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

[Barbatos]

Here's my take on the Temple of Chaos.

 

The Great Race

Hidden Content

‘Are you ready boy?’ Ekanos held the green helmet before the rider, it’s lenses without colour and it’s form without decoration save for a single white stripe cutting through the centre. The ‘boy’ sat staring at the floor, the helmet sat in Ekanos’s hands a moment longer before he thrust it into his face, breaking his nose with ease. The boy growled and stood to face his elder, blood rushed through his veins and his mind burned with violence.

‘That’s it! Now put the bloody helmet on and prepare yourself, they’ll be screaming your name by sundown.’ Ekanos offered the helmet once more and with newfound vigour the youth snatched it from him. Ekanos smiled and turned away.

‘Yes my boy, the congregation are ready for you, do not disappoint them. Baleros the Thunderbolt… I hope they remember you boy.’

Baleros was left alone, with his helmet in his hands. It was an old Mark IV that seemed out of place among the rest of his warband, it was free of horns, blasphemic scratchings or trophies, it was his. He caught his reflection in a broken mirror, his face blemished by a single scar in between his green eyes, he looked away and put on the helm. Baleros looked back to the mirror and examined himself again. His cannibalised power armour was clean and as plain as his helmet, he would be easily confused for a loyalist if it were not for the winged sword on his left pauldron. He felt nothing as he looked at himself, no pride, excitement or shame came to mind. He shook his head and sighed, Ekanos was forever trying to goad him into action at moments like this, but it couldn’t be helped. Before a battle he felt the natural urge of his transhuman body as did the rest of his warband, but there was no fire in his heart. When butchering the innocent and burning entire worlds Baleros was the black horse, often chided by the others for his lackluster. There were those that wished for his removal from the warband, but Ekanos would always defend the young blood. No, the only thing that ever gave Baleros life was the Great Race.

With a grunt he made for the exit.

Baleros found himself in a great expanse of scorched earth, surrounded by an ampitheatre of cultists, slaves and deviants that crawled from the darkest parts of the galaxy to give praise to the Great Race. The Temple of Tallarega, known to it’s champions as the Black Circuit, the amphitheatre stood as the only structure on the Desert World of Alabarra, a great monument to the ruinous powers. Champions from across the galaxy flocked to Albarra to give praise to the Chaos Gods through gladiatorial combat and death races, the greatest ‘ritual’ of all was the Great Race and few were mad enough to take part in the spectacle. Baleros moved through the field of tents placed at the centre of the temple, the black racetrack surrounding them and separating the champions from the hundreds of thousands of spectators screaming for entertainment. As he moved through the tents he saw the banners of his opponents fluttering in the hot air.

The Eye of Kordaz of the Black Legion, the green swine of Porgo a champion of Nurgle, there were icons of Slaanesh embellished in the heraldry of most of the racers but none of them stood as high nor as bedazzling as the banner of the Bal Morag, the Steel Rider of the Iron Warriors. Baleros passed the Iron Warrior’s banner and stared at the silver skull for a moment. He looked around at fanatic pit crews and heretek tending to their masters bikes, making final adjustments to the master crafted engines or soothing the tainted machine spirits eager for the race. Baleros had no need for a pit crew, he saw to the maintenance of his steed himself, he had an affinity for machines and had mastered the inner workings of the astartes attack bike during his time as an initiate. Baleros reached the edge of the riders camp and took a step onto the track. The thrice-sanctified tarmac baked in the sun and choked Baleros even through the vox-grille of his helmet, he shook off the noxious stench and looked up to the crowd. They called for carnage and for the roar of the bikes, the young and old, the mutant and the renegade all called out the names of their favoured champion or dark litanies to the Chaos Pantheon. Baleros could see their faces with his enhanced senses, there were groups of zealots cutting themselves as a form of blessing, renegade pirates and junkers who came to marvel at the feats of mechanical ingenuity. Then there were the preachers, shamans, barbarians, mercenaries, the outcasts and the rare Imperial exposing themselves to the ways of the ruinous powers. Baleros cursed them all, slaves to dogma and the cosmic slaughter of reality. He did not ride for fame, nor for the gods, his actions were for himself and for survival. As he lost himself in hateful thought the young rider caught the eye of Bal.

The Iron Warrior sat silently on a great war bike of oily metals and twisting chains, he revved the bike and his cold blue eyes looked straight through Baleros. Bal Morag spat and pulled his horned helmet over his head. All of the riders were mounting up. The air was thick with the tinge of machine oil, the exhausts of the machines spat out black bile and flame. Many of the riders were sizing one another up with roars and insults, other sharpened their weapons, only melee combat was permitted in the Great Race, Baleros gripped the hilt of his machete as he remembered the sacred commandments of the race. He spotted the dark green attack bike sitting at the far right of the starting line. He took one last look at the other bikers, nineteen, nineteen riders all vying for glory or favour from the gods. He mounted up, gently touching the black feathers wrapped around the handlebars of his steed. He checked the saddle webbing for throwing axes and blades, checked fuel reserves through his autosenses and tapped the skull ornament in front of him. His fingers pricked and his legs were burning from the heat of the bike between his legs. His teeth started to chatter as he gunned the engine, savage twists of the throttle sent adrenaline pumping through his veins, combat-stimms and narcotics gushed into his system as he started to chew on his tongue. Baleros stood upright and ripped at the throttle again, he hadn’t noticed that he was barking in response to his steed. The crowd had lulled as the great Apostle Azelemon climbed the golden font carved into inner ring of the temple, his glorious robes of gold reflected the light and gave him the impression of burning sun set against the blackstone masonry.

Baleros drowned out the pointless sermon with more barking and more rips of the handlebars, his heart was on fire and his body rattled with the heart of the engine. Baleros was alive and eager for the slaughter. He heard the horn sounding once, he sat still in his seat and muttered under his breath.
Three-hundred lengths of the circuit…

Then came the second horn.
Lay in wait behind and attack on the final fifty...

And finally the third.
Kill them all...

[Kierdale]

Thanks for the entries so far, Warsmith Demetrios and Barbatos. :tu:

If you could put your entries in hidden tags it would be great.

[hidden*]texthere[/hidden*]

With the asterisks removed :)

[MaliGn]

The Last Sermon of Kor Ladron

 

Hidden Content

 

Carnac and his brothers were ranged around the simply lit passenger hold of their battered Thunderhawk Gunship; the penitent oddysey of their leader the blessed Kor Ladron had taken its toll on ship and marine alike. The coterie were hardened, callous killers before they had begun the fateful voyage; now their eyes had been opened to the truths of the universe, they were desperate savages, corrupted versions of their former selves but bound in stronger bonds of loyalty to each other than ever before. Their voyage had taken a savage toll on their souls, on their bodies and on the vessel in which they were now gathered. Despite this each was filled with the burning passion of faith, which gave them the determination to continue despite the most painful burden of the voyage: the loss of their esteemed leader. For, in a final act of contrition for his part in the failing of the great rebellion; Kor Ladron had sustained wounds of a severity that has overcome even his superhuman physique.

 

It was around his sundered body that the group of Word Bearers were gathered in solemn vigil, they knew that he was dying and they were racing for the world, deep within the Eye of Terror where they had heard their blessed Primach Lorgar had gathered the reamins of their once-proud legion. They knew that it was their faith that was sustaining their Apostle as his injuries took greater hold over his body as he lay on the makeshift pallet of ammunition crates serving as a stretcher.

The injured warrior raised his head, blood caking his once noble visage and began to speak, the passion and fire that had burned in him since learning the primordial truth from his blessed Primarch burning even as he lay on his death bed.

"Brothers, Sons, Bearers of the Word, long have we travelled to learn the deepest mysteries of the Empyrean, to understand the teachings of the Urizen for ourselves and to bring his Word to those wretched infidel we encountered." He coughed hackingly and spat gore from his cracked lips. "We have seen the decadence of The Prince, the feculent blessings of the Grandfather, the incandescent rage of the Blood God and the unfathomable mysteries of the Great Changer. We have learnt much, and what we have learned most of all is that there is yet more still to learn." He snarled and grimaced in pain.

"Above all I have learned that the true manner of worship of this dark pantheon is to be completed in all things, for the gods are ever-present. Unlike the accursed corpse-emperor they are not imprisoned in moribund edifices of stone and steel, they are wild, primal, vital and eternal. Their temples are to be found wherever their disciples gathered, when one of Angron's sons is deep within a bezerkers rage that is Khorne's church. The plague-houses of Nurgle are his synagogues. When a lowly mortal desecrates a relic of the false god of the Imperium in the name of the True Gods they are there." The gathered Astartes nodded in agreement with their stricken leader, hearing the truth of his words.

"Brothers, it matters not to the Masters of the Empyrean whether we build cathedrals in their honour, we need but bring their Truth to the Galaxy. With fire and steel, blood and holy battle, we will honour them! We will preach the nature of the True Gods to the Universe with the hymns of gunfire and the Psalms of the dying! We will worship them on the altar of battle! We will consecrate worlds to them in the eternal war! For the battlegrounds of the dark millennium are the truest temples ever constructed and we will raise them higher than ever for the glory of the Legion! The Urizen! The Gods! and for Chaos!"

Despite his weakened state he raised his right fist in a salute to his brothers, a signal they mirrored in respect "For Chaos" the intoned as Kor Ladron slumped back onto the pallet, insensible.

[hushrong]

Homecoming

 

It watched with such apt curiosity and hungered for the blood being shed to drench its own soil of obsidian sand. Canyons formed a mouth gaped in awe and its oceans of mercury formed eyes that watched in wonder. The moon had heard the stories the neverborn whispered and the tales carried on the warp’s winds. Yet now it watched as beast of iron and stone dueled in the presence of the Vengeful Spirit, returned from its exile. With it a new Legion reborn from old blood had set out to conquer the Eye.

 

Trapped within the larger worlds fluctuating gravitational pull the moon cast a shadow over a spectacular void battle. Not truly alive but not without primitive sentience it knew the significance of the mortal ship. Hymns of its dominance and damnation were sung within the nightmare realm of the immaterium. It had returned and it had brought fire and death.

 

The defenders had pulled back when the enemy fleet translated into their system. The Black Legion some called them then in mocking tones. They appeared in the midst of their meager defense grid. A dozen ships scattered against a flotilla of four vessels. Although the Promise of Calamity, a battleship in its own right, was a match for half the defenders alone it was not why his foes scattered. The Legions knew the Vengeful Spirit sailed again and had burned a course through the Eye. Now, they stood in its path.

 

They did not get far. The sons of the First Legion were no cowards but they were not fools. They would not win this battle going toe to toe with a Gloriana class warship, the most feared of her lineage. Their chances were even less so when it was supported by more warships. They would put distance between the enemy fleet before engaging in hit and run tactics. They would try to bleed their foe by a death from a thousand cuts.

 

Yet the wrathful breath of the Vengeful spirit was unleashed and no shot was wasted as it chased the First Legion defenders. Void shields flickered and died under the assault of the Vengeful Spirits guns. Further salvos of ordinance crippled their engines as the Black Legion cruisers closed the gap between them and the fleeing Dark Angel’s ships. When they were on top of the crippled ships they unleashed their deadly cargo, boarders with such murderous desires to carry out harrowing missions. The Black Legion would offer them brotherhood before the blade. Yet none would shy from staining their weapons with blood.

 

As war was fought in the void the Promise of Calamity turned from the naval engagement and hung in low orbit over an unnatural world. Her bombardment cannons rained fiery hell upon the surface below. Cascading energy of the shields flickered and danced across void shields defending the fortress of bones and marble. Guns fired into the heavens hoping to strike down the battleship that assailed her. The Promise of Calamity would live up to its name as the following salvo saw the defender’s shield overload and flash away in dissolution. The First Legion’s fortress was now prey with its throat bared to an apex predator.

 

---

 

As drop pods, thunderhawks, and all manner of gunships & transports left the dozens of hanger bays to begin the ground assault following the bombardment the Promise of Calamity’s hull scurried and shuffled. They were no longer the fighter craft and pilots they had once been but now avian beast of daemonic rebirth. They clung to the hull of larger warships with their massive claws, feeding off what energy they could siphon but they knew the call of war. Heldrakes, with their wings outstretch threw back their heads and emitted their warp-tainted brays. In packs they detached from the warship and began their freefall onto the world below.

 

They simply would follow the contrails of the transports and as they gain speed they would hunt with the ferocity of mythical beasts once thought extinct.

 

Percavis watched the world below him through the drop pods pict sensors. Forest vegetation covered the world’s surface where its lakes of black tar did not drown them out. The trees grew tall and thick with their coral like substances and their leaves long tendrils of probing antennae. Set against upturned earth formed into a mountain sat a fortress against this unnatural forest. Had it not been for this hellish landscape with its red, night sky it would have reminded him of home.

 

The remaining guns of the fortress fired up to the heavens. They were too few and too occupied trying to bring down the flame-spewing heldrakes assaulting the defenders. Few could command these beasts but the havoc they could cause against defenders served Percavis well in orbital assaults. His drop pod had smashed into an open courtyard and its panels blossomed. Gunfire greeted him, solid shells, they smelled of the sweat of the fearful mortals that loaded and fired them. His bolter, and those of the warriors of his squad, answered in kind.

 

Once, it had been strange sensation to kill ones brothers. Killing a cousin legionnaire was one thing but few knew what it meant to kill ones brother who beared the same colors, bore the same iconography, and called the same Primarch their Father. Yet Percavis no longer felt the shock of such impossibilities becoming a reality. Now, he only felt familiarity as he gunned down First Legion warriors with his bolter and cut their lives short with his blade. As he and his warriors made their way through the fortress, covered in blood and surrounded by the dead of his old legion it reminded him of his last memories of home.

 

Caliban burned. Brother slaughtered brother with hatred in their hearts. Sides fought praising and damning the names of Luther and the Lion. Then the world died, Caliban was wrought asunder, and then Percavis remembered little else. He swam in those memories as he blocked and parried a blow from a robed warrior with black armor. Percavis could not tell if he was reliving the past as he cut down the warrior. This one died saying nothing but he swore in his memories the warrior cursed Luther as he was felled.

 

With this last one killed, Percavis commanded his warriors further into the fortress, into its heart. Deep in its bowels he had found the large, cathedral doors that sat in the center of the fortress that lead to what they thought was the command center. He wanted to laugh at the sheer insanity of what he had found. Truly the warp had played tricks with his eyes as he gazed as the mighty images hammered onto its surface and the inscription, Temple of Oaths. He turned back to look at his lord to see it nodding.

 

---

 

As the doors opened bolters butted against shoulder plates and fingers tightened on triggers but no rounds were fired when the attacker entered. The First Legion defenders watched as he had walked in with the stride of a master returned to his domain. His terminator armor had changed little during the War in the Eye the sword in his hand looked beaten but had not lost its killing edge. Even with his head hooded and covering his face like a cowl all recognized Sleipnir the Pale King.

 

He looked at the black armored legionaires that still clung to the old ways. Around the amphitheater gallery where warriors gathered to listen to their liege Sleipnir looked at their faces. Now they gathered in the flickering darkness with weapons slowly being lowered. Fires burned in the iron dishes lining the path way to the stairs that led to his old throne. With confidence strides Sleipnir made his way to his throne to see that in the darkness it did not sit empty. Something that he once had called brother occupied it. His form was bloated and his armor with its patchwork plates were evidence. The thing that sat at his throne baffled that this attacker walked to him unimpeded. Worst, He could see the intent of murder in Sleipnir’s black pool eyes piercing from beneath his veil.

 

KILL HIM! KILL HIM! Screamed the bloated figure that rested upon his throne. It rose to its feet as it saw none of its warriors dared to raise their weapons against Sleipnir. It’s armor creaked and whined in protest. For too long had it been unmoving and now could not fully support its bearers weight. The bloated warrior’s powerfist crackled to life as he flexed the individual fingers. He raised it high to bring is crushing power down upon Sleipnir but his would-be victim’s blade had not lost its razor edge. Powered with its own energy it cut through the powerfist’s arm with the faintest of ease.

 

Despite his transhuman physiology and psycho conditioning could not prepare him for his own demise. With another swing of the Pale Kings sword  bit deep into his armor and disemboweled him. The bloated warrior fell to his knees as his remaining hand tried to grab a handful of spilling intestines in a futile gesture.

 

Sleipnirs armor purred as he knelt by his onetime brother and looked him eye to eye. The bloated warrior saw Sleipnir’s face was that of porcelain under his hood. IT cracked around his lips as he began to voice words.

 

You have damned far too many of our brothers. They have bled enough for your arrogance. I had offered you renewed brotherhood but you spat in my face with your rejection. Instead you wish to follow some whims of dark gods and drag others into true damnation with you. Now your ships have been captured as well as this fortress. And I am taking back what is mine.

 

The bloated warrior looked into his killers black eyes then stared in pure dread as Sleipnirs jaw opened into a gaping may, ceramic like layer of his flesh cracking and breaking off. With the crushing bite of a monster he had shorn open the warriors throat. He watched the thing bleed and drown in its own blood.

 

Sleipnir turned to face his brothers as his flesh healed around his blood covered mouth. The gathered First Legion defenders descended to stand before the altar. His own warriors entered now, Percavis at their lead, behind the gathered First Legion.

 

Brothers, I return not as you may remember me. Before the return of the Lion and the destruction of our home I had ruled my fortress from this Temple of Oaths. I do not understand what had followed but I know that I was lost. Serving others and bending my knees to unworthy lords just to survive.

 

Sleipnir turned and with his armored boot stamped on the head of the bloated warrior to drive his point.

 

But now I serve a noble purpose. A purer purpose.

 

No longer am I a son of the first. That warrior and that legion are gone and I do not look to the past to seek it. I look forward. Forward to the day we reunite the outcasts and take back what is rightfully ours. Through shed blood and vengeance in our hearts we build a new legion that will tear the false emperor from his throne.

 

In this Temple of Oaths, brothers, I ask: will you join us in burning the Imperium?

 

One by one tha gathered warriors drew their blades, kneeling with their hands resting on their guards with heads bowed.

 

Sleipnirs flesh cracked as he smiled upon his newly forged brotherhood.

 

Fell off the bandwagon awhile back. I tried to write a piece for the Tau topic where they would be dissecting a deceased CSM. Basically a scene in a pristine lab where they are removing the CSM's armor and going over their brief history, interaction, and understanding of enhanced humans. And then they would wonder why the CSM on the table before them was so different. Then, copying a scene from The Thing it would come back to life (possessed) and slaughter all the Tau it could get its hands on. At this time though I got back into actually hobbying to that ate up my free time plus having to look up stuff about Tau castes and their name/rank system got annoying.

 

This is me hopefully being able to carve out one night to try and write something. This story goes into some background of my Black Legion characters, two of which are former Dark Angels, and a piece of Caliban they find in the Eye while on a recruiting mission for the new formed Black Legion. Just thought it would be neat to find an old temple of oaths my lord ran and using it again to induct newly pledged warriors. Again, I just wrote and typed this going over it once so I do not know how many grammar errors or any weird spots in the story there are. Hope you enjoyed.

[Kierdale]

40K Fantasy: The Temple of Chaos

YOU are an Inquisitor of the Emperor’s Most Holy Orders, an agent tasked with hunting down and eradicating corruption throughout the Imperium. You are judge, jury and executioner. And this is your adventure.

 

Character Generation and Rules

Hidden Content

Rumours of the taint of Chaos on the hive world of Yevgenievich IV have drawn you to it. But before we set out upon your greatest challenge…who are you?

Roll 1D6 and add six. Make a record of this number, it is your INITIAL SKILL. Equipment picked up on your adventure may raise your SKILL higher than your INITIAL SKILL, and injuries may lower it.

Roll 2D6 and add six. Make a record of this number, it is your INITIAL STAMINA. Injuries will lower your STAMINA, and equipment may increase it but never higher than your INITIAL STAMINA.

Should either your SKILL or STAMINA ever be reduced to zero then your adventure has ended in failure.

Roll 1D6 and add six. Make a record of this number, it is your INITIAL LUCK.

And what of your equipment?

Firstly your weapons: You are armed with a bolt pistol: an oversized gun firing rocket-like projectiles that penetrate all but the thickest of armours, and explode within their target; and with a powersword: no mere blade, its edge is powered and cleaves through armour that even your pistol cannot penetrate.

Additionally you possess 20 Thrones (the currency of the Imperium of Man), a suit of flak armour (thin but inconspicuous) and a stimm patch (which you can use at any time outside of combat, to restore 1D6+1 stamina points).

 

COMBAT

Combat is resolved in combat rounds.

First you roll 2D6 and add your SKILL. This is your Attack Score. Then roll 2D6 and add the SKILL of your opponent. If your Attack Score is greater than your opponent’s then subtract 2 from their STAMINA and enter another combat round if they have not been killed (reduced to zero stamina).

If your Attack Scores are equal then no damage is done and you begin another combat round.

If you roll two sixes (and your opponent does not) then you have caused a critical hit and subtract 4 (rather than 2) from your opponent’s STAMINA. Begin another combat round if they have not been slain.

If your opponent’s Attack Score is greater than your own then you lose 2 STAMINA and begin another combat round if you have not been slain (reduced to zero stamina).

If your opponent rolls two sixes (and you do not) then you lose 4 stamina and begin another combat round if you have not been slain (reduced to zero stamina).

 

Multiple Combats

Should you find yourself facing multiple combatants you roll your own Attack Score once each round, and once for each enemy. Should your Attack Score beat that of any opponent you can choose which one of them to wound, but all of those whose Attack Score beats your own injure you.

 

LUCK

During your adventure a passage may require you to test your luck. Roll 2D6: if the result is equal to or less than your LUCK then you have been Lucky. If the result is greater than your LUCK then you have been Unlucky. After testing your Luck you must always reduce your LUCK by 1.

You may also test your luck during combat. If your opponent has injured you you may test your luck: if you are Lucky then the damage is halved. If you are unlucky then the damage is doubled! If you have injured your opponent you may test your luck: if you are Lucky then the damage is doubled. If you are unlucky then the damage is halved. As always, after testing your luck you must reduce your LUCK by 1.

Don’t rely on your luck too much!

 

1.

Hidden Content

Your timing is blessed by the God-Emperor, for upon your arrival on Yevgenievich IV you soon hear rumours of dens of corruption in not only the lower levels of the hives but potentially stretching up into the spires! In a gutter cantina a contact – a rag-wrapped wretch by the name of Shastin – informs you that a chapel of the Emperor’s Aegis (a sect of the Imperial Creed, the state religion of the Imperium of Man) a few levels up is actually a front for a cult worshipping the Lord of Blood (for few mortals dare to utter the true name of that Chaos god, for fear of drawing his attention).

Thanking Shastin for his information (cross off 2D6 Thrones) you make your way through the press of humanity. Down here in the sumps life is a constant struggle to survive. People are crammed into tiny hovels, food is scarce and dubious water is collected from leaking pipes overhead. You push aside a water-merchant – is the filth he plies from the pipes overhead or extracted from the corpses in the gutters? And eye a gang lurking in the shadows. They recognize an alpha predator when they see one and back off, sheathing their rusted knives.

The nearest bank of turbolifts are out of order and so you hike your way up the Pestov Road: a huge spiral staircase a hundred meters wide that winds its way up, weaving between pipes and lift shafts. Merchants, petitioners and hopefuls climb the steep, worn-smooth steps as you do, while others come down: criminals cast out of the upper levels, their crimes tattooed or branded into their flesh; bounty hunters seeking fugitives – for what better place to disappear than in the press of the Sumps?; Brat gangers from the Spires seeking bloody `entertainment`; and countless others.

The Road climbs up into the clouds and darkness before emerging into the Blessed Floors: the lowest of the Ecclisiarchal levels where countless sects of the Imperial Cult battle for the souls, fealty...and monies…of the masses. Servoskulls and alabaster-skinned caryatids float through the air carrying voxcasters blaring passages from the Lectitio Divinitatus and other holy texts. Mendicant priests wander about, some their heads encased in cages, others hooded, begging for alms and granting blessings.

Finally you find the chapel of the Emperor’s Aegis. A small chapel, likely no larger than a main chamber with a couple of rooms for the priests to the rear. It has a small steeple topped with a crude statue of the Emperor in bronze or brass, his sword held overhead as if pointed to the stars. From this distance you cannot make out the engravings upon the door, nor the images in the stained glass, for they are old and dirty and the chapel stands in the shadows of the greater buildings about it.

What do you do?

Will you kick the door down and go in, guns blazing and tear down the cultist scum? Turn to paragraph 2.

Will you approach the chapel and examine the carvings and stained glass closer? Turn to paragraph 3.

Will you approach one of the mendicant priest milling about and ask him about the Chapel of the Emperor’s Aegis? Turn to paragraph 4.

 

2

Hidden Content

Drawing your weapons causes those in the courtyard about you to scream. Some drop to their knees, praying to the God-Emperor of Mankind for protection while others flee in fear. One runs at you, shouting “Deliver me unto the Golden Throne!” his eyes wide in fervor, and you boot him to the ground before continuing your advance.

That same boot throws the doors of the chapel of the Emperor’s Aegis wide open. What light there is from outside is tainted red by the old stained glass in the windows high on the walls, but you can see masses of the `faithful` within, backs hunched as they pray in pathetic low voices.

A weapon of retribution, you wade in amongst them, slaying them without mercy.

You stride down the central aisle, your pistol outstretched in your right hand, executing wretches before they have chance to turn to face you. With each trigger pull you shout out the sins of those who fall to Chaos, until your pistol runs dry. With no time to reload you wade into them with your axe, its arcing blade cleaving through them.

None are capable of putting up a fight worthy of an agent of the Emperor’s Most Holy Orders, but for the priest before the altar. He emits a wordless scream of anger and raises a cudgel as he charges at you. You must fight him!

Crazed Priest

Skill = 7

Stamina = 8

Should you slay him: In no time you stand amid a clutter of butchered bodies, panting with exertion but untouched by injury. How much time has passed? You cannot tell.

It is then that the sound of rapid footfalls – of several individuals – reaches your ears from outside.

What do you do? Do you prepare to ambush them (turn to paragraph 5), or do you rush to the rear office of the chapel and seek evidence of the sect’s corruption? (paragraph 6)

 

3.

Hidden Content

You approach the Chapel of the Emperor’s Aegis. It is evidently a very old building, compared to some of the larger cathedrals surrounding it. Perhaps one of the first on this lowest of the Blessed Floors? On the ferrocrete walls are images of the Emperor battling crudely-carved daemons. How little the masses know of the true battle against Chaos! The paintwork is faded but you can imagine faithful artisans in millennia past fashioning the chapel as the hive grew around it. Looking up you can see similar images in the stained glass windows: the Emperor and other figures with halos – Imperial saints, Guard officers and even a figure supposedly an Astarte – fighting alongside the master of Mankind, upon a field of crimson.

Will you enter the chapel, posing as one of the faithful, and attend a service? Turn to paragraph 8.

Or ask one of the mendicant priests about the chapel? Paragraph 4.

Will you charge in, guns blazing? Paragraph 2.

Or sneak around the back and try to break in? Paragraph 6.

 

4

Hidden Content

You approach the nearest man, clad in threadbare robes embroidered with images of the Emperor and Imperial saints. He raises his head as much as his bent back will allow, and you can see into his hood: a strap of leather is fastened across his eyes, bolted into his temples, and upon the strap is a gilt plate with the Aquila stamped into it. The old man rests heavily upon his staff – a bowed length of rusting alloy festooned with amulets trinkets.

“Alms for the faithful, kind sir?”

You drop a few Thrones into his skeletal hand (cross of 1D6 Thrones).

“What can you tell me of the Chapel of the Emperor’s Aegis?” you ask.

He nods to himself a few times as the coins disappear into his voluminous sleeve.

“One of the oldest sects here on Yevgenievich IV it is, master. Brought here by the first settlers, they say, during the Great Crusade. Aye, a fell Xenos world it was, legends tell. And the Astartes, the God-Emperor’s angels of death,” he almost drops his staff as he makes an Aquila-salute upon his chest, “they came, in armour of white and blue, and slew the bastards so that the world could be claimed by Man. The Aegis of the Emperor was strong back then, its ranks swelled they say,” he nods. “But not now.” He points a claw-like finger at the great edifices about you. “New sects rise as the masses grow complacent.” His tone grows harsh, “The Exalted Fecund, the Almighty Halo...so many facets of the Cult now. They forget the blood shed to claim this world.”

What will you do?

Will you take the priest into the shadows and press him for more information (as only an Inquisitor knows how)? Paragraph 9.

Will you sneak around the back of the chapel and try to break in? Paragraph 6.

Will you charge in, guns blazing? Paragraph 2.

 

5

Hidden Content

Quickly turning over pews and piling up corpses you create a makeshift barricade from behind which you will face the newcomers! Satisfied with your work you crouch down and check your pistol as the sound of heavy boots approaches the main doorway. It is then that you notice the amulet about the neck of one of the bodies slumped before you.

An Aquila.

Surely a devotee of Khorne would not wear such a holy item!?

Shastin, that bastard must have tricked you!

As you look up you spot the unmistakable helmet of an Adeptus Arbite peek in through the doorway. A second later the windows shatter and choking stumm grenades are fired in. As the smoke begins to fill the chapel the Arbites pour in, shotguns ready.

They’re not going to be asking questions, nor give you a chance to identify yourself!

Test your LUCK.

If you are Lucky then you manage to escape the Arbites, rushing through the rear office and booting the door down. You have to kill one Arbite with your sword – sent to guard the rear – but one man’s life is a small price in the fight against Chaos, is it not? Turn to paragraph seven.

If you are Unlucky: Your adventure ends here, Inquisitor. An agent of Chaos has duped you into slaughtering the faithful of the Imperial Creed and His judges have no mercy upon you. There is no trial, only swift execution.

 

6

Hidden Content

You manage to force the old lock on the door of the office at the back of the Chapel of the Emperor’s Aegis and sneak into the priest’s chambers. Thankfully no one is present. Almost as soon as you enter you spot the huge Aquila mosaic upon the floor and the statues of Imperial saints upon the stained, aged desk. Spare priest’s robes hang in a closet behind the desk and shelves sag with tomes of Imperial legends and theocratic texts. There is no taint of Chaos to be seen, nor can you find any secret doors or compartments!

These are naught but the chambers of a truly faithful priest of the Imperial Creed!

That bastard Shastin, he must have duped you!

Turn to paragraph 7.

 

7

Hidden Content

Vowing to flagellate yourself once the mission is over, you head back down the Pestov Road, taking two steps at a time as your wrath grows. That worm Shastin threw aspersions upon the name of a good and holy sect of the Imperial Creed. You intend to find out why, and shall have no mercy upon his soul. Be he a liar or a fool (as you were to believe him!) you’ll deliver him to the God-Emperor and let the Master of Mankind judge him. But not before you have information from him.

Gangers, penitents, faithful pilgrims and even a bounty hunter step aside as you bound down the stairway.

But how to find your quarry?

You can buy his whereabouts from the locals (lose 2D6 Thrones. If you do not have enough then you will have to choose another option), beat it out of them (lose 1D6 stamina as they’re rough folk and will put up a fight) or try your luck. If you are unlucky then you are tricked into a gang ambush (lose 1D6 stamina). If you are lucky then you manage to spot him in the crowds.

You either end up dead or find him! In the latter case, turn to paragraph 10.

 

8

Hidden Content

Head bowed, weapons hidden by your long coat, you open the doors of the Chapel of the Emperor’s Aegis and walk in. The inside of the chapel is lit by a little light – most is blocked by the larger cathedrals about it – and is tinted red by the stained glass, though some lume-globes illuminate alcoves filled with skulls. Plaques beneath these name the saints that the craniums belonged to.

The words of the preacher come to you and you recognize them, despite the local accent, from your youth and your days in the Schola Progenium orphanages. It is welcoming and you find yourself sitting on a pew alongside a local family – manufactorum workers as far as you can tell, heads bent over tattered prayerbooks.

By the end of the sermon you are confident that the Chapel of the Emperor’s Aegis hides no taint of Chaos.

That wretch Shastin must be found!

Turn to paragraph 7.

 

9

Hidden Content

The priest cries out as you grab his arm in a tight grip and drag him into the shadows of towering statues of Imperial Saints.

The portarack is a secret tool of the Ordos. A console that fits within the palm of one’s hand, wires snake from it, to be placed upon the body of a subject. It shares some archaeotechnology with the nerve-glove of the Imperial Fists.

With one hand you hold the priest against the statue while placing the wires upon his face and under his jawline. Once satisfied that they are in place upon the nerve-lines of his head you activate it and his agonized screams are stifled by your gloved hand across his mouth.

“Tell me the truth of the Chapel of the Emperor’s Aegis.”

After another charge from the portarack you release your hand from his mouth. Blood pours from it and he breaths in ragged gasps.

“M-m-master. I have told you the tru-“

ZAP

“Th-the-the truth! I swear upon the Golden Throne! They are one of the oldest, purest faiths on Yevgenievich IV! May the God-Emperor take my soul if I lie!”

ZZZZZAAAAPP.

His teeth chip and crack as the rack torments him but finally you release your finger from the small device’s activation stud.

It appears he tells the truth.

Will you charge in, guns blazing nonetheless? Turn to paragraph 2.

Will you attempt to break in at the rear of the chapel? Turn to paragraph 6.

Will you walk into the chapel and attend a mass? Turn to paragraph 8.

Or do you think that Shastin lied to you and you seek to hunt him down? Turn to paragraph 7.

 

10

Hidden Content

You spot the rogue, Shastin, in his oil-stained robes, pushing his way through the crowds. That he manages to pass by a gang of chem-bulked thugs unmolested – while they shove others out of the way or demand `tax` - raises your suspicions about him further.

If you’re going to pursue him you’ll have to either detour around the alleyway he just passed through (go to paragraph 16) or go through the chem-gang (go to paragraph 17).

 

11

Hidden Content

The worm has lied to you once, why bother interrogating him and risk more lies? You shadow him as he makes his way through the filthy streets to a bank of turbolift tubes. Ducking beneath the torn and stained tape that seals them off he looks about – you duck behind a stall selling rodent kebabs and avert your eyes just in time – before pressing buttons on the console of the supposedly-out-of-order lift.

The doors either jammed open or stolen long ago, the tube is open and you wonder how many poor souls have been tossed in for the enjoyment of the local gangs. A liftcar rises and Shastin steps inside.

Breaking into a sprint you cross the street, battering people to the ground and leap into the shaft.

Test your Skill. If you succeed then you manage to grab the girderwork on the bottom of the lift car and are carried up to the higher levels. Turn to paragraph 15.

If you fail then you plummet down the shaft to your doom...

 

12

Hidden Content

Never looking directly at him lest he feel your eyes upon him (or someone notice your attention), you quicken your pace and weave your way expertly between people, drawing nearer the traitor with every step.

Test your luck:

If you are lucky you notice the hand of a passer-by brushing your holster and manage to quickly grab it, snapping their wrist with one hand, clamping the other across the pickpocket’s mouth and lowering them quickly to the ground. To any onlooker you seem to have caught someone as their fainted and eased them to the filthy ground before moving purposefully on.

If you are unlucky your bolt pistol has been pilfered! Only seconds later you notice your holster is empty. Looking about you cannot see who took it, just a sea of the unwashed dregs. Lose 2 SKILL and pray to the God-Emperor that you find a replacement firearm!

Your boot catches Shastin’s heel and as he stumbles you grab him by the collar of his robe and violently drag him into an alleyway, where the flickering glowglobes of the street do not reach.

“The Emperor protects the faithful!” You grunt into his ear as you choke him with his own clothing. “But is particularly unforgiving of heretics and blasphemers!”

He struggles and kicks, his hands trying to reach round and grab at you while his neck muscles tense against the strangulation.

Test your SKILL: if you roll equal or under your current skill score then you succeed and Shastin talks. Turn to paragraph 13.

If you fail you must choke him further. Shastin has 10 stamina. Reduce this by 2 each time you fail. If his stamina is reduced to zero before he talks then you have killed your only lead and must rely on luck: if you are lucky then turn to paragraph 14. If you are unlucky then you have failed to locate the Temple Of Chaos and your mission has ended. Pray that your superiors in the Inquisition are forgiving...

 

13

Hidden Content

Eventually he stops kicking or trying to scratch your eyes out and goes limp. Not one to be fooled twice, you throw him into a filthy puddle face down and put your boot upon his back. Drawing your powersword you hold its point before his face and activate it. The blade glows as lightning coruscates across its surface and Shastin’s eyes focus on it. You can see the mortal fear in them.

“Where is the cult, worm?” you spit.

The immediate fear of the arcing blade before his face wars with his dark allegiance. A trained persecutor of blasphemers and heretics, you can see it.

“Fear not Chaos,” you growl, “Fear me. Fear the Emperor’s retribution.”

 

You have taken one of his eyes and his right arm before he finally confesses.

“Th-the Exalted Fecund! I was ordered! Make a pawn of the corpse-god see the faithful as worms of the Blood God!” he curses. “The corpse-God cannot save you or any of these fools! We live in filth, in purgatory, blind and deaf to excess! The maiden of the Dark Prince knows the Holy Way!”

“Where?” You deftly remove his left hand at the wrist, cutting slowly so that the powersword cauterizes the wound. He howls in pain...and pleasure.

Turn to paragraph 14.

 

14

Hidden Content

You stand before a six-storey building marked Exalted Fecund, far up in the hive’s Upper Spires. Even amid the ostentation of the buildings in the entertainment district, this stands out with its pastel pink and shocking blue neon. Beyond the obscenely shaped entrance a corridor of crimson appears to pulsate and undulate in time with a bass thumping like a heartbeat from within. Entrancing, almost. Muttering a paean to the God-Emperor you gird your mind, soul and body.

How will you tackle this den of Chaos?

Will you attempt to sneak in via another entrance? Turn to paragraph 18.

Will you go in guns blazing? Turn to paragraph 19.

Or will you enter, pretending to seek membership? Turn to paragraph 20.

 

15

Hidden Content

The lift rises higher and higher and your muscles burn as you cling to the bottom. Beyond the Holy Floors and up into one of the Upper Spires! By the Emperor, how far does the corruption on Yevgenievich IV reach!?

Once the lift stops and you hear Shastin exit, you punch open the emergency hatch and lift yourself into the car, muscles aching. Looking about, it appears to be a disused loading bay. No great surprise for no one who bears the look of a sump-dweller like Shastin would be openly admitted to the Upper Spires!

Another world in comparison to the lower levels of this hive where glow globes and illumenstrips provided flickering light on stolen power, even on the Holy Floors, the Grand Vaults filled with the houses of worship of the Imperial Creed, the perimeter walls covered in stained glass images the size of titans...but while the sun has now set down there, in the lofty heights of spires like these the sun still shines. Gone are the filth-strewn streets as servitors march about cleaning and anointing the carved paving stones, decorated with the images of the High Houses. Few pedestrians are to be seen as limousines and ground-cars speed about, windows tinted or mirrored.

The worm Shastin is both impossible to miss, and at the same time invisible to the denizen of this level of the Imperium. Wary that he might spot you just as easily, you follow from what shadows you can find.

As you tail him through the canyon-like streets the light from the great transparisteel windows begins to redden as the sun sinks toward the horizon, and the streets begin to light up with eye-dazzling neon – pink, blue, orange and green. As night finally descends upon the Spire its denizens come out onto the streets and flock toward the entertainment district. Shastin - and you - joining the flow.

A couple of times you nearly lose him, but he stands out so much from those about him that you soon find him again, and just in time as he ducks into a building daubed in pastel pink and illuminated with blue neon. The doorway is shaped like a lascivious orifice, with a crimson interior.

As you move to follow him you notice you seem to have drawn the attention of trio of Brats: spire gangers from noble houses, their faces hidden behind masks – crude facsimiles of those worn by the Eldar Harlequins – clad in leathers the same pink and blue as the building Shastin just disappeared into.

Will you try to lose them in the crowd? Or fight them?

If you try to lose them: test your Luck. If you are lucky then you succeed in giving them the slip. Turn to paragraph 14.

If you are unlucky, or choose to fight them, enter combat with the one by one:

Brat ganger 1

Skill 7

Stamina 8

 

Brat ganger 2

Skill 8

Stamina 6

 

Brat ganger 3

Skill 9

Stamina 7

If you beat them, you find a stimm patch in one of their pockets (restore 1D6+1 Stamina. You can use it at any time you are not in combat). Turn to paragraph 14.

 

 

16

Hidden Content

Working your way past hawkers and peddlers, beggers and the other dregs of Imperial society down here you manage to detour around the gang – it would not do to draw attention to yourself – and catch sight of your quarry once more. Subtract 1 stamina as you had to rush and push past people. But you have Shastin in your sights!

Will you tail him and see where he goes? Turn to paragraph 11.

Or will you grab him now, drag him into the shadows and interrogate him? Turn to paragraph 12.

 

17

Hidden Content

The four gang members are almost Astartes-sized, juiced up on no-doubt illegal concoctions. Likely with much shortened lifespans into the deal, but with life down here as cutthroat as it is, perhaps they cannot be blamed. The leader – or the largest of them, anyway – steps to block your way. You notice that though he has the bulk of one of the Emperor’s Angels of Death, he does not have their speed or reactions.

Though all of the gangers have disfigured faces, the leader’s is all the more so: needles and rings pierce his flesh and pull the skin taut. The corners of his mouth are pulled up in a permanent grin and his teeth have been filed to points. As you draw your weapons and look him in the eye you notice that his eyeballs have been tattooed: eight arrows radiate out from his irises.

The other three gangers hold back, eager to watch their leader crush this impertinent offworlder.

You must fight him to the death!

Chem-gang leader

Skill 8

Stamina 10

 

After his body falls lifeless into the filth filling the gutter you look up, expecting his compatriots to turn tail and flee...but instead they jump you! You must fight all three at once in a MULTIPLE COMBAT.

Chem-ganger 1

Skill 6

Stamina 9

 

Chem-ganger 2

Skill 8

Stamina 6

 

Chem-ganger 3

Skill 9

Stamina 5

If you beat all of them, you rush down the alleyway just in time to spot Shastin moving through the crowds beyond. Will you tail him and see where he goes? Turn to paragraph 11.

Or will you grab him now, drag him into the shadows and interrogate him? Turn to paragraph 12.

 

18

Hidden Content

Walking along the adjacent streets, observing from the far side of the road you circle the building. There are no windows or even ventilation grills on the lower floors, and those windows on the upper three floors are all darkened one-way glass. But you do spot a Brat ganger, clad similarly to those you saw just minutes before, staggering down the road at the rear of the building. The way he is moving, his hands waving, you are sure he is hallucinating. He stops at a small door and after a couple of unsuccessful attempts, manages to pass his hand over a scanner by the door and steps within...leaving the door wide open.

Add 3 points of luck as you jog across the street and slip into the building.

 

Turn to paragraph 21.

 

19

Hidden Content

You check the chamber of your bolt pistol, nod satisfactorily and draw your powersword, triggering it so that lightning arcs across its surface, hungry for the blood of heretics.

As you stride into the crimson corridor of the Exalted Fecund, the deep bass thrum from within pounding your chest, security must have been alerted to your presence as a pair of cult enforcers emerge from the other end of the corridor, lasguns raised! Fight them in a MULTIPLE COMBAT

Exalted Fecund Enforcer 1

Skill 8

Stamina 7

 

Exalted Fecund Enforcer 2

Skill 7

Stamina 9

 

You barely have time to reload your pistol as you stand over their smoking corpses before there are shouts from deeper within the building. Rather than be ambushed here you press on. Several cultists, staff and illegally-modified servitors fall to your weapons before they have chance to react. Some appear drugged, others are simply caught by surprise. All you slay with impunity. Mercy is a luxury. Mercy might spare a life, only to end a billion more. Mercy burns worlds. Mercy damns souls. Mercy would be the undoing of all that the Ordos have wrought...

You blast and slash your way through chambers filled with undulating bodies, some wired to machines of blasted artifice, others chained to the ceiling or to others as mad as they.

But some, crazed and driven by drugs or visions, put up quite a fight...

Fight them in MULTIPLE COMBAT:

Exalted Fecund Cultist 1

Skill 4

Stamina 12

 

Exalted Fecund Cultist 2

Skill 10

Stamina 4

 

Blood sizzling upon the blade of your sword and sweat dripping from your brow you look about the corpse-strewn rooms as alarms fight against the constant bass thrum that penetrates the very walls. You find your way into the deepest chamber of the Exalted Fecund that you can find...a plush office, its walls covered in lurid imagery and Chaos icons. This alone is enough to have the building raised and half the residents of the sector executed – if not all of them! – but where is the cult leader?

With no leads you must test your Luck.

If you are unlucky then you have managed to slay this cultist cell, but the head of the taint has escaped you. You have failed your mission.

 

 

If you are lucky:

As you look about you drum your fingers upon the glossy black surface of the desk.

BZZZZT

A system embedded in the desk gives a negative tone. You frown at it, then head back into the antechamber and examine the hands of the cultists you slew there. Upon one is an electoo: an implanted emblem not unlike your own Ordo marker, yet cruder. Likely it doubles as a form of security pass so you sever the hand, return to the office and and place it over the desk.

PING!

Turn to paragraph 22

[/hidden]

 

20

Hidden Content

Striding into the Exalted Fecund building you pass through the building’s obscenely-shaped doorway and into the crimson-lit corridor beyond. A deep bass thrumming - most likely some form of music reverberating through the building, or perhaps a pulsing generator - shakes your ribcage.

You’re almost at the end of the corridor when a tall woman clad in skintight leathers, pastel pink on one side and pale blue on the other, steps out to block your way. Her face – her entire head in fact – is hidden inside a shiny black mask, with a brass grill over her mouth. Dark eyes are visible through the only holes in the mask’s face. A second later a chem-bulked cult enforcer steps out behind her, his bulging torso bare, only his legs clad in trousers coloured the same as her suit. He holds a shotgun in his large hands and is masked as she is.

“What bring you to the Exalted Fecund, stranger?” she asks, shouting over the bass thrum, her tone neither quite accusing nor welcoming.

“I seek...enlightenment,” you answer with confidence. This is not the first Chaos cult you have infiltrated – your body bears the scars of your time in the Scarlet Brotherhood before you brought it down from within.

A chuckle escapes her mouth grill and she nods as she steps aside, motioning you to go on into the hallway beyond. She walks at your side, the cult enforcer behind.

“And who told you you might find enlightenment here, stranger?”

Do you answer:

“Shastin” – turn to paragraph 23

“Slaanesh” – turn to paragraph 24

“That’s my business” – turn to paragraph 25

 

21

Hidden Content

The lighting within the Exalted Fecund is dim and a loud thumping – likely music from somewhere else in the building, though it could equally be the heard of some greater daemon just beyond the veil, such is its volume! – resonates through the walls. The walls themselves are daubed with murals of people engaged in carnal acts en-masse. You draw your powersword and pistol, keeping your fingers hovering over the triggers of each as you stalk through the building. The thumping bass nearly hides the heavy footfalls of a guard patrol!

Test your luck:

If you are unlucky you do not manage to evade them and are spotted making your way deeper into the building. You must fight them in a MULTIPLE COMBAT:

Exalted Fecund Enforcer 1

Skill 8

Stamina 7

 

Exalted Fecund Enforcer 2

Skill 7

Stamina 9

Searching the guards you find one has an electoo upon his right hand: an implanted emblem not unlike your own Ordo marker, yet cruder. Likely it doubles as a form of security pass so you sever the hand and pocket it.

 

If you defeat them, or were lucky and managed to hide yourself and let them pass, you move on into the building. You sneak past several chambers, peeking in to see Brat gangers and other Upper Spire residents engaging in carnal pursuits, with each other, with seemingly custom-built servitors or those who, from their garb, appear to be the staff of the establishment. Some form of pleasure den. That the mark of the Dark Prince, the entwined emblem of the masculine and the feminine, is carved into the floor and the ceiling confirms your suspicion that this Temple of Chaos is a fane of Slaanesh!

 

Eventually, leaving a couple of drugged-up corpses in your wake, you manage to find your way into the deepest chamber of the Exalted Fecund that you can find...a plush office, its walls covered in lurid imagery and Chaos icons. This alone is enough to have the building raised and half the residents of the sector executed – if not all of them! – but where is the cult leader? As you look about you drum your fingers upon the glossy black surface of the desk.

BZZZZT

A system embedded in the desk gives a negative tone. You frown at it, then withdraw the severed enforcer’s hand and place it over the desk.

PING!

Turn to paragraph 22

[/hidden]

 

22

Hidden Content

A wall panel slides aside revealing a hidden doorway, and beyond it a circular chamber. Upon the far wall are numerous weapons and a suit of gaudily painted powered armour in the same pink and blue as the cult members outside wear. A strange firearm, muzzle-less but for a daemonic maw filled with vanes, hands next to the armour, cables snaking into the backpack.

Sat in a meditative pose in the middle of the chamber is a figure so big, so bulky it could only be one of the Astartes. But from the scars and tattoos upon his flesh you know it to be nothing other than a Heretic Astarte!

It raises its shaved head to observe you and you note the horns rising from its temples. Its eyes fix upon yours and bore into your soul.

“Lapdog of a false god!!” it spits and pulls a sword from the wall, its blade snaking back and forth, like the tongue of a daemon: the face of which forms the hilt and crossguard of the weapon.

Fight this Heretic Astarte! Should the Psychopomp injure you with his daemonblade, roll a D6: on the roll of a 1 the blade sucks 2 Stamina from both you and the marine, on a 2-5 you suffer 3 Stamina damage rather than 2. On the roll of a 6 you suffer 4 damage.

Psychopomp Champion

Skill 11

Stamina 12

 

Should you defeat the Chaos Space Marine you must choose whether to take his daemonblade or not, then add 3 luck for defeating this champion of Chaos, and turn to paragraph 29.

 

23

Hidden Content

Almost as soon as the worm’s name has left your lips you hear the ratcheting of the shotgun behind you. That was not the right name to give!

Test your luck!

If you are unlucky: your flak vest is no protection against a point-blank shotgun blast and your adventure ends here.

If you are lucky you manage to twist aside just in time, knocking the muzzle of the shotgun away...and the blast tears the cultist woman in half instead! You execute the shotgun wielder with your own weapons before he has chance to pump another shell into his weapon’s chamber.

Likely someone will have heard the gunfire.

Turn to paragraph 19.

 

24

Hidden Content

Both the cultists take sharp intakes of breath at the brazen use of the Dark Prince’s name, and their eyes almost roll back as if their spines were being stroked by icy fingers. The woman then cackles.

“You’re mad to use the Dark Prince’s name so openly!” She runs her gloved hand from your shoulder up your neck to your chin. “I like you!”

She pauses for a moment, her head cocked to one side as she considers something, then nods to the shotgun-toting cultist and leads you off down a side corridor. They’ve clearly decided to change where they were taking you. For the better or worse, you can’t yet tell. At first you pass other staff: cult enforcers and security like these two, as well as `customers`...but as they lead you through thick armoured doors and down stairs you soon see only cultists, the mark of Slaanesh displayed more openly, alongside tattoos and scarification resembling the Dark Prince’s symbol. Some even bear mutation: horns, forked tongues, fingers fused and hardened into claws. You keep your hands away from your concealed weapons. These pawns are not your targets. You must strike at the heart of the cult.

Eventually a door slides open and the female cultist motions you into a luxurious lounge, bidding you to sit, before leaving.

The walls are decorated with lurid, lascivious images of humans consorting with daemonettes. A gilt Octed hands upon the wall and it pains your eyes to look directly at it. You sit upon a couch covered with the spotted hide of some predator and wait...

Turn to paragraph 22

 

25

Hidden Content

You’re guided to a room decorated as wildly with pastel-coloured veils and couches of the skins of numerous predators. `Customers` such as yourself recline upon the couches, several of them with their eyes rolled back until all that shows is white. Some of them lay there unmoving but for the slow rise and fall of their chests, another writhes upon their couch as if in agonizing pain, yet the screams that emit from their mouth are those of one experiencing ecstasy. The cultist lady motions for you to take a seat upon one of the couches.

“You were brave to enter here, stranger. Let us see your resolve. Let us see how far you will go,” and she produces a small vial containing a pale violet liquid from up her sleeve.

Will you take a seat and swallow the contents of the vial? Turn to paragraph 26.

Or will you attack the cultists? Turn to paragraph 27.

 

26

Hidden Content

You recline upon a couch and toss back the contents of the vial down your throat. The liquid feels cold. Unnaturally cold, and it spreads out you’re your stomach unnervingly. You almost rise but the cultist woman gently pushes you down. Already your strength is leaving you as no matter how hard you try to stand, she is able to hold you down. You almost go for your weapons but your faith takes control. Whatever this concoction is, your faith in the God Emperor will see you through uncorrupted!

You slump back onto the couch as the world spins about you. It spins faster and faster until all is a blur. Forms melt, colours mix into new shades and new colours ever seen by mortal eyes. Indiscernible voices call to you, call your name. And a chanting rises in the background, too faint yet for you to make it out.

The mists of colour before your eyes resolve into a pathway paved with pearly stones, leading through a verdant garden the likes of which cannot be found upon the hive world of Yevgenievich IV, nor any world you have ever visited. You have but seen pics of such vegetation. Nor is the palace that rises beyond the gardens like anything you have ever seen before. Towering minarets from which fine horns blare, sweeping tiles roofs...such splendid architecture could not have been designed nor crafted by mortal minds or hands!

You take but a couple of paces toward it before the mirage begins to fade.

 

How long were you under the influence of that strange concoction you have no idea. You await to find the cultist woman, still masked, crouched before you.

“Did you like what you saw? That is all we can show you now, but come again – soon – and you will be permitted greater wonders.”

Will you come again, and that time fight once you have penetrated this far into the Exalted Fecund’s den? Turn to paragraph 27.

Or will you come again and take the next vial? Turn to paragraph 28.

 

27

Hidden Content

You take the vial from the woman, only to drive it into the face of the shotgun wielding cultist at her side. He screams in pain as the glass lacerates his face, but as the liquid within seeps into his face – and you notice, albeit momentarily that the liquid within actively seeks out the cuts in his features! – his screams turn to cries of pleasure...cut short as you turn his own shotgun upon him before using it to blast the cultist woman and other `staff` in the room.

You blast and slash your way through chambers filled with undulating bodies, some wired to machines of blasted artifice, others chained to the ceiling or to others as mad as they.

But some, crazed and driven by drugs or visions, put up quite a fight...

Fight them in MULTIPLE COMBAT:

Exalted Fecund Cultist 1

Skill 4

Stamina 12

 

Exalted Fecund Cultist 2

Skill 10

Stamina 4

 

Blood sizzling upon the blade of your sword and sweat dripping from your brow you look about the corpse-strewn rooms as alarms fight against the constant bass thrum that penetrates the very walls. You find your way into the deepest chamber of the Exalted Fecund that you can find...a plush office, its walls covered in lurid imagery and Chaos icons. This alone is enough to have the building raised and half the residents of the sector executed – if not all of them! – but where is the cult leader?

With no leads you must test your Luck.

If you are unlucky then you have managed to slay this cultist cell, but the head of the taint has escaped you. You have failed your mission.

 

 

If you are lucky:

As you look about you drum your fingers upon the glossy black surface of the desk.

BZZZZT

A system embedded in the desk gives a negative tone. You frown at it, then head back into the antechamber and examine the hands of the cultists you slew there. Upon one is an electoo: an implanted emblem not unlike your own Ordo marker, yet cruder. Likely it doubles as a form of security pass so you sever the hand, return to the office and and place it over the desk.

PING!

Turn to paragraph 22

[/hidden]

 

28

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The next vision shows you more and you approach closer to the grand palace, but again the illusion fades all too soon.

Reduce your Skill by 1.

By this point you are addicted to the Daemonette blood the cult have been feeding you.

Roll a D6. On the roll of a 6 you have succumbed and become a cultist of Slaanesh. Your soul is lost as you hunger to see more of the Dark Prince’s realm and the delights to be had within. On the roll of a 1 you have overcome the temptation of the blood! Add 1 to your Skill and turn to paragraph 27.

On the roll of 2-5 you lose 1 skill point and must roll again...

 

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As you stand over the fallen marine you can already smell burning. The Exalted Fecund den is aflame! A fitting end to this temple of Chaos!

As you turn to leave you feel eyes upon you. Your weapons raised, you turn about, searching the room. But for the weapons upon the walls there is nothing. No shadows within which an enemy might hide. No ventilation grills overheard.

Your eyes settle upon the mosaic back within the lounge, visible from where you stand in the marine’s arming chamber. One of the daemonettes stands apart from the debauchery. Was that figure there before? Its jade mask has eyes of ruby. You feel yourself take a step toward it. Another step.

“Th-th-the Emperor protects!” you manage between gritted teeth and the spell is broken. With a piercing scream the mosaic explodes outward! You throw up your hands to protect your face as chips of stone patter off your coat and flak vest. When you lower your hands there before you stands a dark purple-skinned, long-limbed Herald of Slaanesh. Her left hand, an oversized claw clicks excitedly, while her right hand, a human-like one, holds a razor-tipped whip.

“Give me pain!” She screams, “Give me pleasure!”

Herald of Slaanesh

Skill 6+D6 (roll each round)

Stamina 15

Should the Herald of Slaanesh succeed in killing you then all you have achieved has been for naught. The Exalted Fecund will spread the influence of the Dark Prince...

Should you succeed in slaying her, you have beheaded and ended the cult’s influence here. Your mission has succeeded.

But did you use the daemonblade to slay her...and what taint might that have upon your soul...

[hushrong]

Dude...

 

You made R.L. Stine’s pick your story look like a punk! I need to go through this again but kudos dude!

[Kierdale]

Dude...

You made R.L. Stine’s pick your story look like a punk! I need to go through this again but kudos dude!

Thanks!

I made it in the vein of Ian Jackson and Steve Livingstone’s Fighting Fantasy as a) I grew up on those books, and b ) they started GW :tu:

I had planned to make it bigger, and give you three options for gear (taken from Space Crusade for more retro value: heavy bolter, bolt pistol and power axe, or power sword and power fist) but adding in a mechanic for ranged and melee combat bloated it. Perhaps another time :D I also got tired by the time I got onto the actual ‘temple’ part. Perhaps better as a non-IF project.

Anyway I’m glad you liked it, and it was fun to make!

[Honda]

Ok, I know this is late in coming, there's just been a lot going on.

 

In case everyone has moved on already, I was awarded the honor of judging the entries for the Havoc topic.

 

Although Gederas had by far the best soundtrack , I was especially attracted to the third section of Kierdale's story and Nereth's transformation.

 

Therefore Brother Kierdale, go ye into the darkness to seek glory. We shall have words regarding the Templars at another time. :0

 

Cheers,

[Kierdale]

Therefore Brother Kierdale, go ye into the darkness to seek glory. We shall have words regarding the Templars at another time. :0

I look forward to it :)

I had planned to set ‘Temple of Chaos’ as a theme for IF for some time but always viewed it as a topic that I’d like to write but didn’t expect to get a lot of entries...

It appears I was wrong! :D

Firstly Warsmith Demetrios gave us Old Legends Die Hard, with a lord inquisitor, his retinue and a pair of Grey Knights investigating a once-Imperial world and surveying it, purifying it as they went...only to find it had been warred over by different bands of heretic astartes, finally becoming a vassal world of the Iron Warrior Warsmith Demetrios...

I enjoyed the Chaos imagery in the temple and that the inquisitor kept secrets from the Grey Knights. An interesting tidbit with the chapter mentioned at the end ;)

The Great Race was Barbatos‘s entry. As I said in the theme brief: the temple need not be a physical temple nor a recognisable house of worship, and it seems Barbatos seized on that, giving us the build up to a pan-Legion winner-takes-all bike race! :D Excellently written and easily imaginable.

MaliGn gave us a tale of Word Bearers - most fitting! - with The Last Sermon of Kor Ladron. I really liked this entry as the dying apostle tells his men that there are no temples of Chaos, rather wherever acts glorifying the gods are performed, there is their church. Wise words, indeed.

Hushrong returned to IF with the most appropriately named Homecoming: a tale of former Dark Angels - now wearing the black - retaking a fragment of their lost home world and finding corruption within one of its deepest chambers. Great writing, as always.

And I gave you a ‘choose your adventure’ style mini game book with Temple of Chaos, putting the reader in the role of an

inquisitor tasked with rooting out corruption in a hive. Moving with the speed of a Saturday morning cartoon serial :D

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 fourteenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2018: ETL mini

ETL-VI ended with a victory for the sons of Sanguinius!

While I myself vowed for the lapdogs of the Corpse-God this year, I do know a great many fantastic models were painted for the Chaos forums.

We’ve seen them, now tell us who they are.

The 14th challenge of Inspirational Friday 2018 is to write a piece about models completed for ETL-VI.

If you - like I - did not vow for Chaos (pray that the Call of Chaos is held this year so that you may seek redemption damnation) then by all means give us a tale of models you completed for other forums, pitted against the forces of Chaos.

If you did not take part in this year’s ETL then focus on models you completed for a previous ETL...or simply completed recently ;)

Photos are not mandatory but are recommended (though your entry will not be judged on the models/photos).

IF2018: ETL-VI models runs until the 24th of August.

Let us be inspired.

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

Give me some time to decide. :)

The winner of IF2018: ETL-VI Models shall claim the Octed amulet:

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

[MaliGn]

Well, since I only finished one model for ETL and I had conveniently written up a blurb for it as I went along the build process this one was already done.

 

 

"Carrion" pattern Hellforged Predator.

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The Carrion pattern of the Predator chassis is named for the Hellforge where it was first developed by the Hereteks and Daemonancers of the Word Bearers on the planet Ghalmek. Located deep within the warp storm known as the Maelstrom; the world is dedicated to the production of the blasphemous Daemon-Engines employed by the heretical space marines; and is home to some of the most skilled Warpsmiths of the seventeenth legion. Among the countless debased manufactories and infernal workshops are the Hellforges: gargantuan edifices that are as much ritual chambers for diabolic workings as they are vast halls of industrial effort.

 

Hellforge Carrion specialises in working on the recovered carcasses of captured Imperial warhead, reconsecrating these holy relics to the Dark Gods of the Immaterium. The Hereteks of Carrion have a particular fondness for the fallen battle tanks of the Adeptus Astartes, using the most obscene of rituals to grant the Machine Spirits of these vehicles a final, inglorious death. Having stripped the constructs of the Adeptus Mechanicus of their connection with the Omnissiah these; now hollow, vessels are ripe for daemonic possession.

By utilising the teachings of their Daemon Primarch Lorgar Aurelian, and their own mastery of the infernal and the diabolic; the Hereteks, Warpsmiths and Daemonancers of the legion work together to restore these shattered hulks into fitting receptacles into which they bind the daemonic essences they find within the fabric of the Warp itself. Trapping these eldritch, uncanny beings into prisons of Adamantium against their wills, forcing them into the servitude of their new masters.

 

These infernal warmachines are cursed with malign intelligence and are able to operate without a mortal crew at all. However the daemons bound within the chassis of these vehicles rage against their confinement, often the hatches are welded and chained shut - part ritual binding and part physical barrier. Indeed they lash out viciously at any living being that comes near not protected by the correct incantations. Venting plumes of superheated gas to burn intruders or even sprouting tentacles to ensnare the unwary. When pressed into battle these infernal engines are prone to going berzerk on sustaining excessive damage, careening headlong into close quarters rather than staying at range.

 

In terms of armament the Carrion pattern Predator battle tank is reminiscent of the loadouts of the vehicles used by the legions during the Great Crusade and Horus Heresy. A mighty Ecto-plasmic Destroyer marries the daemonic with the power of an exploding sun as the primary turret weapon and the additional fire support of paired lascannons give the Machina Malefica an arsenal to threaten even the strongest of armoured foes.

 

Presenting: The Infernal Truth a Carrion pattern Helforged Predator tank of the Word Bearers legion of Heretic Astartes, part of the host of Dark Apostle Carnac.

 

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[Gederas]

A question Kierdale, I can't think of any real stories for the ETL VI models I made. But I've an idea for something regarding the ETL, but not a specific model. Would that be okay?

[Kierdale]

A question Kierdale, I can't think of any real stories for the ETL VI models I made. But I've an idea for something regarding the ETL, but not a specific model. Would that be okay?

Sure, so long as Chaos features :tu:

[hushrong]

Did not participate in the ETL because I know I build and paint slower than a sloth. Would models being built for a Kill Team be acceptable for this IF topic? Maybe even write a story based off a battle report from a previous game?

[Gederas]

 

A question Kierdale, I can't think of any real stories for the ETL VI models I made. But I've an idea for something regarding the ETL, but not a specific model. Would that be okay?

Sure, so long as Chaos features :tu:

How's Blood Angels Versus Nurgle Traitors sound? :wink:

[Kierdale]

Did not participate in the ETL because I know I build and paint slower than a sloth. Would models being built for a Kill Team be acceptable for this IF topic? Maybe even write a story based off a battle report from a previous game?

If it’s KT then I would recommend writing it up but keeping it for a few weeks.... ;)

[hushrong]

 

Did not participate in the ETL because I know I build and paint slower than a sloth. Would models being built for a Kill Team be acceptable for this IF topic? Maybe even write a story based off a battle report from a previous game?

If it’s KT then I would recommend writing it up but keeping it for a few weeks.... ;)

Roger dodger! I may write something just for the heck of it then as I have nothing ETL related. I know it can’t be judged but at least I can write something up :)

[Kierdale]

If you’re looking for upcoming themes, there are a few recent codexes we haven’t done in ‘Chaos versus...’ yet ;)

[Kierdale]

Judgement time.

It’s taken me a while to choose the winner of IF: Chaos Temple as the entries were all very good but also all very different.

Do I choose Warsmith Demetrios’ ‘orthodox’ (for want of a better word :D) Chaos Temple...

Or Barbatos’ great race. The bike-lover in me - and my Doomrider model - urge me to choose that one...

Or MaliGn’s Chaos-temples-are-wherever-Chaos-is-glorified...

Or the fragment of Caliban shown to us by Hushrong...?

Given such a difficult choice I was tempted to go with the orthodox temple, but the Last Sermon’s angle I hadn’t thought of at all, thus I find it best fitting as winner of Inspirational Friday.

MaliGn step forward to claim your reward!

[hushrong]

Congrats Malign!

 

@Kierdale, I may just write about my BL Warband, some early background fluff, and post it. That will give me the chance to get it written down and later add it to my project log. I have been slacking on that :) I'll wait for those Chaos versus for when they arise. 

[Kierdale]

First and Tenth

Hidden Content

...captain [REDACTED] reporting to chapter master Ran-Thawll. While the Raptorstrike engaged the enemy Harbinger of Hades in orbit, 3^rd company’s first tactical squad was dispatched to engage the heretic astartes ground forces at a point of hard contact (a remote farm, not far from the Green Way Main Supply Route, as confirmed by a squad of the 98^th Cadian Alpine Rangers). Report accessible: HERE.

Unfortunately first squad was eliminated, as was the squad from the 98^th, causing us to reevaluate the strength of the enemy forces on planet.

Harbinger of Hades was driven from orbit and forced into the outer system. I forbid the Raptorstrike from pursuing – though tasked them with monitoring the outer reaches in case of its return – as we required its support on-planet.

Contact with loyalist forces on Phioria Seven was sparse, intermittent and laced with suspicion. Tendrils of the enemy had infiltrated many strata of the planet, if not all, though it was determined that the majority of enemy forces were native: which restricted them to turncoat guard and civilian forces, with a small number of heretic astartes (by this point identified as devotees of [REDACTED] and suspected to be members of the fallen [REDACTED] chapter, now known as the [REDACTED]) which had been borne into the system in support of the insurrection, aboard the Harbinger of Hades.

Our second clash with the [REDACTED] came at the Hemarn Bridge across the Iron Gorge, a bottleneck of several MSRs from the south and east heading northward to the capital. Control of the bridge would give us control of all the lands to the south and east, and a grip upon the capital.

Assault squad seven succeeded in preventing the enemy from capturing or destroying the Hemarn Bridge (one battle-brother was lost, and the squad sergeant injured though battle-ready once more within 30 hours). Combat report accessible: HERE. Note was taken that the enemy forces sent to capture/destroy the bridge (a squad of former assault marines) infiltrated via the river, moving beneath the surface of the water.

Chapter master, with the loyalty of Phiorian units questionable and time running short, I have commanded the 98^th CAR to maintain a perimeter about the capital and to kill anything that attempts to enter or escape that is not of the 98^th or Chapter 888. Squads from our tenth company are infiltrating the city, reconnoitering with two missions:

• Locating heretic astartes, with priority given to command units

• Locating the heart of the corruption on Phioria Seven

Once located, squads of the honoured first company will perform pinpoint strikes. Once taken out, I intend to have our forces withdraw and hand over command to the 98^th CAR for the subsequent purge.

* * * * * *

Little was audible over the thunderous roar of the heavy bolter. While a marine in powered armour would be protected from the deafening noise by the dampners of his helmet’s autosenses, scouts – essentially marines in training – of many chapters forewent headwear. Their Lyman’s Ear, the 11^th implant, did a fair job of filtering out noise that would otherwise deafen them though. Jonta read the lips of his sergeant though there was little need: the enemy were pouring toward them in an unstoppable tide. He slid a fresh magazine into his bolter, cocked it and raised it to his shoulder, opening fire once more. He fired single shots, not because his Biscopea had not yet given him a herculean physique – it had and he could snap a man’s arm with ease, as one of the 98^th Alpine Rangers had discovered – but because each bolt fired from the holy bolt gun was devastating to an unarmoured target. To fire without care was to waste ammunition...and he never missed an opportunity to hone his marksmanship.

The rabble was chaotic in every aspect: they wore the markings of their heresy openly in eight-pointed stars and an entwined masculine/feminine symbol his sergeant had bade him not ask about. It is the mark of the tainted. The unclean. That is all you need know, scout. Some of them were human: clad in worker’s coveralls and wielding tools for weapons, others were humans though not wearing clothing of any Imperial fashion he had ever seen. They were masked, wore hooded cloaks and armour of a purple-tinted metal, and carried long-bladed axes. Infiltrators from offworld, perhaps. Some were turncoat guardsmen or garrison troops: these were not in the main mob rushing up the wreck-strewn street but were lurking in the ruins, snapping off shots with their lasrifles. But the majority of the mob consisted of abhumans: homosapiens variatus. Beastmen. Skin of shocking pink tones, tattooed with those accursed symbols and their bodies pierced with spikes, hooks and chains, they surged forth toward the scout squad with crazed abandon. Though some carried firearms they shot them without aiming in the slightest, moreso as expressions of their madness. Chaos-fueled, their bodies were as big as those of the scouts, but unarmoured. The head of one exploded, horns and bone fragments flying as Jonta’s bolt exploded within.

More and more fell from the fire of the rest of his squad but on they came. Guardsmen would have broken and fled but as the first bodies fell at a point their sergeant had designated: a junction almost blocked with burned out roadcars which the Slaangors vaulted atop, braying madly, the scouts slung their weapons calmly and turned to withdraw. Their sergeant had already secured a grapnel line to the rooftop of their building and he paused only long enough to detonate the charges they had booby-trapped the wrecked vehicles with, before making their withdrawal.

The body count was high, but their mission had been a failure: no heretic astartes had been sighted before the scouts’ position had been compromised.

* * * * * *

“Cultist patrol. Permission to engage?” Scout Usmia had the crosshairs of his rifle’s scope settled on the head of the lead cultist and he tracked it as it led its rabble across a ruined park past skeletal, burned-out trees and toppled statues.

“Permission denied,” came his sergeant’s reply. “We’re here for Astartes.” The sniper squad were positioned within a building overlooking the park, their camelioline cloaks hiding them.

“Patience, Usmia,” his sergeant counselled. “I remember my secondment to the Salamanders.” The grizzled veteran went on, “A fire burns within those of Nocturne, but when scouting I’ve never seen cooler heads. Even their newest, like you boys.”

As Usmia kept his weapon trained on the lead cultist, his sergeant and the rest of the squad swept the surrounding area with their weapons, only Beyus and his missile launcher keeping himself completely out of sight. The sergeant had a backpack commset beside him, its aerial extended and a cable snaking from it to his headset. As soon as they spotted renegade Astartes they would call in the first company. Then the tenth would be tasked with keeping the traitor and mobs from reinforcing their fallen masters.

He knew that other squads of the 10^th company were nearby. His own sergeant was a harsh taskmaster, but nothing as bad as third squad’s. The lower half of his face – and most of his neck – had been removed by one swipe of a Xenos (and depending on who you asked, the type of xenos varied) and subsequently replaced by cybernetics. It was said he was as cold and as unforgiving as a machine, with a voice to match.

The robed cultists were milling about the grand staircase before a desecrated temple to the Imperial Creed. Statues of Imperial saints had been torn down and defaced, scorched remnants of banners hung or littered the chipped flagstones. Iron bars had been driven into the head of one statue and bent as if horns sprouted from its forehead, and an exposed breast had been daubed upon its chest. The hands of another, once held across its chest in an Aquila salute, had been worn down so that they now resembled claws more than human fingers. To the front of another a priest had been nailed, crucified upside down. The cultists tortured the priest with serrated blades; the scouts holding their fire rather than giving away their position.

“More inbound, joining the party.” Another patrol of cultists had joined the first, though none had entered the temple.

A couple of the squad swung their rifles westward as they heard the sound of an approaching RH1N0-chassis. It turned out to be just that: a rhino, rather than a predator, vindicator or whirlwind – as expected: Imperial records stated that the [REDACTED] had lost most of their battle tanks when their corruption had been discovered and their homeworld had been assaulted by the Black Templars. A relief for the scout squad.

Their sergeant, his prominent aquiline nose a feature of their chapter, gave commentary into his mike –and thus the commset- as he took up monitoring the APC via his own rifle, and the scouts went back to scanning the rest of the area. Atop the Rhino stood a daemonette, one human-like hand holding a jagged dagger and the other, clawlike, holding up a severed head. The daemon’s face was hidden by a mask of jade with a protruding, barbed tongue that no doubt served well as a surprise weapon. Though the rhino wobbled as it ground debris and bodies beneath its treads the daemon never wavered or stumbled from her perch. The Rhino came to a stop before the crumbling temple and the rear hatch dropped, one after another heretic astartes deploying from within, their armour painted in pastel hues and strange, fluted and gargoyle-muzzled weapons in their hands.

“I confirm: daemonic and noise-marine forces present. One and ten. Repeat: 10 noise marines and at least one daemon present at my coordinates. Relay to Raptorstrike and the first company.”

They watched as the new arrivals disappeared within the desecrated church and into its bowels.

“Leave them to the First. They’re inbound. The rabble are ours. Pick your targets.”

Beyus loaded a frag missile into his launcher and hefted it to his shoulder as they all drew beads upon the enemy still gathered before the temple.

* * * * * *

Within the main sepulchral chamber beneath the grand temple, where the bones of Phioria Seven’s founders and the heads of the priesthood in the centuries since were kept, the corruption’s heart beat. To one not initiated into the mad ways of the cults of Chaos, the way the bones and relics had been scattered across the chamber floor would have seemed random, but to those schooled in the dark arts could be seen the sigil of the Dark Prince, the Octed and written in the blood of sacrifices were prayers to the neverborn. Chained upon a catafalque lay the bishop of Phioria and though his tongue had been torn from his mouth his cracked lips moved nonstop.

The Emperor protects. The Emperor protects. The Emperor protects...

A ritual circle was scrawled in blood and other bodily fluids about the catafalque, beyond which cultists writhed upon the ground. Some tore at each other, others embraced engaged in carnal acts and a great many combined the two. Many were chained to each other, either via collars or links which pierced their very flesh.

Stood to one side of the bishop’s `bed` was a fallen apothecary. The arms of his chirurgeon backpack arced overhead to minister to his patient. A catheter penetrated one arm of the priest, feeding in a lilac fluid. The other end of the tube penetrated the arm of a daemon which crouched, sat atop the priest, rocking back and forth and studying him with its glowing green eyes, its hair blowing in a wind which no others there felt.

Heavy footfalls clanked on pressed-steel walkways as armoured figures approached, the sound changing as they entered the stone-floored chamber and fanned out about the room. Clad in roseate powered armour, other panels seemingly randomly chosen and coloured other pastel shades, these were noise marines of the Psychopomps. Alongside runes written in the Dark Tongue they wore the mark of Slaanesh openly upon their armour and it was integrated into their warband’s icon upon their left shoulder pads. Many wore gloves of flayed skin – though only a madman could have recognized that it was Eldar skin rather than human. A couple looked upon the cultists heaving and writhing upon the floor and began to cast off their own armour, grins upon their faces: for while the craft that had forged youths into Adeptus Astartes had robbed them of the hormonal drives found in the loins of mortal humans, their dedication to the patron of sensual excess had restored them a hundredfold – though no repeated act could ever stimulate them as much as the initial deed, thus driving them on to commit more excessive feats.

Others took up places about the room; so familiar were they with the use of sonics as weapons that they could instinctively perceive harmonics and acoustics...they took up certain places in the room and gently activated their weapons – not unleashing them but emitting bass growls that were felt as much as heard. These drove on the debauchers.

The daemonette that accompanied the noise marines strode across to the catafalque, standing upon bodies as it did so, deliberately driving its stiletto heels into their flesh and eliciting cries of ecstasy, and mounted the bier to join its twin sat atop the bishop.

The leader of the marines, the black and white-striped pelt of some strange beast upon his back, strode across to the fallen apothecary, his head back and eyes closed as he listened to the cries and screams of the cultists mixing with the sounds of his troops’ humming weapons.

“How goes the patient?” he said as he came to a halt at the other’s side, a wide grin on his head as he watched the daemons writhing atop the bound human.

“He will be ready when the Naga sorcerer arrives. Ready for the summoning.”

The noise marine champion took a breath to respond but the smile fell from his face and he looked upward as if his eyes could pierce the meters of ferrocrete above them. A second later the commbead in his ear came alive.

“They are here!” he hissed to the apothecary and motioned to his squad.

* * * * * *

Sternguard were members of the elite first company of a chapter, and specialized in a plethora of firearms. The squad which now moved through the tunnels beneath the fallen temple were armed with combi-bolters, special-issue bolt guns, and supported by one veteran battle-brother with a heavy flamer. While the latter played his weapon about the corridors, liberally spraying promethium and incinerating the degenerate scum who charged them, the others swept their weapons back and forth, holding fire. Their ammunition was specialized, it was precious, and each veteran had sworn a vow to slay the traitor astartes who had stained this temple with their presence.

They soon found their quarry and the narrow corridors and chambers were filled with the harsh bangs of bolter rounds, the vivid flashes from combi-plasmas being discharged and the eerie screeching of the enemy’s sonics.

Yet no matter how elite the Sternguard were, they were but five against a greater number of fallen Astartes, but like the scouts who had served to find their targets, the Sternguard too were but an aspect of a greater plan. The anvil.

And once they had the enemy locked in a firefight, the hammer fell.

The chamber, lit intermittently by gunfire, was suddenly flooded with light and even after its passing static arced and crawled across the floor and up walls. Thunderous footfalls announced more of the Mentor Legion’s first company: terminators. The heads of thunderhammers and the sword-like blades of lightning claws arced and crackled as they were activated...

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[Kierdale]

With one entry from me and one from MaliGn - who is this theme’s judge, I’m tempted to offer a third week. Are there any more entries to come? Does anyone want a third week?

[hushrong]

I'm behind on the fluff snippet I was going to write but I do not think it would count. Since we could write about a model we completed I think I had something to go with. However, it's a model for an alternate timeline and its only assembled, not a lick of paint.

[MaliGn]

Just roll over to the next topic, I think folks would have entered by now if they were going to.

 

Just something I was thinking about - I've noticed that entries have been running rather long these days, there used to be an advised (but not atrict) word count of approx 250 words didn't there?

[Azekai]

@kierdale, if you extend this for another week, I will have something.

 

I got really sick the past week and my glands were in open rebellion... but I do want to write about rusty nightmare machines.

[Kierdale]

MaliGn, if you don’t mind, I’d like to give the extra week, at least to let Azekai recover from Nurgle’s blessings and submit his piece. :)

 

In the past, when IF was run by Tenebris, we did have a limit on the length of entries, though at that time IF was also much more active and had a one-week limit (rather than the two or three weeks I set now), hence I’m not keen to implement a limit again.

 

If anyone is champing at the bit to get writing on a new topic, the last ‘Chaos versus...’ was ‘vs. Craftworld Eldar’. There have been at least two cod exes since then, which will be upcoming IF themes ;)