Inspirational Friday 2019: Blessings and Boons (Dec 27)

[RobWrath]

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

 

Thanks. I've written mind in my head. Just got to type it out.

[RobWrath]

Ok, here's mine. I've approached the theme slightly backwards, but hopefully it will make sense once people had read it through!
 
I'm going to call it:
 
The Blessing of Khorne

 

Gregori was blessed. Blessed by his God. Blessed by the Lord of Murder, the Blood God, Khorne, the Hunter of Souls. Gregori had earned that blessing. As an underhive gang member and then as a captured pit fighter, he had needed to learn to fight and fight well. His instincts were sharp, honed with practice, and he showed his opponents no mercy. He didn’t think he’d ever meet an equal in close quarters combat…but then…
It happened in the middle of the night. There was the sound of gunfire from the perimeter of the compound and then one of the walls exploded. The compound was overrun with gang fighters and all the slaves were freed…except they weren’t. They were taken deeper into the underhive, far from any patrolled area, and that’s when they were brought before HIM.
Gregori knew from his outline in armour and the sheer size of the figure before them, in that dark and solemn place deep under the hive, that he was faced with a Space Marine. And when he stepped forwards into what little light there was, his armour of red and brass revealed him to be a Chaos Space Marine; one of the Traitor Legions.
He spoke in a deep, rough voice. He spoke of how they had been deceived by the Imperium. He told them of how the ruling classes of this hive and this world were conspiring to keep the ordinary people, like them, down and to keep all the power and wealth for themselves. He told them of the glory of Khorne. He told them of the honour there was to fight in Khorne’s name and how they would all be part of an uprising which would help all the ordinary people on this world and others. He told them they were now part of his army.
As soon as the hundred or so men and women there understood that the choice to join the Traitor’s army was not a choice at all, some refused. These were strong, wilful aggressive fighters and did not bend the knee easily. A small knot towards the front lunged towards the Heretic Astarte, and then Gregori learned a lesson in combat. The Marine didn’t draw a weapon or even seem to move much but struck at each with a speed that was difficult to comprehend given the bulk of armour surrounding him…and that was the end of any attempt to resist. Gregori had a clear view of one of the fighters as he laid on the ground…or what was left of him, in any case.
And after that they were all part of the army of Chaos.
Actions soon followed, strikes against authority targets in the underhive to destabilise the area, as well as raids on armouries and weapons factories. Gregori revelled in it, surging into the fray, swinging his axe with a fury and strength inspired by his new-found God. And before long, Gregori and the others were fighting in a full-scale rebellion, battering down the security doors to the upper hive, and slaying everyone they found. It was bloody, brutal, and glorious.
Then the planetary defence force was brought in, and the battles spread outside the hives. The ranks of the cultists had been swelled by those enslaved or converted during the uprisings, and Gregori was one of the leaders. His axe dripped with blood and he bellowed the name of Khorne as he fought.
Knowing that retribution would come from the Imperium, reinforcements were sent to assist the uprising. Gregori remembered watching them come, drop pods descending through the yellow-grey smog of the planet’s lower atmosphere, settling onto the ashy uneven surface. His eyes were wide as the ramps descended and the harsh, solid of ceramite on steel rang out as full squads of Chaos Space Marines marched out and into defensive positions. They were like Gods to Gregori, sent from his Lord Khorne to join him in the slaughter. And after them came their leader. Taller, broader, more ornately armoured, he moved with a horrifying, cat-like grace that promised swift and savage violence. And in the battle that followed when the Astra Militarium’s first wave of infantry moved in the champion showed what true combat skill looked like. His plasma pistol spat bolts of fire until the enemy were close, and then he danced into them, his chainaxe growling with savage delight. Blood flew around him almost like a mist.
And Gregori followed, lashing out with his barbed axe, feeling the glory of Khorne filling him with each strike, blood anointing his hands and arms. And as the slaughter continued, something happened…the mist of gunsmoke and smog seemed to…thicken. Moving shapes were visible, as if behind a veil. Savage, bestial shapes. And in a pause in the fighting the champion turned, and raised one armoured hand to the skies…and Hell came to earth.
Sinuous, nightmarish creatures become flesh out of the air charged forwards. They barely had time to lift their las-guns before they were run through or cut apart with the long, glowing blades the creatures carried. And like a lightning strike, Gregori was hit by the truth. These were daemons of Khorne, summoned from the warp. Which meant it was all true, the warp, daemons, Khorne himself…Gregori felt his knees go slightly weak. Having faith was one thing, having that faith proved was another. The slaughter continued and when it was done, the daemons fell upon the bodies of the fallen, gulping down the still-warm dead flesh.
Some of the daemons gathered closer to the champion, waiting expectantly. No words were spoken but it seemed to Gregori as if a bargain was being made; a deal being struck. After a long, silent moment the champion nodded, then gestured in the direction of Gregori and his troops with his chainaxe, saying a single word that froze Gregori’s blood.
“Feast” and the bloodletters fell upon them, tearing them apart in moments.
Gregori, or, the essence of the being that had been Gregori, was now aware of different surroundings. Towers of brass surrounded his horizon, and all around were skulls, and lakes of boiling blood, and…now he became aware of the screaming. Now he had noticed it, it was all he could here, and looking up, a terrifying bestial face blotted out the boiling, angry purple-red sky.
“You served Khorne in life,” it said, its words scorching into his brain like red-hot knives. “And now you can serve him in death as his slave. Your pain will amuse Him and that should be your reward. Forever.” And with that the torment started…
Gregori was cursed. Cursed by Khorne. Cursed for eternity.

[Scourged]

My own little submission before time runs out.

 

All Seeing

Hidden Content

All Seeing

He had finally done it. Ninety-nine hands from ninety-nine Ecclesiarchy priests of ninety-nine different worlds. Each hand had been severed by his anathame. Each body had been burned with warpfire on an effigy to the Great Architect.

The hands were all arranged exactly as ordained. Each one posed in one of ninety-nine sacred gestures, arranged in nine concentric circles. Each had been anointed with ash from the charred effigies, forming a spiritual latticework among the concentric circles. His body was bathed in oils thrice-blessed by heralds of the Great Architect. He wore a robe of velvet cerulean and stood in the center of the ninety-nine hands.

Soon, he would complete the ritual. Soon, he would be gifted with the All-seeing Gaze promised to him.

With arms at his side and palms up, he began to chant. He recited the verses of the Ninety-Nine Hymns of Kaly'phle'kmal. He spoke them in the dialect of the epherimal. He recalled each from his perfect memory as the words slipped through his lips.

One by one, the nine rings of hands all erupted into pink flames. They burned, but the flesh did not crack nor char. He continued his recitation unabated, palms turning down to let the flames kiss and tickle at his skin. He felt no pain, no heat, just as was written. He let the flames climb onto his fingers and spread across his body. Just as he spoke the final syllable of the ninety-ninth him, the pink flames collapsed around his face. All had been timed to perfection.

For a brief moment, as his body burned with heatless fire, he could feel the magicks of the Immaterium all around him. Soon, the flames would infuse themselves into his body, and his soul would burn with the the power of the All-seeing Gaze.

...but then they didn't. Ring by ring, the fires died, petering out until even the pink flames on his body faded to nothing. His eyes adjusted as the room grew darker without the flames burning within them. Something... something was very wrong.

He felt cold now, very cold. He shivered as his breath condensed into little clouds in front of him, though the room was no different that before. His movements became sluggish and forced as his skin turned a bluish grey, yet no signs of frozen cold were in the room around him. He clutched his body and convulsed to stir any form of heat, but none came. His heartbeat was slowing, his breathing harder with each exhalation. Soon even the convulsions were slowing down from the weight of his own body. Now on his knees, he clutched as his head as it pounded, wishing so badly to scream but finding no air to do so.

And then it was over. No more cold. No more pain. No more anything, at all. He could not feel his limbs, his body, himself. Yet he still existed. He was conscious, aware of himself. Aware of the world around him. He could still see the room, but now he saw it in all directions, an omnipresent vision of his surroundings. But he could not hear, he could not feel. His sight was his only perception left.

He was stone. A statue. An immovable object, not alive yet never dead. But he could see everything. And so he would forever, seeing All with an unblinking gaze.

 

[Tordeck]

A writer I am not and any one who read my last submission can attest to that. So with the perspective of a picture is worth a thousand words I submit to you a creature that has surely been cursed by the gods.

 

[Scourged]

Thank you for all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: Cursed by the Gods

Kierdale was first with Ennui. This tale gave us two gifts: first, we were given a glimpse into the fall of the Stygian Guard into the rise of the Psychopomps, and second we were privy to the fickle nature of the Dark Prince. What happens when you fall out of favor in his/her/their eyes? Ennui is the answer.

RobWrath was next with The Blessing of Khorne. We follow the life of Gregori, a Khornate hiver who finds himself quickly in the service of a Chaos warband. He is quick to devote himself to the cause, but learns soon enough that it is a very thin line that separates blessing from curse.

I provided us with All Seeing. Tzeentch has never been known to be very forthright with his blessings, perhaps the most fickle of the Gods. Yet that does not stop devout aspirants from seeking his favor. In my story, we see what happens to just one of those ambitious souls seeking to earn favor.

The final submission from tordeck was not one of words, but of images. The cursed being in those picts surely serves as an inspiration in its own way, worth far more than a paltry thousand words. Perhaps, in time, you’ll grace us all with the prose to match this foul being!

It’s a shame we didn’t get an entry for the Plague Father before the deadline called. It’s always fun when we all inadvertently conspire to make offerings to the full Pantheon. Perhaps next time!

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: Infernal Machines

I believe it’s safe to assume that we’re all abuzz with excitement after the LVO reveal a few days ago. So many new gifts to Chaos, but perhaps none more exciting (at least to me) than the Venoncrawler. Daemon engines are such a unique and terrifying element within our warbands’ arsenals, and they are what help separate us from our loyalist kin. For this challenge, we shall pay tribute to the daemon engines. Their monstrous form is birthed of electricity and metal deep within the Hell-Forges. Summoners and Warpsmiths work in tandem to pluck a daemon from the Warp and seal it within the rune-inscribed hulk. The Neverborn within detests this forced existence and lashes its anger out at all within reach. We use these tormented beings as weapons, unleashing them into the galaxy to reap a bloody vengeance. They are the daemon engines.

There are so many breeds of infernal machines out there, my brothers. Perhaps none are as iconic as the Defiler, birthed as a gift to the First Black crusade. So often the engines are bestial in nature, rampaging on the ground like the Maulerfiend and Forgefiend, or terrorizing the skies like the Heldrake. And other times they are almost like living shrines to the gods, such as the mighty Khorne Lord of Skulls. But there are so many more… I personally have a soft spot for the Decimator, but I urge you all to explore the old, forgotten lore of this hobby and learn of many more daemon engines since forgotten to time. Or perhaps your warband has forged a pact with a Heretek to develop something new. You have given the dark artisans free rein to create, and from their machinations you do not know what will be brought. But all we know is that it will be unlike any before it, yet just as eager to kill.

IF2019: Infernal Machines runs until the 23rd of February.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge, the winner of our last challenge, RobWrath

The winner of IF2019: Infernal Machines shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

[Trevak Dal]

I haaate Nurgle. The philosophy behind it and it's followers just depresses me. And much like how I'm squicked by the blood angels vampires, I'm squicked by zombie space marines.

 

I was tinkering with writing about the last of the Siege Dancers, a not cocaine, snorting former space wolf hiding out in a Warband on the other side of the Maledictum...but it was a little Snuffy, sex slaves, a massive and excessive quest to feel leading to more and more depraved acts...not good things, I didn't want to continue it. The Siege Dancers were Snuffy enough before the Nightblades killed them on the Warmasters Permission/order.

[Tordeck]

Technically speaking my spawn was specifically built to run in a DG list so Nurgle has been represented.

[RobWrath]

I'm busy laying a floor this weekend, I'd like to take my time to read both entries really properly before deciding.

 

I enjoyed yours when I read it through quickly Scourged, interesting we both approached the subject from the same angle: the deceptive and capricious nature of Chaos.

 

Thanks again for keeping this running.

[Scourged]

Thanks, RobWrath! I think that's one of the big draws to Chaos - the irony of servitude. The whole thing has a monkey's paw or malicious djinni vibe to it all, which can make for great stories of tragedy. I mean, look no further than Magnus for such a thing. 

 

And don't worry about the timing. Make your decision whenever you've got the time to do so. 

[RobWrath]

I have re-read both other entries a few times now and I'm finding it very hard to pick; I really like both; the horror and the darkness comes from both very strongly.

 

But...there has to be a winner and I'm going to give it to Scourged this time. I liked the way the vignette unfolded and description of the ritual.

But they were both great.

[Kierdale]

“Both”? I hope mine didn’t get forgotten on page one! :( :D

[RobWrath]

“Both”? I hope mine didn’t get forgotten on page one!

 

Kierdale, of course! You and Scourged were who I meant.

I didn't include my own in the judging. 

 

But yours was really enjoyable. In a sort of, despair and horror sort of way.

[Kierdale]

More despair and horror...

 

Bastard Contraption

Hidden Content

Like an assassin’s blade being slid silently from a hidden sheath the alien vessel decanted into real space from that arcane network the aliens had wrought at the height of their empire’s power. A relic, a bitter memory of a time that few willingly thought of. Their own hubris had seen their society schism and fall, and had given birth to their doom in the form of the youngest of the Chaos pantheon.

And the symbol of that very deity was emblazoned upon the vessel dead ahead.

 

“A ‘snake devastator’, Autarch,” announced an eager warrior at the alien commander’s left side.

“Cobra Destroyer,” corrected his more senior rival on the other side of the throne.

The autarch, a veteran of three disciplines of their aspect-focused warfare, ignored them and spoke to the bridge crew.

“Maintain full holofields until we reach maximum range, then transfer power to weapons. I want them fully charged once we reach optimal firing range.”

Heads, some hidden within high helmets jade in colour, others unhelmed but with long topknots entwined with jewelry of White wraithbone, nodded as one.

His eyes narrowed as he observed the ugly vessel on the screen before him. Angular and bulky, it was like one of the mon-Keigh’s ground fortresses fixed atop an equally unseemly watercraft. The descendants of apes knew as little about the intricacies and beauty of design as they knew about the dangers of the warp they so readily dallied with. And this one was worse: a renegade, fallen ship, it’s blasphemous dedication writ large upon its hull. The once-blunt muzzles of its brutal cannons were now the maws of daemonkind so that they would appear to vomit forth death and destruction. Words of the Dark Tongue were scrawled dozens of meters in height in feats that must have taken mad slaves who knew how long to daub upon the ship’s armour. And the sigil of She Who Must Not Be Named, that featured most. It hurt the Autarch’s eyes and lit within him a molten rage as his ghost ship tore across the void toward the Enemy ship.

The ship on the view screen became tinted yellow as they entered range, deepening to red as the seconds passed, yet still it held course, engines burning bright. They were unseen.

The helmsman had one hand resting upon a control column, the other upon a cluster of gemstones: a phylactery of the souls of his predecessors, who both guided him and were as responsible for the ship as its flesh and blood crew were. He nodded to the autarch.

“Let these lowborn bastards feel the wrath of Khaine! OPEN FIRE!”

 

* * * * * *

Explosions ripped across the ventral surfaces of the Chaos warship as the Eldar’s lances raked it and plasma torpedoes punched through armour plating to detonate within. A line of towers dotted with turrets crumpled and fell away, their supports destroyed. Bodies like flecks of dust in comparison to the side of the ship, drifted out of holes.

“Keep us beneath her,” the autarch ordered, watching as the destroyer began to roll in an effort to bring her devastating broadsides to bear. He knew full well that at this range the enemy’s cannons, primitive though they were, would rip his own ship’s shields to shreds and leave them adrift.

Creaks ran through the wraithbone structure of the ghostship as she turned sharply to keep out of sight of those guns.

And suddenly the enemy vessel ceases its roll, as if giving up, presenting its belly.

But no smile spread over the alien commander’s face for he knew the enemy to be a deceitful one.

“Launches!” Someone announced.

He too had spotted the flashes of craft streaking from the destroyer’s ventral bays.

“Not fighters,” there was a pause, not because the Eldar had trouble identifying the enemy craft but rather surprise at their nature. “...Drop pods.”

Ground assault craft. Metal cages launched near-dumb, to fall upon a planet’s surface. A desperate gambit indeed!

This brought a sneer to the autarch’s face.

“Evasive manoeuvres, and open fire with all point defence weapons.”

They were attempting to hit his ship with drop pods? He watched as the cumbersome craft vomited forth from the larger battleship toward him. The majority they could simply avoid, the rest swat with their lasers. It couldn’t even be an attempt at boarding, for so few pods would reach him, and he knew they were not designed for such operations.

The mad, panicked attack of a dying foe.

He looked away from the viewscreen and stroked the soulstones which were set into the armrests of his command throne. Stones which had been set there during the ship’s forging so very long ago. How many times had it faced the pawns of She Who Must Not Be Named? How many of these stones had been set here after such conflicts? Each a soul saved from damnation and granted a chance to continue their fight against the doom of their race.

He returned his eyes to the screen to watch the pods. They streaked tendrils of debris.

His eyes narrowed as a blast from his ship’s lasers narrowly missed one pod. A shot which should have struck true. Another hyphen of light passed it.

Vaul’s Deceit! could they actually be jinking and moving about? He watched more intently and cursed as it seemed the pods were indeed turning off their original trajectories. Coming about to maintain their course, bound for his ship.

“Magnify the closest pod. Now!”

An image of a bastardised, twisted and warped contraption appeared upon the viewscreen in the middle of the bridge. The pods’s petal-like doors were seemingly sealed shut by flesh that had bubbled up from within, that had run like wax. From the middle of three of the doors tentacles of writhing neverborn skin, each formed of dozen upon dozen of pulsating fibres, had burst forth. These had trailed behind the pod and he had mistaken them for streaks of debris or escaping atmosphere but as the pod neared they had craned forward. But the greatest horror was at the base of the pod. Where the thickest armour would rightly be, to protect the pod in its terminal descent, there yawned a vast maw. Filled not with fangs but more disturbingly teeth like those of man or Aeldari, though huge. Fleshy lips were pulled back by bloody chains anchored somewhere aft of the contraption. And within the maw was naught but blackness.

“Abominations!” The autarch spat. “Destroy them! Let them not defile this craft!”

 

* * * * * *

Wraithbone shivered and splintered with such ease that it was as if the very touch of the possessed pod’s daemonic tentacles caused the psychoactive stone to wither. The tentacles branched and writhed like serpents in a breeding frenzy, burying themselves deeper into the structure of the Eldar craft and heaving the great maw against the hull. The huge slick teeth closed and the pod took a great bite, saliva pouring from the gums and lips. From the inner flesh of the mouth sprouted hundreds upon hundreds of tongues, like some mad fractal image, that caressed and licked at the Eldar vessel orgiastically, their saliva immediately causing the wraithbone to fade and crumble. These tongues grew into questing pseudopods, slithering across the inner surface of the ghostship. When they neared one of the soulstones set within a wall or one of the ship’s systems they lapped at it teasingly at first, circling the stone’s setting before gently, tentatively touching its surface. This touch caused turbulent clouds to swirl within the soulstone as the spirits within felt the terrifying nearness of their doom. The burning, insatiable hunger that consumed She Who Must Not Be Named and all her ill-begotten children.

A Scorpion’s chainsword cleft the first of these tongues, spraying violet ichor and granting the stone a brief respite, but only brief for the extensions of the pod’s daemon flesh had sensed the tender morsel of the stone and they came on in a torrent of flesh. The stone was plucked from its setting and drawn within the mouth of the pod, the aspect warrior too only seconds later, their limbs held fast.

The hull shook as the lips of the pod settled against it and it yawned impossibly wide, the tearing of flesh and the cracking of jawbone bear deafening before it was replaced by the hurried footfalls of more approaching defenders. Then the heavy, heavy tread of those who had been born aboard the pod.

A towering figure clad in pastel-hued armour as thick as that of a battle tank, straightened as the great bronze pipes atop his suit cleared the pod’s upper teeth. In his hands was a huge axe, its blade shaped like the mark of the god whose blessings he bore.

Lord Sophusar of the Psychopomps stood before the Eldar as his bodyguard formed up behind him.

“I have come for the last daughter of Carth-Lar. And your souls.”

 

 

I really must finish this model :D

[Gederas]

Might as well:

 

AWAKEN

One week. That is what Commander Ryakhin has promised the General. One week was all that was needed to dislodge the Heretics in the Forge Wold's primus forge. Surely defeating rampaging Berzerkers of the World Eaters legion would be a simple task for the 95th Arcturan Regiment, a regiment famed for skill in Zone Mortalis engagements, battling the enemies of the Imperium in claustrophobic boarding actions, dense cities and hives.

 

It has been two months, and the World Eaters still hold the Forge Primus. Predator Tanks and Forgefiends have stalled any tank attack, and attempts at sneaking in through the sub-levels of the forge have been met with Maulerfiends and Blood Slaughterers, which made quick work of the first sets of operatives.

 

 

****

 

"Emperor on Earth these traitors are dug in like a blood-tick! Are we sure they're World Eaters?" Lieutenant Zheglov says, shaking his head.

"Well, they're covered in red and brass armour." Captain Savvatimov responds.

"Yes, but they hold a position and maintain it with heavy firepower. They act more like that other one.. Steel Fighters was it?"

The two officer's conversation is interrupted by a third voice as the door of the command bunker opens.

"Iron Warriors. And yes, they're most definitely World Eaters."

 

The pair turn at the newcomer, immediately making the sign of the Aquila.

 

"Inquisitor Cyrian! I wasn't expecting to see you here." Says the lieutenant.

"Well, I wasn't expecting the famed 95th Arcturans to have such difficulties. So, I came to see what was causing the issues. It's worse than I feared."  The Inquisitor walks to the viewing port of the command bunker, looking over the ruined manufactorums.
"H-how so Inquisitor?"
"Were these just the standard marines of the World Eaters, the blood-maddened berzerkers, this would have been a much more simple task." Inquisitor Cyrian responds. "But these are not those ones."
"How so?"
"I've seen these World Eaters before. Many ancient vehicles, tanks...." He nods before continuing. "One such tank was destroyed in an engagement I was in when I was a younger man. The serial markings were still intact. These World Eaters? They are the remnants of the Legio Astartes XIIth Legion's 128th Armoured Assault Company, commanded by one Master of the Forge Khrogar."

"A World Eaters ARMOURED company? As in tanks? They had those?" Lieutenant Zheglov inquires, surprised by the Inquisitor's reveal.

"Indeed. I've seen the results of this armoured fist on numerous occasions." The inquisitor says, shaking his head. "The fact that a Warpsmith of his caliber has held onto the Forge Primus for this long.... I fear this world is already lost."

 

Before either the Captain or Lieutenant can respond, the vox crackles into life.

 

"Captain Savvatimov! This is Assault Grenadier Sergeant Andrei Gryaznov! We've managed to sneak past the monstrous engines of the traitors and have reached inside the forge!"

 

Captain Savvatimov scrambles to the vox, responding to the Sergeant.

 

"Tell me Sergeant, what do you see?"
 

****

 

"Well sir...." The commander of the specialized kill-team of Assault Grenadier looks over the forge, having been clearly defiled by the traitor astartes. "It looks like they've been hard at work. They're building... something. It doesn't look like they've been making tanks down here."

 

The Captain's response is simple and direct.

"Find out what they're building, and stop it."

"Understood Captain."

Sergeant Gryaznov ends the connection, silently letting out a prayer to the Emperor that the World Eaters were unable to listen in to the encrypted channel. He motions to his squad, a crack team numbering only seven, to fan out and advance stealthily. The bowels of the forge seem undefended, almost as if the World Eaters did not expect any of the Guard to infiltrate this deep.

 

The seven Assault Engineers delve deeper into the claustrophobic confines of the tainted forge, soon reaching a massive room. In the center, Sergeant Gryaznov can see something truly massive under construction.

 

"Sergeant! Enemy commander sighted!" Guardswoman Marya says, almost hissing, over the vox, and he can see her pointing towards the center of the room.

 

There, before whatever monstrosity the World Eaters have built stands an Astartes standing head-and-shoulders above the other power armoured marines, and utterly towering over the human slaves. Two smoke-stacks belching black smoke rise from his massive power pack, and eight armoured mechatendrils are at-ease around his armoured bulk. A massive axe, easily twice the height of the seven Grenadiers is in his right hand, the butt-spike resting against the ground. Warpsmith Khrogar. The crimson-armoured astartes raises a mechanical left hand.

 

"Now!" The marine's voice, deep and brassy, echoes throughout the chamber. "I have given you a vessel! The guard have, unwillingly, given you blood and bodies. I command you, my newest creation. AWAKEN!"

 

The chamber shakes, the massive construct shudders. Sergeant Gryaznov's eyes go wide inside his helmet. 'A DAEMON ENGINE!' He thinks to himself.

 

"The weak will be slaughtered, this world will be devoured. I command you rise! Now...." The Warpsmith turns, looking to where the seven Grenadiers are hidden. "Your first meal awaits."

 

It was at that moment, the warpsmith moves and Sergeant Gryaznov gets an unobstructed view of a massive cannon. His eyes trail upwards, the curving body of the colossal daemon engine now obvious. At the top of the body, like a stinger, several guns and a pair of pincers points directly at him.
 

****

 

The earth shakes inside of the command bunker.

 

"What in Terra's name?" Captain Savvatimov yells out.

"What did they do?" The Lieutenant inquires, an obvious twinge of fear in his voice.

 

The Inquisitor's eyes are firmly focused on the Forge Primus.

 

"They've completed it...." Inquisitor Cyrian says.

"Completed what?"

 

Inquisitor Cyrian points to the Forge.

 

"That."

The Lieutenant and Captain follow the Inquisitor's finger, eyes widening. Another shaking of the ground precedes one of the spires of the forge comes crashing down. Out of the now-destroyed forge scuttles a massive daemon engine. All blood-red plates and brass. A pair of massive claws block the fire from the guard's tanks before pulling back to reveal a massive cannon. The daemon engine returns fire, the hellish shells obliterating the Leman Russ tanks. The auto-cannons on the tip of it's tail ripping through the infantry.

 

"A Brass Scorpion." Says the Inquisitor.
 

****

 

"Forty-eight days. That is how long it took Forge World Hysphax to fall." Inquisitor Cyrian says, as his autoquill servitor writes down his words. "The 95th Arcturan Regiment held as long as they could but.... With Commander Ryakhin slain, I took command. The world was lost, and with it...."

 

The inquisitor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.

 

"And with it, the materials and armaments of an entire forge world have been claimed by the enemy. The Adeptus Mechanicus representative with me agreed, the only recourse left was to destroy the world. Unfortunately.... We were pushed out by the World Eaters fleet which arrived from warp on the forty-eighth day. One of the 95th Arcturan's ships was even captured by them."

 

Inquisitor Cyrian grimaces, looking over the holo-tapes of the destruction the daemon engines of the World Eaters, headed by the Brass Scorpion, utterly annihilated the 95th Arcturan Regiment's tanks and heavy armour. A Maulerfiend looms over the camera before the feed cuts out in static.

[RobWrath]

Ok, I had a moment of inspiration and scribbled something. 
 
The Death of a Space Marine

 

A thumping heartbeat. That’s all that existed. Not in the background but at the forefront, drumming away, the persistent double-thump of the two hearts of an Adeptus Astartes.
He realised, after a while. Understanding bloomed like the first blood-red rays of sunrise on his homeworld. It was his heartbeat. At the moment his whole universe was the rhythmic pounding coming from his own body. How could this be? Was he hurt? Was he bound? He tried opening his eyes…there was still nothing but blackness.
Immediately fear spread through his consciousness, but in the same moment it was replaced by rage, and this sensation was so powerful and raw that all fear melted away and he lashed out with all the strength he could muster.
But nothing happened. There was a vague sensation of soft movement…a shifting in the air around him. But it did not feel like air. He was suddenly aware of the outside of his body and the sense of somethingness that pressed from all sides, equally familiar and strange.
At that moment two things happened. First, a bright light opened in his mind. It was a deeply unsettling sensation but suddenly he could see…something…but the seeing did not feel like it had anything to do with his eyes. It was like a vivid dream, broadcasting directly into his brain, but all he was dreaming was bright, blinding light with vague, indistinct movements.
Secondly, a memory filtered up through his consciousness. It was raw, visceral, tinged with desperate rage. As if watching it from afar he could see, feel, his own arm raising, his chainaxe sending a warm, familiar vibration down his arm as he gripped it. The enemy was running and he was covered in their blood, drinking in the glory of Khorne, the Butcher’s Nails singing a song of delight at the massacre in the back of his head. And then…a bright light and thumping noise, and it was as if he had been pushed off a building. He fell, time slowing down, the night sky flickering in his visor as he tumbled back to the ground. And then, a clear memory of confusion. He could see his chainaxe, out of reach. But he could also see that his hand still gripped it. Pain began to spread through his broken body, confusion reigning, his heightened awareness doing him no favours as he tried to make sense of what had happened. And then he glanced down past his chest and could clearly see the ragged edges of his armour plates, glistening with blood. And his arm…separated from his body and lying several feet away, blown off his shoulder when the bolter shell had hit him underneath his arm.
More memories flicked through his consciousness then, one after another. The pain, the all consuming pain as his body tried to staunch the huge, gaping wound in his side; his battle brothers gathering around him, knowing that he was dying; the warband’s Warsmith leaning over him, removing his helmet, sliding various syringes under his skin and watching down as the world went black…
And now the bright light was resolving itself into images he could understand. Suddenly he recognised the familiar shape of the Warsmith again, moving around his field of view, his hands busy. Behind him, the background resolved into the ship’s engineering hold. He felt the same rage again, fury at being held and restrained. He kicked, struggled and writhed, but nothing happened.
Suddenly his field of view moved slightly, lifting up, and then settling back down with a mechanical thud. And suddenly he could feel…more. More of himself. He was aware of legs, arms, where before he was just a consciousness. He tried to move, but felt restraint. Looking down, he saw his arm…his lost arm? No, his new arm; mechanical, thick with servos, hydraulics and wrist-thick cabling. He flexed his fingers and saw movement; a huge power claw at the end of the arm, and that’s when he knew.
He was not alive. He was not dead. He had been captured. He was a prisoner. He was a hellbrute.

[Scourged]

Thank you for all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: Infernal Machines

Kierdale was first with gifted us with Bastard Contraption. We’re aboard an Aeldari cruiser, witness to their haughty confidence with void battle. But there is a surprise waiting for the Craftworlders, and corrupted Drop Pods are unleashed as weapons upon the Xenos craft. It’s nice to see the Dreadclaws get some love.

Gederas stirred us to consciousness with Awaken. In it, we see a side of the World Eaters that does not (in my opinion) get enough attention - the remains of the Legion that aren’t Berzerkers. We watch as an Inquisitor and others wait helpless until their doom arrives, heralded by Warpsmith Khrogar. Also, quite a nice touch with the musical accompaniment.

RobWrath finished our trilogy of tales with The Death of a Space Marine. For our loyalist brethren, they adhere to the credo that “even in death I still serve.” But Chaos has corrupted this philosophy as well, and RobWrath showed us what happens when a Chaos Marine falls.

I had something fun planned, involving my favorite engine and my favorite rule they had back in 7th Edition, but I could not quite get it put to the page in time for the deadline. I’ll have it for you all as a later entry this weekend.

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: Glory to the Warmaster

Ten days. At the time of my writing today, ten days remain until the Warmaster’s arrival on Vigilus. My Dark Brothers, the planet will fall, and He shall bring its doom. Let there be all glory to the Warmaster!

...but not all are as quick to give praise to Abaddon the Despoiler so easily. Each warband, each Legion, and each individual Lord has formed their own opinions of the Warmaster. Some serve to bring his grand plans to life. Others begrudgingly follow to avoid persecution. And others detest the failure and his Crusades. We all have our own opinions, and now is the time to share them. To you, who is Abaddon the Despoiler?

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

IF2019: Glory to the Warmaster runs until the 8th of March.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge, the winner of our last challenge: me!

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.

Edited February 23, 2019 by Scourged

[Scourged]

Oh, and as for my decisions... well, as always, you folks never make this easy on me. But I do know what my choice will be. Kierdale, what I'm about to say I mean to be a compliment to your work: the description of those drop pods and how they... consumed that Aeldari ship were vivid and unsettling. Excessively so. I enjoyed all of the pieces this week, but yours is the one where the Daemon Engines made me feel uncomfortable. Bravo. You have earned the octed, my friend. 

[Kierdale]

Thank you!

I’m glad to hear my possessed drop pod was sufficiently creepy :D

 

And I look forward to hearing everyone’s tales about the Despoiler and their warband’s opinion of/relations with him. I hope for a range of tales.

[Scourged]

The day has come! The Warmaster has arrived! It is only a matter of time before Vigilus burns and naught but dust and ash remains. Are there no heralds here to speak of his glory? Or detractors to denounce his victories? 

 

Are we in need of more time to collect our thoughts, or shall the Friday deadline remain to spread the word of the Despoiler? 

[Gederas]

The day has come! The Warmaster has arrived! It is only a matter of time before Vigilus burns and naught but dust and ash remains. Are there no heralds here to speak of his glory? Or detractors to denounce his victories? 

 

Are we in need of more time to collect our thoughts, or shall the Friday deadline remain to spread the word of the Despoiler?

I've been racking my brain for ideas, but I think an extra week would help the ideas percolate a bit better for me.

[Deadass]

I wanna try and come up with a few words aswell and would appreciate a couple of extra days.

[Scourged]

That's all the convincing I need. We will add another week to the deadline. Let us do the Warmaster proud.

[Kierdale]

Quid Pro Quo

Hidden Content

The waystone crumbled to dust beneath the huge tread of the terminator armour-clad warrior. He cast his gaze about the Eldar world, looking from where beautiful glades and carefully tended gardens had once stood - now barren wastelands of ash and rock - to the toppled ruins of the aliens’ buildings. One slender, dark spire still stood in stark contrast to all that lay about it.

He surveyed the devastation in despair.

“We are betrayed!” Came a whisper of disbelief from the winged warrior at his side.

A growl rumbling in his throat, the chaos lord turned to his retinue.

“Bring me the ‘legionnaire’.”

Lord Sophusar studied the marine before him. His armour was the cobalt blue of one of the most honoured and decorated chapters in the history of the Imperium. Word was that their lord, their father himself, The Tactician, had returned to them. What then had seen this Astarte take up the Black? Over the white icon of his former chapter was painted the golden octed and the Eye. He had not been born or remade it, but he was Black Legion now...that or his armour was, and he had been clad in it to distract the lord of the Psychopomps. To cause such questions and distract him from the real question.

“Why does the Despoiler send a messenger to me?” Sophusar questioned the Astarte stood in the middle of his throne room. The lord’s bodyguard and champions gathered about the walls, regarding the blue armoured marine, while daemonettes and other shades wandered the shadows between the great columns which held up the room’s vaulted ceiling.

The former Ultramarine saluted in the old manner, clenched fist over his hearts.

“The Warmaster of Chaos offers you an opportunity, master of the Stygian Guard of Fulcrum - pardon me - the Psychopomps.”

So you know who we were and where we were from. Luck for you that you did not mention the Templars that drove us from our home world too. But Sophusar didn’t doubt that this petty but measured show of intel was anything more than another minor distraction.

“There is a tower he would have you topple.”

“The palace on Terra perhaps? Tell him we’ll have it down by next Moonsday,” Called out Dophesia to raucous laughter from several of those stood by him. Sophusar allowed the peacock former 8th captain this. That the legionnaire showed no irritation, nor even acknowledged the comment, was a credit to him. No devotee of Khorne then, in fact beyond the Octed, Sophusar saw no evidence of any particular faith, no sigil of any of the Four, upon the messenger’s armour.

“A tower that neither the Vengeful Spirit nor a Blackstone fortress can topple?” Sophusar asked once the laughter abated. Oh we may be thinbloods lot long of the Eye but we know plenty about you too, legionnaire.

The other smiled, scars on his weathered face pulling taut. He had the look of one from Ultramar; his genefather’s nose. Such proud features on one now corrupted to Chaos. It was a delicious heresy.

“Cadia has fallen, the galaxy is torn asunder and the Black Legion moves against a great many targets. If the Psychopomps take this objective for the Despoiler, who knows what future glories await you?”

Sophusar shook his head. “Though we worship the Dark Prince and favour sonic weapons, do not mistake us for the Emperor’s Children.”

The messenger smiled. He had another card to play, as Sophusar expected.

“It is an Eldar world.”

The beasts crawled, swarmed, across everything in sight. What life remained - vegetation or beast even down to insects and microbes - was gathered up and dumped in great chitin-walled digestion pits. Further off towers like vast talons reached toward the heavens. Whether they were some form of building, weapon or a starship under construction, the fallen astartes could not tell.

“The Black Legion was unaware of the presence of these creatures.”

The edge of Sophusar’s great axe - the Falx Horrificus - lay against the legionnaire’s neck and his limbs were held fast in the grip of other Psychopomps. He strained against their grip but his voice betrayed no panic. The Chaos Lord considered delving into the messenger’s mind, stripping away his mental defences in order to determine the validity of his claims, but there was a fair chance of him destroying the marine’s mind if psychic failsafes and wards had been etched into him.

“There is nothing for us here. The deal is off.” Sophusar nodded to those holding the former Ultramarine and turned away. Servos whined as they took the strain and ceramite creaked and groaned in the grip of powerfists.

Now there was stress in the Black Legionnaire’s voice. There usually was when people were trying to tear you limb from limb.

“Wait! WAIT! The tower! The tower!”

Sophusar inadvertently looked toward the lone structure that still stood after the tyranids’ invasion. Like some great, extruded pyramid of darkness it stretched up over five hundred yards in height. Untouched by the alien beasts. Inedible to them? Or they were blind to its existence as a pariah and a psyker? It was not of Eldar design, nor human, nor bore the markings of any of the Pantheon.

He had seen one like it before. Just once. In a vision he had been granted by the Keeper of Secrets Ki’mah’gureh. A vision of the fall of Cadia. He had seen the alien tower activated or destroyed he could not be sure, but it had stripped the souls of all those warp-sensitive within sight. The vision had sealed his decision to turn down the Black Legion at that time, no doubt saving the lives of a great many of his finest warriors, not to mention his own.

He smiled bitterly beneath his brass-grilled leather mask. But the bastard Abaddon got me to face one after all.

He raised the Falx Horrificus and pointed it toward that far-off alien edifice. The chain bound to the weapon’s haft rattled and the ears skewers upon the links swung in the breeze.

“I am well aware of what that is, marine. If it is activated, it is death to those blessed by Chaos. I will not sell my marines’ lives for nothing.” He nodded to his guards and with a terrible wet wrenching the former Ultramarine’s left arm came off. Brilliant scarlet blood jetted forth. His transhuman physiology would staunch the bleeding soon enough but the strong scent would draw the tyranids.

“Bring it down for the Warmaster and-“ ceramite cracked and the marine gritted his teeth as his left leg threatened to come loose in the grip of the Psychopomps holding him. “-earn your position in the Legion.”

“We do not desire to wear the Black. ‘Twould clash terribly with our roseate armour.”

A scream as the leg came loose.

“By the gods, stop! He will reward you!”

Sophusar looked away, toward the aliens, his enhanced eyes allowing him to see them, kilometres distant, with great clarity. They had stripped this world of all Eldar life, even waystones. There was nothing for the Psychopomps to capture or consume here. At a gesture from him the other leg was removed.

He noticed a swarm of the smaller tyranids had turned in their general direction.

His guard dropped the ragged legionnaire to the ground. Dophesia knelt, his tattooed face close to that of the former Ultramarine, and breathed deeply of the reek of blood and desperation. He then stuck a combat knife in the ground next to the marine’s remaining hand and gave a mocking wave.

At first Sophusar did not recognise it as a word, dismissing the noise as a result of blood bubbling up within the marine’s ravaged body, until he said it again.

“Biel- Biel Tan.”

The marine’s chest armour creaked as the weight of tactical dreadnought armour was put upon it, Sophusar’s boot on the gilt octed.

“What of it?”

He could hear the beasts now, rushing across the barren plains toward his small landing party.

“It is fractured.”

“Destroyed?” Sophusar himself was surprised at apprehension in his voice.

The autarch of craftworld Carth-Lar was said to have fled to Biel-Tab upon her exile. There was no way the Black Legion could know this, this was merely the messenger’s final bargaining chip (and at what a price he was using it!)- but this changed matters.

“No,” the marine grunted through the pain. “We know of the location of some of its elements.”

“Tell me. And be quick,” Sophusar looked cast a glance across the plain. Some of his troops had already begun aiming their weapons at the advancing tyranid swarm. He could hear over the comm squad leaders counting down the range.

“Fell the tower.”

[bugs in maximum autocannon range]

Sophusar increased his pressure on the marine’s chest. The former Ultramarine gritted his teeth, feeling his subdermal black carapace cracking, but both knew that the lord of the Psychopomps would not slay him.

“The...tower. Then we...tell...you.”

We. Abaddon was wise enough not to send a messenger who knew all. Just enough. Bastard.

[bugs in range. Permission to engage, Lord?]

“Open fire.”

Sophusar stepped off the marine and opened a channel to the flagship.

“Get everyone down here. Bring the big guns.”

Sophusar cast a last glance toward the former Ultramarine and wondered at the loyalty to his lord he had exhibited.

“Your Warmaster drives a hard bargain.”

The other grunted the affirmative though blood-encrusted lips.

[Scourged]

Thank you for all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: Glory to the Warmaster

Kierdale was our only entrant this round, providing us Quid Pro Quo. The Warmaster has sent a messenger, with an offer. As with all of us who reside in the Warp, knowledge is never exchanged freely, and no task is without a price. Though it takes the most dire of circumstances, the truth of the offer is finally presented to the Psychopomps, and a bargain is struck

It is a shame that none of us (myself included) were able to put pen to the paper and scry our praise of Abaddon the Despoiler. I’m sure such failings will result in no unfortunate circumstances for our warbands as the Long War rages on…

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: The Enemy Reborn

It truly has been a Long War, hasn’t it my Brothers in Darkness? Ten thousand years have passed since the Siege, even though it feels like yesterday for so many of us. But in that time, so little has changed. We have watched - with some satisfaction, I might add - as the Imperium stagnated and stalled, succumbing to the slowest of deaths in a way that would make Father Nurgle proud. No innovation, no change, no progress, until entropy would have finally claimed it. In this longest of wars, we would have won.

But everything changed on that day when Cadia fell. Just as we broke our way through and severed the galaxy in half, something stirred within the Imperium. In the century that has passed, we have all seen something none of us could have anticipated from our loyalist kin: Innovation. The Primaris Marines have appeared as if from nowhere, and they are swelling the ranks of the once-dwindling Astartes. Their bodies and minds are stronger, their armor is new and various, their weapons more deadly, and their tactics… well, one has to wonder if they still adhere to their dogmatic Codex at all anymore.

Tell us all of your encounters with the new Primaris. How have you and your warbands reacted to this development. Do you relish the new challenges these warriors provide? Are your chirurgeons and flesh-smiths eager to flay them open and explore this new biology? Do you covet their new and variable weaponry? Do you desire to outwit and outmaneuver their new tactics to prove your superiority? Or do you care not for this development - a fruitless last gasp for a dying Imperiuim?

In this week’s challenge, tell us all how you and yours have reacted to the arrival of the Primaris Marines.

IF2019: The Enemy Reborn runs until the 29th of March.

And who shall judge this new challenge? As per the traditions of this thread, since no other offerings were made for the previous topic, Kierdale will remain the judge. He will select the champion of our newest topic, and present them with the coveted Octed:

Let us be inspired.

Edited March 17, 2019 by Scourged

[Kierdale]

Perhaps the Warmaster is too big a figure to write about easily? I certainly found it daunting :D and decided to feature one of his pawns instead. Hopefully I got across the loyalty he commands of his followers, which surprised my own chaos lord (doubtful many of the Psychopomps would show as much loyalty as that Black Legionnaire did).

 

I look forward to reading entries of Chaos versus the Primaris :tu: