[DW] Blackthorn/Swordhand: Episode III - The Sundered House

[Steel Company]

On his way to the armory, Tyber stopped at what remained of Ghent, taking the bolter as Tyber spoke, “As I did for Vaidan, I will carry this for you so that you can see our mission through.”

 

Tyber’s attention turned to the alcove that was set aside for Vaidan, with a heavy sigh he removed the Novamarine’s bolt pistol from a holster, clearing the weapon and placing it with the starburst skull decoration facing skyward in the alcove as he said, “I am sorry Vaidan, but I have a bother than needs me to carry him for the final leg of this.”

 

He paused, kneeling to place his palm on the pistol and he continued, “I can only hope I brought you peace and solace with ending of the beast. But Ghent needs to see the ending of this assault and by me using his bolter; he can strike from the grave and reap a tally against this foe that needs to be run down.”

 

Tyber took his palm from the pistol and returned to his full height, his attention landing on his plate that was under repairs still, awaiting parts to be found on the watch station, he sighed, looking down at his borrowed plate as he placed a hand on it he spoke again, “Calumnus Jor, I ask, have I done you honor by carrying your armor into the heart of the enemy? Have you found peace now that the monster that slept within had been ended? I ask that you continue to lend me the protection of this skin until we return to the watch station and my own armor is repaired… Once that is done, I will see that this armor is returned to you and honored as it should be.”

 

His next stop was the ammunition bins to restock his bolt pistol as well as Ghent’s bolter and grenades before returning to the embarkation deck, there were beasts to hunt still.

[Noctus Cornix]

"By your will, Acting Brother Sergeant." Guillermo said as he made the sign of the aquilla and relayed what he knew of this 'Dark Lantern'. In truth, he knew very little... far less than Tyber seemed to know, but he would bring the Sanguinary Priest apace with what he understand of this strange anomaly and his suspicions of the good Captain Desiato. Once his brief report had been completed, the Codicier slowly replace his Mk IV helm and returned his attention once more to Captain Rubio. 

 

++Once the space is clear of xeno-breed lifeforms, bring us about alongside the Glory Be. for a Thunderhawk to transport us onto the vessel. Inform the Rogue Trader that we will be coming aboard his vessel first as we scour the fleet clean of any remaining Xenos breed.++

 

With his command issued to the mortal crew, the Codicier then stepped away in order to see to the cleansing rituals and his own recooperation.

 

His visit to the Apothecarion was brief, unwilling to bother Yeng from his somber duty and instead allowing simple medicae servitors to see to what work was needed. He sat in silence upon the operating table, his blue eyes never leaving Ghent's corpse even as Tyber came to claim the Invader's weapons. There was a quiet bitterness in watching this, an inability to understand the Dragon's tradition in what he could only see as a looting of the dead. To so freshly confiscate the arms of a fallen brother and not allow them their due rest was nothing short of disrespect for a son of Dorn... but perhaps Ghent might not have believed so. 

 

This was simply the way of things, unity of warriors so alike and yet so far apart. The differences were minute, and yet each subtle step was a canyon between them. 

 

He said nothing, allowing the Dragon of Caliban to pay respects to the Invader in whatever way he knew best... When Tyber had departed and the medicae drones had completed their works, the Codicier rose from his operating table in order to quietly approach the fallen warrior. He spoke no words, only the silent muttering of prayer in his silent speech for his blood-kin's soul to return to His gilded halls. Then Montesa turned his head to Yeng and offered the apothecary a somber nod. 

[Commissar Molotov]

Rubio nods. 

 

"Aye, my Lord. As you command." 

Edited January 27, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Mazer Rackham]

The Ahu sat opposite, a titan in the enclosed space, his frame undiminished in the arterial crimson of the Spearcast's belly compartment.  He cradled Ghent's boltgun, just as Akkad cradled Viadan's flamer once more, a borrowed Godwyn pattern clamped to the small of his spine.  This was close quarter work, for quickly directed bolts and blades.  Cadence was secured within the Xenocide.

 

They rode in silence, their first port of call the hangar bay on Gallant, one of the cruisers serving under Locke.  It was expecting them, and urged them to hurry.

 

+Can this goopa fish wallow any slower?+ Akkad voxed to their pilot, the silence outside his armour unbroken by the challenge.  The vox click was picked up by Tyber, whose head lifted, but turned a moment later, realising the message was not for him.

 

+Aye, little Lion.  I can put it into reverse if you'd like?+ a chuckle rumbled back from the cockpit where Thorvald dwelled.  His beard and wild red hair were trimmed sown, a result of surgeries to rebuild his left orbital and jaw, where they crushed in on his brain, causing swelling and other traumas.  The biology of the Astartes proved defiant, the genhanced work of the Emperor a truth against a stupid, false fate.

 

Akkad looked across at Tyber again, the burden on the older Marine's shoulders felt no less being away from the sanctity of the bigger ship.  What was there to say?  Could someone in Blackthorn be a traitor?  Surely not.  Such a thing was unthinkable.  They fought and bled together, stood over one another when they fallen in battle.

 

And yet, plots against royal siblings were all too common on Badab Primaris.  The houses were rampant with vipers, looking to steal the nest.  It was part of an education in the Houses small or great, that someone, somewhere may hold a dagger in their hand.  Yet he couldn't see who it would be.  This was the worst kind of torment - that of not knowing.  Perhaps his initial instinct had been right, maybe there was no traitor, maybe the Dark Lantern just wanted one of them.

 

Was that even worse?

 

The whole vessel rocked as point-defence weapons cut across space in a near miss.  Akkad didn't need to ask what it was - he knew well enough, had been on the other end of those guns.  He smirked, glad he wasn't, if so, that ordnance would have hit.  His repaired helm swivelled to look at the rear of the loading bay, where the four monotasked Purgator-Subjugator combat servitors were sitting dormant.  Provided with the schematics of the ship, they would hunt in pairs to eliminate the threat of the Tyranids, just as he and Tyber would.

 

He did not trust the vox, and as Tyber had baulked at revealing his experience with the book, so Akkad now baulked at making his suggestions.  He had to be careful.  It was much better to direct attention by introducing the seed and letting it grow.  At court, something as simple as "sir shouldn't sample the wine" was as good a signal as any.  Here was different - he didn't even know what the intention was.

 

The whole thing was just as the painting of the Dark Lantern.  Difficult to see, writhing with something more than just masterful strokes of paint, and fooling perception, casting a shadowed, dark light wherever the thing was carried.  He'd said as much to Solastion, although he was careful not to reveal his inner turmoil.  If there was someone in the know, he didn't want to tip their hand to his suspicion.

 

The Stormraven bumped down onto the deck.  +Let's go.+

 

Under the control of the Space Wolf, the servitors forged on ahead, leaving the three Marines to unlimber their weapons.  Tyber's arming sword cut the air, describing heavy arcs that made the skin of Akkad's armour register the humming of it's passing.  He hefted his flamer and nodded to the Wolf, who held Bolter and Chainsword in rune-craved fists.

 

+Nothing foolish,+ the Wolf advised under his new helm, +we move as taught.+

 

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

 

The triangle is the strongest shape found in the universe.  It carries three points, all of which vex anything which tries to pick it up.  No matter how dropped, or even in zero-gravity, an angle points outwards, threatening.  When pressed, it falls back against the other two, to form a bastion of strength which increases the more force is applied.  The two rearmost points dig in and push back, so that the shape does not move.

 

When rotated at pace, the triangle whirs, each point of the shape nicking away at whatever it is pressed against, sawing and chewing through whatever medium it is strong enough to abrade.  When combined with other triangles, it can form a a mobile circle, able not only to resist pressure at one point, but to disperse it across all.

 

This triangle was made of Astartes, and not only that, it was armed with two of what the Adepta Sororitas called the Holy Trinity.  This time, Flame and Bolt.  The Space Marines substituted the molten fire of hatred as the lance of a Meltagun, and so began their purge.  Akkad remembered the moments of routine combat later, the doors torn open, or his boot kicking them in, predator-senses in the helms registering alien life signs, they would toss in a frag grenade, then go in shooting, clearing room by room, passageway by grim passageway, where Tyber led, his sword and bolter causing monumental havoc, tearing rents in the plating and showering sparks on the foe.

 

They fought with alien slurry and human guts wrapped around their ankles and caking their plate.  Sparking electrics, dark, powerless corridors where gravity generators had been lost at local level.  Akkad's flamer issuing gouts of bright promethium, dousing the aliens and dying Naval Armsmen alike in holy fire.  Survivors were added to the squad, following on gamely, armed with heavy boarding shotguns and looted bolt pistols from officers.  The humans learned fast or died faster.

 

As they cleared to the bridge, the notification came in that the Rogue Trader was moving out.  Fleeing was not the word Akkad would have used, perhaps following would have been more appropriate.  As Tyber cleaved the last beast in twain, the Space Wolf urged them on, but Akkad reached up, laid a palm upon the shoulder of the one Greysight called the Giant.

 

+Ahu, a moment.  The Dark Lantern?+

 

The Big Marine was breathing from exertion, as were they all - clearing actions were hard work, especially at Astartes pace.  The humans were exhausted, the Wolf having escorted them to the apothecarion.  +Yes, a riddle we must solve.  The answers to questions I have forgotten lie there.  That cursed book!+  He rested the tip of his blood-slicked arming sword on the deck, immediately assuming the pause-repose of the crusader. +And it has evaded us again!+

 

+Think carefully of what Rubio said.  Have you considered why it helped us?  I do not think we have seen the last of it.+

 

Tyber straightened, a triangle of armoured strength once more, his physiology requiring moments to restore his combat power.  His helmet canted as he considered, before Akkad banged his vambrace from his pauldron.  it was best not to let him dwell.  The seed was sown and in his mind it would grow until ready to blossom with answers - and then his hand would catch the dagger aimed at their breast - if there was one.  On another world, they would say Forewarned is Forearmed.

 

Badab knew better.

 

Akkad prayed he was wrong.  He wanted to be wrong, but Tyber, he was certain was the one o trust with it.  The young Marine lacked political nuance - spoke his mind unguarded.  He was the Ahu, and he had seen the deepest thoughts and motivations of this man.  Maybe he would share it with Thorvald.

 

A triangle is the strongest shape in the universe.

 

They followed the Space Wolf out, his beacon already forging ahead to Spearcast and the next ship.

 

MR.

[Commissar Molotov]

Seven Hours Later...

You have barely been given a chance to find rest and succour before screaming klaxons and urgent noospheric petitions from Captain Rubio summon you to the Xenocide’s bridge.

GM: We can assume that Akkad's group are still cleansing vessels. You don't all have to attend this - Montesa obviously will, but I imagine Yeng/Solastion/Varvost certainly wouldn't.

When you enter, you emerge into a scene of controlled bedlam. Officers and serfs hurry from station to station, giving orders and confirming screeds of data from cogitators. Servitors twitch at their stations, droning in binharic machine-cant. There are overlapping voices - some shouting, some murumured. In the centre of it stands Captain Rubio, his voice clear above those of his crew. “Activate shields! Muster all crew to their stations. Helm, full thrust. Gunnery, I want those breaches loaded immediately.”

"Broadsides ready in eight minutes," an officer from the gunnery pits shouts in reply. "Bombardment cannon primed in six."

“The Rogue Trader is fleeing,” Rubio says to you, by way of explanation - although you are already able to bring up three-dimensional cartoliths that make it abundantly clear. The Glory Be is a Light Cruiser, Dauntless-pattern, and it leaps forward on burning plasma engines like a coursing hound freed from the leash.

“We will lose optimal targeting solutions in three hundred seconds,” a grill-faced tech-adept reports.

“Increase engine output! Where are the damned Navy ships?”

“Fleet-Captain Locke has dispatched vessels on an intercept course,” a Strategos liaison responds.

"They’re getting damnably close to the system’s warp point," Rubio speaks through gritted teeth.

[Noctus Cornix]

No rest for the wicked... eh? 

 

Guillermo's ceramite boots settled upon the floor of the Xenocide's bridge, clad once more in the tortured black and steel of his battle-damaged armour. There had been no time for the artisans to see to his warplate, little more than the most basic emergency sealing cement to ensure his suit was environmentally sealed... At least he wasn't bleeding on the floor. 

 

++ My order was to inform the Glory Be that we would be assisting them in clearing the xenos-breed from their hull...++

 

He trailed off as he spoke, knowing that Captain Rubio would not have failed in see his commands completed to the letter. Even with the guise of aid, the Glory Be was attempting to flee...  Interesting. Considering the suspected cargo the Rogue Trader may have had in tow. Perhaps the Dark Lantern's sudden appearance has convinced him that further suspicion has been raised. A wise assumption, even if a cowardly one. 

 

++ Captain, is the Glory Be accepting transmissions? Hail the Rogue Trader, if the fleeing cur will heed it...++ Then his attention was back to the strategic display, the familiarity of naval statistics falling comfortably across his eyes of one who had been ingratiated  in such warfare since childhood. 

 

++ What's the most recent data stream report from the Glory Be? Do her void-shields still hold?++

 

I'm uncertain of what armaments the Strike Cruiser has at her disposal. Does she have any prow or dorsal lance batteries? 

[Commissar Molotov]

GM: Having done some quick Battlefleet Gothic research, the Strike Cruiser has dorsal weapons batteries and a prow-mounted bombardment cannon.

 

 

At your command, vox-operators and communications-adepts establish a channel to the fleeing light cruiser. The image resolves on a hololithic projector. The hard-light shivers intermittently as you see the familiar features of Desiato, the Rogue Trader. There is little of the grandeur and swagger of your previous meeting. But your eye is instead drawn to the hooded and robed figure beside him. 

 

Vindication, then! Your mind races at what is beneath the hood - the pointed teeth and prominent cranial ridges of a genestealer hybrid, perhaps? It would explain the unusual psychic feeling you had in the pit of your stomch when you and Ghent visited the Rogue Trader's unusual vessel.

 

Gloved hands reach up, removing the cowl, revealing its face.  

 

 

One might, at first glance, think it the face of a human. It has eyes, a nose, a mouth - all of the requisite features. But a moment longer would reveal that for the dramaturge's sham it is. Its face is too sharply angular, too elongated. Its sneer of superiority too alien. And as it opens its mouth to talk, its voice is too mellifluous.

 

“Codicier Montesa.”

 

Aeldari.  

Edited January 27, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Noctus Cornix]

The Codicier's brow furrowed only slightly, a sure sign of confusion writ upon his face, but held in check by the cold stoicism of his genetic lineage. Dorn's sons were to be as statues in the storm. Quickly enough, the confusion passed on into a far more apparent emotion. 

 

Disgust. 

 

To have one of the foul Aeldari race sanctioned as part of the crew was not beyond a Rogue Trader's writ of autonomy, despite how loathsome an act it was. And yet, this spat of something more foul than that. That the disgusting creature would address him directly was a sure insult. 

 

"Aeldari..."

 

He said, the venom apparent in his tone, despite the surprising level of formal cordiality it offered. His attention turned away from the creature that stared at him with its slanted eyes, addressing the Rogue Trader once more. 

 

"Would you care to explain the meaning of this heresy, Captain?"

Edited January 27, 2021 by Noctus Cornix

[Commissar Molotov]

Desiato opens his mouth to reply, before closing it again. No matter. You can already imagine his excuses: the vaunted independence of the Rogue Traders, the perilous sin of relativism. It is the Xenos who addresses you, piling insult upon insult.

 

 

"A hard-fought victory won is always paid for in grief and loss. The brother you knew as Ghent is dead, no? It is a shame we never met; there are those among my people who sing songs of his deeds against Alaitoc and Idharae.”

 

In the flickering hololith, its eyes seem to glitter. Is it the moistening of tears? Can such a creature cry, or even feel sympathy? Or is it the twinkling light of laughter, mocking the sacrifice of Ghent?

Edited January 27, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Noctus Cornix]

There it was. He felt it come again, the stinging burn of a purest hatred. It welled bile in his throat, the neutered saliva akin to a mortal man, not an Astartes. Still it burned, a gnawing fury that unknowingly sent witchfire to arc along his fingertips. Licks of flames danced from the corners of his eyes, a measured sign of psychic might that so desperately wanted to reach into the space between him and this xenos wretch and tear it apart. Damned be the Glory Be. Damned be Desatio.

 

He wanted this cur dead.

 

Ghent was more than just a brother of the watch. He was blood-kin, a son of Rogal Dorn. This thing had no right to speak his name. 

 

Still, even as he breathed through clenched teeth that audibly ground together, wasted rage would do nothing. He needed answers. Spewing infertile threats would offer none. 

 

"Do not speak my blood-kin's name again, Aeldari. Why are you here? For what reason would you and your..." he paused, gesturing dismissively towards the silent Rogue Trader. " -craven puppet steal away the painting of the Dark Lantern? Were you the ones to call it here?"

[apologist]

The Gatebreaker, for once, gave a fair impression of standing to what a student of the Codex Astartes would regard as 'at attention'. Out of consideration for his squadmates more than the occasion, Oto Yeng had locked his plate, forcing his lopsided body upright. It hurt. 

 

Each of them had come; some for longer than others. Even Vârvost had limped in; and Yeng made a note to attend more fully to the crippled marine later. Guillermo had watched the corpse with such intensity, it seemed to Yeng that the Crimson Fist was ordering the Invader back to life, as though sheer force of will could reanimate the dead. 

 

Many of his own Chapter's rituals were concerned with the management of pain. He mulled one over, rinsing it around his mouth like firewine. You can delay it. You can manage it. Pain will never be denied entirely, said the Wise Man. Ah, said the fool, better then to suffer it all at once.

 

+++

 

A strike; a parry; a strike; a hold; a moment to counterstrike before the third blade had gone into him. Attempting to roll with the blow, he found himself halted, vision hazing. He was unable to account for that before the next blows came in rapid succession. No swordwork here – the twin aliens were simply pounding on his armour like beasts. It was like being rattled inside a shell. His pauldron came away entirely, crushing a number of his backpack-mounted instruments.

 

His breath was gone, he couldn't step back, and one of the towering aliens had his arm. He had blood in his mouth. 

 

+++

 

The servo-skull embedded at the apothecarion's archway had started to feel familiar to him. After the action on the tyranid vessel, Yeng felt an unexpected sense of detachment. As he withdrew his hand from the benediction plate, it looked him up and down coldly, as though adjudging his actions, then withdrew the barrier.

 

Stepping back, he allowed the attendants past to light the surgical candelabra. As always, the tallow spat and guttered, and the tang of spincense arose. Yeng hesitated a moment, before dismissing the staff. The door cycled closed behind them, the hindmost sneaking a curious look back. 

 

Sealed in the dim light, he took off his gauntlets and forearm plates. As he placed them on the side table, he saw how heavily pock-marked and damaged they were. As the scourfont decontaminated his arms, he reflected on whether to hand his armour over to Sabaan, or to attend to the matter himself. There was no suppressing the tremor in his hands.

 

He muttered an imprecation to the Emperor-of-all for the binding of infections and clarity of thought; then released a breath. It was not quite a sigh, as he turned to face Ghent's remains. There was little enough of him.

 

+++

 

'Grab him! Yeng! Grab him! Come!' The call had come. Woozy, his innards coursing with with paingel and intravenes, Yeng could not identify the source of the order. He obeyed, fist clenching tight around Ghent's collar.

 

Pushing himself upright against the spongy floor, he had stumbled forward, and sprawled into the battle-spoiled fluid lapping around the chamber. Looking back, he saw the reason for the inexplicable lack of weight – Ghent had been bisected. 

 

Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it, Yeng stood up and stumbled. Grab him. Get him safe. Someone grabbed Yeng's arm; helped him up. The Gatebreaker waved weakly at the legs, but the figure shook his head. It was...

 

No, it...

 

+++

 

He shook his head, and bent to the task of removing Ghent's progenoids. A quick assessment revealed that little of the rest of the body could be preserved. It was riddled, even now, with microscopic tyranid biophages. 

 

It had been Akkad. Or Vorr. He was sure of it now. Vorr. That made sense. That was reassuring. Not... not that figure.

 

The surface of both progenoids was relatively clear of xenos corruption, but a thorough scouring must be made. A series of increasingly powerful lenses swung over his shoulder as he bent to the task. 

 

+++

 

Slightly over an hour later, he straightened, rolling his stiff shoulders. His chest still hurt when he breathed; and he muttered the same ward against pain. Denied or not, he needed focus. The gene-organs were clean; would sponsor another two heroes of the Imperium; perhaps invest them with some of Ghent's spirit. Who knew? This time, there was no hesitation; no sense of avarice. The apothecary placed the progenoids in a secure flask, ready to return to the Invaders. Ghent deserved that much. 

 

In the way of the Gatebreakers, Yeng gave the tormented corpse a final salute. It was not sharp, or precise. No drill-sergeant would have emulated it; but it gave a measure of the Apothecary's respect to his fallen brother. Slipping between his own tongue and stilted Gothic, Yeng gave his own impromptu eulogy; with no audience but Cathar, Echion, Jor, Alderax and Ghent himself.

 

"You were sword-in-hand, Rodrik Ghent. As the Poet Minu had it; 'Much must be given for victory. All must be given for vindication.' You given all you had, and more."

He paused, frowning. "I didn't ask where your kin go when die. Hmph." Musing for a moment, he continued. "Too late now. Maybe you already there," He paused again, reflecting. Raising an eyebrow, his frown twisted into a half-grin. "I hope you do not require psychopomp to get there. I am poor ferryman for dead. My purpose to keep you alive." He shrugged. "Sorry for that, Invader. I am no winged angel or hooded figure to take you to your rest. Maybe an order suit you better, anyway. Go now to the Ten Divine Princes; or to your Throne. Wherever you want. Go to the winds for a while, before you settle. You have earned that."

Edited January 28, 2021 by apologist

[Commissar Molotov]

Montesa:

"I do not revel in his death. We among all else in this galaxy understand the pain of true loss, Codicier," the Aeldari says, within an incline of its head. You know some of what it refers to; how the so-called Eldar once claimed to rule the whole galaxy, until their corrupt civilisation brought them low. A fitting end for a degenerate race.

 

"I was bound to ensure you and your brothers survived here. Now that your victory is guaranteed, I must leave. But I think we will meet again, Codicier."

 

The Xenos pauses, as though hesitating.

 

"The seers of my kind have seen a great evil arising, and you and your kin must stand resolute. The vessel that appeared here is only the harbinger of what is to come. I can only offer you this: a broken blade must be made whole."

Edited January 27, 2021 by Commissar Molotov

[Noctus Cornix]

For the first time, Guillermo believed the xenos might actually be sincere. 

 

That only made it worse. 

 

The Aeldari were known for their unwarranted sense of superiority and entitlement to a galaxy that was no longer theirs. At least that he could have accepted. It would fit the mold, the smiling alien that he would have loved so dearly to rip apart. He didn't want this creature's sympathy. He didn't want these melodic words of condolence and foreboding. 

 

For a time, the Codicier simply stared in silence, as though trying to memorize every detail of the creature's digital image. Then his attention turned away, nodding to Captain Rubio to kill the communications. He stood upon the bridge as the minutes passed, watching as the Dauntless Light Cruiser fled in the distance.

 

A broken blade must be made whole...

 

Always prophesy and half-truths with the Aeldari. 

 

I can adjust the post if anyone else has something they want to ask something, but I get the feeling that this was about as much information as we were going to get from them.

[Commissar Molotov]

[PLACEHOLDER]

 

- The Glory Be transitions into the warp, leaving you with precious few answers to your questions.

[Steel Company]

Once he had returned to the strike cruiser, Tyber made his way back to the armory, stopping at the damaged armor of Ghent. Tyber lifted the right arm of the empty armor before taking the bolter from his possession, placing the grip in the palm of the gauntlet, curling the fingers around it. He then took the left arm placing its palm up to hold under the fore-end of the weapon, again locking the fingers around it. Once that was done, Tyber removed his helm to place his forehead to the forehead of Ghent’s empty armor as he said, “We were not brothers long, but I honored you in the way of my chapter, the way of the true first. Rest well brother, your legend will not be forgotten.”

 

With that said, he returned to his full height, picking up his helm again before heading over to the arming racks to remove a bolt pistol to replace the one he had returned to Vaidan. As he finished in the armory he stood, looking over the room, thinking on the trip that brought him here, to this very moment. With a heavy sigh, he turned from the room and begun to wander the ship, seeking a quiet place, he didn’t want to deal with Solastion, not right now anyway. He didn’t know how to broach the subject of not telling him about the Dark Lantern right away. How was he to cross that gulf? Solastion referred to himself as a Sanguarny Priest, a position that put him in direct conflict with what Tyber had been instructed, the Emperor himself outlawed religion… even Chaplains were against this. Yet he could not deny the effect they seem to have on those around them, both positively and negatively. He knew of the savagery that those of the Revenant line could unleash, only matched by those of the Warhounds.

 

During his wandering of the ship as it burned towards the planet, Tyber found himself in the records room, the smell of scrolls, books, and old ledgers filling his nose, relaxing him. He found his way to a simple corner after taking a book on the deeds of this ship with him, placing the book down, he began to read on the history of the Xeoncide, to see if there might be anything in the history of this vessel that might bring into questions about possible contact with the Dark Lantern.

Edited January 28, 2021 by Steel Company

[Reyner]

Vorr had kept his distance as Tyber had been wandering through the ship. Despite being a Devastator his Corvus pattern power armour was very good for tracking and helped him listen in from a distance. He had seen Tyber go to the armoury but not followed him in but decided he would make his move in the records room. Curiousity had gotten the better of him he knew the giant marine knew more about the Dark Lantern than he let on around the rest of the team and Rubio. He did his best to be quiet in the records room just out of respect Tyber had come here for some peace and quiet afterall.

 

++Dragon. You're an easy man to follow - you know more about this Dark Lantern than you let on around the others, you've peaked my interest I am not well versed in voidcraft. I am more suited to having my feet on firmer ground. Indulge me.++

[Steel Company]

He heard the voice of the Vorr behind him, without taking his eyes from the current page he said, “I made no attempt at stealth, it is not something I or those of my host practice, we leave that for another host.”

 

Flipping to the next page he continued, “I do not know much. I only know from the description that she predates the betrayal of Horus and that the book I found and read is blocked from my memory.”

 

Running his armored hand down the page, scanning for any information that could direct him to his quarry, he paused for a moment, thinking on what to say to Vorr, “My host did not engage with the fleet much, but the cruiser I had been on was old, older than the Dark Lantern, our equipment is old, but we know that seeing or finding something that could be nearly as old as our equipment is unusual in the Imperium, and that draws our attention.”

 

“What else do you wish to know?” he added after a moment.

[Reyner]

++I see. I can appreciate interest in ancient equipment this suit has parts that predate the founding of my Chapter in the Second Founding, it is an honour to wear it in battle. You speak of Hosts? Is that your name for Battle Companies of the Codex Astartes?++

 

Vorr moves to sit down in front of the massive Space Marine, this talk of old equipment fascinated him - the Red Talons have many relics as befitted their rich history but it was rare for younger Chapters to have access to such things. He was very interested in learning more but also getting suspicious of this Chapter.

[Mazer Rackham]

The Little Lion and the Wolf stood opposite each other across the arming bench, each working on the tools of war.

 

The quiet ratcheting of spanners and hand tools was a mantra, calling the time of stripping and cleaning the firearms of the Kill Team, or sharpening their blades as required.  The Servitors could have done it, but when a soldier's wellbeing depends on routine, is slaved to the condition of his weapon, they attended to it themselves.

Besides, it was respectful to the bellicose War Spirits, and having the two Devastators of Blackthorn work on the weapons was pleasing in some harmonic way.

 

He summoned his courage to tell the older Wolf his thoughts.

 

"Hm," Thorvald grunted, "you think too much and talk too much."

 

Akkad's face hardened, "I only meant-"

 

"I know what you meant," Thorvald snapped a Bolter together, pushing in the restraining pins.  He softened the rebuke with a quick grin, catching Akkad's reaction.  "If there was treason afoot, Little Lion I would smell it on them."  He tapped his nose and reached for another Bolter.  "Still, a guarded mind is not a fool's gate."

 

Akkad nodded satisfied he'd been heard.  He grasped Sonnet, and began to clean her.

 

Thorvald began whistling, and Akkad joined in.

 

MR.

[Steel Company]

Tyber curses inwardly, having opened that door before he shakes his head and says, “Yes and no. My chapter was once the Ninth Armored Assault chapter of the Uncrowned Princes, the formation that came before the first legion was known as the Angels of Death, even longer before they were known as the Dark Angels, we were His mailed fist. I’ve heard tales of my chapter taking to field aside Him and the Custodes on terra. In that time, we had hosts, each host was trained in one way of warfare and members of those hosts were spread throughout each chapter and company so that we would be able to fight effectively against any foe.”

 

Tyber pauses to flip the page again as he continues, “My company still trains in the way of armored assault, but my host is that of the Host of Crowns. We train as duelists, champions… we train to face the best the enemy has to offer and end it, we also train to defend the honor of our officers, to be both their blade and shield.”

 

Looking up from the book before he removed his arming sword and placed it on the table, the fine obsidian blade gleaming in the candlelight, the fine workmanship clear as Tyber spoke, “This blade has been passed from master to apprentice of my host for longer than I know, only passed down on the death of the master… One day I will see this blade passed to another, only after it is used to end a foe that ended me.”

Edited January 28, 2021 by Steel Company

[Reyner]

++Fascinating. Back then it would have made sense to fight like that the legions being as large as they were but now after the reorganization it sounds very inflexible.++

 

Vorr looked down at the blade the Dragon was right it did look very old but it was incredibly well made, he would have relished using it during his time in the assault company.

 

++Most expect my Chapter to be like the other scions of Ferrus Manus; operating in Clans, tearing away our flesh for the sake of bionic improvements and removing all emotion for the sake of logic. But we rejected that ideology. Our founder saw how the Codex was a benefit after fighting his Shadow War against the traitors, he purposefully pushed my Chapter away from the failures of the Legion of the failures of his father. We earn our bionics through battle we evolved we embraced our rage. The old ways are dead Dragon. Those who oppose will come to a pass in the years to come, the time of legions is over this is our galaxy now.++

 

Now Tyber knew of the Red Talons, it was only fair after he shared the strange rigid ways of the Dragons of Caliban. He would watch Tyber closely and any other whose Chapter tried to return to the old ways, the legions had broken the Imperium at the height of their power and were not to be trusted.

[Nineswords]

FOLKTALES ARE GOVERNED by a few basic laws, no matter where in the Imperium you hail from. It is one of the un-codified means by which the species is bonded in common cause. It also acts as a salutary reminder of humanity’s conquest across the stars from the Throneworld. The laws of folk tradition are as consistent as gravity or linear time, so the Stormseers teach us. 

 

The first law is the kernel. No matter how the details differ, the core essence is almost universally recognised. Consider the khovogchtolgoi, that legendary creature resembling a floating, disembodied head, trailing a host of internal organs in its wake. Whilst the khorchin word for it is the same, the creature’s exact appearance slightly differs between Nakaris and Chogoris, separated by a huge gulf of space. On Badab, it is known as krasue. On Stygies, the crude Low Gothic name gutghost suffices. Despite the fact Badab and Stygies are on opposite sides of Terra, both depictions tell of a strange luminescence emenating the creature as it floats. Curious, is it not? Stranger still is its historical provenance: tales of this creature’s existence have persisted since before the Great Heresy. In fact, the oldest extant records held by our noble cousins at Khum Karta make mention of a similar, if not the exact same creature from pre-Unity Terra: known amongst the Panpac tribes as the penangal, the balan-balan, and the manananggal; though this last entry posits the creature can fly by use of wings rather than levitation. 

 

The second law is that whatever name is assigned to it, often strikes fear into the hearts of those who hear the tale: woe betide the listener who scoffs or scorns the teller of the story. Ignore them at your peril. The third law of the folktale is a corollary of the second: unwitting archetypes featured in the tale inevitably court disaster, for few survive the story unscathed. Heroic actions undertaken by some incorruptible paragon arise as a result of retelling a sanitised version of the myth; thus diminishing its most important parable that warns us of a greater darkness that lurks just beyond our recognisance.  

 

In the last few weeks, hundreds of men, women and children have simply vanished without a trace. The citizens of Beregar have conjured a few names for the thing that now hunts them in the deeper warrens of that broken city. Rebuilding is a shared human imperative, and yet the expected postwar boom in the city is sluggish at best; scuttled by whispers of a creature that prowls the Commercia at sunfall, driving all but essential trade away. The Fallowfolk whisper of a ghost that can take any form, responsible for a spate of killings in an area heavily surveilled by the local arbites and the PDF. Squads ordered to flush out the threat do not return, adding to its infamy. 

 

The creature's official designation in Imperial records is tyranicus chameleo, more commonly known as a Lictor.

 

The Imperium has many mythical creatures, and all of which follow the folktale laws. The Lictor follows its laws too, but with one key difference: it is not only real, but very much alive somewhere in the smouldering city. 

Edited January 30, 2021 by Nineswords

[Nineswords]

ZEKE’S SQUAD HAD drawn the short straw. Literally as well as metaphorically. The Drawing had become a thing in the Big Drag. Elation that the Menace was denied a foothold in Beregar was slowly eclipsed by fact that not all of the monsters had been deleted.

 

Something was still out there, terrorising the folks who actually thought they were safe from harm. As the vanishings mounted in their frequency over the weeks, goodwill towards the local Enforcers and the Beregar Battalions by the inhabitants of Syandalla’s capital city slowly dwindled.

 

Reestablishing order was a task much more suited to an experienced command echelon of the magistratum or the militarum. That much seemed quite obvious to Zeke, anyway. Problem was, Command was no longer in command: KIA’d, or shipped upriver to stem the tide.

 

The Angel and his Space Marines were also gone, and without them, the fear had returned. Fear of the dark turned into fear of the Menace multiplying like hack weevils during the deep summer. Fear of the Spook people said lurked in the quiet corners of Zeke’s birth-city. That fear morphed into fear of the authorities, and Zeke’s squad had been deployed more than once in the half-ruins of the Grand Estates, assisting the Enforcers to disperse rioters demanding a return to normality.

 

The remaining armed forces in Beregar were holed up in temporary barracks or the remaining precincts and worked to exhaustion. Too many fires to put out, too many skulls to crack, too many late nights and too many stale ration packs.

 

The Big Drag. That’s what everyone with a badge was calling it now. The war, for all intents and purposes, wasn’t over.

 

Spook Flushin’ was the order of the day, until we began to disappear too. Flush squads simply vanished without trace; even the servo-skulls weren’t coming back. As the Big Drag dragged on, the field commanders were twitchy-witchy of the Spook and morale began to plummet, which is when some frigger came up with the Draw.

 

The Draw was like a lotto, but in reverse: when you were picked, misfortune awaited. Every day when the Templum rang the bells for evensong, whichever barracks or precinct was up for Spook Flushin’ would gather in the parade yard. Battalion sergeants would swarm a rep from the previous Spook shift’s barracks, who held a handful of wheat straws. Whoever drew the short straw was up for Flushin’ duty. The field CO’s turned a blind eye, hoping for fresh reinforcements so they could finally be seen to make a difference.

 

Today, those losers were the fighting men and women of the Beregan Sixteenth Battalion, Third Platoon, Fifth Squad.

 

Zeke’s squad.

 

 

 

+++

‘Report.’

 

Cardoso checked her chron, before fishing out a pocket chart. ‘Last sighting of the Spook was a klick directly south of this position, three hours ago.’

 

The northern wharfs of Portico jutted into the great river, like dark fingers of a giant hand in the twilight. The Primarchs' Bridge stretched into the distance across the water, lancing into the dark blister of the Orbitals.

 

Garvin Ezekiel had spent his late teens working the docks as a runner for a shipping clerk. Patrolling a familiar neighbourhood should’ve been straightforward, easy even, but the Spook had put the edge on Zeke. Fifth squad were a wreck, and he knew it. He knew it the moment they trudged out of the barracks into the streets. He knew it from the stares of distant neighbours and wide eyed refugees, who all seemed to know that Fifth squad were on Flush duty. Cardosa’s face look like a slapped rump.

 

‘Listen up! It couldn’t have gone far in the daylight, but our window of opportunity is closing fast.’ Zeke pressed a finger on Cardosa’s map. ‘The wherrymen say there’s strange smells and noises coming from the Golden Crest warehouses at Reed and Eighth. Their director claims the warehouse is empty, so I say we start there, and circle clockwise before heading back. Any questions?’

 

Four unhappy faces stared back at Zeke.

 

‘Cardosa, report our position and we can move on.’

 

 

 

+++

The warehouse was in good condition, all things considered. The Golden Crest Shipping Company were one of the bigger players operating out of Portico, and it showed. The vast space would normally have been filled to the brim with great piles of wooden crates awaiting redistribution; a veritable hive of activity, even during the night shift.

 

Instead, funereal silence greeted Fifth squad, as did a pungent reek that no one could quite put their finger on. Black cast iron columns criss-crossed the main hall; and the glass windows of administration offices glinted in the deeper recesses, though it appeared no one had been inside since the war started.

 

Zeke peered dubiously into the gloom. ‘Kluivert, see if we can get the generator on and light this place up.’

 

Owan Kluivert loped off into the dark, cursing softly.

 

‘Everyone form a line, twenty paces apart, and we’ll sweep on my mark. No stabs, okay?’

 

Fifth squad muttered their assent as they counted their paces either side of the sergeant. On his signal, they stalked forward in the darkness, sweeping their las rifles in a tight arc. The silence deepened, disturbed only by the padded footfalls of Fifth squad and the telltale patter and squeak of rodents infesting the empty warehouse. Somewhere outside, a transport descended; a reminder of the wider world that existed beyond the oppressive confines of the warehouse.

 

Munoz was the first to break the quiet, tripping over something in the blackness. He cursed.

 

‘Zip it!’ hissed Zeke, waving Cardosa over. ‘What is it, Munoz?’

 

The lanky guardsman pressed the barrel of his las into something firm. ‘That ain’t wood.’

 

The squad edged closer towards Munoz.

 

‘Stabs,’ ordered Zeke.

 

Three beams of light suddenly illuminated the bundle Munoz stumbled over just a moment ago. The slowly decaying remains of body confronted the soldiers. A child's body.

 

Munoz turned away in disgust, retching.

 

Zeke ignored him, playing his stab light across the floor. More bundles appeared as he pressed deeper into the warehouse. The beam of light flashed over the bundles, revealing shredded rags and discoloured, exposed flesh. The stench became nauseating this close to the bodies; a heady mixture of decay and rotting fish.

 

Cardosa veered right, slowly circling the copse of bodies. 'Sarge!' she whispered. 'You hear that?'

 

Zeke could. A low moan from about ten feet away between him and Cardosa. 'Munoz, rear guard.'

 

Munoz had finally stopped retching. 'You got it, sarge.'

 

They edged closer. Cardosa slowly brought her stab light up towards the sound. In the pit of their stomachs, they knew exactly what it was. 'Throne of Terra!'

 

A sad, wizened face stared back at them. It was moving. The moaning became louder.

 

'Get outside Cardosa. We need evac and medicae teams here, now!'

 

'Yes sarge, I–'

 

The face was trying to say something. Zeke guessed the face belonged to a woman. A mill worker, perhaps. She could've been anyone in a previous life. Anybody. 'Ma'am, we've got medicae teams on their way. Just hold on!'

 

A hand gripped Zeke's wrist. It was surprisingly strong. A last, desperate ebb of pain and suffering creased the woman's face. '–n.'

 

Zeke leaned in. 'What did you say?'

 

The face stared back, unmoving, her eyes glazed over.

 

Cardosa looked at Zeke fearfully. 'She said, 'run'.'

 

Munoz screamed. Something impossibly large had suddenly detached itself from the darkness, landing on top of the hapless trooper. Munoz's second scream became a gurgle. The crackle of breaking ribs was followed by air being expelled from his lungs.

 

Zeke didn't hesitate, firing his las on full burst at the glistening thing enveloping Munoz. It looked like one of Them, but made out of thin air. Cardosa opened fire a moment later, shouting for reinforcements over the vox.

 

A heartbeat later, thunder boomed across the warehouse, accompanied by the muzzle flash of solid rounds. The Darkness shrieked with the anguished high pitched wail of a porcine on the butcher’s block.

 

‘Get back!’ yelled Zeke. ‘Back! Back!’

 

The Darkness shifted, and it unceremoniously dropped Munoz’s body as more rounds exploded across its torso. Something rippled across it, like a snake rapidly shedding its skin.

 

Fear seized Garvin Ezekiel, and he could only watch as the Darkness leapt towards him. Its trajectory was suddenly interrupted by something else slamming into it with the percussive force of a tractor at full tilt.

 

More shots, and the Darkness was screeching and shrieking again, the silhouette of huge scything appendages lunging at Zeke’s unseen saviour.

 

Throne, but it was fast!

 

Cardosa was still jabbering into the vox.

 

The Darkness had somehow overthrown its assailant, suddenly bounding towards the nearest column. With unnatural deftness, the glistening thing began to scale up it.

 

The deafening fusillade following its trajectory was punctuated by the distinct crack-whistle of sniper fire, unseen in the gloom.

 

Another shriek, and the Darkness plummeted to the floor. This time, Garvin Ezekiel was ready, emboldened by the sudden appearance of reinforcements. Two, sad eyes reflected back up at Zeke’s stab light.

 

The sergeant depressed the trigger. ‘For Munoz.’

 

The Darkness screeched once more.

 

 

 

+++

Zeke fell to his knees the moment Kluivert finally switched the warehouse lights on.

 

It wasn't the sight of the decaying bodies strewn across the warehouse floor.

 

It wasn't the hideous, fused face of the creature sprawled before him.

 

It was the sight of two Angels of Death impossibly standing before him; living statues clad in black and silver, carrying enormous boltguns the size and weight of a small ammo crate.

 

Tears began to roll down his cheeks. Behind him, Cardosa stood wide-eyed and dumbfounded at their saviours.

 

'Fenris Hjoldir!' boomed the first. Its voice, like its body, had been enlarged and refashioned into a magnitude beyond Zeke's comprehension. 'I suppose you'll want the trophy to yourself,' it added sourly.

 

Garvin Ezekiel couldn't speak. A reply formed and then died in his throat as reality finally caught up with him.

 

The second Angel chuckled softly. 'He earned it, wolf. One shot, one kill.'

 

'I... Throne of Terra. What was that thing? Zeke managed.

 

'A dead thing, now,' replied the first Angel, matter of factly. It stalked towards the creature, and took off its helm. The Angel's face did not remotely resemble the Space Marine Zeke had seen broadcast over the pict-networks. A pale, scarred face regarded Zeke with mild amusement. It sniffed suddenly, like a canine. 'Ahhh, that's better, isn't it? The stench reminds you that it is slain, no?'

 

Zeke nodded dumbly.

 

The second Angel had also un-helmed; an inversion of the first, with dark skin and golden eyes that caught the weak light of the lumen strips. Both Angels were men and not men at the same time. The second Angel cocked its head slightly to one side. 'Atratus, we're done here.' A brief crackle followed, and the second Angel slowly approached Zeke.

 

The pale Angel knelt down by the creature, before gingerly cradling the creature's elongated skull in his humungous hands. 'Why did I have to get close?' it muttered, suddenly looking at Zeke. 'No offence, of course. I saved you, after all.'

 

The other snorted. 'Because, wolf, I'm the better shot.'

 

The pale Angel grunted loudly. Zeke couldn't tell if it was an acknowledgement of his compatriot, or from the effort expended by violently twisting the creature's head from its body. 'What is your name, hunter?'

 

Zeke looked at Cardosa briefly, before turning back to face the pale Angel. He saluted, because he didn't know what else to do. 'Sergeant Garvin Ezekiel, Fifth Squad, Beregan Sixteenth Battalion, sir.'

 

The pale Angel grunted again, patting the creature's enormous head gently. 'Well sergeant, it's yours by right. My only regret is that we were too slow to save your comrade.'

 

Zeke looked sadly at Munoz' body. 'He died well.'

 

'Only in death does duty end,' said the second Angel. 'Keep the trophy. Fifth squad has earned it.'

Edited February 3, 2021 by Nineswords

[Morovir]

<<INSERT PLACEHOLDER HERE>>

 

In which Techmarine Morthas Teralil passes the time in the armoury, tending to the damaged armour and wargear of the kill teams, and in self-mortification for the added crime of allowing a brother to fall in his place.

 

<<END PLACEHOLDER>>

[apologist]

[Placeholder] Morovrir, would you like to write a combined piece? Yeng has sustained serious damage to his plate; more than he could repair himself. It’d be interesting to write how he approaches handing his armour over to someone outside of the Chapter.