Inspirational Friday 2019: Blessings and Boons (Dec 27)

[Kierdale]

Sorry, can we have another week?

 

I’ve got something, the kernel of it, but need more time.

 

For research purposes, no Primaris have turns to Chaos yet (officially), right? Are they supposed to be better mentally conditioned against it or anything like that?

[Gederas]

Sorry, can we have another week?

 

I’ve got something, the kernel of it, but need more time.

 

For research purposes, no Primaris have turns to Chaos yet (officially), right? Are they supposed to be better mentally conditioned against it or anything like that?

Pretty much, yeah. The other implication is that the Primaris are just too new, technically, to have fallen. Iirc, the Dark Imperium/Plague War novels have Primaris marines being affected by Nurgle shenanigans just as easily as the non-Primaris.

[Scourged]

Oh yeah, I was going to add another week to this for sure. I just haven't had the chance to make the declaration. I'm in the midst of Adepticon this weekend, and I figured others would be in same or similar boats, so we'll for sure be adding another week. 

 

I'm going to be in the Team Tournament tomorrow morning, though sadly not with my beloved Heretics. All of the friends in my group, and I'm the only Chaos player. The tragedy! 

[Kierdale]

A Discovery

Hidden Content

“Now, what have we here?”

Castor looked up from the body strapped to the gurney between them, to the apothecary whose hands rested upon the edges of the spread rib cage while instruments from his backpack loomed over his shoulders and disappeared within the body of Podalir’s...patient.

“Sawbones, you’ve had him over a week and you’re still not done?” The former second captain rubbed the stubble upon his jaw, absentmindedly running a finger over the freshly healed scar that ran done from the left side of this mouth. It had been the quick ministrations of Kuru, one of Podalir’s juniors, that had saved Castor’s jaw. Best that it had been Kuru too, rather than the senior apothecary. While the Psychopomps were devotees of the Dark Prince, it was rumoured that Podalir’s obsessions with life and death had begun to draw him toward another patron...

“So much to see, so much to discover,” Podalir muttered as his servo-arms routed about in the subject’s innards.

“Are they so different to us? He just seems...bigger.”

This caused the senior apothecary to look up from his work and regard the former second captain. With a bloody finger he indicated the scar on the other’s face.

“A mere ‘big marine’ did that, captain?”

They still used their old ranks for the most part, despite having trodden on their vows to the Golden Throne tens of years before.

Castor grunted. Podalir had a point.

Before them, held fast to the operating table but not sedated lest he be denied the exquisite pain of his own vivisection, was a marine writ large. As an Astarte towered over Homo sapiens, this being towered over an Astarte.

This one and his squad -Mentors Legionaries- had put paid to more than their fair share of Psychopomps before Castor’s marines had been able to bring them down with a sonic battery. This one they had captured alive, recognising the need to discover the answers to so, so many questions.

How?

Was this overgrown Astarte a mutant? Mutation was celebrated within the majority of fallen legions and a great many renegade chapters that had called the old Eye home, and was rife within certain loyalist chapters due to the degradation of gene seed - the Psychopomps themselves, formerly the Stygian Guard, were scions of Dorn and thus carried non-functioning Betcher’s Glands and sus-an membranes - but surely not to such a level as this giant marine?

Was it a new development? Such things were anathema; they simply did not happen in the Imperium of Man! Standard Template Constructs were occasionally recovered...and subsequently jealously hoarded by their discoverers. This marine’s armour and weapons could be accounted for by such a discovery but no STC could possibly alter the genetic make up of a space marine. They have been wrought by the Emperor of mankind over ten thousand years ago!

One of Castor’s own men had voiced it: Has He returned? Does the Emperor walk once again?

It was a mad thought but they all knew how mad the Galaxy could be.

 

Skin and muscle peeled back, the physiology of this new breed of enemy was laid bare.

Before Castor’s arrival Podalir it seemed had removed the marine’s right arm, to what gruesome end the former captain did not know but could suspect: as raiders the Psychopomps relied upon their enemies for intel: both seizing the cogitators of their vessels and consuming the brains of the enemy themselves, garnering what they could via their Omophagea implants. Podalir was known to take this act of consumption to extremes. Some amongst the warband jester with their gallows humour that the apothecarion needed no furnace for disposing of waste, and this was the reason for the sawbone’s corpulence.

 

Podalir had discovered a new organ nestled between the marine’s two hearts. It had been damaged and seemed not to function, merely vibrating gently between the two slowly beating hearts. But rather than investigate further, Podalir moved to the top of the table and the final, untouched part of their new foe.

He cradled the huge marine’s head in his ungloved hands, his talon-like nails caressing it’s oiled flesh almost caringly. The eyes were open, unmoving yet even Castor could see the unbearable agony the marine was experiencing. For how many hour had Podalir laboured in this post-man’s literal deconstruction? Castor had to resist the urge to order their subject hooked up to one of the Psychopomps’ infernal engines so that he might taste that agony and anguish!

 

Podalir reached for no bonesaw to remove the skullcap but rather bent down and Castor watched as the apothecary’s mouth opened. It stretched wider and wider, impossibly so, until it encompassed the top of the subject’s head. And bit down.

Castor found his hand upon his bolt pistol, holstered at his hip.

Bone crunched and flesh tore and grey matter was revealed.

Blood ran from Podalir’s mouth as he straightened once more, his mouth having returned to its normal proportions. Only once he had swallowed his grisly meal did he answer the look upon the other’s face.

“How? How do I have the strength to do such an act?” He smiled like a father about to teach a son a lesson, “a gift from our guest here.”

He opened his mouth once more and Castor could see the apothecary had recently stripped the flesh from inside his own mouth, exposing the muscles of his jaw, and wound about these sinews were some form of metal coils.

“And when were you about to share these gifts?”

“All in good time, Captain. All in good time.”

“Our lord expects a full report. On the corpse and what it knew.” Since you have had the gall to consume so much of its grey matter already.

Even as he referred to the Mentor as a corpse he watched its faintly beating hearts, and that mystery organ between them, pumping away.

His bolt pistol cleared the leather of its holster with the same snap as the bindings that had held the Mentor’s remaining arm. A skinless hand thrust itself into the fleshy folds of Podalir’s neck, skeletal fingers searching for his throat.

The harsh bang of his pistol saw the arm severed at the elbow and a second shot went into the Mentor’s chest.

Gore soaked the walls of the operating room and the two Psychopomps within it.

 

 

 

“Your men will be ready should we encounter these enhanced Astartes again?”

Castor bowed his head to his lord. They were stood on a gantry high above one of the ship’s hangars-turned-firing ranges. Below them several squads were carrying out drills.

“They will, my lord. I have requested heavier weapons from the warpsmith, and we have refined our tactics.”

Lord Sophusar smiled beneath his mask.

“Just as it was in the old days. We learn from our brothers.”

He then turned to face Castor, fixating him with his swollen, baleful green eye.

“And our chief apothecary?”

“Is...displeased with me for destroying his work and saving his life.”

Sophusar waited for the other to answer the real question.

“...and as the Naga suspects, I believe our chief apothecary’s loyalties -his faith- is torn. Faltering. Shall I have him executed?” Always so cold, so emotionless, Castor, until the bullets started flying.

His lord shook his head and held up a tablet. It was crafted of a grey-beige stone that he immediately recognised: Eldar wraithbone.

Upon it was embossed the image of a maiden trapped within a garden of thorns. At its entrance was a gateway crested by three circles.

“We have but one more mission for our wayward apothecary.”

[Doom Herald]

The Prey

 

Hidden Content

 

They were prey, just like any other. They were bigger, their weapons were bigger, but that changed little. "Primaris," that's what they were called. The Crimson Sabre left in his soul couldn't fathom that they had been accepted by the Imperium. They were walking heresy, even his warp-tainted self knew it. Yes, they were bigger, but when you rip out the prey's throat, they all die the same.

 

The battlefield was havoc. Spectres swirled about like bitter clouds of smoke. They screamed hate and accusations at the Chaos touched astartes even as they shrouded them and poured at the loyalists. The Chaos space marines looked like spectres themselves, their armor painted to match the smoky color of the ghosts that haunted them. The Gheist Lords were cursed, in many ways. The most obvious was inherited from one of their parents, the Crimson Slaughter. Yes, they were cursed. But, what made them truly terrifying was that they had learned to use their curse.

 

The spectres were enough to leave mortals pissing themselves. Combined with the tactics of their other parent, the Night Lords, what few mortals could move, ran... just far enough to have the entrance wounds in their backs. The mortals that couldn't run, well they :cuss themselves before they died instead of after. Astartes were little better, they only :cuss themselves after death. Less than half ran, but they all died the same. They were all prey. Especially now. A bestial, guttural sound issued from his helmet turned fanged maw even as he charged at a red armoured Primaris Lieutenant. He had killed a lot of Primaris Lieutenants, but it seemed they just kept making more.

 

As bolt rounds screamed, Garreth Blood-maw drove the tip of his sharp half ceramite, half warp-stuff right claw arm towards the head of the lieutenant. The lieutenant was waiting and ready and ducked the blow, aiming an upward thrust of his sword to the throat of the Greater Possessed assailing him. Even as Garreth's unnatural reflexes wrenched his body sideways to dodge, his left arm drew back and his weight shifted to his back foot poising to drive his mutated fist through the Blood Angel's chest. Not even a second behind him, he heard the lesser possessed clashing into the ranks of MK X plate. The new bolt rifles were powerful, but possessed died hard and at melee range hit harder. The corpse emperor's new abominations were tough, but powered by the Khorne Herald bound within Garreth, his possessed could rip them apart.

 

Garreth slammed his cocked fist forward, his considerable bulk and warp energies adding power to the blow. The spines of his fist pierced the ceramite first, then the weight of the blow connected and splintered the red armor and cracked the carapace beneath. The red armoured warrior was flung back, air and blood expelling from his body. Garreth surged after him. Inside, the Herald screamed for blood. It was not left wanting. Garreth was upon the enemy before his body hit the ground, claws tearing open ceramite and his maw consuming the flesh beneath. Still attached to his prey, shots from heavy pistols drove into his armor, a few cracking it open in places. Garreth knew his blood too was welcome, but he could not abide his predatory needs being disrupted.

 

As he turned to face the new enemy a thought occurred, the enemy was behind him. Ten skull faced warriors pressed in on him, between them were corpses of lesser possessed. A shame. He hated to lose men, but Khorne cares not from whence the Blood flows. The Reivers had surprised him, but he had surprises too. He ran forwards, the rest of the possessed either dead or still pressing into what was left of the first Primaris squad. "BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!!" he roared while the daemon within let out a horrid roar.

 

Knowing it was their time, his Warp Talons emerged from a rent in reality. Smoking, roaring back mounted engines drove them forward, warp light and spectres trailing behind as if connecting the Warp Talons to the tear in realspace. The blinding prismatic display causing the Reivers to falter and go momentarily blind as the Talons drove into them, shimmering electric fields dancing along their long knife-like claws.

 

"They are prey," he said to himself, "just like any other." They did reap a greater toll though, he thought to himself as he charged over the dead bodies of fallen Gheist Lords, but our blood too is welcome. With a earsplitting roar and spectres drawing around him he hurled himself into the skull-faced warriors.

Edited April 6, 2019 by Doom Herald

[Doom Herald]

There's more to mine, but it apparently didn't all paste and now my browser is crashing when I try to paste. I'm sorry.

 

Edit: It finally worked, I don't know what the deal was, that was bizarre.

Edited April 6, 2019 by Doom Herald

[Scourged]

Thank you for all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: The Enemy Reborn

Kierdale was first with A Discovery. What we read was a good clinical examination of the differing Primaris physiology, straight from the chirurgeon’s serpentine mouth. Though, in truth, the session was just as much of a torture session as it was an autopsy… but what else would we expect from the servants of the Dark Prince?

Doom Herald gave us a buzzer-beater with The Prey. All of the physiological changes in the world don’t matter unless they prove useful on the battlefield. And to the Gheist Lords, sons of the Crimson Slaughter, the new Primaris were found wanting. After all, as Astartes by any other name is still just prey.

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: Crown of Horns

Each of us looks upon Chaos in a different way. For many it is a tool, but for many more it is the truth of life, it is a religion unto itself. The Gods are real, and our lives are at the mercy of their whims. In this world of darkness and ill portents, who’s to say that faith in the darkness cannot elevate one to a revered position? If the corpse-blinded loyalists can have saints born of their false god, then so can we have our Dark Saints of our True Gods.

Is your story one of how a single mortal has been elevated to a position of reverence? Or maybe you will choose to focus on a Dark Apostle as he spreads the “good word” of an undying saint. But Chaos is not without eternal rivalries. A saint in the eyes of one follower is a sinner in the eyes of another. Maybe your tale will be one of rivalry and treachery, slaying a false prophet in the eyes of your Patron God.

In this week’s challenge, tell us your experiences with Dark Saints of Chaos.

IF2019: Crown of Horns runs until the 26th of April.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge, Kierdale.

The winner of IF2019: The Enemy Reborn shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

[Kierdale]

#haughty sniff#

Though the entry of my esteemed colleague Doom Herald was in the name of a lesser, baser deity that the magnificent one I personally worship :D ...

 

But seriously, I thoroughly enjoyed reading the tale of the Gheist Lord’s facing Blood Angel primaris marines. With a nod in there to the surplus of primaris lieutenants ;)

 

I judge Doom Herald the winner!

 

And I’m very much looking forward to getting into this new topic!

[Doom Herald]

My gratitude, I enjoyed your story as well. I also look forward to the next topic, I will actually be writing about a Slaaneshi champion this go-around.

[Kierdale]

A tale of persecution, misled faith, and redemption.

I added a couple of links to previous entries, but they’re nonessential reading ;)

 

Pious Deeds

 

Hidden Content

“Do you know the origin of our world’s name?”

Not receiving a response, father Giroum continued, pacing back and forth before his captive audience.

“Fulcrum. It said that in the halcyon days following the Great Crusade in which the Emperor had led his armies in claiming the stars for us, forging the Imperium of Man, a colony ship was dispatched to a paradisal world, freshly discovered by Mechanicum servo-probes. And those aboard the Prince’s Bounty looked down upon their new home with great excitement and anticipation, looking to one another aboard their crowded vessel and imagining the lives they were about to lead.”

The priest paused and turned, setting his Aquila-topped staff before him. The gilt fittings gleamed in what light they caught from the street beyond.

“But very few of them stepped from the Bounty when it finally made planetfall.”

“Infighting began as landing zones were argued over. Mutiny amongst the lower castes, forgetting their position and the mission given unto them all by the Master of Mankind.”

He stepped toward the lone listener and tapped the youth’s sternum with the bottom of his staff. Here they were veiled in shadow.

“It was the priests who restored peace. Who lead the faithful in singing great hymns praising He upon the Golden Throne. These paeans swayed the maddened masses and restored piety to the minds of both colonists and crew.”

The priest now crouched before the youth, who struggled against the vicelike grip of the Sect Custodian behind him. Father Giroum raised the boy’s face, looking into the eye that was not swollen shut. This dark alleyway was not the usual setting for his sermons, but he had preached to all manner of peoples, teaching all manner of lessons.

“But fate was not yet done with the Prince’s Bounty. No sooner had she set down upon the lush grasses then a terrible quake struck. Where had been a beautiful greensward became an awful precipice, with the ship balanced upon its edge.”

The priest pushed his finger into the boy’s chest, avoiding the bloodstains upon his gang leathers, as he spoke.

“Woefully few of your ancestors made it off that ship, boy. And they gave their new homeworld a name in remembrance of the balance upon which their ship - their lives - had rested. Fulcrum.”

The ganger bowed his head and gave a wet cough. Father Giroum smiled in anticipation of the youth repenting his blasphemous crime, only to recoil as the boy spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm into the priest’s face.

The Sect Custodian’s huge fists rose and fell again and again, a set of gilt knuckles, each engraved with their sect’s sigil, in his fingers.

Giroum stood, fishing a cloth from his voluminous sleeve to wipe the gore from his face. His robes too, would have to be cleaned, or destroyed, upon their return to the cathedral. Destroyed, most likely, to remove any evidence. For this boy would not repent, nor would he leave this alleyway. He would die. But the sect would take a part of him, so that he might still do good in His name.

Giroum took up his tale once more. “And in this turmoil the flock panicked. Too far from core world for resupply. Too few in number, many claimed, for the colony to survive. And the priests who survived became divided. Some praised the Emperor and sought his protection from further blight. They beseeched him to send divine aid. And these preachers became the Emperor’s Egis.” The distain in his voice was thinly veiled. “Those who sought His divine inspiration built their shrines and named themselves the Imperator Afflatus.”

“And those of us who saw salvation for the colony in our own deeds, who sought to worship Him by flourishing here on this God-Emperor-given world, became the Exalted Fecund.”

The ganger made a groaning noise which Giroum barely recognised as a laugh, and whispered a word. “Whoremonger.”

The Exalted Fecund priest raised his hand, forestalling his bodyguard from delivering another -likely fatal this time- beating.

“The girl you abused is one of our shrine maidens. She gave herself, in divine marriage, to Him. Her role is to worship the God-Emperor as do we all, and they exemplify this in the way the survivors of the Prince’s Bounty did. Procreation. The swelling of our numbers. For every human soul exalts and empowers Him.”

“Our orphanages raise those borns from the maiden’s holy couplings with our patrons. They enter offices in our fair world, from the Administratum to the Mechanicum.” He raised his face with a proud smile. “Entire regiments are filled with the ranks of the faithful.”

And lowered it, his expression turned cold.

“Unlike you. Those who would abuse. Destroy. Kill.”

What little lighting did reach the trio in the shadows glinted off something now held in the priest’s other hand. A long, forward-curved knife, like those used in the vineyards of Franc or Italia millennia before.

“But your life will not be completely without fruit. The Exalted Fecund will see to that.”

 

There were countless billions of human in the Imperium of Man and the murder of a ganger went unnoticed.

 

 

The singing reached the cavernous arched ceiling of the cathedral. Thousands of voices, the singers themselves crowding the pews. He looked down on them from above. He watched as his junior lead the congregation in hymn. And though he could neither hear it nor see it, offering bowls were being passed about, filling the sect’s coffers with Thrones.

Father Giroum turned from the balcony and took a few steps across to look out one of the great stained glass windows, out across the cityscape. The grand image of one of the survivors of the Prince’s Bounty embracing their mate, bathed holy light, was huge. He looked out through a sepia-stained pane, observing the capital beyond. The view was dominated by the Astartes fortress-monastery at the center of the city, its bleak slab-like armoured walls adorned with minimal decoration. Few statues, the occasional engravings of skulls. One bas-relief depicting a boat, crewed by the armoured warriors, rowing its way across a turbulent sea toward a great palace. Within the boat kneeled several hooded and bowed figures. There was none of the artistic flare their great world of Fulcrum had become famed for. The Stygian Guard was ascetics in the extreme, while those they stood guard over were aesthetics. The city itself was a riot of colour in stark contrast to the marine citadel. Brilliant banners flew high, mirror-skinned skyscrapers and vividly hued towers dotted the horizon. But another two buildings could not help but draw the eye. One rose higher than the cathedral of the Exalted Fecund, and lacked its towers but rather had a vast flattened dome for a ceiling. The House of the Aegis. The priest’s eyes narrowed as he regarded his greatest rival for the hearts and minds - the very being - of Fulcrum’s populace.

Had not the Fecund saved the survivors? Due to the sect’s deeds and decrees the colony had proved fruitful. It had grown and flourished over the millennia into a sector hub! Yet those of the Egis - he never referred to them as the Emperor’s Egis - named them incestuous fornicators, adulterers and debauchers. Slander! The pogroms back in the earliest of days had seen to those whose blood was too thick. The impure has been pruned. The pure had flourished.

He looked to his hulking custodian at his side and raised a hand to stroke the other’s masked head affectionately. In these modern times the sect even found a place for those who would have, in those dark times of the past, been put to the blade or fire.

The other building was that which, with the strength of the Fecund combined, prevented the Egis from holding full sway over the faith of the masses. The Hall of the Imperator Afflatus, as much a library and a museum as it was a house of worship.

The agreement by which the two sects were in alliance was old, and frail, but holding.

He glanced at the horological display implanted into his forearm. Nearly time to refresh that alliance, and ensure its future.

“We praise the glory of Terra and He upon the Golden Throne in our acts.” The voice of the preacher leading the service below carried well through the cavernous fane.

“The Imperium of Man spans countless stars; stars claimed by He and His warriors for Mankind. And as the souls of the blessed are consumed by He in order to light the Astronomicon and guide His ships through the void, so too are the bodies of his warriors, both Adeptus Astartes and Imperial Guard, consumed in the wars to maintain our Imperium and drive back the vile and insidious xenos. To root out the impure, the unclean and the heretical.”

“It is we of the Exalted Fecund who praise Him with our lives, who provide for his efforts and his armies with our plentiful offspring.”

Father Giroum nodded at these words as he descended the winding staircase, his guardian before him. They made their way to the smaller chambers beneath the cathedral. Past the vestry and priests’ chambers, to the Rooms of Offering. He looked over those who occupied those spartan quarters. Each gave of themselves voluntarily. They or their guardians.

He selected carefully, for this particular patron had specific tastes.

And then the cult limousine bore them to their rendezvous.

 

 

Betrayal.

The bishop of the Imperator Afflatus was no more. His age or his exotic penchants had gotten the better of his failing constitution, and it appeared that his son and heir did not share the tastes of his sire and predecessor.

When the large bore of an Arbite shotgun rather than the wizened, ring-covered hand of the bishop had parted the veil in the elderly priest’s chambers Giroum had known fate had turned against them, and he had raised his hands.

More Imperial Judges had followed, their armour and weapons at odds with the fine viands upon the table and artworks upon the walls - an interest Giroum and his late accomplice had shared - and the Arbites’ ranks finally parted for two more figures to enter the dead man’s boudoir. Already clad in the robes of office of his father: the son and new bishop of the Imperator Afflatus. And at his side stood Simmon Magus of the Egis, hawklike nose raised high.

“None of the daughters of Man shall be a cult harlot, nor shall any of the sons of Man. You shall not bring the hire of such a blasphemer or the wages of such into the house of your God-Emperor for any votive offering, for both of these are an abomination to He.”

How many times had he heard such rhetoric from Simmon and those of the Egis in their attempts to undermine the good, holy works of the Fecund?

“Nonsense doggerel of ancient, misguided faiths,” Giroum spat, his eyes fixed upon those of his nemesis.

A look of mock surprise and disgust passed over the Egis master’s face before he spoke, not to the priest of the Fecund but to the Arbites ringing the room.

“You see? The heretic scorns the very word of our God Emperor!”

“Lies.”

“Truth,” now spoke the new bishop of the Imperator Afflatus, withdrawing a glass vial from within his voluminous sleeve. “My esteemed colleague here of the Emperor’s Egis informs me that his sect was able to purchase this from a visiting rogue trader and, most kindly, donated it and other ancient texts to the Halls of the Imperator Afflatus.”

“Remnants of elder beliefs,” the priest of the Exalted Fecund growled through gritted teeth though he could see no escape from this trap.

“That will be for the inquisition to decide.”

 

 

Ill fate indeed, for one of the agents of the Emperor’s Most Holy Orders was present upon Fulcrum, come to request the aid of the planet’s resident Astartes Chapter if rumour was right, and this man, this Tobias Fen, was not one to turn down the invitation to carry out an investigation - and his less than tender ministrations - upon a recently discovered heretic of such stature...

 

The sessions were overseen by both the Ordo man and the chapter’s own master of sanctity, a marine clad in armour as black as the void but for his skull-faced helm. Angra.

The priest had known the full spectrum of pleasures, from the finest foods and wines to genebred cult courtesans. He had laid eyes upon priceless artworks donated by powerful patrons of his sect. And in this dark cell within the fortress monastery of the Stygian Guard he discovered that he had only known one side of the full spectrum of experience.

While the porta-rack of the Inquisitor Fen had proven agonising, the marine’s suggestion that it be twinned with the chapter’s own Pain Glove opened up new horizons of torment.

 

And then it had ended. He knew not how many times he had shouted, screamed his innocence. His screams had, in time, became mere groans, whispers. And he found himself repeating them despite the absence of his interrogators.

 

Time passed.

 

He lived, for someone beyond his dark cell continued to pump nutrients into the pipes which had been fitted into him.

He thought of the faithful and dared to dream that they survived, that they had taken their faith underground. He though of his priests. His guardian. His son.

He repeated his claims of innocence and his explanations of the cult’s acts, how they had exalted the master of mankind.

 

“I know.”

The filtered voice came from the darkness.

How long had it been? Months? Years?

The marine stepped into the spotlight that illuminated the haggard priest, suspended in the web of the Glove.

His armour was no longer black, not in its entirely. From its left side the great panels of ceramite seemed to be decorated with a fall of roseate blossoms.

“I know,” the marine repeated. “I know the righteousness of your deeds.”

He knelt before the man, reducing him from a giant to merely the size of a human.

“And seek your forgiveness.”

“Th-the inquisitor?” To speak words other than that the denials he had repeated endlessly took great effort.

“Is no more. The chapter has returned to Fulcrum from a mission. We return enlightened. The inquisitor was wrong. Misled. As are so, so many.”

He removed his helmet revealing warm yet fire-filled eyes set within a harsh face. The priest could not hold his gaze.

The master of sanctity of the Psychopomps rose and leaned close to the head of the Exalted Fecund.

“ we have all been misled. But I bring you in enlightenment. Salvation for your faith, your congregation. It shall swell and encompass this world and more. All in the glory of our true master and patron.”

The dark apostle held aloft an amulet, seemingly shaped like the ancient symbols of Mars and Venus, intertwined.

[Trevak Dal]

The Brass Apostle

 

 
Long Ago, on Sicarius, in the Gods' Realm.
 
 
Simon had been a brother of the word for several centuries, been a part of and led many a crusade against the wayward flock of humanity, seeking to bring them in-and now he was being brought to task by his own Legion.
 
He breathed slowly through his nose, his three lungs taking in the draught of censor-fogged air, and all he could smell was blood.
 
The crime was heresy. Simon felt a flare of indignation-he only told the Truth. Khornath, or Khorne as was his bastardized name, was supreme among the gods, in debate he had challenged any who would stand against him.
 
He'd killed all comers. He no longer wore the crimson of his Legion, he had made his armor brass, his octed replaced by a one dominated by a khorne rune. He'd been in the right-were he not then surely the others would have defeated him?
 
They had even attacked him all at once, with their retinues. Simon's face twitched as his memory flashed of the brawl, his hearts quickening for a few beats-before returning to their medatative rhythm.
 
“Simon Esther, you are charged with heresy, in favoring one god above the rest of the pantheon? How do you Plead?”
 
He had said something churlish, and thrown himself at his foes-even now as their shattered and ruined bodies were strewn around him, he knew he couldn't call the Legion his own anymore. He did not serve his hidden away Genefather, or the lackeys who spout peity in his name, and he couldn't fight the entire legion by himself. There was nothing for him here, save for crucifixion and ritual sacrifice. Opening his eyes, he gathered his crozius and pistol, fastening his skull helm over his head before standing and voxing his second,

“Piner, prepare to leave Sicarius. We have new orders from the Council.” The duitiful aspirant did as he was bade, and Simon strode from the fortress. His men felt similarly to him, though he knew he would need more than the dozen at his command. The Black King had another of his crusades up-said to be a final crack at damnable Cadia. A good place to fight.
 
Khorne only wanted blood-and Dark Apostle Simon Esther asked only for the opprotunity to give it to him.
 
“We join with the Warmaster. To Cadia.” he said over the vox, touching the khorne rune, “Blood for Khornath,” he whispered.


Now:


The entity now known as the Brass Apostle stood at the head of Khorne's most favored mortal champions, the Khornate Berserkers, hailing from a hundred warbands, splinter groups of other factions dedicated to the better god. His body was bonded with his armor, and great wings streatched from his back as a spiked tail lashed, teeth like obsidian blades gleamed from his mouth, the mark of his true god emblazoned, body and soul on his chest for all to see. He landed before a clutch of Siege Dancers-wayward allies who worshiped a weaker god.
 
Their impure forms turned his stomachs, stoking his righteous fury, snatching one of the abominations up in his talons and pulling it apart by it's arms before throwing it back into it's “sisters”.
 
Khorne did not care from whence the blood flowed-only that it did, but he found their blood...distasteful. He and his men ripped and tore into the enemy as they shrieked with extacy and fought back feebly.
 
This sort of fight was beneath him-and offended his warrior spirit, but it was a debt paid back to a long dear friend of his in a allied warband, revenge for some slight that had happened on Dead Cadia.

He pushed those thoughts out of his head, and shouted “PURGE THESE FELL WRETCHES BROTHERS! FOR KHORNE AND DECENCY'S SAKE!” his men roared, their weapons gunning as they cut the enemy down.
 
“BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!” he embraced his raging contempt and swiped and tore at his foes, shearing their bodies to pieces.
 
Let the universe drown in it.

[Scourged]

Prophetic Wind

 

Hidden Content

Prophetic Winds

 

Masses and masses of mortals had gathered in the concentric rings around the altar, on their knees and heads staring high. Quietly they chanted, hands raised with open palms to the object of their worship. All of their eyes looked upon their revered target with unblinking stares, faint glows emanating from the sockets of those that truly believed. Not one among them looked like another, but they were united in purpose and worship. They had come to learn, as they had before.

 

Behind them stood the azure beastmen, too stubborn to kneel but still pious enough to join their unmutated brethren. Bows and blades rested on their bodies, sheathed and quivered as this was not a place to fight. This was a place of worship. High above them, mounted aloft, waited the icon that drew them all, man and beast alike.

 

All followers and warriors of the thrallband of the Protean Host awaited Ahksus Haal, Arch-Sorcerer and Keeper of the Prophetic Wind. And he cherished how patiently they waited. The time had come once more. The thrallband needed guidance. They needed direction. The time had come once more to read the winds of the Prophet.

 

Ascending up the obelisk alter on an aetherial breeze, Ahksus climbed higher and higher, until he too was a hundred meters above the worshipping mortals. Floating freely in the air, copper-skinned bald head bare, he looked with his true sight at the Prophet, holding the gaze of at least one pair of eyes upon it.

 

The name of the Prophet had long since been forgotten, but it was a name that no longer mattered. Of all the mortals and Astartes to fall to the Flesh Change, the Prophet was the first and only to not lose his soul. His wits and his mind never left him, even as his body became a prison of mutation. His flesh would never be dust, but it was no longer his own. Yet though this alone was enough to justify worship, all of the Protean Host soon learned that the gift given to the Prophet was far grander.

 

In his frustration he took a blade and removed the first of his mutations. Perhaps this upset the Lord of Change tasked with guiding the Protean Host, or perhaps this action unlocked the secret agenda of the greater daemon. Perhaps both. But as the severed limb fell to the floor, two things happened. First, the mutations along the Prophet’s body redoubled, changing him further. And second, the severed limb faded to a crystalline rainbow dust, and was swept up in an aetheric wind, ripping through the air until it swirled around and into some unexpecting soul in the thrallband.

 

Ahksus Haal was that soul, and as the Prophetic Wind poured into his consciousness, he could hear and feel the will of their patron for the briefest of moments. He knew what was expected. He knew the skeins of fate that would guide them on their next endeavour. For an instant, Ahksus knew all, and in a blink the near infinite knowledge left him until he knew enough.

 

And so the Prophet came to be worshipped among the weaker minded of the Protean Host. He had escaped the flesh change, and from his mutations came the will of their God. To the mortals and the beasts, he was a symbol of all they believed. So they would gather every time, en masse, when it came time for Ahksus Haal to read the Winds. Each ceremony had become more anticipated than the one previous.

 

None cared that the Prophet was suffering, that his existence was pain, that he longed for a death that would never come. His flesh was no longer his own, his mind and soul trapped in an endlessly shifting cage of mutation. They worshipped his suffering, revered his torture. And as Akhsus sliced away one of his many tentacles his soul screamed with burning rage. Three more eyes and vestigial tail burst out from the new wound as he felt other parts of his ever-shifting body ready to change as well. The eyes, knew and old, could only watch as his limb hit the ground below and burst into the rainbow wind, creating a vortex swallowed by Ahksus.

 

He could only pray that it would be a long time before the thrallband called on the Prophet again.

 

[Scourged]

Thank you for all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: Crown of Horns

Kierdale continued his streak with Pious Deeds. This story started us off in the most proper way any story could for this challenge - a sermon. A mortal priest and his enlightened views are the focus of this tale, as is his inevitable persecution at the hands of the Inquisition. Why is it that the worshipers of the Corpse God cannot see how wrong they always are?

Trevak Dal was next with The Brass Apostle. Chaos calls to each and everyone differently. Heretical thoughts to one Astartes are divine inspiration to another. And for Simon Esther, that inspiration is tinted red. A saint to some, a mindless slaughterer to many others, he piously makes battle in the name of Khornath. As a bit of an aside, I’d also like to tell you I loved your tale’s final sentence.

Lastly, I jumped in with Prophetic Wind. To be praised and worshiped is not always a good thing. Not every saint ascends to a reverent state by choice. And for the followers of Tzeentch, this cruel reality is all-too familiar.

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: She Who Thirsts

Before I describe our new topic, allow me to “break character” for a bit. Given what is going up for pre-order today, the selection of a new topic seemed so very obvious. But, I thought to myself, surely in all the years that Inspirational Friday has been running, we have had a prompt to focus on each of the Gods of the Dark Pantheon. Surely, we have! And after scouring through all of our previous topics, we have… for only Tzeentch. I think it’s time we added to the quartet.

The “youngest” of the Gods, Slaanesh holds a special place in the Pantheon. Birthed from the hedonistic pursuits of the Aeldari, S/he has a special connection with this race, but will tempt and crave the souls of humans and Astartes as well. Excess is the name of the game in the realm of the Dark Prince. Excess in all things: pleasure, pain, indulgence, greed, lust, anger, perfection… In one legion there can be a soul striving to become the most perfect swordsman, while his brother is dedicated to producing the most cacophonous pain, and both are cherished by Slaanesh.

But not all hold the Lord of Excess in such high esteem. Those who follow Khorne are known to hold strong hatred for those in the Cult of Excess. The Tzeentchian among us will use and manipulate them, toying with them as an elder sibling would. Even Nurgle has a special connection to Slaanesh, what with him keeping Isha in his Garden as his futuristic Persephone. What you see in Slaanesh will not be what another sees…

In this week’s challenge, tell us your experiences with She Who Thirsts. Have fun, Kierdale.

IF2019: She Who Thirsts runs until the 18th of May.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge, Doom Herald.

The winner of IF2019: Crown of Horns shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

[Doom Herald]

I, The Doom Herald have thoroughly enjoyed the stories placed before me. The gods reward faith and obedience, though the path may be mired with sacrifice and torment. Whether that is The Dark Prince delivering salvation and notoriety to a mortal priest who found favor, The Blood God rewarding an apostle of The Octed with daemonhood for turning his back on the lesser gods, or The Changer of Ways gifting a champion with mutation, reverance, and torment to further his own unending plots, such is the reward of Chaos. Gods and daemons have capricious whims and their "gifts" are sometimes curses to the eyes of more temporal creatures. Which brings me to the recipient of the Octed Amulet, Scourged. We serve dark masters and unabashedly accept their praise and blessings. Let us let your story be a reminder that a Crown of Horns may also bear thorns. I feel that your story truly captured the spirit of this topic.

 

I very much look forward to the next topic and wish good muses to my fellow writers.

[Kierdale]

Even the dead shall know fear

Hidden Content

The planet flickered in the viewscreen not due to the ship’s shields nor due to any distortion caused by acceleration. It was not caused by the planet’s weather systems running uncontrolled, those whose duty it was to tend to their world having forgone their responsibilities. No, even the worst that nature could throw at them could not cause such aberration as he now beheld. The very globe of the planet warped.

It was grief.

He looked upon the world of his birth and barely recognised it. The once emerald plains, crafted with vast rivers flowing to form the sigils of their Pantheon visible from space, were gone. No palls of smoke hung over its cities for ruination had not come in the form of war. Its orbits were not choked with the warships of alien aggressors, for their downfall had come from within. Yet it was not civil war either. None had attempted to stop their flight: that of those huddled aboard this ship nor the flight of the distressingly few other vessels who sailed from their home world.

He blinked and as the tears flowed over his sharp cheeks his view of the planet was, briefly, clear once more. But in his mind’s eye he saw those he had left behind. Blinded by their obsessions, they had not heeded the call of those who still claimed sanity. Or, like he, who had reclaimed sanity when stood upon the very precipice.

As blades had rent his flesh, exhilarating concoctions racing through his veins, he had not known the difference betwixt pleasure and pain. They had become one and the same, with each blossoming experience wilting faster than the last, and no lesser agony nor thrill sufficient to satiate the hunger for more.

Upon the cusp of the abyss - as he had been about to sacrifice that which he held most dear, and she willing to give her life in order to surpass all she or he had ever felt - he had gazed into that abyss and felt something other than nothingness. It was not oblivion but something amassing. Something growing. Feeding.

It had put a fear - terror - into his fractured soul and forced him back. He had screamed out as she had spat at him for his cowardice and had completed the deed herself. Stood upon the deck of the ship, the planet rapidly receding away, he recalled her face in those last moments. He had seen people die. In his madness he had taken lives. Each easier than the last, and less satisfying. But there had been something different in her face. It was as if he had been able to see her spirit depart her mortal form.

And it had been consumed by the darkness.

His preaching had fallen on deaf ears. Those who wanted to listen only wanted to see the abyss and dive in themselves, or toss him in. But eventually he found kindred souls who believed they too foresaw the end of their world, their empire, their race.

Aye, for it was not just this world. The rot had set in generations ago. A cataclysm born of arrogance. Why had they not seen it coming? When there are no more enemies without, one must be ever vigilant of threats from within.

The countdown to transition, when the vessel would depart this realm and enter that most ancient of networks traversing the cosmos - he could not know remember the name it had held in those olden days but his people now referred to it as the Webway- barely intruded on his despairing reminisces. The planet continued to contort as his tears distorted its image.

As the countdown neared its conclusion a vibration spread through the vessel and he wiped his eyes, wishing to capture one last vision of the world of his birth and the fallen souls he was forced to abandon. But the planet continued to undulate. To twist.

Klaxon rang out as a darkness blacker than the deepest void of space opened wide. It was no black hole for even as it swallowed all that he beheld, it vomited forth blinding light from other space. Impossible hues indescribable by any mortal tongue, as much emotions as they were colours or even matter. The very stuff of souls.

His soul too felt the pull and all aboard heard the scream, the birth scream of the god they had sired, before the ship slipped into the Webway and escaped.

 

That had been the birth of She Who Must Not Be Named, and it had been the death of the Aeldari. True, some had survived on primitive, remote worlds, eking out an ascetic existence, denying themselves any similarities with the old ways. Others, bastard, soulless echoes of those they had lost on their homeworlds, had survived within the Webway, within their monstrous city. And others, like him, had taken up a nomadic existence.

Over the millennia their ships met, they merged and the cultures of the old worlds mixed, giving birth to new ‘craft-worlds’. It had been the word and the hand of Asurman himself that had guided them all in those days. He had never met the one who went on to establish the aspect temples, but all had known of him.

It was said that some, seeking knowledge of what had befallen their people, had returned to the graveyard of their Empire. To the cradle of She Who Must Not Be Named, and had never returned. It was now a portal, a vast gateway to the realm of Chaos. A new god stood with its peers in the pantheon, empowered by the countless souls it had consumed in its birth when the madness and debauchery of his race had reached its impossible zenith.

And then came the long millennia of their decline.

They had known such happiness, such thrills as no Mon Keigh could ever imagine. The very taste of an Aeldari’s emotions would be overpowering, an elixir or ambrosia, to any mortal race. But so too their torment, their sorrow.

And some even weaponised it.

He remembered, countless centuries later, when he had been forced to take up a shuriken catapult at their seer’s orders, and had seen the Banshees at war. Their every scream had driven even the strongest of their enemies fleeing - and none had been allowed to live: the warrior-women cut them down as they ran, for the humans were as vermin - but each piercing scream had shook his soul and reminded him of that moment when he had seen a god’s birth.

And though he never spoke of it with his comrades - his fellow survivors - he did not doubt that they too felt the hand of She Who Must Not Be Named upon their hearts and souls. As if She claimed them, waited for them.

And he had prayed that his craftworld steer clear of war from that moment onward. He had given up his art and thrown himself into the forges, devoting himself to Vaul’s craft in an attempt to make himself too vital to ever take up a guardian’s arms and armour again. But fate was cruel and war found craftworld Carth-Lar.

Against the humans again and again, and the greenskin and other races, he was called upon to oversee the great batteries he had forged. And when the seers dictated that they take up arms against fellow Aeldari he had thought that She Who Must Not Be Named must have conducted their ill fate. He had clasped his hand about the stone upon his chest: the phylactery that would house his soul when he finally fell. He had seen comrades die without these stones and though nothing could be seen, the consumption of their souls could be felt like an echo of the day of his flight.

But that battle had ended and more had come.

 

And in time they had faced the forces of Chaos, the pawns of the Dark Prince of the Pantheon. Coming face to face with the Q'tlahs'itsu'aksho he had frozen in terror as their clawed hands had eviscerated the gunners of his machines. They more danced than ran, pirouetting and somersaulting in a bloody gambol. He saw something in their eyes, something that horrified him.

And he had been slain.

 

But in death duty did not end, for the Aeldari had the means to ensure even their fallen could continue the endless war; the war that could only cease when the day of the Rhana Dhandra came.

He remembered less of these millennia after his death, as if his soulstone had captured his existence, his essence, perfectly from his birth until the moment the daemonette had clove his head from his shoulders...but from then onward he had existed as a fading shade. The memories of his unlife were fleeting. He could only assume there had been moments of peace but the wars were burned into his quasi-conscience. Striding across battlefields in his skeletal form of wraithbone. Slaying alien and daemon alike. But even in death he felt fear, not of being slain again for the boneseers could reform his body or transplant him into new ones, but in combat against the spawn of Chaos, particularly of She Who Must Not Be Named, he feared for what remained of his soul. The fear was balanced by a vengeful wrath, a desire to erase these beasts, this evidence of his people’s folly.

But it was a precarious balance.

 

There were moments of peace betwixt the bloodshed and destruction. Moments, he realised, when he was one with the infinity circuit, when they were all one. But these moments of communion allowed the memories of all to flow and intermingle.

No, ‘peace’ was not the word for it, not as the horrors of their living memories became compacted with the echoes of their new existences.

 

And while the council steered Carth Lar away from peril, it was to no avail.

A vision by one of the farseers saw a hope: an opportunity to deny She Who Must Not Be Named a great source of strength...but fate dealt the Aeldari an ill hand once again and an entire chapter of the Mon Keigh’s finest fell under Her sway, only to fixate on Carth Lar itself. The maiden world of Mesusid fell to the reavers, these Psychopomps. One of their race’s hopes for the future. A chance to restore the former glory of their empire. To reclaim the stars once more.

It was defiled. Destroyed, and its guardians taken by The Enemy.

 

He had felt it when the Avatar cask was stolen. Though none of the living - beyond those in collusion with Carth Lar’s wilful autarch - had known it until it was later discovered and all was too late, he and those within the craftworld’s infinity circuit had known it. Why had they not alerted those who would have opposed Qarasion? Had they been too consumed in their memories of halcyon days? Too traumatised by their collective anguish? Or had some part of them seen her plan and approved of it?

The loss of the embodiment of Khaela Mensha Khaine and the maiden world of Viarphia - despite the blow dealt to their foe, had been unforgivable. Inexpiable. And had seen Qarasion finally stripped of her position and banished.

 

But despite that warrior’s - that weapon’s - tendency to cut its wielder as it slew their foes, it had been the sharpest of their blades, and her absence was felt deadly

when the Psychopomps had finally found Carth Lar...

 

 

Once the blunt-ended, ugly warships of the Mon Keigh, they had been transformed by their corruption, as beautiful as they were repulsive. Weapons had leering gargoyles for muzzles, wings were veined and razor-edged. Swarming about the vastness of the craftworld as it raced through a channel of the Webway, the ships - both Aeldari and Enemy alike - exchanged fire at near point blank range.

 

When he had been awoken within the halls of the dead to find even the infinity circuit’s mortal attendants armed with catapults, he knew that doom had come to Carth Lar. In their eyes was a finality. A resignation both wrathful and sorrowful.

He had strode out upon the surface of his world to find it ablaze. The mists of the Webway hung in the heavens but it was no sanctuary for his people this time. It had somehow been penetrated. Invaded.

Gardens and parks burned, smoke rising in columns split by low flying aircraft. Lasers, shuriken, missiles and the brutal weapons of the Enemy shot back and forth in near-continuous streams and the cityscape was in ruins. His people fought in their crumbling homes.

He saw one of the Enemy: what had once been a Mon Keigh geneforged brute, now a Chaos-twisted abomination. It stood atop a pile of Aeldari corpses, a fistful of harvested soulstones in its gnarled claws. It raised its head, maw yawning impossibly wide, and bellowed the name of its patron.

“SLAAAAAAANNNEEEESSHH!”

The profane word was anathema to the Aeldari and those of iron will who heard it winced, while lessers were driven back and they felt Her hand upon their souls.

He turned his D-scythe upon the creature. To a mortal observer the possessed space marine merely collapsed, as a marionette puppet whose strings had suddenly been severed - and to one with the witchsight the metaphor was not entirely ill fitting for the Aeldari weapon cleaved the Astarte’s soul from its body.

He paused to observe the battlefield in awe. The enemy before them were not only fallen Astartes but a masses horde as varied as the sins of their dark patron. Human and beast-like mutant thralls, their bodies pierced and cut hideously, some even seemed to have deliberately hobbled themselves, or chained themselves to each other like mad gladiators. And there were the daemons. He had sensed them as soon as he had been awakened within the Circuit and transferred to his body. Aye, the hand of She Who Must Not Be Named lay heavy upon all their hearts now. He cast his gaze upward, over the seething hordes of debauched ones, of bringers of joyous degradation, over the skittering unholy ones, to the veil of the Webway overhead. He could feel Her gazing through from the Warp beyond, watching the final plays of this little game.

 

The wraithguard cut a swathe through the Enemy and this bolstered the spirits of their living kin. As the great wraithknight trod across the ruined city, its cannons laying waste to all it beheld, there came the hope for survival. That today was not the day of reckoning foretold by ancient seers. That today Fuegan would not be the last of them to fall.

But the gods of Chaos laughed and danced upon the carcasses of the Aeldari Pantheon and a great cry of woe arose as a beastly monster dropped from the heavens, barely now recognisable as a drop pod due to the daemonic tentacles erupting from it. It fastened itself to the back of the great Aeldari warmachine, it’s weight nearly driving the knight to its knees. And just as the towering wraith construct began to stand once more, the maw of the daemonic pod opened and bit deep.

He staggered as he felt the twins devoured, first the soul of that one within its stone, and then the body and mind of its twin enthroned within the knight’s chest.

 

It may not have been the end of days of their race, but those of Carth Lar accepted at that moment that their fates were sealed. Their souls were forfeit and all they could do would be to sell them as dearly as possible.

Carth Lar would live on, in the scouts and traders offworld. And in their exiled autarch.

 

He cast aside his scythe and took up the axe of a fallen comrade as a figure emerged from the exploded chest of the fallen knight. Striding across twisted bodies of meat, of wraithbone, of metal and of ichor-splattered neverborn flesh he approached the figure that had been borne aboard the drop pod. It was clad in a huge suit of armour, far larger than the fallen Astartes it commanded, yet daubed in the same offensive light shades and sigils. Atop its armour was a multi-fluted mass of pipes like some bastard organ, and in its grip was an axe the head of which he could not gaze upon for it was hewn as the icon of She Who Must Not Be Named. As much a twisting of the humans’ symbols for the male and female as it was a bastardisation of his own race’s glyphs. The Chaos lord’s leather and bronze-masked head seemed tiny in comparison to its tank-like armour. He swung his axe at this overly-confident protuberance of flesh.

Ethereal sparks erupted from his ghostaxe as it met the Falx Horrificus of Lord Sophusar of the Psychopomps. Another swing and another, each met by the shaft of the manthing’s weapon. Harlequin and aspect warrior masks, chained to the weapon as trophies, shattered as the ghost warrior rained down wrath-driven blows. In his mind he screamed, unleashing millennia of anguish and anger, and this psychic assault drove the chaos lord back a step.

But only a step.

The next blow was met by the head of the Falx, that pink-veined marble quarried on a forgotten crone world millennia-past, exploding the ghost weapon and continuing onward to bite deep into the wrath construct.

He toppled.

 

Blood ran freely from his ears, nose and mouth. Even a trickle wound its way down his scarred cheek beneath his mask from an eye. But he stood victorious over the fallen revenant.

He looked down and could see the coruscating gemstone held within its shattered armour.

“Even the dead shall know fear.”

 

Casting aside the stone, drained of all life and light, the lord of the Psychopomps marched toward the hall of seers and the lone survivors of Carth Lar.

 

 

He was torn at by a thousand times a thousand claws, as the faces of all those he had ever known floated before him, they too being flensed of their very being. He felt...everything...not only every experience but also every emotion that Aeldari were capable of feeling...all at once. As he was consumed he felt as much elation as he felt agony, and knew this was the doing of Slaanesh.

And his eyes opened, as if waking from a nightmare. He awoke within a gilt palace.

And as he tore at himself with his clawed hands, cackling at the pain as his wounds closed as soon as he inflicted him, he knew what he had seen in the eyes of the Q'tlahs'itsu'aksho that had slain him.

Kinship.

[Scourged]

Just about a week to go, my debaucherous f®iends. Surely, some more of you have an excessively debased entry for this week's topic, yes? You wouldn't want to be found wanting in the eyes of the Dark Prince, would you?

[Trevak Dal]

Been brainstorming scenes and scenarios while stocking at work.

[MegaVolt87]

Here is mine for she who thirsts week.

 

Faded Glories

 

Nytissa Herald of Slaanesh made her way down the Hall of Agonies, running her claws across the spectral figures within the jade drapes. Moans of anguished pleasure followed her wake. She smiled, knowing she was about to inflict far greater divine agonies on her favoured play thing.

Muttering a stream of profane verses, the door slid open on one of her many private chambers. Not even her chosen hand maidens could enter without destroying themselves, such did she jealously guard her coveted possessions.

 

She was startled to see two chips of icy light gleaming from the hazy interior of the chamber.

“Nytissa, it is time I leave this place. He has returned and my father yet fails to show himself. I must be the Herald of our return. Everyone else is too weak of mind to properly make this statement.”

“What makes you think I would ever let you leave broken winged little Phoenix?” cooed Nytissa.

Phoenix Guard Tyran strode over, crushing the broken shards of glass of a hooka in his hand, blood trailing behind him as he approached. Grabbing Nytissa’s jaw he forces her mouth open, trickling his blood down her throat.

“Its faster to just show you.” leered Tyran.

Nytissa’s eyes glazed over.

She saw Fulgrim strike down Guilliman, she felt Tyran’s gasp as her own when his hearts burst as a spear cleaved through his back from behind. She saw him gaze at Fulgrim staring in annoyance past him. She tasted his despair, his rage and his hatred for his brother’s jealousy. She saw through his eyes as she took him away from the battlefield. She could taste his emptiness, as no one tried to stop him being taken. She saw a vision of Guilliman’s return. She saw Tyran kneel at the feet of the Warmaster. Saw the sigil of the Dark Prince etched in flames.

 

She gasped, coming to consciousness. She motioned, floating Tyran into the air, gazing at his naked splendour for perhaps the last time. A sarcophagus appeared behind him. Slowly the purple and gold Tartaros plate begun to materialize itself upon Tyran.  The Aquila’s cracked, their eyes began to weep blood. Icy blue runes begun to glow upon parts of the ancient war plate. She willed the helm into her hands. Floating him down before her as he held his spear, with a sigh and nod of her head.

“Kneel”

Tyran obliged. Nytissa leaned over licking his left cheek with her barbed tongue. The flesh split and glowed a faint pink. Tyran groans. Nytissa’s personal rune appeared upon his flesh. Affixing his helm Nytissa steps back.

“Bring glory to the Dark Prince, bring desecrations and depravities upon the Imperium.”

Tyran rises and nods, leaving without a word.

Nytissa looks upon the ground, a single tear of blood running down her cheek.

“Be well my beloved.” Whispered in an empty now unpleasant chamber.

 

EDIT- It was going to get way more crazy, but I thought I should tone it down like a lot.... 

Edited May 13, 2019 by MegaVolt87

[Sanctimonius]

I was a bit hesitant to post, given the quality of posts in this thread. Hope you enjoy.

 

Hidden Content

      As Agathe entered the room there was a sound that tugged on her ear. It was a wet sound, as if someone were tearing back tape or gauze sodden with gore. It was a visceral sound, one that insisted on attention. Another fingernail, surely.

 

      a spark of something something that enticed that excited

 

      The room was small, and everything was metal. Three chairs, a table that was secured to the floor, metal walls that were dampened for the purpose. Two guards stood on opposite corners, their faces hidden behind riot helmets, covered in heavy protective gear, carrying shock-batons. Currently inactive, but she knew their arcing electric glares were but a thumb press away. Her partner, Babbit, was on one side of the table. She could tell from the way he was sat that he was uneasy, all stiff and uncomfortable as he stared across the table.

 

       And the focus of his attention, of all their attentions really, was on the far side. He seemed a middle-aged man, though rejuvenat treatments typically made mockery of attempts to guess someone’s age. Carefully coiffed hair running to silver around the temples, deep brown eyes, a patrician’s nose, long robes that cost more than she could earn in a decade. And, of course, hands that were bound by manacles riveted to the table, with long, dexterous fingers that were in the process of tearing off each fingernail, one by one, with slow, leisurely movements. He had placed them on the table before himself, spread as if still adorning fingers, small bloody trophies.

 

      Farrus Sha’Qar Imperuval Ferrim, seventy-ninth of his name, lord of the Gulspire and last of a long line of lords and ladies who had sat atop the Gulspire Merchantile Trading Agglomeration for millennia, smiled at her as she sat down. He had a handsome smile. He also had a bit of a problem.

 

      ‘Any change?’ she asked Babbit.

 

      ‘None, except we’re down another two nails. Throne, that freaks me out.’ Ferrim looked at Babbit with a smirk as he placed the nail down on the table. He considered it a moment, tapped it once to get the orientation to his liking.

 

      ‘Has he spoken?’

 

      ‘He’s been humming.’

 

      ‘Humming?’

 

      ‘Yep. Some kind of children’s tune.’ Babbit shifted in his chair, not taking his eyes off Ferrim. ‘Why are we doing this?’

 

      ‘Only chance we’ll have for some kind of closure.’

 

      ‘The Arbites will be here within the hour.’

 

      ‘Exactly,’ replied Agathe. ‘So if you want to find some kind of sense in any of this, now’s your chance.’

 

      ‘There’s no sense to be had in any of this,’ muttered Babbit, but the fight was gone from his voice. He was as hungry as she was for answers.

 

      Agathe tapped a bracelet on her wrist and the metal of the table swirled, gave way to a grainy pict. It showed a body, a young man who had been stripped to his waist. His face was peaceful, and a symbol had been carved into his chest. Cause of death was unknown, but autopsy showed adrenal glands that were almost burned out, and dopamine and serotonin levels through the roof. She swiped her hand left, this time bringing up a pict of an older woman, Agathe guessed in her late fifties. The woman had the stringy hair and ruddy complexion of someone who had worked outside all her life. She also had the same symbol carved into her arm. Again, cause of death unknown, similar levels of neurotransmitters, same adrenal abnormality. She swiped again, to a younger woman who had expensive treatments to her hair and skin, slathered in makeup that had disguised the traces of a childhood bout of Red Flux that was endemic in the hive and cropped up every now and again. The symbol was carved into her lower back. Same pathology as the other.

 

      Agathe swiped several more times, each time showing a person who had died of unknown causes, each with a brain chemistry that defied the coroner’s experience and knowledge, each with that same symbol. A circle, from which a barbed line descended, ending in a crescent. ‘Each of these people were discovered three hours ago at one of your properties. They were all deceased, placed in a circle around you, Lord Ferrim. Each had this symbol carved into their bodies, in a variety of locations. Each are, as yet, unidentified. Cause of death is also, as yet, unidentified.’

 

      Ferrim looked at the picts with a passive curiosity. He looked up at her blandly.

 

      Agathe tapped her wrist once more and the pict changed. Now it showed one of the rooms they had found. It was an antechamber, one that branched off the central meeting room they had found Ferrim in. The investigation was ongoing, but so far they had identified at least twelve bodies. They had to speak in generalities. In most cases there were not enough body parts for complete reconstruction, or identification.

 

      The room was an abattoir. Yet more of those symbols were scrawled on the walls, violent pastiches of celebration.

 

      interest was piqued pliancy discovered attention rendered

 

      Agathe swiped through several of the picts, showing scenes and closeups of the room, her eyes on Ferrim. He was enraptured. Eyes wide, pupils wide, nostrils flaring. With a bloody finger he stopped Agathe from swiping again. He stared down at a pict of one of the victims’ heads, a young man with pleasant features. The expression was one of peace, of quiet, as if he had fallen asleep. Ferrim gazed at that face for several long moments, drawing deep breaths.

 

      ‘Who was he?’ asked Agathe quietly.

 

      Ferrim’s eyes flicked up to hers and she felt a thrill run down her spine. He sat back in his chair, still silent, bloody fingers splayed before him. Slowly he reached over his left hand to the right. Then he began to pick at another nail, one of the three that he had left on his fingers. Babbit looked away with a snort of disgust. ‘He isn’t going to talk.’

 

      ‘Shut up.’ Agathe leaned in. ‘Lord Ferrim, you are in a lot of trouble. You have been found at the scene of a series of terrible crimes, as the sole survivor. You are being held for the murders of at least twenty-three people, and are being investigated in connection to another fifty-seven spread across the previous two years. Even as we speak Arbites are en route to take you into their custody. I assure you, they will not be kind. Talk to me, and we might be able to come up with a reason to keep you in our custody. I promise you, your safety will be assured under my protection.’

 

      ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ murmured Ferrim. His voice was gentle, calm.

 

      Babbit and Agathe exchanged a glance. It was the first time Ferrim had spoken since they had arrived at one of his suites and found horror. Perhaps their gamble was working, that the threat of approaching Arbite justice would loosen his tongue. Perhaps the fear of disappearing in one of their black gaols had worked its magic on Lord Ferrim, just as it had for so many others they had dragged into their humble municipal station.

 

      ‘There’s a lot of dead people in your penthouse who say otherwise, my lord.’

 

      ‘They killed each other,’ he murmured. He gazed at the picts below, lazily swinging his hand to cycle through them. Every now and again he paused, as if admiring the scene splashed before him, a connoisseur at the latest, trendiest art show on planet. ‘Some killed themselves, others could not do this and so were aided.’

 

      ‘Killed themselves?’ scoffed Babbit. ‘Some of those people were butchered. Are you trying to suggest these people chose that?’ Ferrim ignored him and continued to swipe through the picts.

 

      ‘Tell me what happened last night,’ said Agathe softly.

 

      Ferrim sighed and leaned back in his chair. He began to pick at his nail again. They had briefly discussed getting a medicae in to see to him, or binding his hands so he could not hurt himself more, but time was short. The Arbites would appear at any moment to snatch him away and he would never be seen again. And the grisly murders that had occurred in the spire had everyone on edge. Each of the major families – Ferrim included, morbidly – had requested special attention and care in the investigation. Each had representatives pressuring their police departments to solve the crimes and find a murderer. And now that it seemed to be one of their own that was the guilty party, they were clamouring for answers. Answers that would never come once Ferrim was taken away.

 

      This was their only opportunity to make sure his crimes were reported, were logged and documented. This was the only chance to answer the single, most overriding question of any crime: why?

 

      There was a long silence in the room broken only by the sounds of Ferrim picking. Babbit slammed his hand on the table, the pict beneath blurring and fuzzing under the sudden assault. ‘Tell us, what happened? Why did those people need to die? Why did you kill them? Was it for some purpose? Did some voices tell you to do it?’ Ferrim glanced up and sneered at him. Agathe noticed his teeth were perfect, pristine.

 

      ‘What does this symbol mean?’ she asked, pointing to the sigil carved on each of the victims, daubed on the walls of the room.

 

      excessperfectionlovehateagonydelightbliss

 

      Ferrim gazed at the sign. His eyes, his pupils widened, just as they had before, when looking at the picts of his handiwork. Strange, how one stylized little sign, one simple little thing, could mean so much, could evoke such raw feeling. ‘It means absolution,’ whispered Ferrim. He looked up, looked to Agathe. ‘It means immortality. It means…’

 

      ‘Means what, my lord?’

 

      He waved a glistening hand. ‘It simply means. It is, detective. It exists as an ultimate truth, an absolute.’

 

      ‘What truth is that?’

 

      ‘The truth that there can be no other truth than indulgence.’

 

      ‘Is that what this is, then? Indulgence?’ Agathe gestured to the pict on the table. It showed another victim, this time a young woman, a single wound to her temple, yet otherwise unharmed, sat almost peacefully beside the remains of another victim, unidentifiable due to the incredible violence inflicted.

 

      Ferrim gazed down at the pict, his expression soft. Tears glistened in his eyes. ‘This is truth. It is sanction. It is mercy.’

 

      ‘Mercy-’ sputtered Babbit. Agathe shot him a warning look and he subsided, arms folded, his face like thunder.

 

      ‘Mercy is granted, my lord. Mercy is a gift, to spare undue suffering. What were you sparing them from?’

 

      ‘Their lives, mainly. For the most part, people live such dull, little, meaningless lives. They scuttle from place to place, they proclaim their importance.’ He puffed himself up, gave himself a deeper voice. ‘”Look at me, look how powerful I am, look how important I seem”. It’s all a sham. Few of us know of the irrelevance of our lives.’

 

      ‘Including yourself?’

 

      ‘At one time, yes. I did not know it at the time, but yes, myself included. Nothing I did mattered. For all my power, my wealth, nothing I did was important, ultimately.’

 

      ‘You were – are – one of the most powerful men on the planet.’

 

      He shrugged. ‘Didn’t matter. Let me put it this way. Can you remember anything about my grandfather? How about his grandfather, or his? Can you tell me a single fact of their lives, a single matter upon which they imposed their will?’ He leaned in with a smile. ‘People will remember about my life, I can assure you.’

 

      ‘So legacy is what concerns you?’

 

      ‘Legacy is assured, yes, but not the primary motivation.’

 

      ‘Then what?’ Agathe maintained a level tone, her voice calm, pleasant even. Controlled.

 

      ‘Tell me, detective. You have visited many crime scenes over the years, yes?’ Agathe nodded. ‘And in all that time, have you ever managed to find anything that underlies it all, any kernel of truth beneath the human condition? Anything that gives reason for it all?’

 

      ‘People can be vicious.’

 

      ‘Ever wondered why?’ Ferrim smiled at her warmly. ‘Imagine if there existed a truth beneath all that happens, something that drives us as creatures of with and intelligence. Something that exists beneath, beyond want, and need, and drive.’

 

      ‘And this is the truth that created… last night?’

 

      ‘No. Last night merely acknowledged that truth.’

 

      'And where does this truth lead?’

 

      Ferrim raised an eyebrow. It was exquisitely manicured, just like the nails that lay upon the table. ‘I cannot say. As a humble pilgrim on the gilded path, it is merely for me to follow where I am led.’

 

      Agathe nodded, as if noting something to herself. ‘Tell me, where did this path begin?’

 

      Ferrim finally succeeded in securing a solid hold on the nail. He peeled it back slowly, as if savouring the motion, the feeling. That ripping sound filled the small room once more. Babbit had to look away. Ferrim put the nail on the table in its rightful place.

 

      tearing of flesh so sweet such feeling such delight

 

      ‘Would you believe it began with a single kiss?’ he laughed. Ferrim’s eyes lit up with the memory. ‘I was attending a party thrown by my sister, a ghastly little affair. She was celebrating… something mediocre. Her friends were in attendance, as usual, as were the normal gnats that accompany such events.

 

      ‘I was bored. It dragged me from my work, an unwelcome interruption. I was on the verge of leaving when a woman entered the room. I had not seen her before. She was a pale little thing, wide eyes, dark hair. She looked lost. Certainly she knew no one there. But she turned to me, to where I was standing, and walked straight towards me. It was the strangest thing, I can remember every single thing about that night, but not what she looked like, nothing except her eyes. They did not look away, and mine could not. Not as she walked to me. Once she reached me, she raised her hands to my head, and she slowly drew me down, and kissed me, just once.’ He leaned forwards so he could brush his lips with his ragged fingertips, leaving a scarlet smear. ‘I can still feel that kiss. I can still taste it.’

 

      He shook his head slowly, as if trying to wake from a dream, yet not really wanting to. ‘I don’t remember much of that night. I know I left the party, my sister was stridently clear on that point. I remember walking to an area I had never seen before, some place off the main walkways of the hive. Some sublevel. But I found myself in a vast room. The walls were filled with statues, each was covered save for one aspect. A face here, a hand there, a leg over here. None were human, I can tell you that. Yet they all faced towards the centre of this room. And in the centre, with a single candle, was a woman. Not the same, mind, I know that even if I did not see her face. This was the Red Lady. She was wearing a… a cloak. It was a deep red, like brushed viscera, and it covered her face so I could not see her.

 

      ‘I walked to her, I think, or maybe I crawled. I cannot say. But I was before her, on my knees. She reached out a hand to my face, stroked it down my cheek. Then she began to speak.’ Ferrim trailed off.

 

      ‘What did she speak of?’ asked Agathe.

 

      ‘Truth, detective. She spoke of truth.’ Ferrim smiled once more. He really did have a pleasant smile. ‘She told me of the virtue of indulgence, the sin of denial. She extolled the merits of exercising that which I had been given in pursuit of a greater authority. She castigated me, chastised me for wasting my potential, for squandering my wealth, my power for something so ephemeral as this world, or the Imperium. No, she opened my eyes to something wider, something greater.’

 

      ‘And what was this truth, my lord?’ asked Agathe again.

 

      succulence sweetness the ripeness of sensation of indulgence the blasphemy of abstention of limitation

 

      ‘Why, that this world is mine, detective, and all who dwell within. That it is my duty to educate all that live here on the virtues of indulgence. That my role, my humble role, is one of evangelism.’

 

      Agathe gestured to the picts. ‘And this is your creed?’

 

      Ferrim smiled down at the table. ‘This is my gospel.’

 

      Agathe leaned back in her chair, slumped as if overwhelmed. Babbit shook his head. ‘See? Insane.’

 

      Agathe nodded to herself slowly.

 

      It all happened with a ferocity that was stunning. She pulled her knife from her boot and smashed it into Babbit’s face. With her other hand she drew her pistol and shot the guard behind Ferrim three times. She felt a thrill run through her; she had known the woman, had worked with her for years. She could almost taste the confusion as the guard slumped to the floor. She tried to turn but the guard by the door was quicker. He was on edge, alert, his stun-baton at the ready, and he struck her on the side of the head. She lost consciousness, only for a moment but it was enough as the guard pounced and beat her to the floor, jamming the baton into her side, overwhelming her with pain, with sensation that was too much to bear.

 

      The assault ended abruptly. Agathe reeled from the pain, she could smell flesh being burned by the electricity that coursed through her. She pushed herself up, forced her head to raise and see the guard fighting with Ferrim. A snarl tore across that beautiful face, manacles still dangling from his wrists as he rained blow after inhuman blow into the guard’s facemask, into his protective carapace armour which was now cracked and fractured. The guard rammed the stun-baton into Ferrim’s midriff, the whine of the battery pack rising as it was increased to maximum voltage.

 

      Ferrim simply laughed as the electricity ran through him. Slowly, as if sheer will could override the spasms of his muscles, he reached out to the guard. His bloody hand found a gap under his helmet, to the man’s throat, and he squeezed. The guard’s motions became increasingly desperate, he jammed the stun-baton again and again into Ferrim’s chest and stomach. His clothes were burned away, the flesh underneath charring as a sickening-sweet smell filled the little room. But Ferrim simply smiled and leaned into the assault, and all the while his hand was on the guard’s throat.

 

      The guard’s attacks grew erratic, lost their power. He tried for one last thrust but the baton dropped from nerveless fingers. Ferrim’s smile widened as he squeezed tighter and Agathe heard an audible pop as the guard’s neck snapped. Ferrim discarded the body and turned to Agathe, still lying on the floor. He reached out a hand to her, half-bowed, the perfect image of a gentleman. Tentatively she took his hand sensation touch his skin feel his power his transcendence his ascension and allowed herself to be raised back to her feet.

 

      They stood staring at one another for several long moments. For all his wounds Ferrim looked entirely at ease, comfortable and composed even as the manacles remained on his wrists, even as his body was ravaged by the baton. Agathe was gulping down air as if she had run a marathon.

She stared into his eyes. She had longed for the moment when she could look this killer in the face. Since she had stumbled on his first victim, she had at first been disgusted by the violence, the viciousness of the kill. But as the bodies mounted, an obsession with bringing him to justice had turned into an obsession with the hand behind the knife, which in turn had become infatuation, had become love. As the months passed she had eagerly awaited the appearance of each victim, as if each one were a calling card, a gift from a gentleman caller. Each body had been another insight, another tableau for her to interpret, another message from him to her.

 

      He had courted her with corpses, had wooed her with blood.

 

      ‘Take me to the Red Lady,’ she gasped. ‘I want to know truth.’

 

      Ferrim smiled at her, like a father, like a lover, like a predator.

Edited May 13, 2019 by Sanctimonius

[Trevak Dal]

MegaVolt87 yeah I'm having that issue.

[Scourged]

Unfortunately, yes, I did anticipate that when I was setting out this prompt. Of all the Gods, this one can be the most difficult to make for "friendly" reading, depending on which facet you choose. It's an irony that's always bugged me... One can describe the most brutal and ruthless carnage and murder with Khorne all day and night, but with Slaanesh's passions one must tiptoe.

 

Oh, and @Sanctimonius: welcome, and thanks for posting! Please, always feel free to post whatever you come up with. After all, this thread and the posts within are meant to inspire. All work is welcome.

[Kierdale]

Fabulous work, Sanctimonious! Truly fabulous!

I really liked that one. A lot.

40k meets Se7en and then some.

[Sanctimonius]

I really appreciate that, thank you!

[Scourged]

Thank you for all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: She Who Thirsts

Kierdale was once more the first entrant (I guess the Mark of Slaanesh does still give an Initiative boost) with Even the Dead Shall Know Fear. What better place to start then at the beginning, the Birth of a God? We’re taking through the life of an Aeldari from the fall of the empire to the fall of his craftworld. And we see the fates of so, so, so many of Slaanesh’s favorite children.

MegaVolt87 was next with Faded Glories. Is it in the past, or the present? Somewhere between? It matters not in the Immaterium, and especially not to Nytissa, Herald of Slaaanesh. Here we see the intimate relationship between Nytissa and his/her/its chosen plaything, Tyran of the Phoenix Guard.

Sanctimonius wasn’t far behind, submitting an untitled work. Two detectives, one captive, and a confession. That’s the story on the surface, but the contents take the reader even further. For most who fall to Chaos, it is a blunt corruption, an act of desperation, or an unknowing deceit. But Sanctimonius shows us an alternative, sinister means of succumbing to the Warp: courtship.

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: Relics of the Damned

Ten thousand years of warfare with give birth to so many things, none more vital to the effort than weapons. And through the endless mass of machinery manufactured through the millennia, there will always be that one in a billion lump of carbon that ends up forged into a diamond. A sword that never dulls. A gun that never misses. A cloak that protects when others would not. A grenade that rends the soul in addition to the flesh. Or an artefact of war that was birthed from the binding of a daemon.

There are so many to choose from. Our current Codex and Vigilus Ablaze offer so many, as do the books of previous editions. And let us not forget Traitor Legions - that most wonderful gift of rules to Chaos in the death throes of 7th Edition. Six relics for each Legion. But these are just the relics we know of. Perhaps your warband has found or forged yet another we’ve never seen...

In this week’s challenge, tell us of an Artefact of Chaos.

IF2019: Relics of the Damned runs until the 7th of June

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge, Scourged.

The winner of IF2019: She Who Thirsts shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

[Scourged]

As always, folks, you never make judging the winner an easy process - and I'd have it no other way. Three different stories, three different styles, three difficult choices. So, as it often does, the choice comes down to a gut feeling. Which of the stories got the most reaction out of me? Which did I feel the most? 

 

To that, I grant the (dis)honor of the Octed to Sanctimonius. I knew I was hooked right away. How? Ripping off fingernails. I can handle all forms of pain and torture in media, except for ripping off fingernails. That always gets me cringing. So after barely having started your work, I'm already curling my fingers into fists to hide the nails, and the mood is already set: I'm made uncomfortable, but I have to and want to keep reading. And that is what encapsulates Slaanesh to me... that mix of attraction and revulsion. Fantastic work. Enjoy your prize.