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

[Gederas]

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.

 

The extension is helpful for me, as I don't have to rush the one I'm writing for tomorrow. Because right now I need to finish and  proofread it. So you'll have at least two more entries.

 

And funny you mention Nurgle.... :lol:

[Kierdale]

Then a third week you shall have!

[Daimyo-Phaeron Lenoch]

My 1st Inspirational Friday entry, The Silence of the Grave. 

 

Despite the number of combatants, the battlefield was nearly silent except for the sound of weapons fire.

Legions of silent warriors and hovering scarabs marched ominously from their tomb complexes, the dust of aeons uncounted falling from their frames like water. Against them strode seventy-nine Thousand Sons Rubricae, adorned in gold and slower than statues, directed by a trio of Sorcerers riding high upon the battlefields.

At the head of the deathless legions stood a Necron Overlord that towered more than eight feet high, clad in blue, green and chrome. Sprays of flame leapt forth from his stave, scorching the Rubricae and exorcising the Tzeentchian daemons that approached him, aided by a small null field matrix borne upon his royal barge. Those that survived the ghostly flame were swiftly cut down by the massive scythe, puffs of dust coming from the sundered animated suits of armor.

The flat retort of warpfire boltguns was the only noise discernible to the human ear, had there been one to listen. The entire combat was fought in quiet, each side understanding that only total annihilation of the other would suffice; that there would be no peace treaties spoken or made.

The Tzeentchian forces held a greater objective in mind, however, beyond simply the deposit of the so-called 'noctilith' upon the arid planetoid. The bounty here was great, and would be pleasing to the Lord of Plots, but a more crucial objective would be completed by the distraction of this royal and elite force: a treasure trove of knowledge and a webway gate lay nigh-undefended on a world some eleven hundred light years distant, and the Thousand Sons would claim it.

So they prosecuted their war in silence, never once bothering to ensure that the other half of their force was faring well.

Somewhere, somewhen

But Time, being a fickle mistress, had this time cast her favor towards those who could interact with her more...directly, and laughed silently alongside a Deathmark Vizier who had singlehandedly and silently picked off the entire Thousand Sons strike force sent to take over the airless moon he guarded.

 

The Involved Necron Characters

[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

How's Blood Angels Versus Nurgle Traitors sound?

 

Since the go-ahead was given, here's my entry to this Inspirational Friday:

 

Tainted Blood

 

Hidden Content

+++ Signal Transmission +++

+++++++++++++

+++ Priority Level: Alpha +++

++++

+++Date343M37+++

++

+++ Segmentum: Ultima Segmentum

++

+++Subsector: Sardon+++

++

++System: Asmadus System+++

++

+++Hive World – Asmadus Secundus+++

++

+++PLEA OF ASSISTANCE FROM THE PLANETARY GOVENER, TRAITORS HAVE BEGUN ASSAULT ON ALL HIVES. THEY BRING PLAGUE AND DISEASE WITH THEM. ANY IMPERIAL FORCES, IMMEDIATE RESPONSE++

++

+++Transmission Received: Fourth Company returning from battle rerouted from intended course to Chapter homeworld+++

++

+++ Knights of Baal, en-route++

 

 

"Our company is in need of restock and resupply, and yet we are to assist in the defence of a Hive World. Either the Lord Commander believes these traitorous curs will buckle under our might, or that we need to test our mettle yet again. What say you, Sergeant Caemus?"

 

"Does it matter Raelyn? The Lord Commander has given us a task, and we are to enforce his orders."

 

The blond astartes shakes his head, a fringe of hair covering the bionics of his left eye.

 

"No. I do hope these traitors put up more of a fight than the rebellion we just put down however. That was barely worth the effort.:

 

Before Caemus can respond, a third voice cuts between the conversation of the assault marines.

 

"Perhaps your battle-lust and strive for glory will be sated in the hives then brother? Just make sure you take care to not end up taking too much damage. Hive tunnels aren’t the most… adequate location for battlefield medicine."

 

The two assault marines salute to the newcomer.

 

"Sanguinary Priest Sangallo! I thought you were attending to Furian?"

 

"I was. His fate rests now with Sanguinius, the Emperor… And in Meros’ skills. I do pray he survives."

 

Before either of the marines can respond, the shipsmaster’s voice crackles over the ship’s vox.

 

'We have arrived. All Battle-Brothers, ready yourselves to the hangar. The Captain wishes this to be a quick extermination.’'

 

* * * * * *

 

 

The battles for the hives of Asmadus Secundus have been fierce, the Sons of Sanguinius battling against traitor forces across every hive. The fighting has been fiercest in Hive Septimus, which contains the largest air recycling plants in the entire hive system, along with many reactors and power sub-systems.

 

"These heretics are resilient for mere mortals!" Raelyn yells over the roar of his chainsword, slicing one of the renegades arm off at the shoulder, sending his autogun spiraling off into the distance of the tunnel, the severed hand causing the gun to fire bullets wildly. The astartes follows this up by smashing the pommel of his chainsword into the traitor’s face, the front of his skull caving in.

 

The small skirmish has been just one of many in the battle for Asmadus Secundus. Squad Caemus begins assessing the area, joined by the Sanguinary Priest Sangallo.

 

"Indeed. What say you Sangallo?"

 

The apothecary looks over the scattered renegades, their red, black and green clothes stained by their own blood. He kneels, using his narthecium to scan one of the human’s body.

 

"… The reason is simple brothers. These renegades have been twisted by Chaos. The resilience is due to the touch of their heretical god, attempting to make their weak bodies strong."

 

This statement is met with sounds of disgust by the other marines. Sangallo stands up, his helmeted head looking to Sergeant Caemus.

 

"Captain Valerian has given us a task in any case. We need to make sure these renegades do not take the air recycling plant. If they are allowed to do so, the hive itself will either die of suffocation, or worse." He motions to the traitors, specifically the skull-shaped grenades they carry. "I have seen weapons like these before. These are followers of the plague god, Nurgle. Be wary brothers. Where these traitors gather, disease will fester."

 

"Where is the air recycling plant then? We must stop them before they can take it."

 

"According to the schematics brother Meros’ supplied me with, further down this passageway. A kilometer or so."

 

"Then let us be off. Brothers, onwards!"

 

 

* * * * * *

 

 

Assault Squad Caemus and Sangallo reach the air recycling plant, quickly assessing positions that provide the most tactical advantages. From their position they can see the source of the traitors’ bravery: Seven traitor astartes, clad in dirty carmine armour, all with patches of slick green filth, and sickly gold trim.

 

'By Sanguinius, look at them! They shamble like the living dead!'

 

'They are tainted by the Chaos God of plagues, they might as well be.'

 

One of the Plague Marines turns, pulling out a vial containing some vile substance. He begins punching the activator runes of the recycler.

 

'Sergeant Caemus, I have a shot. I can take out the traitor.'

 

'If you have the shot, aim for the vial. Stop him!'

 

A roaring bark from Raelyn’s bolt pistol echoes out in the chamber. The mass-reactive shell rips through the glass container before embedding itself in the gantry and exploding next to the nurglite renegade. The reaction from the traitors is instant, bolters and weapons readied, scanning and assessing the area. Raelyn charges out from the alcove he was obscuring himself in, chainsword roaring as he barrels towards one of the traitors.

 

"For The Emperor and Sanguinius!" he shouts, swinging his chainsword at one of the traitors.

 

His battle cry is met with a call and response from the traitors:

 

"Armata Strigoi!"

 

"We drink your blood!"

 

The battle begins, chainswords meeting plagued blade and axe, boltguns firing in the frantic melee. Raelyn matches his chainsword against the vial-carrier, the traitor marine’s filth-covered knife parrying the strike as he responds with a strike of his axe. Brother Thoros swings his chainsword at one of the plague marines, the teeth of the chainsword screaming as they meet tainted ceramite, rending the marine’s head from his shoulders.

 

"Death! DEATH!"

 

Thoros screams, already attempting to charge one of the other plague marines. The attempt fails, as the marine has already readied his meltaguns, an actinic, blinding flash bursting from the muzzle of the gun, rendering Thoros’ torso into molten slag. The marine steps over the still-sizzling corpse, making his way towards the melee.

 

Galan crosses blades with one of the marines, this one wielding a massive two-handed axe. The traitor glares at the Blood Ange, blackened eyes and pale, veined skin and fanged mouth snarling. The Blood Angel, enraged by the death of his comrade, puts all his might against the traitor, pushing him back slightly before pulling his chainblade back and thrusting forward. The chainsword bites deep into the marine’s gut, black ichor spraying out and coating the gantry in slick gore. Before Galan is able to pull the blade out, his opponent delivers a devastating kick, caving in the marine’s leg and causing the Blood Angel to stumble back against the railing. The marine pulls the chainsword out of his stomach, teeth still tearing the diseased flesh, and tosses it over the edge of the railing into the abyss before swinging his axe again. Galan dodged backwards, but his injured knee causes him to lose his balance, and he falls off the edge, only just barely catching the edge. The plague marine raises his axe once more to deliver a killing blow, but three bolt shells fired by Nassir explode against his back. The sudden attack causes the heretic to pitch forward, his heavy weight smashing the railing. Before he falls into the inky blackness, the plague marine grabs onto one of Galan’s greaves, pulling the Blood Angel with him into the depths.

 

"Galan!" Nassir cries out before swinging his chainsword into one of the other plague marines, the blade biting deep into the astartes chest. "Damn you filthy traitors!" The muzzle of Nassir’s bolt pistol is pressed against the front of the marine’s helmet before the Blood Angel fires.

 

* * * * * *

 

 

Pain. That is the first sensation Galan feels. His armour’s display is screaming, a broken knee and his armoured rib-plate is cracked. He groans, standing to his feet as his body begins to be flooded with painkillers. His helmet’s vox is damaged, unable to send or receive messages, along with both lenses cracked to inoperability.

 

"Damned heretics…"

 

He grimaces, removing the yellow helmet and mag-locking it to his belt. He looks around him, seeing his chainsword lying broken several meters away from him. The traitor marine who pulled him down with him lies on his back. Growling with hate, the Blood Angel limps over to the downed marine, unsheathing his bolt pistol. He aims it at the fallen astartes bare head. As he pulls the trigger, the marine’s eyes snap open, and he lunges upwards, a hand gripping onto Galan’s wrist, forcing the bolt pistol upwards, the shell firing into the distance.

 

"Die damn you!"

 

Galan swings a fist, smashing it into the side of the plague marine’s face. He can feel the marine’s jaw break. Instead of slowing the marine down or even stunning him, it merely makes the astartes grin.

 

"I already have… I died, along with the rest of my chapter." The plague marine wheezes out. "Look at you… Acting as if you are pure of heart. I know you are not. I know that every member of your chapter carries a darkness in them."

 

"You speak nothing but lies. The Sons of Sanguinius are nothing but pure of heart, loyal to their martyred father and Emperor!"

 

"I know that you lie, my brother. For the flaw of Sanguinius is known to my chapter. The Thirst… The Rage…"

 

As the pair grapple, Galan manages to glance at the marine’s shoulder, the badge clear, despite the corruption of his foe’s armour. The tri-lobed symbol of Nurgle… made of three drops of sanguine red blood, shaped exactly like his chapter’s alatus cadere, the winged drop, the angel-winged droplet of ruby vitae which is the symbol of the Blood Angels. His eyes widen in horror.

 

"That symbol… You’re-!?"

 

"I am Faustian! Member of the Second Company of Captain Reznor, of the Sanguine Saints!"

 

"No… the Sanguine Saints were destroyed a decade ago, chasing a group of traitor marines into the Eye of Terror!"

 

"We were. Now, we are the Armata Strigoi." Faustian grins. "We have seen the truth. Our eyes have been opened. The Grandfather has shown us that. And now… Now we are free to show the galaxy just how much an Angel can destroy."

 

The plague marine opens his mouth, fangs bared and lunges into Galan’s neck, the Blood Angel’s vitae being drained hungrily by the Strigoi. The angel weakens as his corrupted gene-brother drains his very life essence from his body. Galan’s desiccated body drops to the ground as Faustian chuckles.

 

"I do hope Erasmus and the others can handle our short-sighted brothers." He walks over to his axe, gripping the haft before attaching it to his back and begins his ascent back to the gantry.

As Faustian finishes his climb to the gantry of the air filtration system he can see the battle has continued in his absence. The fallen angel of blood grins, leaping onto the blood-slicked metal and looking for a new victim. It seems the smaller force of Blood Angels have matched the Strigoi’s larger one, now the crimson and carmine armoured Astartes number the same amount each. Faustian, Erasmus, Amareus and Morlaeo remain of the Strigoi; Three Assault Marines and the Sanguinary Priest of the Blood Angels remain. The battle remains as fierce as it started, blades clashing and muzzles flaring.

 

A loud, booming voice emanates from the tunnel the Blood Angels entered from.

 

"BROTHERS, I HAVE RETURNED. DEATH TO THE ENEMY!"

 

The roaring of an assault cannon echoes through the chamber as the blood-red Dreadnought steps through the shadows, a techmarine flanking the walker.

 

Erasmus’ voice cuts through the Strigoi’s vox-net.

 

'This mission is now no longer completable. Brothers, retreat for now. We mustn’t fail Lord Malthian by all falling here.'

 

Growling, Faustian acknowledges, breaking off his melee against the Blood Angels’ sergeant. He leaps over the edge of the gantry, the blackness swallowing him.

 

* * * * * *

 

 

Caemus kneels down, head bowed. One member of his squad slain, the other missing.

 

"I failed them…"

 

A white-armoured hand places itself on his shoulder.

 

"No brother. They did their duty to the Emperor. We repelled the traitors, and they can no longer poison the entire hive. They died to save billions."

 

Caemus shakes his head, standing up and looking at Sangallo and nodding. He turns to Meros and Furian’s ironform.

 

"It was quite fortuitous of you both to arrive brothers. Your mere presence seemed to repel the heretics."

 

"Indeed. However, you seemed to be handling yourselves."

 

Even though Caemus cannot see it, the techmarine’s tone makes it clear he’s hiding a smile behind his helmet. Furian’s sarcophagus looks towards the ruined body of Thoros.

 

"IT SADDENS ME TO SEE ANOTHER BATTLE BROTHER FALL IN SUCH A MANNER…"

 

"It enrages us all dear brother." Caemus responds, nodding. "Brother Sangallo, perhaps you can shed some light on these traitors?"

 

"It shall be done."

 

Sangallo walks over to the headless corpse of one of the plague marines, his narthecium whirring as it drills through the tainted battle plate of the marine. The drill pierces through, reaching the gene-seed of the fallen traitor and the narthecium begins scanning. The results quickly flash across the display of Sangallo’s helmet.

 

"… Emperor on Earth."

 

"What is it brother?" Caemus turns to Sangallo.

 

"These traitors… They’re…" Sangallo shakes his head, standing up and turning to the remaining Blood Angels. "Their gene-seed is descended of our own. The Sanguine Saints did not all die in their crusade into the Eye of Terror as we once thought. Far from it." He motions to the tainted Plague Marine. "They were corrupted."

 

"This is… No…" Caemus frowns before snarling. He walks over to the corpse, grabbing it by the leg and throwing it over the edge of the gantry, into the darkness.

 

"CAEMUS."

 

Furian saying his name snaps the sergeant out of his enraged state. He sighs before turning to the collected astartes and Dreadnought.

 

"We must inform the Captain. This knowledge… It is beyond us. The masters of the Chapter must know. We fight not just traitors, but our own blood." He sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "And we must exterminate them entirely."

 

[Azekai]

Fever Dream

Something tears and my cargo slips to the ground. I bend at the knees, repressurize my claws. It is sometimes difficult to differentiate between objects, the cargo all looking alike after the fever. It is a soft, pliant thing, I know that much. I can't tell rotten plywood, feed sacks or meat apart, not unless I really concentrate. This time my grip is sure and I lift- her. Satisfyingly, nothing tears; no need for a third attempt.

The Lector said the name 'Nora' when he designated the load.

I knew 'Nora' may have meant something, once... the word suggested more than a number expressed in calories burned, volts expended.

I focus on the cargo.

59 kilograms.

Bulky center of mass, spindly extremities.

Doesn't look familiar in the slightest.

As always, I take her to Church... I try my best to be helpful.

-------


'Da... what is it?' I squint up, leaning in such a way so that father's head eclipses the bright red afternoon sun. He lowered his spade, but said nothing, and I can't read his expression. I turned back toward the tall rock and continued in my childishly helpful way, scraping away handfuls of slimy dirt from around the base.

The rock- the idol. A viciously sharp trapezoid shot through with veins of unfamiliar ore. Despite the glaring sunlight and parched winds, the object seemed to glisten wetly. It had taken the better part of the day to excavate.

Father reached out, hesitatingly touching the flat side of the knife-like stone. I saw his jaw clench tight, and he pulled away. “Well done, my lad. This here is the find of a lifetime.” He hefted the spade and shooed me out of the hole we'd dug. A rare smile cracking his dry lips and he took my hand as we headed back for town. “I can feel our luck's about to change, Silas. But don't tell the others, even your mother. They aren't ready, not yet.”


-------

The streets are filled with whirling dust. Visibility is poor. Fragments of stone and sand ping and scrape across my frame. I leave the decaying town, march through the dry grox wallows.


I don't remember what a grox is, but I do know they are far heavier than 59 kilos.

-------


It has me. A beast with slavering jaws has me by the throat, its long claws pricking my arms and legs and chest, infecting me with burning cold. Sometimes, when it speaks, it sounds like my father, offering money in exchange for flesh. Sometimes it sounds like a machine, a static hungry howl- I can tell it wants to be fed, it hates to be denied-

I start awake, drenched in sweat- and instantly I wish I was back in the dragon's teeth.

Standing over me is a man cloaked in crimson. His face is missing; instead a metal plate has been riveted to his skull. His eyes shine like frozen catseye marbles. My father and mother are in the doorway, they aren't touching each other. I try to cry out, to shove the metal nightmare man away, but I am too sick, I can't move. His hand grips me tight, each rigid finger a cool needle pushing through my yellow paper skin.

“Omnissiah willing, this procedure will be done in 34 hours.” The pronouncement is unhurried, measured. “Have my agreed upon payment ready, Lector Roche.”

My mother sobbed and my father chided her. “Hush, Nora. Just ensure my boy lives, journeyman.” He took a single halting step into the room but came no further. “No cost is too great.”

The metal apparition's monotone reply slurs and distorts into the monster's roar.

I black out.

-------

I keep walking. The Church is ahead. Unmarked by statue or steeple, a low shed built over a deep, unused wallow. I can see the Lector ahead of me, waiting in the doorway.

I quicken my pace.

I am helpful.

-------

The Lector stood barefoot, crouching on the edge of a great pit, bigger than any wallow. Within lay the fruit of my recent labors, where I would take the cargo with the meaningless names. It seemed all of them went to the Church and stayed there. Wind whistled among the cracks in the walls.

Lector Roche seemed to be bowing his head, his words were unclear. If they were instructions, I could not understand them. Rising up out of the pit was a jagged blade of metal, caked in corrosion and blasted carbon. Its apex arced nearly up to the sheet metal roof.

Finally the Lector spoke clear enough for me to understand. “Have I not done all you asked? For what? Fortune? Riches? Glory? My flock, my own family are dead or worse! Consumed by famine and pestilence- and their corpses brought like a putrescent feast! How many souls line this sucking pit?”

Silence reigned, for a short interval. Then a soundless voice punctured my mind like a rabid nail.

47

That is all it said.

Lector Roche did not move. He had heard the voice too. Eventually he choked out a crazed giggle. “Forty seven? 'Only' forty seven?' How many more lives do you require to be sated? A dozen? A thousand ? Each and every one on this forsaken world?”

The Lector drew a rusted pistol. His hand shook badly.

He didn't look at me.

“Is this is this the sort of sacrifice you want? Then so be it. This ends now. G-goodbye, Silas.”

Lector Roche shoved the barrel of the weapon under his own wattled chin and pulled the trigger with a last despairing scream.

I watch the body slide, limp and uncomplaining, down the side of the pit into the mire. It twitched, and then eventually went still. Eventually I stopped recognizing it.


The rot-filled mud churned. I witnessed the reward for my helpfulness, a posthumous gift of my father's stunted faith.



The monster of my childhood dreams, the stone in the pit, the fell fever that burned away my town- it had all been the doing this great and eternal entity. The idol in the shed was but the smallest part, a single talon jutting from the dirt-

The earth boiled like water, and plasmic fire vented in writhing clouds. The walls crumbled and the roof melted. It spread its vast wings of star-flung steel, eyes and mouth bleeding the very essence of hell and paradise.

The Fevered Dragon had come forth.

It knew me, and I saw it for what it was. Two beings, injured and bound in fearful iron, trapped together on this loathsome world. It hungered still, for ripe meat and soft bones, but also for minds and souls. It yearned to be worshiped, and it was then that I fully understood my purpose, though I am slow and unskilled with speech.

I would rebuild the Church- but not as a thing of plywood and mud. No, I would build it out of souls and sweating, twitching flesh. The Dragon screamed in voices that may have been familiar once, and shot up into the black sky. I turned towards the next settlement, intent on notifying my people of their new god.



I am helpful. Always have been.

There are some flashbacks and narrative jumps. No one ever said being a servant of Chaos was easy.

Edit: Here are some of my cultists that I painted for E Tenebrae Lux- I think the icon bearer was my subconscious inspiration. Cheers, all!

[Kierdale]

Azekai, that was fantastic.

Do you have images of the model? I’d love to see it!

[Azekai]

Azekai, that was fantastic.

Do you have images of the model? I’d love to see it!

Hey, thank you!

The dragon itself is forthcoming- on my workbench in pieces. I painted the cult first as one of my vows and I wanted to explore their origins. I can link a pic of the ‘church’ of the fevered dragon later.

[Kierdale]

You too, Gederas, show us some pics! :tu:

Thank you very much for your entries in Inspirational Friday: ETL Model.

Daimyo-Phaeron Lenoch entered IF for the first time with The Silence of the Grave. A tale of Thousand Sons sorcerers leading their rubric marines in a diversionary attack upon a Necron cryptworld. The dead fighting the dead!

MaliGn’s excellently converted Hellforged Predator was accompanied by his piece on the Carrion-pattern Hellforged Predator and indeed the planet of its (re)birth. Very well written and easy to visualise from the descriptions. Plus you’ve inspired me to make one someday!

A shock was in store for marines of the Knights of Baal in Gederas’ Tainted Blood as they found themselves fighting for the lives of billions on a hive world, facing none other than fallen gene-brothers. I really liked this piece, with the action well written and the story nicely unfolding.

Fever Dream was Azekai’s entry. A young boy’s life is saved - as only the Adeptus Mechanicus knows how - but can the same be said of his world?

And I gave you First and Tenth. Mentor Legion versus the Psychopomps, continuing on a war from a couple of past entries.

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

And here begins our fifteenth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2018:

The Primordial Annihilator versus the Drukhari

The Aeldari empire brought about its own demise, falling into debauchery and wickedness. The Exodites were the first to recognise the folly of their race and the dangers to come, fleeing their worlds for a simpler life. Those of the craftworlds escaped just in time...but these two factions were not the only survivors, for within the Webway, that labyrinth dimension betwixt reality and the warp, a great bastion of depravity and horror evaded the death of their empire: Commorragh -a ‘city’ in the loosest possible sense-, and within it a race that did not turn from their old ways.

The Eladrith Ynneas.

The Drukhari.

The Dark Eldar.

Pirates, assassins, flesh-crafters and murderers, they feed upon fear and pain: the only way to replenish their withering flesh and souls as She Who Thirsts feeds steadily upon their very existence.

The theme of the fifteenth challenge is The Primordial Annihilator versus the Drukhari.

Tell us a tale of the Dark Eldar -as protagonists or antagonists- against the forces of Chaos. And while Slaanesh might be their most obvious foe, Inspirational Friday yearns for diverse tales.*

IF2018: Chaos versus Dark Eldar runs until the 21st of September.

Let us be inspired.

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

The winner of IF2018: The Primordial Annihilator versus the Drukhari shall claim not the Octed amulet:

...but the amulet of Commorragh:

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

* with a thirst rivalling that of the Dark Prince’s for Aeldar souls.

[Gederas]

You too, Gederas, show us some pics!

 

But I didn't vow any of my Nurgle Renegades, or Blood Angels? :lol:

 

[Kierdale]

Oh, that’s what you meant. I misunderstood.

Never mind. :)

[MaliGn]

Tricky one to judge this, I liked the idea of Daimyo-phaeron Lenoch's piece, Kierdale's was the only one other than mine that featured model photos - which was sort of the point of the theme this month, but not a deal-breaker. Gederas's story was very dynamic and action packed but for me this time around Azekai's Fever Dream takes it, disorientating, evocative and disturbing. Well done - oh , and please do post the cultists when you get time.

 

Edit - just noticed that Azekai has now posted some of his cultists sorry! nice conversions!

[Daimyo-Phaeron Lenoch]

Fever Dream was my favorite as well for two reasons. Firstly, the jumpiness of it reminded me of Tom Clancy, a favorite author of mine, and secondly because it stuck in my head. It’s a horrifying tale with a gruesome outcome, and that’s a large part of why I remember it so well. We don’t remember what is ordinary, we remember what jars us, and Azekai did an excellent job of that.

 

I’d also like to point out I included the two photos of the models involved as well, but they were spoilers so I suppose it’s possible you missed them.

 

This was fun! I think I’ll try again this time, and reach for that amulet. Pushing me out of my comfort zone is something that will definitely happen here, given I play neither chaos nor DEldar, and I welcome that. Self growth is always necessary.

Hey Keirdale, does the chaos have to be a canon legion or could it be a lost legion I’m working on?

[Kierdale]

Congratulations, Azekai! Well deserved. And excellent models! :tu:

 

EDIT: Daimyo, the Chaos does not need to be an official warband. Most of my pieces are about my own original warband :)

[Azekai]

 Oh man, thanks y'all for really kind words, glad the story was so well received! I was worried my attempt to portray the perceptions of a brain-damaged drudge would result in an incomprehensible mess.

Really looking forward to the Dark Eldar offerings... gotta say, I am pretty stoked about Kierdale running this and for the general participation in Inspirational Friday. It warms the cockles of my heart to be involved in this forum

 

[MaliGn]

Fever Dream was my favorite as well for two reasons. Firstly, the jumpiness of it reminded me of Tom Clancy, a favorite author of mine, and secondly because it stuck in my head. It’s a horrifying tale with a gruesome outcome, and that’s a large part of why I remember it so well. We don’t remember what is ordinary, we remember what jars us, and Azekai did an excellent job of that.

 

I’d also like to point out I included the two photos of the models involved as well, but they were spoilers so I suppose it’s possible you missed them.

 

This was fun! I think I’ll try again this time, and reach for that amulet. Pushing me out of my comfort zone is something that will definitely happen here, given I play neither chaos nor DEldar, and I welcome that. Self growth is always necessary.

Hey Keirdale, does the chaos have to be a canon legion or could it be a lost legion I’m working on?

My bad, brain playing tricks on me again... hmmm.

[Azekai]

Here are WIP pics of the Fevered Dragon. I finally welded most of the damned thing together with epoxy, green stuff, and 2+ tubes of gorilla glue.



This is the first shot with only one wing and no hind claws. My workbench is, fittingly, in a state of utter chaos.



Here it is with both wings in place. I still need to raid the attic for a tail... ideally I will be able to get ahold of some old plastic tyrannosaurus bones...

[EesiOh]

Well I know I said i was back last time, and then promptly vanished. And i cant promise it wont happen again this time. The writers block is almost as mysterious and powerful as the whims of chaos itself. Regardless a challenge like this is just too good not to pursue, in fact im pretty sure I have a model for it just lying around here somewhere... 

[Kierdale]

Need we a third week? :)

[Kierdale]

Well my piece is nearly done but not complete and we have no other entries, so we’re having a third week :)

[Daimyo-Phaeron Lenoch]

Phew! I’d forgotten about IF until just a few minutes ago and was worried I’d spend three hours in a writing panic before raging at iCloud and BnC code for not copying anything correctly/at all, and spending just enough time editing I missed Friday into saturday.

 

In retrospect I should have not checked this thread and then realized I had time to edit, as now I’m likely to forget about this again

[Kierdale]

Into The Labyrinth

Hidden Content

It stood almost as tall as a marine though was likely a fraction of an Astartes’ weight as its limbs were long and thin yet wrapped in wiry muscle covered in skin as pale as the Psychopomps’ alabaster armour had once been. When they had been the Stygian Guard, ferrying the Emperor’s foe into oblivion. Now they chose whose souls they claimed, and offered them up to their new master.

But this xenos abomination and others like it now stood between them and their goal.

The creature’s face was hidden beneath a flawless mask of chrome, with more metal apparatus emerging from its back. Its waist was cinched impossibly tightly, with skirts of black, stained cloth covering its legs and in its hands it held implements more at home in an apothecarium than a battlefield.

It raised these curved and serrated blades before it, as if saluting him before combat was joined.

Visarius wondered as he raised his bolt pistol, settling its sights over the creature’s chest, if this was what the Xenos’ apothecaries looked like. The thought vanished from his mind as he squeezed the trigger and blew a hole through the alien.

With a grin upon his face he turned back to face the rest of his squad down the corridor, and they watched as the xenos strode forward unperturbed by the gaping hole in its chest, to slice open Visarius’s own neck. It struck with such speed and ferocity that the renegade astartes’ head was taken from his shoulders and rolled across the deck plates toward them.

Flicking its kill’s scarlet blood from its blades, the xeno stood proud staring down the ship corridor at the other renegade astartes. Gore dripped from its wound, but no innards could be seen within. While coils of wet, glistening intestines might have spilled from a human’s guts, or quivering lungs be seen, there was naught but muscle.

In response the Psychopomps parted ranks and unleashed a monstrosity of their own.

The Drukhari stopped its advance as something heavy pounded its way up the dimly-lit corridor toward it. Its organs safe in the hump upon its back, the xenos had not been felled by the marine’s shot, but drugs now flooded its system as its body attempted to repair the damage, or at least keep it fighting as this new foe stepped forth.

The fallen Eldar could not at first see if it was one humanoid or two, but the thing that hobbled forward was as if the flesh of two – in the midst of wrestling or copulating – had run like wax and fused them together. Faces, too, were fused together and one eye of each being stared at the Drukhari as it wobbled on its feet like a newborn beast.

It was hideous. Lacking the beauty that a Haemonculus might craft into flesh, the xenos stepped forward to put it out of its misery. The amalgam’s pain would be sweet succor!

As the alien’s blades sliced off one of the spawn’s arms at the elbow and its return strike opened the belly of one of the fused individuals, innards did not spill forth as they rightly should, but shot forth from the wound to snake about the Drukhari’s weapon arm.

Coils of intestine flew as the dark Eldar freed itself only for the now mouth-like wound in its foe to yawn wider and more tendrils whipped out. The flesh of the spawn went malleable once again and teeth sprouted from the lips of the maw, and a hungry groan emerged from within. More tendrils short forth from within the spawn, from wherever it was cut – even from a socket as the Eldar smashed its eye – and by the time they had wrapped themselves about the alien’s limbs and began probing the gaping wound in the alien’s own chest, the spawn was almost inside out.

Pseudopods began to push their way into the Eldar’s chest wound and the spawn dragged itself close and closer to the flailing alien.

The squad of Psychopomps looked on as the alien was consumed, prayers to the Dark Prince upon their lips.

 

* * * * * *

Piracy had become a way of life for the war band known as the Psychopomps, as in their flight from their homeworld of Fulcrum they had had to sacrifice or abandon many of their battle tanks. This had forced them into a life of reaving, and the Neptune’s Bounty had been all too tempting a target. Warp storms appeared to have driven the freighter from the empyrean and kismet had delivered it into the Psychopomps’ hands.

But the appetizing prize had drawn others too. Those for whom rapine had been a way of life for ten millennia.

Rather than attacking Priapus’ Blade, the sleek alien vessel immediately drew alongside the Imperial freighter and began to board it too, happy to challenge the renegade astartes for the ship, its cargo and crew.

 

* * * * * *

Air wheezed from the elder’s mask and his rheumy eyes slowly opened, struggling to focus on the armour-clad warrior knelt before it. The armour was razor-edged, near black in colour but for a red sheen where the light caught it.

“My liege.”

“I feel them. I feel their fear.” The wizened elder’s voice grew in strength.

“They will be ours. We have begun boarding.”

Bloodshot eyes focused on the warrior. He wore his helmet, veiling his face.

“And?” The elder grunted accusingly, “You hide something.”

The pointed helmet bowed lower. “I can hide nothing from you, can I?” There was a trace of mirth in the young warrior’s voice. “The mon-keigh are no problem, but there are Astartes present too.” The warrior struggled to pronounce the alien word.

The elder gave a sound as much a cough as a laugh. “They can withstand much suffering. Exquisite! Bring me one!”

The warrior bowed once more before rising.

The patriarch archon stifled another hacking cough and watched his son leave. He could feel his own soul wearing thin, the threads of his existence unweaving, fragments of his very being flaking away. He tried not to think about that which consumed them. That which hungered for his and all his people’s souls.

There would need to be much suffering, or his end would soon come.

 

* * * * * *

Rather than wasting bolt shells, or risking something important being ruptured, the Psychopomps tasked with seizing the engineerium employed their chainswords. The ferocious roar of chainblades drove the majority of the mortal crew from their stations and those who did not flee – servitors for the most part – were hewn down where they stood or cowered.

“Listhia to Priapus’ Blade,” the squad champion spoke into his comm, picking chunks of meat from his blade before revving it to clear the smaller pieces. “Tell the Minotaur that the engineerium is ours.”

He paced about the chamber as he awaited a response from his commander, eyeing the pipes and ducts that lined the walls, not touching any of the cogitators. Neither he nor any of his men were techmarines or warpsmiths. Techlore was beyond their ken and they knew better than to fiddle and risk damaging or enraging the vessel’s machine spirit. If the call came to sabotage, however, that they could accomplish with relish.

He revved his chainsword again. Having heard that the ship was also being assaulted by Eldar, he was eager to get into the fight. All the war bands of the Eye – be they fallen chapters as the Psychpomps were, or the fragmented remnants of the once-great legions - were hungry for slaves; for labour for the most part, as ship crews, fortress garrisons or mere cannon fodder troops, or for entertainment in gladiatorial combat...or sustenance. An Astarte was capable of ingesting almost anything, and mortal flesh was no taboo to them. From some, via the omophagea, they could learn intel – far easier than via interrogation – and news on events outside the Eye. And for the Psychopomps slaves provided another, unique form of nourishment. The Infernal Engine was a device forged by the late warpsmith Zenelaius and their chief apothecary Podalir, which allowed one to delve into the mind of a subject wired into the machine. One felt all that they felt – all that was inflicted upon them – without damage to one’s own flesh or, supposedly, one’s mind. Those trained could push deeper into the subject’s psyche, into their memories. A human strapped into the Engine was a tasty morsel, but when one of the children of Isha was the victim...they were capable of emotions and sensations far beyond the ken of man. Peaks of pleasure and darkest nadirs of anguish...such sweet ambrosia!

 

* * * * * *

Screams rang out through Neptune’s hallways and corridors. The crew were mere humans, vassals of a minor rogue trader aboard a third-rate vessel, and few had combat experience. Most of those who did had grabbed their rifles and been slaughtered by the Psychopomps as the marines had assaulted the freighter, dying in seconds. Their barricades had done little to protect them against the devastating sonic weapons the renegades Astartes employed. A few others had hung back, either born of cowardice or intelligence – in the latter case intending to ambush the boarders – but these found themselves assaulted from the other side as the Drukhari pirates; kabalite warriors for the most part, but there were also a number of wyches and wracks. The kabalites had loaded their terrible weapons with paralytic venoms: dropping the crew like cattle to be dragged back to their ship...until the aliens had come face to face with their rival boarders.

The dark Eldar managed to ambush a couple of the fallen astartes, but once their presence was known the Psychopomps had the advantage: the great armoured warriors lacked the agility of the aliens, but that agility meant little in the confines of the ship’s corridors. There their armour served them better, and their bolt guns punched easily through that of the Kabalites.

The crew of the freighter were forgotten as sworn foes set about each other. The slaves to Slaanesh fought to harvest the souls of the very race that birthed their patron, and the xenos fought with a hatred ten millennia in the making.

 

* * * * * *

The Archon jolted as he awoke upon his throne within his quarters. His heart beat faster as he watched his scion approach, and a smile spread across his withered features. His son and heir knelt once more, this time removing his helmet. The younger Aeldar’s face was smooth though no less wicked looking than his sire, yet vivacious where the elder was languid. The Archon regarded him with equal parts pride and jealousy.

“We leave? How is the tally?” he croaked.

“I come, my lord, with a report of how the raid proceeds,” the young warrior’s eyes were downcast, focused on the pointed, armoured boots, of the seated master. How long had it been since his sire had actually gone to war? Taken up the huskblade and blast pistol that hung upon the wall? Too long. Now he sat upon his throne barking orders in an increasingly weak voice, keeping tally of their victims – and taking the lion’s portion lest She Who Thirsts take his soul.

The Archon’s wizened fingers clenched the skull-carved armrests of his throne and he leaned forward, his face livid.

“A report!? Bring me quaking slaves, not words, my son!” He spat this last as he stood, taking an unsteady yet menacing step toward the other.

“My lord, the astartes-“

“Bring them before me, on their KNEES!” at this the archon staggered backward, collapsing into his throne, one hand upon his head and the other over his chest. He regarded his heir with bloodshot, accusing eyes as the warrior departed.

 

* * * * * *

“Curious. Most curious.” He gripped the jaw of the alien tightly, inclining its head to one side, and examined the liquid leaking from its ear. As well as blood there was a straw-coloured liquid too. He had undergone training as, and been inducted into the chapter’s apothecarium almost a century earlier, only to return to the battle companies a couple of decades later, yet medical matters occasionally still arose that drew his attention.

One of his lieutenants looked at the Minotaur – as he was known to his men – questioningly.

“Fractured skull. Though their blood differs so much from our own, their cerebrospinal fluid appears quite similar.” He spoke in a pedagogish manner, raising a finger to his visor in order to examine the fluid on it while he held the alien’s jaw in a vice-like grip with his other hand. He then looked to his retinue, gathered in the airlock of the besieged freighter. “You really must treat our prizes with more care,” he berated them in his fatherly way.

“This one,” he shook the alien in his grip, “will be dead before we return.”

As if to emphasise his point he increased his grip, crushing the eldar’s skull in his hand. Shaking the gore from his gauntlet he drew his bolt pistol and turned. His boots clanged heavily upon the deck plates for he was a beast of a man. His powered armour barely contained him, and the armour of his lower-half was custom-made, for he had been blessed with legs resembling those of one of the war band’s Slaangor-thralls, only greater in size.

“Now where-“

“The humans?” one of the Psychopomps moved as if to gesture his lord down another corridor.

“-are unimportant,” the Minotaur shook his head. The great horns emerging from the sides of his helmet scraped the ceiling plates, drawing sparks. “Where is the fighting? I need to see more of these Eldar. I wish to confirm my suspicions. They wear no soulstones...”

Nodding, the assembled marines lead their leader toward what roughly equated to `the front` in the huge freighter.

 

 

* * * * * *

 

“The souls you take you squander on your own fading existence. The souls we reap we offer up to the very god that your kind gave birth to!”

The towering marine’s bellicose voice was audible over the roar of gunfire: the harsh bangs of bolt guns, the scream of sonics and the clatter of splinter rifles.

He knew now that his foe were not Eldar as those they had fought on other worlds had been; those who were said to live upon vast world-vessels, who had escaped their Empire’s devastation ten thousand years earlier – he had learned as much from the brains of those he had consumed – no, these were those who lived as foully as their race had when it had birthed the Dark Prince, and who it was rumoured lived in a city situated within the Webway. That alien nexus, a labyrinth, a domain between that of mortal minds and the realm of Chaos. Oh to behold that debauched alien metropolis! Oh to reap it in the name of Slaanesh!

 

 

* * * * * *

 

The archon’s lips split as his scion staggered into the room, the pain doing little to sooth the elder’s mood. His lips pulled back in disgust. He could smell the defeat on the downcast warrior before him.

“W-we’re leaving.”

It was a long moment’s silence before the archon replied. “What?”

“Retreating...to the webway.” The warrior panted.

“With how many captives?” The archon pushed himself to his unsteady feet, his eyes not leaving his son.

“None, sire.” He knelt, nearly collapsing, onto the polished black floor of the chamber.

The archon nearly stumbled. “No humans?”

The other shook his helmeted head.

Coughs shook the elder’s chest. “N-no Astartes?”

“None, sire.”

Moving with surprising speed for one who was as a fading wraith, the archon booted the kneeling warrior to the ground, almost falling himself as he did so, flailing his arms until he fell against the wall, catching himself on the weapons rack that stood there.

“YOU FOOL! You worm! You shame our house, our name and our very race!” The archon’s voice faded and he slumped against the wall, fingers grasping for the ornate blaster pistol resting upon the rack there. As his fingers closed about its handle, the warrior stood. Stood proud. Taller than the archon had seen him in years.

His arm shook as he wrenched the weapon from the rack and tried to aim it at his sole heir.

“You bastard. How dare you stand before me and take your death as a warrior?”

The other lowered its head.

“KNEEL! Kneel bef-“ coughs racked his chest and his vision faded, “kneel before me!” The pistol wavered.

The bowed head rose and fell a fraction, and a sound escaped from it.

Laughter.

It grew as the warrior turned to face its superior and took a step toward him.

“Kneel and die!” the archon’s voice was fading, a hoarse whisper. It held the pistol in both its claw-like hands, trying frantically to steady the weapon.

The weapon was slapped from his hands and the warrior did kneel before him, removing his helmet as he did so, bringing their faces close.

The archon, looking into a face so similar to his own, could not help but remember the millennia of fighting, of piracy, of murder.

And of betrayal.

“Oh how I have enjoyed watching you suffer. I have bathed – nay basked in your desperation, father,” the warrior spat this last word as if an insult. “Sweeter than the torture of any mon-keigh, I assure you.”

The archon’s mouth moved, but he could not speak. He could barely see the face before him now, his soul was fading fast.

“It is all mine now. All of it. We retreat into the Webway, headed home, with a beast in hot pursuit!” The new archon threw back his head as he cackled, knelt over the withered husk of his sire.

 

 

* * * * * *

 

No stars, for this was not the void.

No miasma of indescribable colours, no sea of souls, for this was not the Warp.

Absolute darkness.

“Follow them. Match their exact course.” The Minotaur’s eyes were fixed upon the burning bright drives of the alien vessel ahead of them. The only light to be seen in any direction.

“Lord, they are pulling away,” the helmsman ventured carefully.

The Minotaur – as he was known -, one of Sophusar’s chosen commanders, snorted and gripped the back of the helmsman’s chair. “Then inform the warpsmith to sacrifice whatever – whoever – he needs to the ship’s spirit. Just keep up with those bastards.”

They had never ventured into the Webway before, but from what they knew of it – from the brain matter of Eldar pilots and ship crews – it was a nexus of tunnels. Not knowing how close those walls might be, or how devastating collision might be – not even being able to see them! -they followed the dark Eldar vessel’s course as closely as possible.

That the xenos raiders knew they were being pursued was undoubtable, for the Minotaur had ordered Priapus’ Blade follow them before the alien gateway had closed. The two ships had even exchanged shots before the Drukhari had begun to pull away.

Now neither fired. The Minotaur was gambling that they were being led to the aliens’ mythical city – a prize worth risking all for – and the aliens were not firing upon them for one of two reasons: they were diverting power from weapons to drives in order to escape...or they were deliberately leading the renegade Astartes into a trap.

The hull creaked and groaned awfully as, seconds after the Drukhari ship – shaped like a jagged blade – disappeared around a bend, seeming to slip behind a curtain of blackness, Priapus’ Blade followed it. The Astartes ship was not as maneuverable as its quarry and again lost distance. When they reacquired the raider ship it was further ahead. They were almost flying blind as auspexes failed to register anything but the alien ship and one of the possessed had been brought from the lower decks to assist with tracking. The marine – as post-human as it was neverborn, with androgynous features blessed by the Dark Prince – felt the hunger for Aeldari souls far greater than any of the Psychopomps, and this esurience let the possessed sense their quarry even when sensors failed.

Swaying back and forth, eyes closed yet one clawed hand outstretched before it, their guide spoke the Dark Tongue in a low voice. The Minotaur knew but a few words of the daemonic argot and rather than try to understand what could as much be concentration mantras as promises of what it intended to do to the Eldar once captured, he focused on organizing the ship’s complement. Dropships and gunships were fueled and armed. The warpsmiths were ready to unleash the heldrakes from their chains.

The ship’s dungeon deck would be filled with Eldar slaves...

“Emergence!” The sudden, single word of Imperial Gothic from the lips of the possessed drew his attention back to the present. Following the raider ship around another invisible corner a dark, shadowy city hove into view. And as they made their way round the corner more and more of it came into view. They exited a tunnel of the great webway to find a colossal, unfathomably big city before them. No, no city could exist on such a scale. It was – it could only be bigger than entire planets. Several of the mortal bridge crew fell to their knees, quivering, one collapsed unable to handle the sight before them.

And about it, like clouds of flies – razor sharp and lightning fast ones! – were starships.

“Helm,” came the unsteady voice of the Minotaur. “Bring us about and get us out of here.”

More and more xenos ships were arcing toward the Priapus’ Blade.

“GET US OUT OF HERE, NOW!”

 

 

* * * * * *

 

Lord Sophusar reclined upon his throne, his palms resting upon the heads of a pair of heralds of Slaanesh. By his right foot reclined one with a shaven scalp, her face hidden behind a white mask, its face split wide with a grin. It was rumoured that its flesh body had once been that of one of the Rillietann and that the mask was the agaith: the false face worn by those murderous dancers. Her sister at his left side had locks of turquoise hair that swayed in an ethereal breeze felt by no mortal in that courtroom, and upon her brow was a diadem of silver. Some said she had been the queen of a warrior tribe the Psychopomps had conquered in the Eye, others that she had been one of the Adeptus Sororitas. No extreme of torture had managed to break her so the lord of the Psychopomps had rewarded her with having one of the foulest courtesans of the Dark Prince summoned into her.

But it was neither of these who brought him news of the Priapus’ Blade.

Rather one of his marines, who knelt now before him.

“- and that is the last communique from the Blade, as far as we can tell, taking into account the vagaries of the warp, my lord.”

Sophusar fixed the messenger with his distended, baleful green eye.

“And there has been no word since?”

The marine averted his eyes. “No, my lord. It appears that they have been destroyed, or the Minotaur is lost within the labyrinth of the webway.”

[Kierdale]

It appears that Inspirational Friday: Chaos versus Dark Eldar was not so Inspirational after all!

I hereby close the topic.

Everything that had a beginning, has an end.

I took over Inspirational Friday in 2015 from Tenebris, who in turn had taken it over from Brother Nihm.

We have had 90+ themes and countless entries by dozens of members. I did think of mentioning some names but there are so many that it would not be fair to those I could not mention due to my thumbs cramping up or wearing down to bloody stumps, so you’ll have to excuse me.

Unfortunately I cannot continue to run Inspirational Friday due to constraints on my time, thus here begins our sixteenth and final(?) challenge of Inspirational Friday 2018:

Legends of Chaos

Chaos is corrupting, elusive and deceptive. The words of the neverborn are not to be trusted, and are not all those who reside in the Eye touched by madness?

The final challenge I set for you is to tell a tale of legends, mysteries and myths of Chaos.

The origin of Slaanesh is well known: the unchecked debauchery and wickedness of the Eldar Empire brought about the birth of She Who Thirsts.

But what of the Dark Prince’s rivals?

Some say Khorne was born of the bloodshed of the Middle Ages on Terra.

That Nurgle was born of the plagues which ravaged Terra during those same times.

And that Tzeentch was formed in response to the first arcane meddling of mortals.

And some say that the gods -all four- once born, had all and always existed.

The most blasphemous of heretics claim that the casting of the Primarchs across the galaxy was a a calculate move, and that the power infused within them was stolen from the gods of Chaos by the Emperor.

And there are tales of the Sensei: the children of the Emperor, to be united in the final battle.

And the illuminati: the most secret of secret organisations. Individuals who foresee the failing of the Golden Throne, and who have themselves experienced possession and cast out the daemons from their own minds. For these dangerous individuals the ends - the preservation of Mankind - justify the means: up to and including the destruction of the Emperor and the Imperium itself.

Then there are lesser tales, though no less mysterious, of ghost ships that sail the void.

And there are those who claim that there are Chaos Gods beyond the Four...

IF2018: Legends of Chaos runs until the 9th of November.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Azekai...but as I was the only one to enter Chaos vs. Dark Eldar, Azekai would you do the honours of judging the final(?) topic?

The winner of IF2018: Legends of Chaos shall claim the final(?) Octed amulet:

The Beginning?

I cannot continue to run Inspirational Friday.

I leave its future in the hands of the B&C members. If anyone wishes to continue IF -to take up the reins- then I wish them the very best of luck, look forward to submitting some entries myself should time permit, and leave them - at the bottom of this post - a list of some of the topics I wanted to do but did not have time for.

Alternatively I offer to hold an event in the vein of IF though not in its current two/three-week format. Every couple of months, or seasonally, perhaps. When time permits and the whim takes me. Broader themes, or a handful of themes for entrants to choose from. Call it Tales from the Warp or something :D

What would members prefer? :)

Unused IF topics

Hidden Content

Inner demons

Chaos Vs Necrons

Chaos Vs Orks

Chaos Vs Agents of the Emperor

Chaos Vs Sisters of Battle

Chaos Vs Rogue Traders

Chaos Vs....(you get the idea)

Kill Team

From Seeds... ...Cometh Fruit (a 2-parter)

To Serve In Heaven...Or Reign In Hell (2 parter)

Rivalry

Defection (from god to god)

Chaos saint

Knightfall

Cursed by the gods

Chaos plague

Counts-as-named-character

Original daemon engine

VDR original vehicle

[Azekai]

The dearth of Dark Eldar submissions makes me sad. I was tempted to write something about that myself, as elements of my own chaos forces make use of some of their torturous weapon technologies, and my decimator shares design elements with the Talos. Clearly someone is trading out of Commoragh.  

Kierdale, I'd be honored to turn off the lights on the final Inspirational Friday. If it comes to a vote or anything, I would also like to see this continue in some iteration, if the current format is untenable. I really like exploring the strange corners of the 40k universe and this is a great venue for it.

[Kierdale]

Extended deadline to Nov 9th due to the site being down.

[Scourged]

Funny how my life always been most interesting when it is most Chaotic. Appropriate, no? I have been through so much in the past six months, and nearly all of it for the better, so I'm quite happier for it. But, as the Ruinous Powers have taught us, everything gained comes with a price, and that price for me was time. Time away from here, and from my writing, sadly. But things have finally calmed. My job is no longer new. My move to a new apartment has finished. My prep for an upcoming tournament (my first one!) is nearly over. Time is being returned to me. Things are stabilizing... the Nurgley influence of that raising the tiny hairs on my Tzeentchian neck, but I'll allow it. And so I returned to my home within the Eye, to see all that I've missed. 

 

I must say, your announcement was not one I was expecting to see, Kierdale. But, the bell tolls for us all one day, I suppose. None here will fault you for your decision, and all here will praise you for the work you've done. You've done your damnedest to keep the Gellar fields operational and our Navigator alive as we plow through the ebb and flow of the Empyrean Sea, and done a damn fine job doing it. You've earned your rest, good sir. May the Dark Gods bestow you with their blessings, and may you forgo the fate of Spawndom from their zealous generosity.

 

But with all that said (with no doubt 33% more words than necessary, as is my way), I can't help but feel an itch in my mind. Well, a new one - that itch of whispering voices from the Warp has always been around. No, this one is different... This thread, in its earlier days, is the very genesis of membership on this board. So many different authors - some still around, others having since faded away - sowed seeds of Chaos that still bloom eternal in my mind today. I truly was inspired by this thread, and subsequently have spent years(!) bombarding it with my own works. I've claimed many an octed in my tenure here, and watch many more slip away to those more worthy. I owe a lot to this thread, and all those who have participated and/or led it.

 

So that new voice is telling me that this thing needs to keep going. In me, the soul of this topic did its job, and it did it well - to inspire me to explore the lore, both that within the official books and within my own mind. Both my Scourged and Alpha Legion warbands are so full and rich in my mind, all because of this massive collaborative effort in creativity. It would be a damn shame to see it fade into the night. So... maybe I can do something about that.

 

I don't know how much I can truly commit myself to the task, but I'm willing to try. I know I can at least keep the pilot light running until the fuel runs out. Or collaborate with someone to keep the flame alive as a joint effort In just the topics left by you, Kierdale, there's more than enough to see our 2018 thread come to a true completion at year's end. But beyond that, there's more than enough remaining that you've already provided all that 2019 would need as well. Another year's worth of Inspiration for us all. In that time, perhaps I'll find the will to truly take over. Or perhaps another Aspiring Champion will rise to the challenge and take the glory for themselves, and the cycle will continue. 

 

To our Blasphemous Leader and Dark Orator, our Veterans of the Long War, and our Renegade Neophytes, I submit my application to step upon the navigational dais and lead us through the Immaterium for as long as the Gods will it. 

 

...unless someone else wants to, then I'm totally cool with that too.