Inspirational Friday 2019: Blessings and Boons (Dec 27)

[Scourged]

Welcome to Inspirational Friday 2019.
Inspirational Friday is a chance for members to write pieces of fiction based upon pre-set topics. The goal of this thread is to do just what it advertises: inspire. Whether it is to expand on your own headcanon of Chaos in a broad view, or to develop a vast narrative of a personal warband, Inspirational Friday is a place to share your work with others. As in the previous Inspiration Fridays, images accompanying entries are most welcome.

I, Scourged, will select the topic for each period. However it is all of you that will act as the adjudicators. The winner of each current topic will be select by the winner of the previous topic. This was the format adopted since IF2016, and has been a welcomed change ever since. Should any winner wish to turn down their duty, then task shall revert to Scourged for that entry. Said winners will earn themselves one of the coveted Octed amulets for proud display in their signature.

As with IF2018, each topic will have two or more weeks to submit an entry. I plan to continue the traditional deadline of Friday evenings, inkeeping with the previous years of IF.

Judging Rules
1. Many of our members are non-native English speakers so grammar, spelling and punctuation should not be too harshly judged. That said, members are encouraged to type their entries in a word processor program which can help them with their spelling and grammar.
2. The judge should choose the one entry which, in their mind, exemplifies the IF topic of that week. Not necessarily the most action-packed, the longest, the coolest, etc.
3. The judge may, when posting their judgement, choose to give feedback on each entry. What they liked and didn't like, what they wanted to see more or less of.

Past Inspiration Friday Topics
Links to previous incarnations of Inspiration Friday, for reference:

Under Brother Nihm:

Hidden Content

Aspiring Champion
Chaos Banner
Regarding the Legions
Favourite Model
Paint a CSM
Favourite Primarch
Why Chaos?

Under Tenebris:

Hidden Content

Chaos Cults - Winner: Disease
Legacy Weapon - Winner: Xenith
Rank and File - Winner: Kol Saresk
Chaos Worlds - Winner: Marshal Sampson
Chaos Vehicle - Winner: Loesh
Call of Chaos Test model - Winner: Alan of Angels and Loesh
Chaos Battle - Winner: Cormac Airt
Minor Daemon - Winner: Tdf4638
Spooky Chaos - Winner: Dizzyeye
Chaos Stronghold - Winner: Carrack
Nemesis of Chaos - Winner: Kierdale
Chaos Navigator House - Winner: Marshal Sampson
Chaos Knight House - Winner: Kierdale
Chaos Santa - Winner: Castellan Cato
Chaos Dreadnought - Winner:Urauloth
Chaos Warship - Winner: Conn Eremon
Interview with a Chaos Lord - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Interview with a Chaos Sorcerer - Winner: Kierdale
Chaos Space Marine Bolter - Winner: Son of Carnelian
Chaos Assassin - Winners: Carrack, Kierdale and Zhaharek
Intel Report on Warband - Winner: Kierdale
Betrayal - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Chaos Sword - Winner: Castellan Cato
Chaos Spawn - Winners: Carrack and Kierdale
Champion of Khorne - Winner: Slipknotzim
Chaos Heraldry - Winner: Teetengee
Equerry - Winner: Zhaharek
Chaos Tome - Winner: TDF
Chaos Crossover - Winner: Lord Pariah
Dark Mechanicus - Winners: Carrack and Kierdale
Daemon Forge - Winners: Zhaharek and Beachymike123
Battles of the Space Marines - Winners: Carrack, Warsmith Aznable and Tipper
Cult Leader - Winner: Zhaharek
Familiar - Winner: Kierdale
Nemesis of Chaos II - Winners: TDF and Conn Eremon
Ruination - Winner: Carrack
Chaos Sidekick - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Chaos Skirmish - Tactical Squads - Winner: Kierdale

Under Kierdale:
2015

Hidden Content

Interview With A Warpsmith - Winner: Carrack
ETL Background (care of Carrack) - Winner: Kierdale
Lair of the gods - Winner: Scourged
Signature Tactics - Winners: Scourged and Majorbookworm
Berserkers of every creed - Winner: none.
Chaos Geneseed - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Tales of... ...Chaos Glory - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
A Stolen Relic - Winner: Beachymike123
Summoning - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Treadheads - Winner: Scourged
The Primordial Annihilator versus...the Greater Good - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Replenishments New Meat - Winner: Scourged
Chaos Halloween Horror - Winner: Dammeron, Scourged, Zhaharek and Teetengee
Interview with a dark apostle - Winner: Carrack
Chaos Power Armour - Winner: Scourged
Tales of Hubris - Winner: Teetengee
Chaos Titans - Winner: Scourged and Teetengee
Chaos Icons - Winners: MaliGn, Teetengee, Carrack and Scourged.
Bonus Challenge: Chaos Objectives - Winner: Carrack

2016

Hidden Content

Memories of Terra - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Possessed - Winner: Captain Malachi
Chaos Steeds - Winner: Scourged
Traitor Regiments - Winner: Teetengee
The Primordial Annihilator versus...the Vlka Fenryka - Winner: Carrack
Campaign I - Opening Moves - Winner: Diabolist
Interview with a Daemon Prince - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Skirmish II - Upon Cursed Wings/Jump Assault - Winner: Teetengee
Lost in Space - Winner: Scourged
Imperfect Beings - Winner: Carrack
Obliterators - Winner: none
Lesser Daemons I - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Tales of Honour - Winner:Son of Carnelian
Tales of Dishonour - Winner: Fulkes
Campaign II - Assault - Winner: Scourged
Knightfall - Winner: no contest.
Architect of Fate - Winner: Carrack
Chaos Flyer - Winner: Kierdale
Schism - Winner: Scourged
A Chaotic Alliance - Winner: Squigsquasher
Chaotic Rites - Winner: Krautscientist
Retro-Chaos - Winner: Carrack
ETL-V model - Winner: Scourged
The Primordial Annihilator versus the Inquisition - Winner: Carrack
Interview with a Chaos Apothecary - Winner:Kierdale
Chaos Trophies - Winner: MyD4rkPassenger
The Primordial Annihilator versus the Sons of Sanguinius - Winner: Carrack
The Primordial Annihilator versus the Bugs - Winner: Teetengee
Aquatic Combat - Winner: Kierdale
Campaign III - Tables Turn/The Crucible - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Halloween 2016 - Winner: Carrack
Tales of Vengeance - Winner: MyD4rkPassenger
Unit Champion - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Iron Warriors - Winner: Carrack
Thousand Sons - Winner: Zhaharek

2017

Hidden Content

Black Crusade – A Call To Arms - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Campaign IV - End Game - Winner: Kierdale
Seeds Sown... - Winner: Scourged
The Fallen - Winner: Trevak Dal
Chaos Bikers - Winner: Kierdale
The Warp - Winner: Scourged
Hive War - Winner: Carrack
Propaganda - Winner: Kierdale
The Ends Justify The Means - Winner: Carrack
The Witch - Winner: Honda
Rivalry of the Gods - Winner: none
The Primordial Annihilator versus the Sons of Guilliman - Winner: Caius/DogWelder
Death Guard - Winner: Azekai
Alpha Legion - Winner: Iron Father Ferrum
Desert Warfare - Winner: P3AKHOUR
Abhumans and mutants - Winner: Gunnyogrady
The Primordial Annihilator versus the Adeptus Mechanicus - Winner: ColonelSchaeffer
The Primordial Annihilator versus the Imperial Guard - Winner: Warsmith Aznable
Images of Chaos - No contest
If Horus had won... - Winner: MaliGn
Exalted Champion - Winner: macbeefin

2018

Hidden Content

The Black Legion - Winner: hushrong
Winter Warfare - Winner: Scourged
The Primordial Annihilator versus the Asuryani - Winner: Hushrong
The Hunt - Winner: EesiOh
Chaos Artefacts - Winner: Kierdale
The Night Lords - Winner: Barabbas Sogalon
Ambush! - Winner: Hushrong
Chaos versus T’au - Winner: Kierdale
When Old meets New - Winner: Scourged
Solo Mission - Winner: Gederas
Prophecy - Winner: Honda
Cry ‘Havoc!’ - Winner: Kierdale
Temple of Chaos - Winner: MaliGn
ETL Model - Winner: Azekai
The Primordial Annihilator versus the Drukhari - Winner: none
Legends of Chaos - Winner: Warsmith Aznable

Under Scourged:

2019

Hidden Content

Genesis - Winner: RobWrath
Curse of the Gods - Winner: Scourged

Infernal Machines - Winner: Kierdale

Glory to the Warmaster - Winner: none

The Enemy Reborn - Winner: Doom Herald

Crown of Horns - Winner: Scourged

She Who Thirsts - Winner: Sanctimonius

Relics of the Damned - Winner: Teetengee

Shadow Wars - Winner: Sanctimonius

Aspiring Warmasters - Winner: Scourged

Nebulous Loyalty - Winner: Trevak Dal

Interview with an Exalted Champion - N/A

Warped Mirror - N/A

And They Shall Know Fear - Kierdale

The Primordial Annihilator vs. the Ordo Hereticus - 

Blessings and Boons - 

While each topic will close (with respect to who can win the medal for that theme) after a set period, members who find themselves inspired to write about previous themes are most welcome to post these as and when they can, but I ask that you please title your entry accordingly (e.g. “Chaos Warship”).

Inspirational Friday: Timelines of Treachery is a companion thread to this (and past and future Inspirational Friday main threads) for those who wish to organize their IF entries and present their warband's timeline. This was an idea that Kierdale introduced, and is a thread to help both readers and writers get their heads around which stories come where. By all means please add your own timelines as and when you can.

May the Dark Gods inspire you all to greatness. Edited November 30, 2019 by Scourged

[Scourged]

And so, let us begin with our first challenge of Inspirational Friday 2019: Genesis

It is a new year, with new beginnings for us all. And everything must start somewhere. This is true for each and every follower of Chaos.

The nine fallen Primarchs all had their genesis in the bowels of the Imperial Palace, and later on their adopted homeworlds. Their legions saw their start with ranks of Terran Astartes, but would all find a new path with the return of their genesires.

Some warbands may have begun their tenure loyal to the Imperium, turning to embrace of Chaos for innumerable reasons. Some chose to rebel from the shackles of Imperial rule like Huron Blackheart, while others were claimed against their will and forced to turn, not unlike The Scourged (a personal favorite of mine).

For the inaugural 2019 topic, tell us about the beginnings. Be it a Legion or Warband, a squad of brothers or a single Astartes, a known entity in the Long War or a fledgling group born in the wake of the Cicatrix Maledictum… tell us of their origins, their genesis.

IF2019: Genesis runs until the 18th of January.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That burden lies with the winner of 2018’s final challenge: Warsmith Aznable.

The winner of IF2019: Genesis shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

Edited January 18, 2019 by Scourged

[MaliGn]

Nice choice of topic for the new thread!

 

Here goes:

 

The Final Penance of Kor Ladron

 

Carnac bore the stricken form of his erstwhile master from the stasis chamber into which he had been interred following his final sermon. The beleaguered coterie had battled their way through the Eye of Terror in their Thunderhawk Gunship since their Apostle had fallen, picking their way laboriously to Sicarius, home of the remains of their once great Legion. They had departed on their penitent voyage decades earlier at the behest of Kor Ladron, and had faced ordeal after ordeal along the way. They had forged pacts with the Dark Pantheon, ground worlds to dust beneath their heels, fomented cults on a hundred Imperial worlds and proseltysed the Word of their mighty Primarch across the stars. Ultimately Kor Ladron had paid penance with his life blood, mortally wounded during the defilement of an Imperial Shrine world said to be protected by an immortal Saint. He had destroyed the false idol of the corpse Emperor, sundering his Crozius in the process, the fallout of which inflicting the wound that would be his downfall.

 

His ever loyal comrades had sealed him within a stasis chamber for the return voyage, bearing him back to the Legion on his shield. His annointed successor Carnac was assailed with visions, sent into his thoughts by his stricken master, auguries of the future and a final passage for the fallen Apostle. This was why he now led the coterie in a procession, marching solemnly along the sepulchral passageways of the vast fortress cathedral, heads bowed. Each of the warrior brothers still clad in their ancient battle plate, now adorned with a variety of trophies, fetishes, runic totems and astrological symbols. Their heavy tread ringing in unison as they wound their way through the labyrinthine halls to their final destination.

 

Servos screamed and vast haemodraulic pistons belched coulds of ichoric vapour as they laboured to open the gigantic doors of the daemonforge. A searing heat blasted from the aperture, the enormous furnaces within burning with infernal ferocity. Acrid smoke hung in the air, writhing and twisting to form the leering faces of unspeakable entities that jeered and snarled in mockery. Kor Ladron's cortege filed into the diabolical workshop; ignoring the mutated serfs and slave-beasts that toiled at their dark works, they came to a halt at a rough hewn altar of blackened stone. As his brothers spread out behind him Carnac stepped forward and laid the body of the fallen demagogue atop the altar before stepping back and dropping to one knee. Chirurgeons and daemonancers flocked around the altar, as the Word Bearers legionnaires knelt in silent vigil, a dark magos directed his underlings in their unspeakable rites.

 

Many hours later the ritual was complete, Carnac raised his head and stared at the edifice before him, it towered above his augmented form, easily twice the height of an Astartes warrior. The crimson ceramite plating of the ancient war machine was adorned with dark runes and the remains of Kor Ladron's personal iconography. His ancient Skull helm rested atop the sarcophagus into which his remains had been interred and the shattered remnants of his Crozius had been reforged into a massive halberd. The dreadnought was restrained by chains forged from links of infernal iron lest it's occupant react poorly to the protocols of awakening that were being performed by the dark magos.

 

The vox speakers of the machine burst with static and then an anguished howl reverberated through the Daemonforge, loud enough to drown out the roar of the furnaces and the pounding of the mechanical hammers that lined the walls. Servos hissed and the dreadnought's powered talons flexed, tralls scattered, chattering in terror. The war machine pulled against the chains that bound it, bellowing in rage and frustration. Behind the face plate of his helmet Carnac smiled cruelly, Kor Ladron was no more, but his remains would fight on, serving a final, eternal penance as the Apostle Dreadnought known henceforth as The Penitent.

 

And a picture of the model that this story relates to.

http://i63.tinypic.com/10fxul1.jpg

Edited January 5, 2019 by MaliGn

[RobWrath]

Here's one I prepared earlier. I'd love to post a picture of Morgar'ak's miniature to go with this but I haven't built him yet.

 

I didn't name it...lets go with:

 

The Fall and Rise of Morgar'ak of the World Eaters

 

Morgar’ak groaned, blinking and shaking his head in his helmet as his vision cleared and consciousness returned. As his awareness quickly returned a bloom of pain erupted from his left leg. Thank Khorne. Pain meant life. He had been so sure that death had finally come for him after 10,000 years of war…

The hated Wolves had come for them, falling upon the warband while they were celebrating a victory. The World Eaters had fought back with savagery, driving the Blood Claws back, forcing them to retreat. But…it had been a feint to draw them from cover. Once they were out in the open the Thunderhawks struck, raking the warband with withering fire. Khorne forgive….they had run for cover, seeking shelter from the heavy bolter fire in some ruins, and that is when the Thunderhawk Cannons had opened up, pulverising the stone to dust and rubble in seconds. Everything had gone black.

But he lived. If it was pure blind luck or the will of Khorne, he had survived the onslaught. From what he could see where he lay, pinned to the ground by a large piece of rubble lying across his leg, he was the only one.

He started trying to move, and noticed as he did so that several warning runes were blinking on the display of his helmet. His ancient terminator armour was damaged. Nothing irreparable but some of the power feeds were down, meaning his weapons would be offline and there would be little power to the suits movement servos. It was keeping him alive, but that was all.

With a surge of brute strength he pulled himself into a sitting position and kicked the beam off his damaged leg, grunting with pain. The armour was cracked and his leg felt broken where the beam had landed. Looking around, he could see the broken bodies of several of his warband, their power armour smashed open and blood already drying in the cold air; it seemed like once again, the sheer mass of his terminator armour had saved his life.

Movement near what was left of the doorway of the building caught his eye and his head snapped around. Power-armoured figures were moving through the gloom, picking their way through the rubble. Loyalist scum coming to check their cowardly bombardment had finished the job? Morgar’ak prepared himself for a burst of bolter fire…but no, as the lead figure drew closer he could make out that his power armour was an older version, and was decked out with spikes and brass. He was a warrior of Khorne.

The Chaos Space Marine drew closer, and as he moved into the glare of Morgar’aks’ lighting array a bone white helmet gleamed. Now Morgar’ak knew who they were; members of the Wrath warband. These berserkers were noted even among the frenzied warriors of Khorne for their insanity and savagery. They had no tactical objectives and no organisation; they existed only to fight and kill and they didn’t care who. Morgar’ak gripped the trigger of his ancient chainfist subconsciously, even knowing that the weapon would not work with his armour damaged as it was.

The leader of the Wrath marines stooped over one of the fallen World Eaters, reaching down to turn the marine onto his back with the grinding sound of ceramite on broken masonry. Morgar’ak watched as the berserker activated his chainsword, with a screeching buzz that filled the air, and slowly lowered the spinning teeth to the breastplate of the fallen World Eater’s armour, tearing a deep cut into and through the power armour. Blood sprayed out as the armour parted and the chainsword cut deep into the flesh underneath.

Morgar’ak watched helplessly, his rage kept in check despite the pain of the Butcher’s Nails urging him to surge forwards, as the Berserker Champion lowered his chainsword and slowly removed his bone-white helmet with the other hand. The face underneath was more horrifying than the skull-mask of his helmet; pale, fleshless and savage, and his eyes had the mad, flickering stare of one who is truly lost.

“Blood for the blood god!” he intoned, and it was repeated by the marines with him, their voices shrill and urgent. He reached down, his power-armoured gauntlet pushing the armour plates of his victim apart as he reached deep into the chest. With a roar of triumph he pulled his hand back, clutching the dead World Eater’s primary heart. “Blood!” he roared again, before devouring the heart, ripping chunks of it with his sharpened teeth, blood dripping down his chin.

Morgar’ak had heard that the Wrath were cannibals, lost so far in blood-lust that their desire for blood and flesh that they spent more time scavenging the battlefield than taking on the enemy in glorious combat. It seemed the stories were true. They were a shame to Khorne.

Still dripping blood, the Wrath berserker advanced on Morgar’ak and he knew he would be next. Pushing down with his near-useless chainfist Morgar’ak roared with the effort as he pushed himself to his feet, his powered-down armour feeling heavy and sluggish. The berserker’s chainsword whined as it powered up, and a second droning buzz joined the noise as another berserker approached from Morgar’ak’s right, hefting a bloody chain axe.

Morgar’ak stood motionless, towering over the two attackers, his natural height increased by the bulk of his armour. He knew that he would be overpowered if he waited, and the loss of the powered servos in his armour would make him much slower to respond to their attacks. There was also the problem of his chain-fist motor being out of action, in addition the field generator for his lightning claw. All he had at this moment was a sharp edge on each fist. That would have to do.

At that moment the chain-axe berserker raised his arm to strike, but Morgar’ak was quicker, moving with the speed of a striking snake despite his cumbersome armour, and backhanding his massive and ancient chainfist across the Wrath marine’s throat, the force of the blow enough to drive the adamantium teeth of the weapon through the armour and deep enough into his flesh to nearly sever his head. At the same time, Morgar’ak sensed the berserker-champion moving, and he raised his left hand, pivoting on his broken left leg with a howl of agony but stabbing the middle two fingers of his lightning claw straight through the champion’s throat. His chainsword, already powering down as the berserker choked to death, bounced harmlessly off Morgar’ak’s shoulder armour.

The rest of the Wrath warband started to move forwards, coming together after watching the death off their champions, and Morgar’ak was able to make out their full numbers for the first time as they emerged through the gloom. Even with his armour and weapons fully operational he could not hope to stand against so many, alone.

Time seemed to slow down. As he often did in times of crisis, Morgar’ak felt the presence of Khorne in his mind. In battle, Khorne fortified him and intensified his rage, an invisible hand pushing him towards where the fighting was thickest and where the most valuable skulls could be taken. Other times, he felt that this God guided him, keeping him on the path of battle, conquest and victory. And now, he felt the presence of Khorne when there seemed no hope.

He was alone. He was injured and his armour was damaged. To get off this world and get his armour repaired he needed a warband. To survive, he needed a warband. There was a warband in front of him, and he had just killed their leaders. Khorne willed, and the path was clear. Morgar’ak nearly laughed; his hand had been forced into allying himself with the least honourable band of Chaos marines who called themselves worshippers of Khorne…but what choice did he have?

He hefted the dead marine off his left hand, throwing him to the feet of the approaching Wrath marines, forcing them to stop. He lifted both arms out wide, appealing to the Wrath marines in what was to be a desperate gamble.

“Brothers of Khorne!” He bellowed, gesturing at the dead champion. “An offering from Khorne! Blood for the Blood God!”.

As the Wrath marines dived headlong onto the charnel offering, Morgar’ak was sure he could hear the sound of metallic laughter from deep inside his head…

Edited January 12, 2019 by RobWrath

[Tordeck]

I am at a loss so far as to specific character names and will edit them in before the deadline. But here is the majority.

The Silver Skulls, an Ultramarines 2nd founding successor chapter, have lost many brothers over the millennia. Not all are dead…

Already disillusioned after having suffered several defeats and being required to massacre half a planet’s population in the name of the throne of Terra, Vanguard Assault Sergeant Xandar did not require much persuasion by the already corrupted Prognosticator Sonicus that remaining in service to the emperor was no longer ideal.

While in pursuit of a Red Corsairs fleet in the Gildar Rift those who had fallen under the sway of Xandar and Sonicus chose an opportune moment to make their exodus.

All told just over a dozen marines, including a Vanguard Veteran Squad, three Tactical Combat Squads, a Devastator Squad and the above mentioned officers, having heard the seductive voice of freedom from the cruel yoke of humanity, fled under the cover of battle.

Utilizing their assault boats to board and commandeer a fleet support vessel, they set course deeper into the rift, towards a new destiny.

Eventually through the vast and strange power of the warp coupled with the will of their Dark Prince, the now Lord Xandar Lustorius and his band of renegades found themselves before the true Warmaster.

Finally seeing both a cause and a leader worthy of fighting for these former sons of Ultramar burned away all the trappings of their former selves.

Reborn in Black and Gold, the Silver Sons of Abbadon take endless pleasure in sowing destruction upon their former masters.

Answering the call Heralded by the Worldclaimer the Silver Sons have come to Vigilus…

 

edited in names

Edited January 14, 2019 by tordeck

[Trevak Dal]

All he had ever done, was fight other Astartes. He hadn't had the 'great honor' of fighting in the Great Crusade. He'd never made oaths to the emperor or to the Imperium, he'd been elevated during the War.

 

Moritat. Gunslinger. The One Man Hurricane Bolter. Calto Banus had been called a lot of things. He still took being called 'traitor' personal.

 

These many years on, there weren't many moritats left. Most died in the scouring, or in the Legion wars in the eye. Banus had killed many.

 

He slowly sipped the cool water, savoring it, remembering all the days where he struggled to find potable water and food.

 

"Hard fight ahead." His patron remarked. Banus nodded,

 

"Yep."

 

Some Astartes have an easier time of not remembering the 'Old Days', some actively do so to help aid their fury and fuel their passions in battle. Banus wished he could forget Skallathrax. He had seen two legions shatter against one another. It was a hell of a thing.

 

And as much as he would tell others 'it was all a blur' he remembered with perfect, unmarred clarity what happened.

 

There was a loud Sonic boom, followed by several others overlapping, Banus turned his blue eyes skyward. Drop pods were dropping in hard and fast as they are designed. A textbook deployment.

 

These would be the new ones. The 'primaris'.

 

He looked around at the dead imperial defenders in the artillery shattered building, and downed the rest of the water, savoring every last drop, before locking his helmet in place and pulling the hood from his cloak up.

 

He had several bolt pistols and a few plasma pistols maglocked or tied, or holstered to his person. He didn't find attachment to his weapons-he used what worked and would discard them when done.

 

"Yeah," he spoke at last, allowing a slight flourish of spinning a bolt pistol in each of his normal hands, and his two augmetic arms as well checking the magazines. He breathed slowly, filling his three lungs with air, and then exhaled.

 

It was going to be another nasty scrap. But that's what Calto Banus got paid for,

 

"Enemy contacts in the western part of the city, heavy Astartes contact" came over the vox.

 

"This is Banus, have your sections pull back and hold."

 

He started to hear back talk but he already cut the channel. They would do as he said or not. Banus was going to shoot everything in the zone.

 

There was doubt, always a little bit at first. The wind pulled at his hood and cloak as his armor thrummed slightly.

 

'Am I too old for this :cuss?', and 'is this the fight where I die?' he breathed again, the thoughts disappearing as quickly as they came. Contrary to popular myth, moritats didn't stand in the open and duel their enemies. That's for Phoneix Guard or axe crazy, honor bound type. He'd known some moritats like that.

 

Banus was still alive and they weren't.

 

He moved quickly to a building, hiding behind a ruined brick stairwell. His enhanced sense picked up the tramp of ceremite clamping down the street in fast order. He imagined the enemy now, sweeping and covering each place for potential ambush.

 

Banus reached out, grabbing the extended bolt gun-like weapon and shoving it back into the chest of its owner, simultaneously shoving a pistol against his neck seal and embracing the Astartes with two arms and reaching around him with his fourth with a plasma pistol.

 

He fired, separating the Primaris's head, and fired his plasma pistol taking out the lieutenant, leaving a pair of smoking legs to topple over.

 

The return fire hesitated for a moment-only a moment, and Banus allowed himself a slight smile-somethings never change.

 

He flipped the Bolter like weapon out of it's previous owners hands with his lower arms, dropping the charging plasma pistol to the ground rolling under the dead Primaris as he brought the weapon to bear and fired at their legs. The armor deflected the first shots, shearing off chunks of ceremite. Banus rolled, his cloak soaking in blood and dirty water as he fired in controlled shots. The return fire was a maelstrom of boltrounds that pulped their dead comrade's body but Banus was moving, grabbing another by his leg-there were eight of them.

 

His augmetic arms split into two extra sets, the rifle abandoned as he rolled, drawing his opponent's own pistol with one and drawing four of his own.

 

Sargent by a blown out vehicle, fifteen meters, Astartes he borrowed the pistol from less than a meter, the rest standard dispersion and defensive/reaction posture-the Sargent had broken them into combat squads-wise precaution.

 

He fired twice with his borrowed pistol at the Sargent, seeing him duck behind the vehicle while shooting it's owner in the power pack and underarm, not killing blows, his other shots were luckier-their hesitation was one brought on by comradeship and brotherhood, no fault of their own.

 

For a moment, Banus envied them.

 

In a flurry of movement he had put shots into the group, spinning around to kick the nearest Astartes and shove the barrel of his own pistol into his face plate before detonating it. He charged towards the sargent, and then feinted away as the Sargent kicked the vehicle towards him-a good move.

 

Banus was running low on his current pistols so he dropped them, drawing fresh ones his augmetic limbs quickly cycling the mechanisms as he continued his barrage.

 

The next four where a blur, shots to the chest-which normally crippled a normal Astartes putting them into a armor locked state to allow them to be recovered by an apothecary.

 

These new ones surged forwards almost like World Eaters or Blood Angels. Banus rolled into their legs longways sending them tumbling, pistols finding soft joins to touch and fire off, dropping them at last.

 

The final three were bellowing-something unimportant. They usually did. "For the Emperor", "Blood for the Blood God", "I like big butts and cannot lie", Banus didn't pay it any mind, he was in the dance now, dropping two pistols to redirect the weapon bash down and to his left, the Astartes recovered stepping towards him to drive a knee into Banus's chest, to get him away and off of him-wrestling someone in power armor is a hell of a thing, especially an augmetically enhanced super soldier who can utilize the full capacity of power armor at will and automatically. Their feet will grab onto the ground to try and compensate for any loss of footing, and they are built like bulls thick at the neck.

 

Having extra arms helps a lot. Can't be undersold the utility of having more than two arms. And they aren't invincible. The instinct from all forms of instructed and instinctive combat would be to head crank up and back-but that would only get you to rip the helmet off.

 

No with Astartes you crank the head forward towards their own chest and their gorget, and try to stab them in their weak armor in their cervical spine.

 

He felt hammerblows at his back, glacing hits his armor pinged in alarm as yellow runes flashed across his vision as the other two were dog piling him, combat blades coming out, but they had to push their dead friend aside to get at Banus.

 

He fumbled for two plasma pistols putting them blindly into his foes pulled the triggers and their bodies flopped back off of him leaving smoking ruins. His augmetics snapped back together forming the primary set and snatched up one of their rifles as he pushed on the remaining Primaris, flinging a retrieved combat blade at the Sargents head. Banus didn't believe it would do anything relevant, but to his surprise it slammed into it above the ridge and he heard a shout of pain as the Sargent ducked behind cover behind a brick wall.

 

Then he heard his enemy clearly for the first time,

 

"Traitor scum!" The Sargent shouted.

 

Banus sighed, more annoyed in himself by being bothered by it. But now it was crawling over him.

 

He ran up and kicked the wall as hard as he could, toppling the weakened structure over and knocking the Sargents rifle aside.

 

Banus had him dead to rights. He hefted the rifle up, target sync with his autosenses playing over the enemy's chest, but then he dropped the rifle, motioning for the Primaris to stand.

 

Banus removed his helmet, clamping it on his belt, short shorn white-blond hair was starting to grow back on his scalp, patterned by old scars healed over.

 

Banus gestured for the Primaris to do the same. He did, the knife hadn't penetrated far, but it had probably knocked his autosenses for a tick.

 

"Skallathrax rules," Banus said, holding up a chunk of brick, "when this hits the ground, draw"

 

The Primaris spat, glowering at him. Banus tossed the brick into the air and a fluid motion drew and shot the Primaris in the face.

 

He noted with some satisfaction that the Primaris had moved to draw preemptively too. He nodded approvingly, and replaced his helmet as he looked to collect his pistols and add some of the newer ones. A light rain started to drizzle down, this fight wasn't over, these were the first of many squads, and he couldn't keep this up, it was time to regroup.

 

It had been challenging at least, and he had learned a lot. Definitely improved Astartes, good blending of design philosophy on the armor, a few more curves deflected what would have been killing blows on other marks.

 

Edited January 12, 2019 by Trevak Dal

[Scourged]

Wonderful work to all those who have entered thus far. But for those still toying with ideas and prose, fret not - there's still time to submit your tales of Genesis! 

 

@MaliGn: Thank you! It seemed appropriate for the nature of things. New year, new thread, and (hopefully) plenty of new blood to christen the walls and floors with their offerings.

[Scourged]

Ah, feels good to dust of the cobwebs and write a bit again. Though, maybe one day I'll learn to write shorter stories. Here's my contribution:

 

You Deserve a Drink

Hidden Content

You Deserve a Drink

Finding a shuttle heading to the right sector had taken some time, but he had managed. Boarding it without being detecting by sweeping auspex or leering security drones had been another matter, though he was soon remembering how easy such things actually were. He was remembering a lot of things lately. Ever since last week.

The beggar had always been there, on that corner in the trade district. Tattered robes, emaciated limbs, and a sallow gaze through yellowed eyes. He’d always been there, perhaps longer than Tordekai had worked in Chirgu’desh’s ore mines… not that he knew how long that had been. Try as he might, a life before living in the workman camps of Chirgu’desh always eluded his thoughts, yet he never cared that such memories seemed nonexistent.. He knew his life here, he knew his work, and that was all he needed. And each work cycle, as Tordekai shuffled his way to the checkpoints for entry to the mines, he would see the beggar, starving flesh and soiled cloth seemingly fused to that one corner. Perhaps tomorrow, he’d always tell himself, he’d spare the beggar a piece of his rations. Perhaps tomorrow. Always tomorrow, never today.

Slowing his breathing to a bare minimum was easy. Slowing his heartbeat came with rehearsed simplicity. Even lowering his core body temperature came with little effort. And all was necessary. He was aboard the vessel, and it was transporting him out of the system, but that did not mean security would not still be dormant. He would stay here, near comatose, buried beneath the cargo in the hold, and let his body’s heightened senses observe the movements of crew and patrols. Once he knew them and their patterns, he would be free to move to the bridge.

Strangely, that ‘tomorrow’ finally came for Tordekai. When bi-weekly rations were doled out at the checkpoint, he found his share to contain more than it should. The foreman, had he been mistaken? Was he given a piece of someone else’s share by mistake? Was it a gift, a bonus for his anniversary within the mines - though he had been working for so many passing generations he did not even know which anniversary this was. He didn’t know, and he didn’t ask. If he told, they would take it. No, this was indeed a gift, even if the foreman did not intend to give it. And Tordekai knew exactly how to best enjoy his gift.

Snapping the neck would have been easier, but such an injury would raise suspicion. No, instead he grabbed the patrolman at the mouth to silence him, pushing backward as his other hand swept out his knees. The patrolman fell back, eyes wide in surprise and fear, as the large hand squeezing his face pushed his head back and into the metal floor, bashing the skull hard enough to kill but lacking the force to break. Standing from his kill, he rolled a small, loose pipe on the floor near the patrolman’s feet. Now it would look like an accident, and it was one less set of eyes monitoring his route.

Tomorrow was finally today. Tordekai prepared himself, stuffing a spare sealed capsule of company gruel in his custom work coat - they had to have it specially made, thanks to his unique physiology. He was far too large and bulky to wear the same gear as his compatriots in the mines. And far stronger, too, he had learned quite quickly. Whatever mutations had made him so much… more than the other workers was apparently overlooked by the foreman. But his stature and cold eyes meant Tordekai never bonded with his peers. No, they weren’t even his peers. They were just… people tangentially in his life, nothing more. He had no one to share his sudden boon with, so he would do the next best thing.

His presence was still unknown within the ship. This was good. It made infiltration of the bridge easier. At this hour, only the servitor crew remained active in the small room, but that didn’t matter. The stolen security badge ensured him access to the bridge that would not concern the mindless workers, but time was still not a luxury he had. He approached the navigation terminal and got to work. The changes and course corrections were small things, alterations of headings and degrees by such small amounts that none would perceive them. But it would alter the course of the vessel enough to create an intercept heading.

Without so much as a sound, he dropped the gruel capsule in the beggar’s lap, and continued his walk to the checkpoint, as if nothing had happened. That was all Tordekai needed - he wanted no recognition, he had no need for praise, he just wanted to do the right thing even if no one knew about it. That’s why the sudden tug on his arm surprised him. The unexpected attention caused his muscles to tense and fists to clench, ready to turn and strike like a viper, but he calmed the instinct as quickly as it came. It was only the beggar. He stared into Tordekai’s eyes, the empty yellow orbs suddenly clear and lively. Strange, for so long the beggar had appeared at death’s door, yet now he gripped at an arm with the strength of a trained soldier. ‘You deserve a drink for your kindness, my Lord,’ said the beggar with a surprisingly rich voice, while thrusting a voucher into Tordekai’s hand.

Once they were within threat-detection range, he ejected his modified escape craft from the vessel, leaving it and the occupants far behind. No doubt the captain would see the ejection of the escape craft, but before long he would be far more concerned with the alarms and warnings of weapon lock. Their altered course had drifted them within the threat range of an Adeptus Astartes Battle Barge, one that had been drifting dormant in the shadow of three moons. It had been dormant, that is, until a small shipping vessel broadcasting a navigational code with embedded activation signatures brough its weapon batteries to life. He watched from inside his craft as the lances made very, very fast work of the tiny vessel.

Ever since that day, Tordekai could not stop thinking about that moment, and agreeing with the beggar. He did deserve a drink. Not just need - deserve. Which is why that voucher for a free pint in the worker’s tavern was such a persistent thought throughout his shift. He did his work, he cleaned his brow, but through it all there was a constant voice of how badly he deserved a drink. Which was so very odd… Tordekai had never once been to any tavern, or imbibed anything beyond the repurposed water provided in his hab-slab. But today, he knew the beggar was right - his Lord deserved a drink.

His small escape vessel meandered toward the hanger bay of the Battle Barge Epsilon Dei. A flurry of his fingers on the command console transmitted a long, long string of encoded keys to the awaiting noosphere of the ship, clearing him for access and preventing the weapon batteries from obliterating him as it had his host vessel. Once safely inside the hanger bay and setting foot on his home once again, he made quick work. The passage through the corridors was second nature to him: every turn and junction as ingrained in his reawakened memories as was the number it steps to reach each point in the journey. Every footfall was taking him closer to his final destination: his brothers, lying dormant in their cryo-pods.

Effortlessly he wove himself through the crowd. Despite his looming stature, it was a skill he had always possessed. He always knew how best to quickly move into a crowd, and how best to disappear into one. He never needed to be so elusive, he just always was. It felt natural, and easy, so he did it. And today, he did it to speed his way to the tavern, incapable of waiting any longer. Once inside, it was exactly the unassuming and bare-bones functional tavern he was expecting. It had a bar, seats, and four walls and a ceiling. Nothing more. But that’s okay. All Tordekai needed - deserved - was a drink - his drink. He sat at the bar, his bulk testing the limits of the overworn barstool, and he silently slid his voucher to the barkeep.

His work was meticulous because it needed to be, and because he knew no other way. Reviving the frozen Astartes was going to take time and precision, and he had both. This more primitive form of stasis was necessary for the rouse. The energy needed to maintain stasis for hundreds of Astartes over generations would produce an easy-to-detect signature to even the most cursory of environmental sweeps. Any minimization of risk was necessary, and every one of his brothers knew this when the entered the cryo-pods. It was all necessary for the Long Game they were playing.

Promptly, the barkeep returned with a glass filled with… with something. It didn’t matter. This was the drink he deserved. ‘Enjoy your glass, my Lord,’ said the barkeep after setting the drink down. Yes, he would. He most certainly would enjoy that glass. Tordekai lifted it, dwarfing its size in his large hand, and immediately began to drain the contents of the glass. Never before had he felt such a thirst, and never before had anything tasted as perfect as this drink, here and now. He tilted his head back and opened his throat, tilting the glass up to pour every last drop into his body and soul, the glass tilted so high he could look through it and see the light of a lamp shining through the dirty bottom of the glass.

Life was returning to the Battle Barge as slowly as it was to his subordinates. Even Astartes were not immune to cryo-sickness when using such antiquated methods of prolonging life in a dormant state. Still, everything was waking up once more, in a Galaxy that looked far, far different than it had when he left it. The hydraulics of the door hissed, and Atosis walked into the room to stand beside him. The Lieutenant was the first to be awoken from the all-too-long slumber, and it was apparent he was eager to return to the Long War.

No, wait… not dirty, not quite. With the light shining through the glass now, Tordekai could see… something. But he didn’t know what. It was more than a smudge or grease, it was… deliberate. The drink now gone, he stared into and through the glass, trying to discern the pattern shining through the bottom. He twisted and pivoted the glass, trying to find the best angle to get a clear view of the haze. Finally, once all was angled correctly, the light from the dim lamp cast out and refracted perfectly through the etched and tinted glass bottom, flashing a single word directly at the back of Tordekai’s cornea, a word that would wake him from his slumber and change everything:

Azeban.

Atosis placed a flat palm on his shoulder, and addressed him as both friend and subordinate.

“Is it finally time, my Lord Azeban?”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

 

Edited January 18, 2019 by Scourged

[Doom Herald]

Does until the 18th of January mean I'm too late today or this is the last day? Edited January 19, 2019 by ThanatosMalleus

[Doom Herald]

I hope I'm not too late.

 

The Birth of the Gheist Lords

 

Hidden Content

 

The planet was called Paradise, and maybe it had once been a fitting name, but such a time had long passed. It was a world of death now. It was a world of slaughter. The bodies of mortals and Astartes alike littered the ground of its main continent. The planet was covered in oceans, and only the highest peaks of drowned mountains pierced the surface. In terms of scale, the main continent was more akin to a large island. There, a once-man creature walked amongst bodies and ashes. He had had a real name once, but he had left it behind. He was The Doom Herald now, for where he walked, ruination followed. Though he was still an Astartes, by some stretch of the definition, in many ways he more resembled a daemon. His head was crowned with large wavy black horns. His face formed into a demonic sneer, framing a mouth full of vicious daggers. His deep red armor had long since become one with his body for, as he had learned, the warp worked in mysterious ways and from the back of his form, two bat-like wings rose up.

 

He looked about himself, half looking for survivors and half savoring the rare moment of silence. He had been a lieutenant to Kranon The Relentless, a member of the cursed and haunted Crimson Slaughter. Spectres of those they had slain assailed their sanity whenever they strayed too far from battle and slaughter, but the slaughter here was fresh and the spectres gave him a momentary reprieve. The warrior in him had even rejoiced that he had fought a true battle here today. He was not a butcher of mortals this time, but a slayer of Astartes and their blood still dripped from the gauntlets of his lightning claws.

 

The Doom Herald had come to this world with a vision. True, he had been ordered to do so by his no-longer master, but he did so knowing that it was here that he would find his destiny. Like a few others of the Crimson Slaughter, he possessed a sort of foresight. His real-time abilities rivaled those of Draznicht, the champion of the Ravagers. His long reaching pre-cognition, however, could be called prophetic. He had been sent to retrieve some relic that his prescient knowledge had already told him would not be here. Some relic for Abbadon to add to his collection. He hated Abbadon. What's more, he found he now hated Kranon for being Abbadons pawn. He had taken his final orders and left for this world, knowing he would find more than either of the two Chaos Lords expected. Here, he would find freedom, of sorts, and a new beginning.

 

As he looked around, he noticed the flared wings of the helmets of his dead prey. They had been a rogue band of Night Lords. They had been after the same prize he had been sent for, only their Lord had wished it for his own. He had found that he liked this band of Night Lords. In some ways he had felt a kinship with them, especially their Raptors. They were both sky-born predators, they both wielded horror as a weapon, albeit the Night Lords with psychology and he with his curse, they both rebelled at being pawns of the despoiler, and, if the rumors were true, there would be some that showed the same prescient ability he possessed. As he walked amongst the bodies of the Night Lord's and his own troops, he was reminded of an other common point. Though many of the VIII Legion despised mutants, this particular warband was highly mutated. Horns protruded from helmets made one with flesh, some of the bare-headed had faces resembling bats, a few even had grown wings not dissimilar to his own. Mutation was rampant amongst his own Crimson Slaughter, even more rampant. Still, he thought, "In some ways, it is as if we are already brothers," he said, barely louder than a whisper.

 

While clashing with the Night Lord's, they had both been marooned planetside. The ships in the void had destroyed each other and both warbands had proven resourceful enough to destroy the transports of the other. For weeks they had made war. Few sights in the galaxy could have inspired as much dread as watching the Night Lords, masters of terror, clash with the spectre laden haunted once-men of the Crimson Slaughter. Mortals likely would have been driven to insanity. In fact, he was quite sure the cultists that had accompanied his men had been so driven before their deaths. He then remembered why he had come to this world, and his sneer turned into a savage grin, terrifying and likely maddening in its own right. When we truly become brothers, he thought to himself, we will be the apex of terror.

 

His contemplation had been interrupted by the vox. "Doom Herald." The vox had come from the harsh almost inhuman speech of his Possessed Champion, Drakas.

"What is it?" the Doom Herald replied, though he was sure he already knew.

"I have received a messenger from the Night Lord's. They wish to meet and they have something to discuss."

"And what would that be?" Doom Herald voiced the question, though he already knew the answer.

"They say there is a ship soon to be in orbit."

The Doom Herald lifted himself into the air with a single powerful beat of his bat-like wings.

 

The Doom Herald landed at the foot and walked up the hill to meet with the commander of these Night Lords. His Raptors waited nearby and some of the mercenary snipers he had hired monitored the hilltop through their scopes. The Doom Herald knew the Night Lord would be doing similar. The Night Lords' master wore the dark blue typical of his legion but with the skull helmet of a loyalist chaplain. It was a war trophy that was also practical and fitting. At his right hip was a savage looking chain axe, and at his left, a darkly colored plasma pistol. On his back were the twin engines of heresy-era jump packs. They were more crude and loud than the jump packs The Doom Herald had used in his time as a loyalist in the Crimson Sabres. Their loudness and bulk and smoke were precisely why the Lord in front of him favoured them. They were more terrifying.

 

The Night Lord declared that he was named Sarrik. He wasted no time with pleasantries, "There is a ship that will soon arrive in orbit. My Sorcerer has seen it in a vision. It is from the Dark Angels." Doom Herald's face made an involuntary grimace at the name of the Dark Angels. He was not surprised by the news for he had foreseen it, but his hatred for them was boundless. "I know," the Doom Herald replied, "I too have foreseen it. What do you propose then?" The Doom Herald inquired, already aware of the next words.

"You should join my forces. We will hide, feign death at each others' hands. When the Angels land to investigate, we will ensnare them. Together we can overcome them."

"Join you, then you intend to lead?"

"I will." replied Sarrik

"If I refuse?"

"Then we will all die on this planet. Death is nothing."

A moment of silence followed. After a few minutes of mock contemplation, The Doom Herald broke the silence.

"Very well, we will join with you. Let us bleed the Dark Angels." The Doom Herald voxed his champions and ordered them to inform the men, the warbands were now as one. He then followed Sarrik, until he was deep amongst the Night Lords. The Crumson Slaughter Raptors waiting nearby launched themselves airborn to save time and followed behind their own master. The mercenary snipers, however remained hidden. Sarrik informed his own men that the two warbands were now one and that they would prepare for the arrival of the Dark Angels. The Crimson Slaughter on Paradise were now absorbed into this band of Night Lords. They were brothers now, in as much as heretics could be. As the warbands began mixing, the champions gathering by their Lords to plan the coming battle, The Doom Herald made his move. "I challenge you Sarrik, for the right to lead this warband! I challenge you in a fight to the death!" The Doom Herald had seen this moment before. He knew from his visions that the Lord Sarrik would not decline, just as he knew that he would rip out Sarrik's hearts and claim lordship of this new warband. The lieutenants of his rival shot him looks of disgust. Sarrik himself was stoic. He must accept such a chellenge, afterall, it was by slaying his own predecessor in such a manner that he had gained command. There would be dissenters amongst the Champions of the Night Lords, of course, but that was precisely what tje mercenaries behind their rifle scopes were for. He already knew who amongst them must die, and once Lordship was fully his, the hired guns would earn their pay. The Doom Herald could not recall what this particular warband of Night Lords had been known by. He only knew what he would rename them, this joining of horrors and murderers. He would name them The Gheist Lords, they would stock the battlefields in midnight and spectres clad, and their first prey would be angels.

Edited January 19, 2019 by ThanatosMalleus

[Gederas]

Does until the 18th of January mean I'm too late today or this is the last day?

Inspirational Friday's cutoff is usually midnight of the specified date. So yes, today's the last day.

 

Sadly, I won't be participating this week because I've had some serious writer's block, EVEN THOUGH I KNOW WHAT STORY I WANT TO WRITE :lol: I know what I want to do, I just can't put down words to make it work >.>

[Kierdale]

I too hoped to submit an entry but just haven’t had the time to work on anything.

I’ve covered the Psychopomps’ fall from the POV of those who fell to Slaanesh and from that of the Eldar who tried to stop it, but not yet from the POV of the first company who fell to Khorne.

Hopefully I’ll have a chance in a future IF2019.

 

Thanks again to Scourged for taking over. It looks like things are off to a good start! :)

[Scourged]

You are indeed not too late, ThanatosMalleus! As was mentioned, you'll have until around midnight the day of - in this case that's midnight CST, to get specific, heh. 

 

But given the amazing popularity of this topic, I think I'll give anyone who hasn't yet entered a little bonus time: rather than cutoff the deadline in an hour, I'll let it slide until tomorrow morning. This way, Gederas, should you manage to get some words to the "page" before I wake up and officially close the thread, you'll make the cut. And hey, even if not, please always feel free to post your stories at any time. 

 

The same, of course, goes for you too, Kierdale. Your work will always be welcome in the thread, even if "off topic." And I agree - things have taken off fantastically this year! Seems 2019 will truly be a Year of Chaos. 

[Gederas]

But given the amazing popularity of this topic, I think I'll give anyone who hasn't yet entered a little bonus time: rather than cutoff the deadline in an hour, I'll let it slide until tomorrow morning. This way, Gederas, should you manage to get some words to the "page" before I wake up and officially close the thread, you'll make the cut. And hey, even if not, please always feel free to post your stories at any time.

I still haven't gotten any inspiration for writing, and I'm going to fall asleep soon. Soo.....

Edited January 19, 2019 by Gederas

[Warsmith Aznable]

I've read all the entries once, plan to reread them all again before making a final decision. I'm at work right now, so it will be several hours.

[Scourged]

Thank you for all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: Genesis

MaliGn gifted us with The Final Penance of Kor Ladron, illustrating to all of us one of the many cruel fates that awaits those less than worth in the Eyes of Chaos. We watched with Carnac as his former master was taken and reborn into something anew, something far more powerful than Kor Ladron had been in life. And such a fantastic model accompanied MaliGn’s work - such a bonus is always welcome!

RobWrath told us the tale of The Fall and Rise of Morgar'ak of the World Eaters. Here we bore witness to some glorious Khornate-on-Khornate action, seeing how the chosen sons of a Chaos God are not even safe from each other’s bloodlust. The ending proved quite satisfying, seeing just what divine plan had been laid out for Morgar’ak. I wish him all the best in his new pursuits.

tordeck told us an unnamed story of Sergeant Xander and his compatriots, tired and beleaguered from serving an uncaring Imperium. Before long, the freedom of Chaos’ clarion call is too much for any human to resist, and so a new life for Xander is born. I enjoyed the ultimate choice for the warband’s name, by the way.

Trevak Dal was next, bringing another unnamed story, this one about Calto Banus, a riveting romp of Old vs. New. A Moritat and survivor of Skallathrax, we see Banus engage in furious pistolero combat with a squad of fresh Primaris Space Marines. The conflict ends with a very satisfying “honor” duel, and it’s a great snapshot of how one specialized Legionnaire unit survives in the 40th Millennium.

And in my entry, You Deserve a Drink, I gave you all an introduction into the beginnings of Lord Azeban of the Wayward Sons. And in true Alpha Legion fashion, his origins tell you everything while telling you nothing at all.

ThanatosMalleus gave us a last-minute entry with The Birth of the Gheist Lords. Here, we watched as the Doom Herald, a former Crimson Slaughter warrior, surveyed the wreckage of a battlefield, and through paths of fate he himself foresaw, ascended to a new lordship.

I hereby close that topic but if anyone has more stories on that theme, at any time, please post them here with a suitable title.

And so begins our second challenge of Inspirational Friday 2019: Cursed by the Gods

The Chaos Gods giveth, and the Chaos Gods taketh away… perhaps far more than they give. Chaos by nature is fickle and unpredictable. For every boon there is a blight, for every gift… a curse. In our previous challenge, we saw how the God might bless their most reverent/bloodthirsty/fervent/lethal servants. But what about the rest? What happens to an Astartes when they earn the ire of a God…?

Regail with the pitiful tales of the poor, unfortunate souls that inhabit the Eye of Terror, the Maelstrom, and all dark places along the Cicatrix Maladictum. How have the Gods forsaken them? Are they destined to always suffer but never die? Do they forever hold victory in their grasp only to see Fate pluck it away at the last second? Or is their curse more corporeal in nature, twisting their mind and flesh as punishment for being found wonting?

In this new challenge, show us all what happens when you’re cursed by the Gods.

IF2019: Cursed by the Gods runs until the 1st of February.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge, the winner of 2018’s final challenge: Warsmith Aznable.

The winner of IF2019: Cursed by the Gods shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

[Warsmith Aznable]

Sorry for the delay (real life stuff happened.) The story I believe captures the spirit of the theme best while also having a quality narrative is RobWrath's Fall and Rise story. I enjoyed reading every entry and look forward to another great year of B+C heretical fan fiction!

[Tordeck]

Congrats to the winner. Thank you Scourged for the kind words.

[Kierdale]

My entry for Cursed By The Gods:

 

 

Ennui

Hidden Content

We cast out fear and pain in our forging, we cast out pride, love and hate too. As one of the Stygian Guard we upheld duty above all other virtues. We voided ourselves of all but commitment to the mission. A ‘virtue’ that would see us clash with our brethren.

And on Cyprius III we were shown the folly of our endeavours.

 

Since man grew from ape he has devised greater and greater ways and more efficient tools with which to slay those who opposed him, or those whose possessions he would have for his own. The club with which the bones of the enemy are broken, the aim being to disable them sufficient that the victor can take the spoils. Such simplicity. To damage the bodily system to such a level that it can no longer function. Then came blades, their keen edges cutting through vital ligaments, tendons, muscles and organs. The draining of blood - that most vital of fluids. And soon came man’s attempts to slay his foes at range. To, in the simplest terms, press a mass of metal through the physical body of another, causing sufficient damage and trauma along the way that the system failed. This simple principle, honed over millennia.

A principle the Stygian Guard had not truly understood under their vows to the Golden Throne. They were the unfeeling, unthinking weapon, and the Lords of Terra their wielder.

But on Cyprius III they had faced a foe that their tactics, refined over millennia, the excess cut away to leave on the necessary - as Lord Pugh of the Fists had dictated at their founding - failed to overcome. They had been found wanting.

Some say it was Angra, the chapter’s master of sanctity, others our Lord Sophusar, who proposed the change in tactics, the abandonment of doctrine: their scouts infiltrating the enemy. Learning and adopting their ways. Overtly only at first, but habits grow. They become nature. And as they had learned from the tactics of their elder, brother chapters, the Stygians learned and adopted the ways of their enemies. Until it was too late.

In the years after our illumination - our rebirth as the Psychopomps in the crucible of Cyprius III fighting its mad cults - we knew the simple joy of warfare, understood better the ways of killing - as man had for millennia - far more than we had as the tools of Terra. As the Emperor’s ferrymen.

And beyond that, the Dark Prince taught us the pain that accompanied the ravaging of the body. And all the other emotions that man - and xenos - experienced. We learned to savour these feelings, in ourselves and in others. Via the omophagea and later the infernal engine of forgemaster Zenelaius and apothecary Podalir. Mankind knows not the depths of sorrow that are experienced by the Eldar, nor - I would wager - do even the sons of the Khan know the joy of battle in the way that a greenskin does. All these and more we gorged ourselves upon. Proscribed acts, forbidden ambrosia of the senses.

The Templars driving us from our fortress-monastery and our homeworld did not stop us. We sought out and reaved the worlds of those who birthed our new patron: the Eldar. For their senses, their experiences and their souls were the most succulent.

We forged new weapons; ones that unleashed echoes of the very birth scream of Slaanesh itself, their power growing as Lord Sophusar, the facinorious, our lord and master, the prophet and conductor of Slaanesh drove us on.

New alliances too, for we came to fight alongside the neverborn denizens of our patron’s realm. Such sights they shewed us. Such feelings. I used to shudder at the memory of visions of that great silver hall, visions granted me as I coupled with one being as hideous as it was alluring.

But I feel naught now.

It is not the despair that all of us feel: that after each experience we can only feel something by exceeding it with future deeds and debaucheries.

It is the curse.

The Ennui.

 

I was by my acts elevated from the ranks, rising to levels only matched by other great names of our warband: Angra, Holusiax, Kuru, Zenelaius and Castor. I do not list the apostate Podalir or that preening bastard Dophesia amongst my peers.

I strode across battlefields as a god of war. A reaver of souls.

 

Until I heard it.

I believe I was called upon. I believe all of us will be, in time, and I would warn my brethren were I still able to communicate. I scream, perpetually now, but in no words they can understand.

The Dark Prince is the lord of decadence and pain, but also of ambition. His heralds whispered to me. Bid me become kingslayer and kinslayer. But I faltered for it had been Lord Sophusar who raised us up.

My mind raced. Had the Dark Prince found our Lord wanting? Unlikely, in the wake of the devastation of Carth-Lar and the countless Eldar we had feasted upon therein. Was I, then, having my loyalty tested?

And in my hesitation I was cursed.

 

I feel nothing now.

I am less than I was as one of the Stygian Guard.

No glorious pain, no spirit shivering-fear. Neither pride nor rage nor lust nor hunger.

I scream, unending. A prayer to the Dark Prince for forgiveness. To grant me the merest morsel of sensation once again.

[RobWrath]

Sorry for the delay (real life stuff happened.) The story I believe captures the spirit of the theme best while also having a quality narrative is RobWrath's Fall and Rise story. I enjoyed reading every entry and look forward to another great year of B+C heretical fan fiction!

 

Oh gosh, thanks so much!

 

I haven't been on here in a while (I've been doing non B&C GW hobby activities...ok, less mystery; Blood Bowl), but I didn't think I had any chance of winning.

 

I have sadly failed to get any inspiration for the 'Cursed by the Gods' topic (and I also got knocked off my bike and have been groaning away the last week with possibly a cracked rib which has been a bit of a distraction) but I can't wait to read the entries.

 

Cheers all!

[Scourged]

Only a couple days left for this week's challenge. Does anyone else plan to make an offering to the Gods, or are we in need of another week to prepare a worthy sacrifice? 

[Gederas]

Only a couple days left for this week's challenge. Does anyone else plan to make an offering to the Gods, or are we in need of another week to prepare a worthy sacrifice? 

I might need another week. I've just had some severe writer's block. It's irksome.

[RobWrath]

With an extra week I might enter.

[MaliGn]

I've got an idea but I've been struggling to put it into words.. another week might help, might not

[Scourged]

That's all I needed to hear. One more week will be added to our deadline.