquisitor, the mortals keeping close in the rear. Though the two silver giants blocked his complete field of vision, Fulme’s view of the statues was still good enough to make out the details. One was a bare chested warrior with his face contorted in a savage grin, exposing wickedly filed teeth that almost appeared too real to be anything other than authentic. In one held he held an absurdly long pike, the tip of which was modeled to appear as though it dripped blood. In the other, the warrior cradled a crested helm, while a circular shield with a stylized symbol Fulme recognized as the brass skull of Khorne was painted on with blood.

The other appeared as a beautiful maiden, her heaving left breast left bare by a toga that also revealed the tantalizing sight of her long right leg and thigh. Two tiny horns seemed to strain to erupt from the stone of the statue’s forehead, lending the woman the playful look of a forest nymph from Old Terran and feral world legend, with a mischievous grin gracing her gentle features. Men of lesser fortitude may have found themselves aroused by the unnaturally alluring muse, and Fulme thanked the Emperor he wasn’t one of them, especially as the things eyes almost seemed to follow him through the temple.

The next statue was that of an emaciated man in a full-body cloak, most of his facial features obscured by a heavy hood. Constellations and arcane symbols had been hammered into his robes, while both hands clenched tightly around a wooden staff topped by a bird’s skull with amethysts inlaid within the eye sockets. On his pauldroned right shoulder, a stone raven with a tilted head seemed to examine all passers-by with its unwavering gaze. Fulme didn’t like it, and he wanted its jeweled-stare gone.

“Naern,” he called to the youngest troop in the squad, a crack-shot he had requisitioned from a Catachan regiment scheduled for decimation in the aftermath of an encounter with a daemon prince, “get rid of the bird.”

Stepping forward, the black-and-red armored trooper leveled his hotshot lasrifle, popping of a single shot. The beam of red light struck the avian likeness true, sending stone shards flying in every direction and melting what remained. The amethysts rolled in front of the Inquisitor, and when he found that they still gave off the eerie feeling, even without their raven host, he ground them into dust with his servo-powered boot.

The final statue seemed the least malevolent of the bunch, though everything about it still seemed all wrong. Two stone figures stood atop the plinth, both dressed as beggars in tattered rags. What struck Fulme, however, was the fact that the standing beggar, a clearly plague-ridden man host to all manner of boils, pustules, and open wounds that seemed to attract every insect in the area, was the one wearing a laugh-out-loud smile. Below him, a healthier looking man looked up clear shock as the other diseased beggar poured a pouch of coins out at his feet.

“They almost looks like scenes from an old Grekan legend.”

“Uncannily so.”

Slade stepped up to the dust-covered statue of the bare-chested warrior, brushing aside the detritus at the base of the plinth.

“Do you recognize this symbology, Lord Inquisitor?” Kreed asked, remaining still as Fulme approached his side, suddenly much more comfortable in the Astarte’s presence.

“Not from personal experience,” he admitted, taking a deep drag of his fast fading iho-stick, “though I have seen these in the records of my predecessor when I was still an acolyte.”

“Better that you haven’t,” Slade announced, wiping away the last traces of grime from the base of the plinth, laying the icon beneath bare for all to see. Centered within an eight-pointed star, a stylized iron-cast skull glimmered as the light caught it. Beneath it, numeral so chipped and eroded that they were nigh on unreadable had been carved into the stone.

“It would appear that we’ve found our ‘kidnappers’,” Slade announced, “the sons of Perturabo have made this place their own.”

“That doesn’t coincide with witness accounts,” Fulme retorted, “PDF survivors reported sightings lining up with several catalogued Word Bearer and Night Lord warbands.” He didn’t know why he was arguing with the Grey Knights while the evidence stared him right in the face, though he quickly realized it was more for his own sense of security than anything. Out of all the heretic Astartes he was familiar with, non were more thorough in their prosecution of their “Long War” than the fourth legion.

“Eye-witnesses also describe heavy fighting amongst the heretics about five years after the occupation.” Slade replied, rising to full height and turning toward the assembled mortals.

“It would seem there was a turf-war amongst the traitors for recruiting stock, and the Iron Warriors won.”

“Not just any Iron Warriors either,” Kreed announced, “this cultural display, mixing old Grekan and Olympian myth with the symbology of Chaos? This is the work of the 25^th Grand Company; Warsmith Demetrios’ lot.”

Now that was a name Fulme was familiar with. Warsmith Demetrios, an Alpha level psyker in heavily customized terminator plate, to whom the destruction and despoliation of over a centuries worth of Imperial worlds and fortresses was credited. Having been active since the Horus Heresy as a baseline legionary, Demetrios had over ten millennia of experience with which to bring ruin to the Imperium, and with over a thousand Chaos Space Marines and ancient war machines at his back, he had the resource to do it as well.

“So I take it I get to burn this place to the ground then?” Raph asked eagerly, heft his flamer enthusiastically. Out of all the stormtroopers he seemed to be the only one with a grin on his face, the others all shifting their weight uncomfortably while they glanced quickly back toward the open doors. Each of them had faced traitor Astartes before during the Crusade, and none of them were thrilled at the prospect of doing so again.

“Along with the forest, and the nearest three settlements.” Fulme announced with a sigh, discarding his spent iho-stick.

“When we retook this world, all that was left were some mortal warlords. When was the last time the Iron Warriors were here according to the locals?”

“About a year ago maybe.” The Inquisitor answered Kreed, the unease quickly returning to the back his mind, manifesting itself in the feeling that he was suddenly being watched. “Why does it matter?”

“My lord,” Slade replied, suddenly gripping the length of his halberd more tightly than usual, “we should probably return to orbit now; just for the time being.”

“Why is that, brother Slade?”

“If its been but a year, then they may not know that the Imperium has retaken this world. They will be back to replenish their stock of slaves and recruits.”

Before he reply, Fulme’s ears were suddenly filled with the sounds of claws scratching against splintering wood, thumps and clickity-clacks emanating in distorted echoes throughout the temple. Suddenly very aware of how far they had spread out, the stormtroopers formed a solid gunline around the alter, their lord and his Astarte escorts standing above them on the steps.

“We should make for the Valkyrie now-“

Before Raph could finish his warning, a big chunk of wood from the left wall erupted outward in a hail of splinters and dust. Stepping through the cloud of wood dust, a hulking beastmen gor bellowed its inhuman rage out to any who would hear him. The mutant’s unhealthily muscular body was wrapped in armor made of bent scrap metal secured by links of chain and mail sheets, drool from his ram-faced maw dribbling over his plate. In one hand the monster held a brutal looking axe, while the other gripped a rusted stub pistol. The chipped black and yellow hazard stripes on both its firearm and pieces of scrap armor marked the thing out as belonging to the Iron Warriors mortal hosts, a fighting force Fulme had heard referred to as Demetrios’ “Steel Sons”.

As soon as the beastman favored them with its malevolent gaze, Naern put a las-bolt right between the gor’s eyes. As soon as the mutant collapsed, it was replaced by another from the right wall, its furry hide scraped and rent bloody from digging under the jagged wood. With a las rifle of its own it began firing wildly, a shot chipping at the edge of Kreed’s shoulder pauldron. Almost casually, the Grey Knight raised his wrist-mounted bolter, blasting the creature apart in a storm of gore.

“Move!” Fulme cried out, unsheathing his antique power sword from its scabbard and once more taking the lead. His men quickly formed up around him and the Astartes, training their weapons on anything that so much as fluttered with a gust of wind. From the front doors, a recognizably human figure stepped forward, though bare chested and host to a tentacle-like appendage in place of a right arm, it was obvious he wasn’t one of there’s.

The mutated man, screaming praise to powers best left unnamed, flew at the Inquisitorial retinue with a machete in hand. Fulme stepped forward, bisecting the mutant with a sweep from his power sword and allowing the stormtroopers to dispatch the man’s still-thrashing upper torso with las shots to the head.

“Frakking ‘muties!” Raph cursed loudly in what most linguists would struggle to classify as a roar or a laugh, igniting a trio of beastmen that has crawled up from the hole in the walls left by their brethren. The gors screamed like stuck hogs as they were bathed in promethium, rolling around on the floor in a pile of bodies before their charred corpses came to a still. In his revelry however, the foul-mouthed stormtrooper hadn’t noticed the trio of rag-wearing mutants that had flanked the group in the ensuing chaos. Rushing from the shadows, they set upon him with nailed club, razor-wire wrapped bats, and shoddy dagger

“Lord Fulme!” Raph managed to cry out from the floor before a dagger pierced his throat. He didn’t go out without a fight however, sending gouts of immolating flame sky-high and setting both himself and his assailants ablaze. A trail of chem flame caught one of the roof-mounted tapestries, spreading fire up into the wooden support beams. Fulme would miss his flamer specialist’s toilet humor, but there would be time to mourn him later.

“He’s gonna blow!” He roared, slamming his blade through the heart of another gor while Kreed split a cultist rushing him from the right down the middle. Kreed sprayed another mob of increasingly more human-looking assailants with a hail of bolter shells, leaving a gory pile by the door. With the high pitch whine announcing the impending blast from Raph’s promethium tanks, the mortals hurried to the exit with expediency, their Astarte accomplices moving at much more leisurely pace. When they stepped out the front doors, and heard the shattering glass and felt the wave of heat wash over their backs, they knew they had exited in a timely manner.

“We should’ve just dropped firebombed this whole region.” Naern spat, sending a volley of las fire into a man wearing little more than furs before he could fire his auto revolver at them.

Fulme was forced to agree with the young man as he stepped out onto the plateau. Their valkyrie was intact, though beastmen, mutants, and cultists of all description were banging on it ineffectively with primitive blades and taking potshots with small arms. In the forest below, braying howls announced the presence of a larger warherd, while the chanting chorus that mixed with it exposed the activity of Chaotic cults that taken to the forest in the aftermath of the Imperium’s brief return. Hagia III’s population had only been three billion, and over three quarters of that had either been killed or shipped off world during the occupation by the various Chaos forces. What remained had further been culled by Fulme’s culls, so he knew the enemies numbers were finite. In the face of what sounded like a few hundred hostiles however, finite was a relative term.

“Why now?” He asked his Grey Knight escorts.

“We’ve been in the towns and cities for weeks now, they must’ve known we were here!”

Kreed, stomping his foot plate down on a gor who’s head was morphed into the likeness of a horned hound and spilling its skull’s contents into the soil in a stream of blood and brain matter, merely pointed toward the sky as though that was the answer. When Fulme followed his finger toward the clouds, he found that, indeed, it was.

Hanging in low orbit amidst a tortured sky of orange clouds that burst with arcs of purple warp-lighting, the most ugly – and massive – vessel the Inquisitor had ever seen scraped the sky with its tortured form. Streaming from its hangars like a swarms of locusts, hundreds of landing craft and mass haulers descended toward Hagia’s surface, ready to take another haul of slaves and new blood for the Iron Warrior’s and Steel Son’s fleshstock.

“That would be why,” Brother Slade announced, dispatching the last of the present assailants with wide sweeps of his force halberd, “the Gorgophone. Personal space hulk of the Iron Warriors 25^th Grand Company, and Warsmith Demetrios’ flagship.”

“The heretics are responding to the call of their master.” Kreed announced, flicking the blood off his own blade and onto the ground, “they yearn to return to their home.”

“We need to leave now Lord Inquisitor,” Slade continued, slamming on the ramp of the Valkyrie, “if we stay any longer, we won’t be facing Demetrios’ cultist or mutant rabbles. The Steel Sons are a well-drilled force, and the 25ths Astartes are infinitely worse. as you well know!”

The ramp slammed open, the frantic flight crew urging the group inside. As Fulme stepped inside the sanctified space of his personal transport, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. His ship would be waiting for him in low orbit on the other side of the planet, and from this distance no Iron Warrior vessels would notice them.

“Pilot!” he called upward as they began their ascent, hearing the ineffective pings of autogun rounds bouncing against the valkyrie’s hull.

“Yes my lord?”

“Send word to the ship; heavy Chaotic presence in Hagia, recommend exterminatus. Have the astropaths send word to the nearest naval muster.”

The pilot took a moment to relay the message as the surface of Hagia grew further away by the moment. As they entered the upper atmosphere, he turned his visor-helmed face back to face his lord.

“My lord, the astrophath has responded. She has sent word to the nearest muster, and a response team will be hear within two weeks.”

“Response team?” The Inquisitor asked, still flanked by his two Grey Knights. “What about the navy?”

“No Imperial naval fleets could respond in a timely manner, my lord!” The pilot called back over the uncharacteristically rough turbulence.

“Our message was picked up by an Astartes chapter receiving munitions in a nearby system!”

“Which chapter, pilot?” Slade asked, suddenly intrigued.

“My lords, I believe they claimed to be the Blood Ravens!”

Sign In

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

Recommended Posts

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Link to comment

Share on other sites

Archived

Recently Browsing 0 members

Important Information