Inspirational Friday 2019: Blessings and Boons (Dec 27)

[Sanctimonius]

Wow, I thank you very much Scourged! Glad to see I have the ability to make people cringe from anywhere in the world. I refuse to use this power wisely.

[Sanctimonius]

This was a really hard prompt, for some reason, I struggled a lot to put this into a form I liked. I also wanted to give some love to our Lost and Damned. They have feelings too, and deserve a little loving from Chaos reliquaries. Hope you enjoy it.

 

Hidden Content

Favour of the Red Lady

 

‘Ah. Ah… <subject screams> My apologies. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just have to show you. I need you to understand. I need you to see, commissar. I need you to… I need you to see. You have to hear her words to fully understand. Are you prepared?’

• Transcribed from interrogation feed of Corporal Ashe Greaves before he broke free of restraints. Corporal Greaves would go on to lead the Mutiny of the 701^st Tanagran Fireborn, eventually raising himself up as Prime Hierophant of the Red Lady.

 

 

        The figurines known as the Tokens of the Red Lady’s Favour began to appear around late M33. They vary in size, the smallest being no larger than a fingernail, while the very largest are even larger than a dreadnought. All are formed of locally sourced materials, which have included scrap from starships, plascrete, gemstones or precious metals, or in one case an osseous material that defies classification. Despite this, they share some commonalities. Each of these are crafted to exacting, proportional scale, with the head of the figurine exactly a third of the total mass of the structure, to an infinitesimal degree of accuracy. This proportionality is repeated in each figurine recovered to date, even in examples that appear hand-carved. Each of the figurines differs most in the composition of the body and limbs. Some show a seated figure, while others are kneeling, and some rare ones standing. Some are crudely formed, with little more than hints to indicate the arms or chest, while others are finely sculpted and carefully formed throughout. Often the hands and feet are missing, as if removed forcefully. Each, however, displays exactly the same skillfully carved features above the shoulders: a woman, her face veiled, her head cowled. The head is angled forwards, as if imparting knowledge or a secret. The eyes are noted in fine detail, while the veil and cowl are lined with markings that appear to be lettering, the meaning of which defies translation. In each of these figurines, the folds of the hood and veil are exactly alike, falling in the same ways.

 

 

To the warp, the material realm is but a hazy dream, a whisper spoken of in rumour and longing. To the warp, we are the unnatural, we are the delusion. We are nothing but ephemera, to be manipulated and coveted. To the warp, we are playthings.

– Vox recording recovered following the Ghorst Genocides. The conflict engulfed the Ghorst sector a week after a figurine was discovered in place of a statue of the Emperor in front of the Planetary Governor’s residence. Attempts to quash the nascent rebellion were hindered by a violent schism in the PDF. A response from the governor was ended prematurely when her daughter shot her, proclaiming the coming of the Red Lady.

 

 

        The appearance of the figurines has each time coincided with increased warp storm phenomena. This is accompanied by reports of strange lights in the skies, and an increase in violence and murders in towns and cities. Manifestations of mutations, stillbirths, and increased psyker activity are also common. The uprisings that have been connected to these figurines range across the history and space of the Imperium. There have been at least seven notable conflicts that have engulfed entire planetary sectors, resulting in death counts in the tens of billions. These would include the aftermath of the Ascension of Loris Planar, but also the Lidless Eye uprisings in M34, the Ghorst Genocides of early M36 and the more recent Cygnet Heresy that coincided with the coming of the Cicatrix Maledictum. In each of these cases, investigation conducted by the Inquisition has yielded several examples of the figurines, often held by key figures in the rebellions.

Each of these instances seems to have been isolated. There is little to connect an agri-world in M34, for instance, to a hive world in M38. Little, that is, except the same figurines, and the same recorded references to the Red Lady. The few captives who have survived to be interrogated in these conflicts have been characterized by euphoric messages proclaiming her coming, of a message that she brings to save humanity.

 

 

‘The Red Lady sees. She comes for you.’

• Graffiti found on the side of an abandoned Vanquisher battletank on Heraklion. Early warnings of civil unrest were cut off by a warpstorm of unprecedented magnitude that cut the world off from the Imperium. After a decade the storms subsided, revealing a planet without a population. The sole survivor found was a young girl, 9 years standard, with red eyes. Reports do not indicate the fate of the child.

 

 

        While the composition of the idols varies, their properties do not. In each instance, they appear to have an effect that is warp-tangible. The flow of the warp is disrupted by their presence, an influence magnified by the number and concentration of the effigies. Within areas affected by the figurines, the warp reacts far less predictably than normal, coming fitfully, in waves and troughs. Those who can wield the warp may find their own powers utterly useless as the tides of the warp recede from them. Others are almost immediately consumed, burned from the inside out as they are overwhelmed by a sudden surge of warp energies. Those who are warp-sensitive frequently report nightmares, spoken voices that come even during waking hours, and often begin to exhibit symptoms of full psychosis. From what information that survives, as the unrest flares into full uprisings, the number of people reporting contact from the Red Lady increases, as does the number of figurines. Vox-logs report calls to join the faithful, while vid-logs show many holding aloft the figurines, as some kind of fetish or ward against danger.

        The danger represented by the Red Lady cannot be overstated. She appears to the downtrodden, the weak, the detritus of humanity, and inspires blind zealotry. In each instance, people have risen to lead organized, violent revolutions from positions of relative obscurity. Corporal Greaves had been demoted three times for petty larceny and public intoxication. The man who became Loris Planar was a known substance abuser. In each instance, people from the lowest dregs of society report euphoric visions of the Red Lady. Each gathers a cadre of devout believers to spread their message. Each leads a sudden, violent revolt. And in each instance, often the only evidence of the passing of the Red Lady, the tokens of her faith are found.

 

 

Heresy is born in the hidden vastness, the unseen infinite. It is born in the heart of a single person, and it takes flight in the minds of a million souls. Heresy is born of anger. It is born of hatred, of weakness. It is born of desperation, and fear, and feeling, and emotion. Heresy is born of hope.

• anon

Edited May 24, 2019 by Sanctimonius

[Teetengee]

Cough, cough. This talking thing still work?

Lock and Key

Hidden Content

The walls screamed their accusations at me. Every sin I had committed. Every sin I had conceived. Every sin of my ancestor’s and the sins of all those I had taught. Every deed and thought they knew.

“Liar.”

“Murderer.”

“Thief.”

“Betrayer.”

“Xenophobe.”

“Blasphemer.”

“Génocidaire.”

Sins in every language, every creed. Everything I had ever done, or had ever thought of doing was thrown back at me. A wave of judgment, twisting into my guilt. White mouths on black stone walls, my shame at their words the length of the passage. In the nethers cutting words were literal, they stung and bled just as a knife would. Moreso, perhaps, as my blood slicked armour would allow passage to few mortal blades.

“Kinslayer.”

“No,” I replied, “worse than that. You’ve hardly touched upon my true sins. Loyalty. Trust. Faith. These were the works that wrought my cage and brought my would-be executioner.” I pushed against the door, digging power armoured heels into the chattering jaws below to force the groaning plasteel. The continued blathering was drowned out by the shattering metal as the gate gave way.

 

Having stepped through, I inspected my pauldron for any damage as my helmet’s display began to light up dozens of enemy signatures from within the station. Unable to suppress a grin, and with thumb hovering over the activation rune of my maul, I walked carefully toward the nearest indicated target. I set my box to scan through all frequencies.

 

“I swear I heard something!”

“Then go check Barat, but the only thing I think you heard is a way out of that losing hand without losing that toy of yours.”

“And if Lord Khaz finds we let someone aboard? What if it's Half-Dead himself, come to collect his prize?”

“A. Lord Khaz is planetside upgrading Half-Dead to Full-Dead right now, that's why we’re here, to kill bloodthirsty fanatics, because boys in red can't find their way out of a bag without a trail of bodies to follow. B. If Half-Dead had miraculously found his way onto the station, we'd all be dead anyways, so it's not like you'd have to answer to Lord Khaz anyways.”

 

I couldn't help myself. I laughed.

 

“Falix, knock it off.”

“Wasn’t me, hoss.”

“And I'm an inquisitor.”

 

I clenched my fist tightly around the hilt of my axe, still at my hip, but thirsting to join its sibling. With a deep breath, I lifted the hand. At the turn of the hall I waited, fist cocked.

 

 

It was under a minute before the guard finally showed up, turning to face me even as my fist burst through his skull. The body spasm against my armor as it crumpled, feckless meaty flapping stopped by the tread of my boot. Grimacing at moving slowly so as not to allow my heavy armor to give away my position before reaching the vaults, I put both hands on my maul, waiting for the next guard unfortunate enough to cross my path.

 

“Barat… Barat, you can’t just be quiet to not owe me that toy. I want him, and you’ve lost, give it up. Barat?”

 

The door to my right opened as I passed it, a scrawny guard with a cigar in their lips and a plasma pistol in their hand, “Bar-.” Their plasma blast went wide, and my kick landed square in their chest. The flipped through the air, caved in, their body folding backward around a desk and sending a stack of cards flying through the air as their pistol clattered to the floor. Another guard stood, lasfire bouncing harmlessly from my armor as I stepped forward, wrapping my hands around her throat and closing tight. Her head went red, then purple, then her rifle dropped.

 

The fire stopped, but the screaming didn’t. Turning back, I saw a man in rags, shaking and chained to the wall by a collar, his mouth open and his eyes slammed shut. The cards gently settled between us on the jutting pieces of shattered rib cage from the smoker. I stopped only to pick up the plasma pistol, he wasn’t worth the time.

 

No one else was on the way to the vaults, either out of wisdom or fear was irrelevant. Perhaps even the screaming had attracted them. I raised the pistol, breaking the trigger down and placing it firing toward the door. Running back, I pulled into a side hall as the station shook. Even with my helmet oculars off, it took several seconds for vision to return.

 

Finally, when I turned about, there was my prize. Silence didn’t matter, I ran. With joy I smashed apart each box, each trinket, each little treasure of Khaz’s until I found the one I was looking for. It pulsed, the key, when I took it from its chamber. The whispers started, loud enough in my ears to drown out even the klaxons. I opened up my breastplate, the cracks of battle easing the piece over my left heart. It mocked me then, half rotten, still pulsing away, “Place in a dead heart? You will do-”

 

I lunged forward, the concussive blasts of heavy bolter shells knocking me from my feet. Coughing up blood into my helmet, I rolled behind the wall, out of the volley. Standing, and removing the now blinding helmet, the air smelled fresher than it had it weeks. Ionized, of course, but clean.

 

“Come out half dead! Come quietly and I’ll be sure to bring your head intact to Khaz!” The vox amplified voice screeched through several octaves delivering the foolhardy promise.

 

“You’re too late. It’s mine. And I’ve got someone to introduce you to,” Looking down, I saw the key turning and turning in my dead heart, felt the air begin to pitch, “Come on through. Who’s a good boy.”

“PREPARE TO FIRE!”

I mounted the juggernaut, ducking my head against his and still scraping the ceiling. Holding both my weapons out wide, I urged Dread around the corner, “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!”

Edited May 29, 2019 by Teetengee

[Sanctimonius]

 

Cough, cough. This talking thing still work?

 

Lock and Key

Hidden Content

The walls screamed their accusations at me. Every sin I had committed. Every sin I had conceived. Every sin of my ancestor’s and the sins of all those I had taught. Every deed and thought they knew.

“Liar.”

“Murderer.”

“Thief.”

“Betrayer.”

“Xenophobe.”

“Blasphemer.”

“Génocidaire.”

Sins in every language, every creed. Everything I had ever done, or had ever thought of doing was thrown back at me. A wave of judgment, twisting into my guilt. White mouths on black stone walls, my shame at their words the length of the passage. In the nethers cutting words were literal, they stung and bled just as a knife would. Moreso, perhaps, as my blood slicked armour would allow passage to few mortal blades.

“Kinslayer.”

“No,” I replied, “worse than that. You’ve hardly touched upon my true sins. Loyalty. Trust. Faith. These were the works that wrought my cage and brought my would-be executioner.” I pushed against the door, digging power armoured heels into the chattering jaws below to force the groaning plasteel. The continued blathering was drowned out by the shattering metal as the gate gave way.

 

Having stepped through, I inspected my pauldron for any damage as my helmet’s display began to light up dozens of enemy signatures from within the station. Unable to suppress a grin, and with thumb hovering over the activation rune of my maul, I walked carefully toward the nearest indicated target. I set my box to scan through all frequencies.

 

“I swear I heard something!”

“Then go check Barat, but the only thing I think you heard is a way out of that losing hand without losing that toy of yours.”

“And if Lord Khaz finds we let someone aboard? What if it's Half-Dead himself, come to collect his prize?”

“A. Lord Khaz is planetside upgrading Half-Dead to Full-Dead right now, that's why we’re here, to kill bloodthirsty fanatics, because boys in red can't find their way out of a bag without a trail of bodies to follow. B. If Half-Dead had miraculously found his way onto the station, we'd all be dead anyways, so it's not like you'd have to answer to Lord Khaz anyways.”

 

I couldn't help myself. I laughed.

 

“Falix, knock it off.”

“Wasn’t me, hoss.”

“And I'm an inquisitor.”

 

I clenched my fist tightly around the hilt of my axe, still at my hip, but thirsting to join its sibling. With a deep breath, I lifted the hand. At the turn of the hall I waited, fist cocked.

 

 

It was under a minute before the guard finally showed up, turning to face me even as my fist burst through his skull. The body spasm against my armor as it crumpled, feckless meaty flapping stopped by the tread of my boot. Grimacing at moving slowly so as not to allow my heavy armor to give away my position before reaching the vaults, I put both hands on my maul, waiting for the next guard unfortunate enough to cross my path.

 

“Barat… Barat, you can’t just be quiet to not owe me that toy. I want him, and you’ve lost, give it up. Barat?”

 

The door to my right opened as I passed it, a scrawny guard with a cigar in their lips and a plasma pistol in their hand, “Bar-.” Their plasma blast went wide, and my kick landed square in their chest. The flipped through the air, caved in, their body folding backward around a desk and sending a stack of cards flying through the air as their pistol clattered to the floor. Another guard stood, lasfire bouncing harmlessly from my armor as I stepped forward, wrapping my hands around her throat and closing tight. Her head went red, then purple, then her rifle dropped.

 

The fire stopped, but the screaming didn’t. Turning back, I saw a man in rags, shaking and chained to the wall by a collar, his mouth open and his eyes slammed shut. The cards gently settled between us on the jutting pieces of shattered rib cage from the smoker. I stopped only to pick up the plasma pistol, he wasn’t worth the time.

 

No one else was on the way to the vaults, either out of wisdom or fear was irrelevant. Perhaps even the screaming had attracted them. I raised the pistol, breaking the trigger down and placing it firing toward the door. Running back, I pulled into a side hall as the station shook. Even with my helmet oculars off, it took several seconds for vision to return.

 

Finally, when I turned about, there was my prize. Silence didn’t matter, I ran. With joy I smashed apart each box, each trinket, each little treasure of Khaz’s until I found the one I was looking for. It pulsed, the key, when I took it from its chamber. The whispers started, loud enough in my ears to drown out even the klaxons. I opened up my breastplate, the cracks of battle easing the piece over my left heart. It mocked me then, half rotten, still pulsing away, “Place in a dead heart? You will do-”

 

I lunged forward, the concussive blasts of heavy bolter shells knocking me from my feet. Coughing up blood into my helmet, I rolled behind the wall, out of the volley. Standing, and removing the now blinding helmet, the air smelled fresher than it had it weeks. Ionized, of course, but clean.

 

“Come out half dead! Come quietly and I’ll be sure to bring your head intact to Khaz!” The vox amplified voice screeched through several octaves delivering the foolhardy promise.

 

“You’re too late. It’s mine. And I’ve got someone to introduce you to,” Looking down, I saw the key turning and turning in my dead heart, felt the air begin to pitch, “Come on through. Who’s a good boy.”

“PREPARE TO FIRE!”

I mounted the juggernaut, ducking my head against his and still scraping the ceiling. Holding both my weapons out wide, I urged Dread around the corner, “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!”

 

 

I'm liking the new direction Game Freak is taking with the Pokemon franchise. Very nice.

Edited May 29, 2019 by Sanctimonius

[Daemon Prince Marbas]

Favored Son

Be'lakor smiled. It was rare for him to do so. The skeletal, ghastly visage that was his face was often just leering, looking into the essence of whatever poor soul he had chanced upon. Most of the time, as familiar a concept such as time could practically be to a daemon, his or rather its face was twisted into hate or a roar of defiance in the heat of battle. Be'lakor felt defiance was integral to his existence. Ever since the Chaos Gods had chosen other champions and blessed them with apotheosis over him, his war for absolute supremacy had been waged. Over time he began to despise the gods he had once sung praises to, murdered, conquered, tortured, and beat for . He realized he was naught but a toy for them and no longer the favorite. The memory of his castigation still echoed in the halls of Be'lakor's soul, burning still over the long millennia. But now was not the time to brood. Be'lakor still hated the mortals whom stood before him, also smiling and celebrating their lord's victory, but he had a grim satisfaction with his work so far. His smile was stolen once the Blood Reaver addressed him. 

 

"My Astartes, my brothers, we must give thanks to our newest patron, the First Prince of Chaos," the being who called himself Huron Blackheart started, "for without him my ascendancy would not be possible."

 

He gestured the Umbral Blade towards Be'lakor, an action that the daemon interpreted as both Huron's impressive charisma trying to lure him in but also an action that suggested a hidden spite for the daemon's existence. The Umbral Blade was indeed capable of banishing the Prince back to the Immaterium. That was the last thing Be'lakor wanted. The torments he could concoct against mortals were nothing what the Dark Gods could do and had done to his soul in the past. If Be'lakor could know fear, it would have been then. Be'lakor bowed pretentiously.

 

"Yes, my lord," Be'lakor cooed, "Soon you shall be Warmaster, and claim the head of that simpleton Abaddon. All the legions of the damned and neverborn shall be at your disposal."

 

Be'lakor grinned distastefully again. If there was one thing these so called 'Chaos Lords' appreciated most, it was flattery. The Prince had to admit that ever since his fall to Chaos, having his pride fed was an exquisite sensation that he knew was reciprocated in the souls of mortals who had chosen to follow the Ruinous Powers, as well. The Umbral Blade truly was a powerful relic capable of bringing worlds and traitor legions to their knees, in the right hands, of course, but that was not the point. Be'lakor knew that it was more importantly a symbol of power, and in the realms of the Empyrean and realspace alike, power attracts like a magnet. The myriad warbands of Chaos would follow whomever wielded it much how the Traitor Legions and Renegade Chapters served the current Warmaster who wielded Drach'nyen. Be'lakor had forged the Umbral Blade himself in the soul forges of the Realm of Chaos. He meticulously demanded only the highest quality of himself, and when it was done was nearly enraptured and subsumed by the relic he had created. But Be'lakor was no fool. If the Umbral Blade could vex him, what would it do to a weak willed human?

Before the Master of the Red Corsairs could react, Be'lakor raised his hand and with a hurl of psychic might blasted open the immaculate doors behind him. Hooded Astartes, bedecked with blackened Mark III power armor, and armed with plasma and volkite weaponry fired into Huron's bodyguard dropping three of them before the rest were able to guard the Tyrant in formation. The Prince fused into the shadows around the darkened Gothic halls effortlessly to which Huron cried out, "Damn you daemon!" As the bodyguard fired into the squad of Fallen who had assaulted them, Be'lakor materialized behind their lord and impaled him through the back with a gift from the Chaos Gods themselves, the Blade of Shadows. The irony was lost on Be'lakor as he raised Huron over his head and threw his wounded body against the nearest column to the left. He decapitated the first Chaos Terminator who turned around to engage him before flying over to the bleeding Huron. Ripping off the Tyrant's Claw and seizing the Umbral Blade, he mocked the Tyrant of Badab one last time. "Little one, do you not remember your own words? 'The only reward for loyalty is betrayal.' Your words. The Chaos Gods have betrayed you."

With a chortling malevolent laugh, he spread his wings and zoomed out of the halls. The Umbral Blade was never for the mortals. It was always a symbol of their foolishness. It was his prize. He earned it in his mind. He did not want to be Warmaster for that aim was too small. He wanted revenge against his negligent fathers. He wanted to become a god. And at this thought, Be'lakor smiled.

 

 

 

 

[Scourged]

The deadline fast approaches... Have any more of you tales to tell of your damnable relics?

[Dizzyeye01]

Wish I coukd; sadly college has eaten up most of my time recently. Now though things are clearing up so I should come up with something for the next subject:)

[Kierdale]

Nothing from me this time. Have just been too busy!

[Scourged]

Thank you for all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: Relics of the Damned

Sanctimonius delivered a companion piece to their winning entry from last week. Favour of the Red Lady fleshes out not details but merely hints about the nature of the Red Lady. The totems left behind hold powers that are not fully understood but are fully feared for the effects they have. We’re left with more questions than answers, which is no doubt what propelled our detective from the last story.

Teetengee was next with Lock and Key. Truly, few bonds are as deep as that of a master and his pet, or his mount. And we would all do anything to always have them at our sides. But when that someone is a servant of Khorne, well… there is truly nothing that will stand in their way.

Daemon Prince Marbas rounded out the entries with Favored Son. It is a star-studded event, with Be’lakor alongside Huron Blackheart. Some relics were never meant for the mortals. Some belong in the Warp, where their true power can shine, where only the most powerful can wield them. And such relics must be recovered by any means necessary.

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: Shadow Wars

Not all fights are a monumental affair. Not all wars rage across an entire planet. Not all battles encompass full battalions of troops. Sometimes the most pivotal of actions are decided by the smallest handful of elite choices. Why send a full brigade when a Kill Team will do?

Having embraced the secrets of the Hydra, such style of war appeals to me greatly. That small squad of specialists, trained for guerrilla warfare and urban combat, each a master in their own right and able to accomplish their goal before the enemy knows what has happened. But maybe it’s not stealth that is needed, but shock and awe? A trio of veterans in Tactical Dreadnought Armor bursting into the building through rips in the Immaterium, slaughtering all in their path to claim a prize for their Iron Warrior brothers. Or a handful of Possessed, chosen for their ability to blend impossibly into the shadows, assassinating a chosen leader to bring glory to the Word Bearers and the Dark Gods. And sometimes, it’s just as simple as handful of World Eaters wandering through the near-abandoned streets, looking for those last few skulls to claim.

In this week’s challenge, tell us of a Chaos Kill Team. And yes, do feel free to include and Commanders and Elites.

IF2019: Shadow Wars runs until the 28th of June

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

The winner of IF2019: Relics of the Damned shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

[Sanctimonius]

Alright, here goes.

 

Thank you to both Teetengee and Daemon Prince Marbas for your stories, I thoroughly enjoyed both.. But I have to choose one over the other, and while it isn't an easy choice, I have to proclaim the winner of this challenge...

 

Teetengee. It was a really original idea, and the notion that the marine carries a bound daemon in his own heart was great. I want to see more of this character.

[Daemon Prince Marbas]

Congratulations Teetengee on the win

[Teetengee]

Thanks!

Also, it's not the first time I've written about Arkash or Dread before, there's some previous stuff in older Inspirational Fridays, though I couldn't necessarily tell you when.


EDIT: Ah, thanks google:

Dreadsteed

Also, I couldn't find this one, but I thought I'd posted it before:

Hidden Content

Arkash stood before Hroll, gulping down air and shaking with rage in wrecked armour halved in black and red. Inquisitor Hroll pushed against the ground on power armoured stumps, extending his one remaining hand towards a discarded bolt pistol. With a scream of fury Arkash kicked it away and stooped to pick up one of his slain enemy’s chainswords.

“YOU!” Arkash roared as he grabbed Hroll by a sparking power pack and dragged him to a wall, smearing blood and bone across the ship’s floor and kicking power armoured bodies of friend and foe alike from his path. “You did this!” Arkash screamed again as he threw what was left of Hroll against the wall with a wet crunch.

“We fought for you! We asked for your aid! We sent for you!” Each sentence was punctuated with a hammerblow fist into Hroll’s damaged faceplate. “Instead you sent censure! Death! WHY!!” Cracks spidered and split across the helm as Arkash’s onslaught continued until the whole thing splintered over the metal floor.

Hroll spat out blood and bile at the shaking Arkash’s feet. “The Knights of Cathar were tainted, not unlike their angelic forebears. You are all dead now, I have done the Emperor’s work today.”

“WE were the Emperor’s angels! We shed blood on a hundred worlds for Him. And these are the wages of duty? I swore oaths to kings, not cowards too scared to look upon their own sword stained in the blood of foes. All dead, you say?” Arkash’s wild hate cooled to a quiet wrath as he spoke and paced the shattered bridge, blood pooling from a missing eye socket and a dozen other wounds. “Nay, for I still draw breath. You came to cover your own sins, and you have failed, Hroll. So in payment for your hubris, I spit upon oaths sworn to lesser men. The Imperium is not worthy of us, even if only I remain. So our words will ring out through the stars as a warning to those who might flee from the horrid necessities of war.”

Arkash stalked forward to Hroll, dragging the chainsword screeching along the metal at his feet. “Are you ready to hear them one last time?”

Hroll words were drowned out by the revving blade as Arkash lifted it above his head.

“IN DEATH SHALL ALL SINS BE CLEANSED!” with that, Arkash plunged the blade down into Hroll’s open mouth, spraying teeth and gore through the air. Eyeballs burst and skull shredded as Arkash pushed the whirring blade further and further into Hroll’s torso. Hunks of ribs and organs rendered indistinguishable from each other flew out of the neck hole in Hroll’s armour as the blade sank jerkingly into his body. Finally the blade ground to a halt, stopped up with thick chunks of spine, spurting out only one more fountain of viscera before belching out the blue smoke of a dead blade. Arkash gave a primal yell, levering down the weapon and snapping half of it off in Hroll’s corpse. Then he turned, the bloodlust rising once more, and stormed out the door, picking up fresh weapons from the dead along his path.

Edited June 10, 2019 by Teetengee

[Scourged]

Only a couple days left to go... will there be any other takers for Shadow Wars? 

[Kierdale]

Sorry, I’ve been too busy :(

[EesiOh]

Deafening Silence

 

Danatov watched the squad fan out in uncomfortable silence. Ever since the alliance was forged, and the warband and the retinue had been one, Danatov had been uncomfortable. It wasn’t that they were Space Marines of course. As a Crusader he had seen many Space Marines in his time, the Salamanders, with their compassion for humanity, the Black Templars with their fiery zeal to carry out Him on Terra’s will, his position was one of such privilege he had even been able to work alongside the mysterious sons of Titan, the Grey Knights, on numerous occasions. But none had been like these. For a start, they were silent. Not silent as in they spoke little, he had encountered that when he was bridely in the Damocles crusade alongside the Raven Guard. They were so silent that their armour made no noise. The servos did not whirr and hum, their footsteps didn’t thud across the stone floor, though he saw the dust particles dance from the weight of the armoured suits walking across them. He didn’t know their names, or their faces. They could almost be mistaken for automata.

 

Almost, but not quite. There was no uniformity in the group, besides a general clashing white and black colour scheme, a colour scheme Danatov himself now wore, painfully, but dutifully applied over its former imperial regulation colours. One of them, Demolitions, Danatov thought of him, easier to simply call them by their role in this mission than anything else, wore an old MKIII Iron armoured helmet but MKV Heresy armoured chest and pauldrons. Demolitions carried a satchel of various explosives over his shoulder, and carried a melta gun, that was now being readied at the nearby wall. Assassinations on the other hand, had a mark of power armour that Danatov had never seen before, though it seemed to also be from the Heresy era. Sleeker than the armour of the other squad members, it had a matte finish to it that made it difficult to see, even under good light conditions. Assassinations carried two blades, carrying one in a traditional knife grip and the other in a reversed grip. Both were made of a green metal Danatov had never seen before, but he had seen them cut through armour almost like a power weapon, and had no doubt about either their usefulness, or their wielders. Demolitions thumbed the trigger on the Melta, and Danatov readied his shield and sword, in case something should come charging out from the other side, but at the last of the molten slag dripped away from the gaping wound that had been opened in the wall, nothing happened. No forces came to repel them, not alarmed triggered. Without a word, Demolitions stepped back and Assassinations quickly leapt through the hole. That was the other thing of course. They never talked, but somehow, they always knew what was going on.

 

Danatov suppressed a shudder as Demolitions followed Assassinations, he stepped through the hole himself, and barely had time to get out of the way before Suppressions followed him. Wearing MKVIII Errant armour, Suppressions definitely had the most modern armour out of the squad, but the weapon he wielded was, like Assassinations blades, something new to Danatov. A wicked looking chain fed machine gun, it had two belts of ammunition that fed back into Suppressions’ powerpack. Danatov had yet to see it in action, but he had an inkling of how effective it might be. The fact that it had been thought necessary to this operation however, did make him nervous, though Kislev had said it was merely a precaution. Speaking of Kislev, he was the last through the hole. Unlike the unnaturally silent Space Marines, Kislev was all too human. Danatov wasn’t sure this was any better. He had spent enough time around the sorcerer to relax his guard a little, but the way the very air tasted different when he was in a room, the slight ringing in his ears that occurred whenever he looked at Danatov, always kept him on edge. Of course, he understood Rowan’s reasoning for striking a bargain with Kislev. He had even seen the results of it. The power of the Ordo Malleus was perfectly complemented by Kislev and his Silent Laughter, but he didn’t like the way that Rowan deferred more and more to him. Feeling that overwhelming gaze rising to meet his own, he hastily looked away and focused on the mission at hand.

 

 

 

Assassinations was nowhere to be seen, though assumedly somewhere ahead of the group, using his armours light absorbing qualities and his own unnatural silence to scout ahead of the others. The remaining four surveyed their surroundings. They appeared to be within an obsidian passageway, lit by flickering pale blue balefire emanating from the inside of human skulls floating at head height. Danatov considered them before him. The display unsettled him. Part of his job description meant that he dealt with sorcery on a frequent basis. So he was used to it, but the skulls, much like Kislev, gave of an unnerving aura that set his teeth grinding in his head. Whether Kislev or the members of the Silent Laughter noticed his discomfort, they made no mention, though the sorcerer had a thin smile on his lips. They proceeded down a maze of identical passageways, no doors, or markings appearing on any of the smooth walls, though occasionally they would come across a body, wearing deep blue robes.

 

As they travelled further into the maze, the bodies grew more bizarre. Some had writing, still crawling across their cooling flesh. Others suffered mutations, a third eye, a feathered head, a hand like a birds claw. Each time, they had a single entry wound on either the neck or the heart. Assassinations, living up to his assigned name. Eventually they caught up to him, and watched him dispatch something so mutated it was no longer human. A golden beak, no eyes, and small vestigial blue wings, which stopped beating as one of the knives found its way between them, severing its spinal column. Assassinations knives seemed greener now, now that Danatov came to think of it, and as he withdrew the knife from the creatures back, it grew greener still. Danatov swallowed drily, before taking up position next to Assassinations. Demolitions moved forward, and seemingly at random, burned another hole in the tunnel wall. As the wall slagged and bubbled, the sound of chanting reached Danatov’s ears. He turned around, questioningly, and Kislev nodded.

 

Assassinations ghosted through the hole, followed just as quietly by Demolitions and Suppressions. Danatov followed, wincing at how loud he and Kislev seemed by comparison. As they entered the room, Danatov noted some more details. Like the rest of the structure they were infiltrating, it appeared to be made of an obsidian like material and while it lacked the floating skulls, it was striking entirely in its own way. Bearing nine sides, the room was lit from its centre by a burning octagram of royal blue balefire. Around each point stood a robed cultist, chanting in an alien, almost birdlike tongue, while inside it stood what at first, Danatov thought was a man, but quickly realised was a Tzaangor, one of the twisted creations of Tzeentch, part man and part goat. This is what they had come to do. Danatov wasn’t sure why, but he knew it was imperative this summoning be stopped. Without so much as a signal, Demolitions, Assassinations and Suppressions all stepped forward, each standing behind a cultist and ending them, Demolitions and Suppressions with neck snaps, that rang out with a sickening crunch across the room, while Assassinations used one of his trusty blades. The cultists seemed to pay no heed to their compatriots being cut down, though the Tzaangor brayed out in indignant rage. Kislev stode forwards, into the circle and confronted it without a word, Danatov, unsure of what to do, followed. He watched uncertainly as the two sorcerers faced each other, hands and lips moving in a flurry of incantations and curses. Danatov longed to simply charge forward and cut down the foul Tzeentch worshippers, but knew that to disrupt the ritual at this point may well risk all their lives. Suddenly, the Tzaangor barked out, somewhere between a braying laugh and scream, before its head and limbs violently pulled inwards inside it’s body, like a graviton bomb had gone off inside its chest, causing it to implode in spectacularly bloody fashion. Danatov turned to Kislev uncertainly. “Is it done?” The first words spoken since the mission began. “Not quite” came the reply.

 

 

“Is it done?” The naive Crusader asked him, glancing about the circle, and wondering why the ritual continued. “Not quite” He replied, stepping forward with the blade his minion had passed to him, and stabbing its pulsing green blade into his chest. As he did so, he picked up the chant of the circle, the chant that in his head, he heard his minions give voice to. He felt the daemonic essence rising, some minor and wholly unimpressive whelp of the Changer of Ways, before it shrunk back in terror, was replaced by a new sensation. With the ‘terrible’ ‘accidental’ death of the Crusader, one of the last in Rowan’s warband who still doubted him, Kislev subverted the summoning. This was no mere petty daemon, this was one of his masters favoured servants.

 

The chanting reached a fever pitch as a beak burst out of the face of the Crusaders corpse. This beak was no mere chicken beak, that servants of the changer of ways had. No, it was a raptors beak, a predators beak. The corpse continued to twist and contort. The skull cracking and elongating, ribcage splitting, and back tearing to allow skeletal wings to burst forth. A few more snaps and cracks sounded as the corpse spasmed with new life, before the head tilted to face Kislev “What is my bidding?” It squawked, bones champing against bone as its beak flapped. At the success of the summoning, a wave of pure force burst from the eight points of the circle, internally pulverising the cultists where they stood, their corpses dropped to the ground, spewing blood from every orifice. The Silent Laughter merely tensed their legs against the ground, silently weathering the empiric surge before leaving their vigil at the circles edge. “To purge the taint of these tzeentch loving filth” With an affirmative kaw, the daemon of Malic rose to its full nine foot tall height and spread its wings, before wreathing itself in a monochrome balefire and bursting through the ceiling of the temple.

 

Kislev silently appraised his minions before heading towards the hole in the wall. The mission was a success. The ritual was not just stopped, but co-opted for their own ends. The Tzeentchian stronghold would soon fall to their might. Better yet, the Crusader had taken the bait, and been disposed of. The last doubter of Kislev was silenced. Now Rowan could be fully converted… Kislev opened his mouth, shouting in a primordial a voice that echoed throughout the entire fortress “FOR THE RENEGADE GOD” It was only then, that the alarms went off, and that one of his minions Chain cannons began to spin up. He had enjoyed this

 

 

I know it has been AGES since ive been around, and now im back. Ive learned my lesson, no more promises about being back for good. But its good to be back. Hope you all dont mind if I slip in a last minute submission, like slipping a knife into a ribcage (Very Killteam of me) 

Edited June 28, 2019 by EesiOh

[Sanctimonius]

I'm trying to finish up something, if I can have a little more time. Sorry, I've restarted this one like three times now.

edit: Alright, I have a story finished. Hope you enjoy it.

A Teachable Moment

           The shelling had been going on since the early hours of the morning. The Iron IVth did enjoy their little displays. Truth be told I found it tiresome, the constant crump of shells, the roar of the guns, the smell of fyceline and dust and sweat. Still, while a soulless method of combat, it was nonetheless an effective one. The city lay in ruins, splintered by the fury of the Legion batteries. Mere days before, proud spires and turrets had stood tall, casting shadows proclaiming the might of the Seated Corpse. Indegra had been another vital city, another waypoint from which the men and material that fuelled the endless wars of the Imperium had flowed.
          And now that city lay shattered.
          The proud spires had been cast down. The fierce defences, bristling with weapons and angry little men and women, had been obliterated. The walls and shield batteries had long since been ground to dust, leaving Indegra bare to the whims of the Great Powers, and, more importantly, to me and mine.
          Yet the vermin resisted. They scuttled about the ruins of their former homes. I had watched them throughout the day, scurrying between mounds of rubble. It was not a common sight, not this far from the centre of the city. They had learned to fear being in the open. Those too slow were easy targets for the clades of hell blades and their whistling bombs. Others had provided target practice for the traitor guardsmen who had turned on their brethren. Even now I could hear the distinctive crack-whine of a lasrifle, the laughter of the soldier who carried it pleased with his skill. A smile tugged at my lips. I wonder if they knew how highly their new masters valued their lives. I wondered if they would still laugh if they knew their role in the attack that would come with the rising of the sun.
          I heard a sound behind me, the heavy tread of a legionary. Haunter, they even walked unimaginatively. A steady gait, a walk designed to traipse mountains and traverse worlds and stifle the soul.
          ‘What is it, Goddrakk?’
          The legionary stood beside me and looked out over the dark city. The power had been one of the first casualties of the day, and as day gave way to night in this low light even my eyes were taxed. I doubted he could see anything, yet still he looked out as if surveying his handiwork. ‘It’s time.’
          I nodded. I flexed my hands causing the blades to slide from my fingers, turning my gauntlets into vicious weapons. ‘Make sure your aim is true.’
          ‘Make sure you don’t stand under the shells.’ I could hear the mockery in his tone. I believe this is what passed for humour from the IVth. I smirked. Truth be told, I rather liked the Iron Warrior. Inasmuch as anyone could like one of the IVth. Around me my wards readied their own weapons. It was a night of quiet, a night to send a message, and so they brought the appropriate tools. Chainswords and bolters were left behind, while cold steel and silenced pistols were the flavour of the night. Goddrakk looked at them as they prepared. ‘Are you sure they can be trusted to carry out the mission?’
          ‘Goddrakk, please. You look to your toys, and we will look to ours.’
          He grunted. ‘Reports are that their command structure remains relatively intact. They are reeling. They are not finished. And there are redoubts still standing, areas we cannot reach yet. Be wary, they will use the night to move their numbers.’
          I grinned at him even as I donned my helmet. The preysight flickered into view, enhancing my already exceptional night vision so all around me seemed as bright as day. ‘Dear Goddrakk, have you still not learned this lesson? The night belongs to the VIIIth. Ave Dominus Nox.’
          The Iron Warrior crashed a fist to his chest. ‘Iron Within, Iron Without.’

          We made quick time towards the city, the destroyed homes providing ample coverage for me and mine. Preysight made a mockery of the darkness, allowing me to sight incoming patrols and sniper nests. We could go where we wished, free to avoid the clumsy footsteps of the guardsmen who still defended this wreckage. Free to avoid if we wished. I did not choose to do so every time, of course. My wards deserved to indulge themselves, and I encouraged them to do so.
          Theirs was a motley assortment of waifs and strays I had picked up from the hives of the Imperium. The forgotten, the castaways, the downtrodden; these made the greatest recruits for the Long War. Each of my wards were veterans of many raids, but yet to prove their worth. None were permitted to wear the Midnight, instead they carried scavenged armour and weapons, snatched where they could from those too weak to stop them. Truthfully, only Alikser and Helik were far enough along in their gene-schedule to bear true plate, the others were at various stages of their induction. The greatest problem of creating the next generation to bear the Midnight was a lack of resources. We starved, cut off from the beneficence of the Imperium. And so we must barter and scrape, take and steal that which we needed. I grimaced to myself as I approached another ruined building. Goddrakk had promised me a veritable treasure trove of gene-tech, easily enough to finish raising my acolytes to their full status. All we had to do was a simple little task for him.
          End the resistance and claim this city for the Iron IVth.
          The defenders of this world remained stubbornly resistant to the Iron Warriors and their incessant shelling. A charismatic preacher led their defense, screaming her message of divine hatred and defiance. Each night she exhorted the brave men and women of the PDF to fight back against their aggressors. Each day she fought alongside the guards. She was an annoyance, and Goddrakk had identified her as the lynchpin of the resistance. End her life, end the conflict. So the reasoning went. And the subtle application of force was a far more effective tool than all the great batteries of basilisks and whirlwinds and vindicators of the IVth.
          The shelling continued to rain overhead, pounding the city. Overhead lights and contrails streaked the sky as shells cut through the night. I shook my head. Such bluster and bombast. Such a waste. Still, it provided cover.
          I carefully led my wards through the city, my eidetic memory bringing to the fore the windows in the shelling that would keep us safe. The IVth knew their craft well, and had left a narrow corridor through which we could travel. We moved quickly, though, with few problems. Any time we could not avoid a patrol I indulged the children. It did them good to shake off the cobwebs of the long travel through the void. And besides, it was good for morale.
          They had learned their lessons well, even the youngest, Bechan. They stuck to the shadows, picking off stragglers and the wounded first. They created confusion and fear, striking without warning and disappearing without a trace. I watched as they picked apart the squad, the final guardsman practically hyperventilating as he backed towards a wall, firing blindly into the darkness, his screams for help smothered by the continuous shelling. His cries were silenced forever by Alikser’s blade as he rushed from the dark, and the trooper’s body was left as a warning to those who would come after. And thus our passage serves more than a single purpose.
          As we approached the centre of the city the patrols came more often, and in bigger numbers. We moved more carefully then. Still, the darkness shrouded us, allowed us to penetrate further into the city. We would not be an easy target, even as the rubble swarmed with PDF. A problem remained, however. The preacher was not a fool. She remained hidden to our eyes, knowing her greatest defense was mystery and secrecy. Monitoring the vox chatter of these vermin had taught us that much. She moved to a new location each night, her whereabouts known only to a privileged few. Which meant that we needed to illuminate one of these precious few as to just how much a burden knowledge could be.
          With that in mind, my plan was a simple one. Find the highest ranked officer I could, and garner whatever information I could from them. If they did not know the location of the preacher, then they would divulge the location of someone who might. And on and on the chain of command would travel.
          I do so love a hierarchy. It makes it wonderfully simple to find those in charge.
          I identified a likely target, a small squad of PDF who huddled around a firepit. It was dug deep so as to be hidden from afar, and they were warming rations over the flames. Exhaustion was writ deep in their faces, and several were in a dead slumber.
          It was a slaughter.
          Alikser led the charge, at a nod from myself, of course. With simple gestures he directed the aspirants, and once they were in place, they picked off the sentries, then those who remained awake, then slit the throats of those who slept. We left one living, of course, the rest butchered where they lay. She slept soundly, unaware that her colleagues and friends had ended in the most brutal of fashions.
          Did you know it is possible to silence a person without killing or gagging them? A swift strike to the vocal chords, properly applied, prevents them from crying out, yet leaves them able to breath. This provides the opportunity for indulgence, for the chance to take one’s time in ending their lives without the potential for any alarm or begging. Do not mistake me, begging has its place. But in a warzone, efficiency is prized above the pleasure.
          We also left alive the leader of the squad. For a short while. Just long enough to drag him from his bed, panicked, soiled, weeping. He knew of our reputation, of course. This was not the first night we had been abroad. And while he did not recognise my livery, he knew of our work. Quiet, terrified voices spoke on the vox of the Harvester, who came to bring the judgement of the Great Enemy, who took the unwary, snatched them from their safety and carried them into the darkness.
          He knew little of worth, in the end. A name, barely a few ranks up the chain of command. But it was a lead, nonetheless. And so the chase continued. After taking a moment to erect the good sergeant upon the remains of a nearby wall. He had been such a good signpost on our journey it felt appropriate to allow him to direct others once the sun rose again.
          And so the next few hours were occupied with a merry, staccato hunt. We found Corporal Bran, who kindly provided us with the location of Lieutenant Merriweather, who obligingly pointed us towards Major Keeler. Keeler in particular had been most upset with us, adamant that she was protected, that she was untouchable in her little bunker. Surrounded by the remains and viscera of her coterie, she had denied our right to be there, our very existence, right up until we started cutting. Then she became rather co-operative.
          Keeler had not known in any degree of certainty, only rumours and innuendo. But in the chaos of warfare, what could be more reliable than gossip? Keeler pointed us – well, gestured, she no longer had the fingers with which to point – towards a ruin deeper within the city. It had once been a shrine, a temple to the ridiculous divinity of the Emperor. As I looked down upon the tumbled walls I couldn’t contain a sneer. The notion of worshipping a crippled god, of allowing myself to be humbled before a creature that couldn’t scratch his nose if he sneezed… I snorted. The area was deserted, even the constant shelling seemed muffled here. There was a sense of calm that overlaid the area.
          I raised a hand to hold my aspirants in place. I scanned the area through a variety of wavelengths, infrared through to ultraviolet, skimmed the audio spectrum. There was nothing. It was a dead zone, a tiny slice of silence in a noisy world.
          She was here.
          I led the way. My children, while raised far beyond mortals, were still limited in many ways. None could pierce the darkness as I could. Still, they acquitted themselves well. Even to my enhanced ears they were practically silent, ghosting towards the broken walls of the shrine. Which almost made it a surprise when the firing began.
          PDF troopers appeared along the walls and began pouring lasfire at us. They must have been very still to remain hidden from my preysight even at this distance. My wards scattered, gaining whatever cover they could, but not before Bechan took several solid shots. Stupid boy. But there was no time for chastisement now. I could hear the screams of the one who led the guardsmen, yelling out orders and commands. She was calling for the heavy gun to be wheeled around. I glanced over the rubble that shielded me, saw the barrel of a heavy bolter come into view. I cursed softly. Such a weapon posed a threat even to me. It would tear apart my aspirants, wasting the work of many months. I could not let that happen.
          I rose smoothly even as I flexed my fingers, retracting my claws. I drew my pistol with my left hand, pulled a frag grenade free with my right.
          You must understand, this is something that the Sons of the Raven Lord or the insidious XXth sometimes fail to appreciate. Quiet, silence, striking from the darkness to wreak havoc – these are but tools. These are merely a part of our arsenal, employed to create a specific effect: fear. Fear is the killer of men, the death of reason, the end of resistance. And there are many ways to cause fear. Sometimes it is to be unseen, to kill, to tear, to flay. Judgement from the blackness of night. And sometimes it is the sight of a warrior of the Lords of Night, in Midnight Clad, rising as an avenging angel to end your miserable existence.

          Sometimes the fear is in the unknown. And sometimes the fear in in the knowledge that your existence in measured in mere moments.
          I saw their leader instantly and fired a single bolt that ended her life before she could react. The grenade flew towards the heavy weapons crew, tearing them apart even as they aimed at us. Behind me my wards rose from cover, their weapons free to add to the weight of my fire. The ruins that sheltered the troopers exploded under the bolt rounds. We had brought heavier shot, far quieter than the regular explosive rounds, but they still were of a far greater calibre than we faced. The ancient stones of the shrine buckled, gave way under our onslaught. Even before we reached the defenders half of them had fallen, bodies torn apart by our firepower. I flexed my right hand to release my claws once more and tore into the defenders, red spray and screams marking my passage. Behind me my wards joined the fray.
          The defenders were slaughtered to the last man. It may have been considered brave to onlookers, a last stand against impossible odds. To me it was pathetic.
          As my aspirants finished their work and began marking our presence to those who would come later, I surveyed the shrine. Temperature fluctuations heralded a hidden area beneath us, and it was short work to find a thick iron door covered poorly in brush. They had tried to conceal this area from me. I called Alikser forwards, took a meltabomb from him and placed it on the iron of the door. A few moments, a brilliance that hurt even my eyes, and we were in.
Beneath was a single room that contained three people, two men and a woman, and a whole array of communications equipment. The men cringed back from me as I descended the stairwell, already reeking of fear and voided bowels. But the woman, she stood defiant. Her back was straight, her eyes fearless as she gazed up at me. I think she was trying to impress me, trying to show how unafraid she was of my evil. That she, in some way, had opposed me, had thwarted my plans for however short a time. That even a small victory was, in the end, worth it, no matter the cost.
          I broke her over the next few hours. Her screams, when they came, were delicious.
          Our task done it was time to head back to the Iron Warrior’s encampment, several miles outside the limits of the city. Light would be coming soon, and I had no desire to announce my presence to the entirety of the PDF. There was the question of what to do about Bechan, of course. He was wounded, lasburns across his body, and he gritted his teeth as he looked up at me. He didn’t beg, of course. He knew the futility of that. He tried to fight when the other aspirants picked over his weapons and armour, adding to or replacing their own gear, but he was too weak to resist. And after all, isn’t that the point of life? This is the lesson we bring.
           You resist what you can, and suffer what you must. We are the Lords of Night. And we will have our due.

Edited June 29, 2019 by Sanctimonius

[EesiOh]

I'm trying to finish up something, if I can have a little more time. Sorry, I've restarted this one like three times now.

 

edit: Alright, I have a story finished. Hope you enjoy it.

 

A Teachable Moment

 

           The shelling had been going on since the early hours of the morning. The Iron IVth did enjoy their little displays. Truth be told I found it tiresome, the constant crump of shells, the roar of the guns, the smell of fyceline and dust and sweat. Still, while a soulless method of combat, it was nonetheless an effective one. The city lay in ruins, splintered by the fury of the Legion batteries. Mere days before, proud spires and turrets had stood tall, casting shadows proclaiming the might of the Seated Corpse. Indegra had been another vital city, another waypoint from which the men and material that fuelled the endless wars of the Imperium had flowed.

          And now that city lay shattered.

          The proud spires had been cast down. The fierce defences, bristling with weapons and angry little men and women, had been obliterated. The walls and shield batteries had long since been ground to dust, leaving Indegra bare to the whims of the Great Powers, and, more importantly, to me and mine.

          Yet the vermin resisted. They scuttled about the ruins of their former homes. I had watched them throughout the day, scurrying between mounds of rubble. It was not a common sight, not this far from the centre of the city. They had learned to fear being in the open. Those too slow were easy targets for the clades of hell blades and their whistling bombs. Others had provided target practice for the traitor guardsmen who had turned on their brethren. Even now I could hear the distinctive crack-whine of a lasrifle, the laughter of the soldier who carried it pleased with his skill. A smile tugged at my lips. I wonder if they knew how highly their new masters valued their lives. I wondered if they would still laugh if they knew their role in the attack that would come with the rising of the sun.

          I heard a sound behind me, the heavy tread of a legionary. Haunter, they even walked unimaginatively. A steady gait, a walk designed to traipse mountains and traverse worlds and stifle the soul.

          ‘What is it, Goddrakk?’

          The legionary stood beside me and looked out over the dark city. The power had been one of the first casualties of the day, and as day gave way to night in this low light even my eyes were taxed. I doubted he could see anything, yet still he looked out as if surveying his handiwork. ‘It’s time.’

          I nodded. I flexed my hands causing the blades to slide from my fingers, turning my gauntlets into vicious weapons. ‘Make sure your aim is true.’

          ‘Make sure you don’t stand under the shells.’ I could hear the mockery in his tone. I believe this is what passed for humour from the IVth. I smirked. Truth be told, I rather liked the Iron Warrior. Inasmuch as anyone could like one of the IVth. Around me my wards readied their own weapons. It was a night of quiet, a night to send a message, and so they brought the appropriate tools. Chainswords and bolters were left behind, while cold steel and silenced pistols were the flavour of the night. Goddrakk looked at them as they prepared. ‘Are you sure they can be trusted to carry out the mission?’

          ‘Goddrakk, please. You look to your toys, and we will look to ours.’

          He grunted. ‘Reports are that their command structure remains relatively intact. They are reeling. They are not finished. And there are redoubts still standing, areas we cannot reach yet. Be wary, they will use the night to move their numbers.’

          I grinned at him even as I donned my helmet. The preysight flickered into view, enhancing my already exceptional night vision so all around me seemed as bright as day. ‘Dear Goddrakk, have you still not learned this lesson? The night belongs to the VIIIth. Ave Dominus Nox.’

          The Iron Warrior crashed a fist to his chest. ‘Iron Within, Iron Without.’

 

          We made quick time towards the city, the destroyed homes providing ample coverage for me and mine. Preysight made a mockery of the darkness, allowing me to sight incoming patrols and sniper nests. We could go where we wished, free to avoid the clumsy footsteps of the guardsmen who still defended this wreckage. Free to avoid if we wished. I did not choose to do so every time, of course. My wards deserved to indulge themselves, and I encouraged them to do so.

          Theirs was a motley assortment of waifs and strays I had picked up from the hives of the Imperium. The forgotten, the castaways, the downtrodden; these made the greatest recruits for the Long War. Each of my wards were veterans of many raids, but yet to prove their worth. None were permitted to wear the Midnight, instead they carried scavenged armour and weapons, snatched where they could from those too weak to stop them. Truthfully, only Alikser and Helik were far enough along in their gene-schedule to bear true plate, the others were at various stages of their induction. The greatest problem of creating the next generation to bear the Midnight was a lack of resources. We starved, cut off from the beneficence of the Imperium. And so we must barter and scrape, take and steal that which we needed. I grimaced to myself as I approached another ruined building. Goddrakk had promised me a veritable treasure trove of gene-tech, easily enough to finish raising my acolytes to their full status. All we had to do was a simple little task for him.

          End the resistance and claim this city for the Iron IVth.

          The defenders of this world remained stubbornly resistant to the Iron Warriors and their incessant shelling. A charismatic preacher led their defense, screaming her message of divine hatred and defiance. Each night she exhorted the brave men and women of the PDF to fight back against their aggressors. Each day she fought alongside the guards. She was an annoyance, and Goddrakk had identified her as the lynchpin of the resistance. End her life, end the conflict. So the reasoning went. And the subtle application of force was a far more effective tool than all the great batteries of basilisks and whirlwinds and vindicators of the IVth.

          The shelling continued to rain overhead, pounding the city. Overhead lights and contrails streaked the sky as shells cut through the night. I shook my head. Such bluster and bombast. Such a waste. Still, it provided cover.

          I carefully led my wards through the city, my eidetic memory bringing to the fore the windows in the shelling that would keep us safe. The IVth knew their craft well, and had left a narrow corridor through which we could travel. We moved quickly, though, with few problems. Any time we could not avoid a patrol I indulged the children. It did them good to shake off the cobwebs of the long travel through the void. And besides, it was good for morale.

          They had learned their lessons well, even the youngest, Bechan. They stuck to the shadows, picking off stragglers and the wounded first. They created confusion and fear, striking without warning and disappearing without a trace. I watched as they picked apart the squad, the final guardsman practically hyperventilating as he backed towards a wall, firing blindly into the darkness, his screams for help smothered by the continuous shelling. His cries were silenced forever by Alikser’s blade as he rushed from the dark, and the trooper’s body was left as a warning to those who would come after. And thus our passage serves more than a single purpose.

          As we approached the centre of the city the patrols came more often, and in bigger numbers. We moved more carefully then. Still, the darkness shrouded us, allowed us to penetrate further into the city. We would not be an easy target, even as the rubble swarmed with PDF. A problem remained, however. The preacher was not a fool. She remained hidden to our eyes, knowing her greatest defense was mystery and secrecy. Monitoring the vox chatter of these vermin had taught us that much. She moved to a new location each night, her whereabouts known only to a privileged few. Which meant that we needed to illuminate one of these precious few as to just how much a burden knowledge could be.

          With that in mind, my plan was a simple one. Find the highest ranked officer I could, and garner whatever information I could from them. If they did not know the location of the preacher, then they would divulge the location of someone who might. And on and on the chain of command would travel.

          I do so love a hierarchy. It makes it wonderfully simple to find those in charge.

          I identified a likely target, a small squad of PDF who huddled around a firepit. It was dug deep so as to be hidden from afar, and they were warming rations over the flames. Exhaustion was writ deep in their faces, and several were in a dead slumber.

          It was a slaughter.

          Alikser led the charge, at a nod from myself, of course. With simple gestures he directed the aspirants, and once they were in place, they picked off the sentries, then those who remained awake, then slit the throats of those who slept. We left one living, of course, the rest butchered where they lay. She slept soundly, unaware that her colleagues and friends had ended in the most brutal of fashions.

          Did you know it is possible to silence a person without killing or gagging them? A swift strike to the vocal chords, properly applied, prevents them from crying out, yet leaves them able to breath. This provides the opportunity for indulgence, for the chance to take one’s time in ending their lives without the potential for any alarm or begging. Do not mistake me, begging has its place. But in a warzone, efficiency is prized above the pleasure.

          We also left alive the leader of the squad. For a short while. Just long enough to drag him from his bed, panicked, soiled, weeping. He knew of our reputation, of course. This was not the first night we had been abroad. And while he did not recognise my livery, he knew of our work. Quiet, terrified voices spoke on the vox of the Harvester, who came to bring the judgement of the Great Enemy, who took the unwary, snatched them from their safety and carried them into the darkness.

          He knew little of worth, in the end. A name, barely a few ranks up the chain of command. But it was a lead, nonetheless. And so the chase continued. After taking a moment to erect the good sergeant upon the remains of a nearby wall. He had been such a good signpost on our journey it felt appropriate to allow him to direct others once the sun rose again.

          And so the next few hours were occupied with a merry, staccato hunt. We found Corporal Bran, who kindly provided us with the location of Lieutenant Merriweather, who obligingly pointed us towards Major Keeler. Keeler in particular had been most upset with us, adamant that she was protected, that she was untouchable in her little bunker. Surrounded by the remains and viscera of her coterie, she had denied our right to be there, our very existence, right up until we started cutting. Then she became rather co-operative.

          Keeler had not known in any degree of certainty, only rumours and innuendo. But in the chaos of warfare, what could be more reliable than gossip? Keeler pointed us – well, gestured, she no longer had the fingers with which to point – towards a ruin deeper within the city. It had once been a shrine, a temple to the ridiculous divinity of the Emperor. As I looked down upon the tumbled walls I couldn’t contain a sneer. The notion of worshipping a crippled god, of allowing myself to be humbled before a creature that couldn’t scratch his nose if he sneezed… I snorted. The area was deserted, even the constant shelling seemed muffled here. There was a sense of calm that overlaid the area.

          I raised a hand to hold my aspirants in place. I scanned the area through a variety of wavelengths, infrared through to ultraviolet, skimmed the audio spectrum. There was nothing. It was a dead zone, a tiny slice of silence in a noisy world.

          She was here.

          I led the way. My children, while raised far beyond mortals, were still limited in many ways. None could pierce the darkness as I could. Still, they acquitted themselves well. Even to my enhanced ears they were practically silent, ghosting towards the broken walls of the shrine. Which almost made it a surprise when the firing began.

          PDF troopers appeared along the walls and began pouring lasfire at us. They must have been very still to remain hidden from my preysight even at this distance. My wards scattered, gaining whatever cover they could, but not before Bechan took several solid shots. Stupid boy. But there was no time for chastisement now. I could hear the screams of the one who led the guardsmen, yelling out orders and commands. She was calling for the heavy gun to be wheeled around. I glanced over the rubble that shielded me, saw the barrel of a heavy bolter come into view. I cursed softly. Such a weapon posed a threat even to me. It would tear apart my aspirants, wasting the work of many months. I could not let that happen.

          I rose smoothly even as I flexed my fingers, retracting my claws. I drew my pistol with my left hand, pulled a frag grenade free with my right.

          You must understand, this is something that the Sons of the Raven Lord or the insidious XXth sometimes fail to appreciate. Quiet, silence, striking from the darkness to wreak havoc – these are but tools. These are merely a part of our arsenal, employed to create a specific effect: fear. Fear is the killer of men, the death of reason, the end of resistance. And there are many ways to cause fear. Sometimes it is to be unseen, to kill, to tear, to flay. Judgement from the blackness of night. And sometimes it is the sight of a warrior of the Lords of Night, in Midnight Clad, rising as an avenging angel to end your miserable existence.

          Sometimes the fear is in the unknown. And sometimes the fear in in the knowledge that your existence in measured in mere moments.

          I saw their leader instantly and fired a single bolt that ended her life before she could react. The grenade flew towards the heavy weapons crew, tearing them apart even as they aimed at us. Behind me my wards rose from cover, their weapons free to add to the weight of my fire. The ruins that sheltered the troopers exploded under the bolt rounds. We had brought heavier shot, far quieter than the regular explosive rounds, but they still were of a far greater calibre than we faced. The ancient stones of the shrine buckled, gave way under our onslaught. Even before we reached the defenders half of them had fallen, bodies torn apart by our firepower. I flexed my right hand to release my claws once more and tore into the defenders, red spray and screams marking my passage. Behind me my wards joined the fray.

          The defenders were slaughtered to the last man. It may have been considered brave to onlookers, a last stand against impossible odds. To me it was pathetic.

          As my aspirants finished their work and began marking our presence to those who would come later, I surveyed the shrine. Temperature fluctuations heralded a hidden area beneath us, and it was short work to find a thick iron door covered poorly in brush. They had tried to conceal this area from me. I called Alikser forwards, took a meltabomb from him and placed it on the iron of the door. A few moments, a brilliance that hurt even my eyes, and we were in.

Beneath was a single room that contained three people, two men and a woman, and a whole array of communications equipment. The men cringed back from me as I descended the stairwell, already reeking of fear and voided bowels. But the woman, she stood defiant. Her back was straight, her eyes fearless as she gazed up at me. I think she was trying to impress me, trying to show how unafraid she was of my evil. That she, in some way, had opposed me, had thwarted my plans for however short a time. That even a small victory was, in the end, worth it, no matter the cost.

          I broke her over the next few hours. Her screams, when they came, were delicious.

          Our task done it was time to head back to the Iron Warrior’s encampment, several miles outside the limits of the city. Light would be coming soon, and I had no desire to announce my presence to the entirety of the PDF. There was the question of what to do about Bechan, of course. He was wounded, lasburns across his body, and he gritted his teeth as he looked up at me. He didn’t beg, of course. He knew the futility of that. He tried to fight when the other aspirants picked over his weapons and armour, adding to or replacing their own gear, but he was too weak to resist. And after all, isn’t that the point of life? This is the lesson we bring.

           You resist what you can, and suffer what you must. We are the Lords of Night. And we will have our due.

Well its a good thing you decided to press on because that was superb. I think this is the first time I've read your work, as I dont remember your name, so I was probably around before you joined us, but im glad you have. That kicked ass dude, I guess i may have to go back through all the entries I've missed in the past to hunt some more out. Do you always write Night Lords? Or was it just for this particular challenge? 

[Scourged]

Well, good news for anyone else in a similar boat as Sanctimonius. I'm entertaining company from out of town all day, so I won't be able to update our thread as I normally have been today.

 

So! For any and all still considering an idea, you've got an extra day. We shall resume our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

[Sanctimonius]

 

I'm trying to finish up something, if I can have a little more time. Sorry, I've restarted this one like three times now.

 

edit: Alright, I have a story finished. Hope you enjoy it.

 

A Teachable Moment

 

           The shelling had been going on since the early hours of the morning. The Iron IVth did enjoy their little displays. Truth be told I found it tiresome, the constant crump of shells, the roar of the guns, the smell of fyceline and dust and sweat. Still, while a soulless method of combat, it was nonetheless an effective one. The city lay in ruins, splintered by the fury of the Legion batteries. Mere days before, proud spires and turrets had stood tall, casting shadows proclaiming the might of the Seated Corpse. Indegra had been another vital city, another waypoint from which the men and material that fuelled the endless wars of the Imperium had flowed.

          And now that city lay shattered.

          The proud spires had been cast down. The fierce defences, bristling with weapons and angry little men and women, had been obliterated. The walls and shield batteries had long since been ground to dust, leaving Indegra bare to the whims of the Great Powers, and, more importantly, to me and mine.

          Yet the vermin resisted. They scuttled about the ruins of their former homes. I had watched them throughout the day, scurrying between mounds of rubble. It was not a common sight, not this far from the centre of the city. They had learned to fear being in the open. Those too slow were easy targets for the clades of hell blades and their whistling bombs. Others had provided target practice for the traitor guardsmen who had turned on their brethren. Even now I could hear the distinctive crack-whine of a lasrifle, the laughter of the soldier who carried it pleased with his skill. A smile tugged at my lips. I wonder if they knew how highly their new masters valued their lives. I wondered if they would still laugh if they knew their role in the attack that would come with the rising of the sun.

          I heard a sound behind me, the heavy tread of a legionary. Haunter, they even walked unimaginatively. A steady gait, a walk designed to traipse mountains and traverse worlds and stifle the soul.

          ‘What is it, Goddrakk?’

          The legionary stood beside me and looked out over the dark city. The power had been one of the first casualties of the day, and as day gave way to night in this low light even my eyes were taxed. I doubted he could see anything, yet still he looked out as if surveying his handiwork. ‘It’s time.’

          I nodded. I flexed my hands causing the blades to slide from my fingers, turning my gauntlets into vicious weapons. ‘Make sure your aim is true.’

          ‘Make sure you don’t stand under the shells.’ I could hear the mockery in his tone. I believe this is what passed for humour from the IVth. I smirked. Truth be told, I rather liked the Iron Warrior. Inasmuch as anyone could like one of the IVth. Around me my wards readied their own weapons. It was a night of quiet, a night to send a message, and so they brought the appropriate tools. Chainswords and bolters were left behind, while cold steel and silenced pistols were the flavour of the night. Goddrakk looked at them as they prepared. ‘Are you sure they can be trusted to carry out the mission?’

          ‘Goddrakk, please. You look to your toys, and we will look to ours.’

          He grunted. ‘Reports are that their command structure remains relatively intact. They are reeling. They are not finished. And there are redoubts still standing, areas we cannot reach yet. Be wary, they will use the night to move their numbers.’

          I grinned at him even as I donned my helmet. The preysight flickered into view, enhancing my already exceptional night vision so all around me seemed as bright as day. ‘Dear Goddrakk, have you still not learned this lesson? The night belongs to the VIIIth. Ave Dominus Nox.’

          The Iron Warrior crashed a fist to his chest. ‘Iron Within, Iron Without.’

 

          We made quick time towards the city, the destroyed homes providing ample coverage for me and mine. Preysight made a mockery of the darkness, allowing me to sight incoming patrols and sniper nests. We could go where we wished, free to avoid the clumsy footsteps of the guardsmen who still defended this wreckage. Free to avoid if we wished. I did not choose to do so every time, of course. My wards deserved to indulge themselves, and I encouraged them to do so.

          Theirs was a motley assortment of waifs and strays I had picked up from the hives of the Imperium. The forgotten, the castaways, the downtrodden; these made the greatest recruits for the Long War. Each of my wards were veterans of many raids, but yet to prove their worth. None were permitted to wear the Midnight, instead they carried scavenged armour and weapons, snatched where they could from those too weak to stop them. Truthfully, only Alikser and Helik were far enough along in their gene-schedule to bear true plate, the others were at various stages of their induction. The greatest problem of creating the next generation to bear the Midnight was a lack of resources. We starved, cut off from the beneficence of the Imperium. And so we must barter and scrape, take and steal that which we needed. I grimaced to myself as I approached another ruined building. Goddrakk had promised me a veritable treasure trove of gene-tech, easily enough to finish raising my acolytes to their full status. All we had to do was a simple little task for him.

          End the resistance and claim this city for the Iron IVth.

          The defenders of this world remained stubbornly resistant to the Iron Warriors and their incessant shelling. A charismatic preacher led their defense, screaming her message of divine hatred and defiance. Each night she exhorted the brave men and women of the PDF to fight back against their aggressors. Each day she fought alongside the guards. She was an annoyance, and Goddrakk had identified her as the lynchpin of the resistance. End her life, end the conflict. So the reasoning went. And the subtle application of force was a far more effective tool than all the great batteries of basilisks and whirlwinds and vindicators of the IVth.

          The shelling continued to rain overhead, pounding the city. Overhead lights and contrails streaked the sky as shells cut through the night. I shook my head. Such bluster and bombast. Such a waste. Still, it provided cover.

          I carefully led my wards through the city, my eidetic memory bringing to the fore the windows in the shelling that would keep us safe. The IVth knew their craft well, and had left a narrow corridor through which we could travel. We moved quickly, though, with few problems. Any time we could not avoid a patrol I indulged the children. It did them good to shake off the cobwebs of the long travel through the void. And besides, it was good for morale.

          They had learned their lessons well, even the youngest, Bechan. They stuck to the shadows, picking off stragglers and the wounded first. They created confusion and fear, striking without warning and disappearing without a trace. I watched as they picked apart the squad, the final guardsman practically hyperventilating as he backed towards a wall, firing blindly into the darkness, his screams for help smothered by the continuous shelling. His cries were silenced forever by Alikser’s blade as he rushed from the dark, and the trooper’s body was left as a warning to those who would come after. And thus our passage serves more than a single purpose.

          As we approached the centre of the city the patrols came more often, and in bigger numbers. We moved more carefully then. Still, the darkness shrouded us, allowed us to penetrate further into the city. We would not be an easy target, even as the rubble swarmed with PDF. A problem remained, however. The preacher was not a fool. She remained hidden to our eyes, knowing her greatest defense was mystery and secrecy. Monitoring the vox chatter of these vermin had taught us that much. She moved to a new location each night, her whereabouts known only to a privileged few. Which meant that we needed to illuminate one of these precious few as to just how much a burden knowledge could be.

          With that in mind, my plan was a simple one. Find the highest ranked officer I could, and garner whatever information I could from them. If they did not know the location of the preacher, then they would divulge the location of someone who might. And on and on the chain of command would travel.

          I do so love a hierarchy. It makes it wonderfully simple to find those in charge.

          I identified a likely target, a small squad of PDF who huddled around a firepit. It was dug deep so as to be hidden from afar, and they were warming rations over the flames. Exhaustion was writ deep in their faces, and several were in a dead slumber.

          It was a slaughter.

          Alikser led the charge, at a nod from myself, of course. With simple gestures he directed the aspirants, and once they were in place, they picked off the sentries, then those who remained awake, then slit the throats of those who slept. We left one living, of course, the rest butchered where they lay. She slept soundly, unaware that her colleagues and friends had ended in the most brutal of fashions.

          Did you know it is possible to silence a person without killing or gagging them? A swift strike to the vocal chords, properly applied, prevents them from crying out, yet leaves them able to breath. This provides the opportunity for indulgence, for the chance to take one’s time in ending their lives without the potential for any alarm or begging. Do not mistake me, begging has its place. But in a warzone, efficiency is prized above the pleasure.

          We also left alive the leader of the squad. For a short while. Just long enough to drag him from his bed, panicked, soiled, weeping. He knew of our reputation, of course. This was not the first night we had been abroad. And while he did not recognise my livery, he knew of our work. Quiet, terrified voices spoke on the vox of the Harvester, who came to bring the judgement of the Great Enemy, who took the unwary, snatched them from their safety and carried them into the darkness.

          He knew little of worth, in the end. A name, barely a few ranks up the chain of command. But it was a lead, nonetheless. And so the chase continued. After taking a moment to erect the good sergeant upon the remains of a nearby wall. He had been such a good signpost on our journey it felt appropriate to allow him to direct others once the sun rose again.

          And so the next few hours were occupied with a merry, staccato hunt. We found Corporal Bran, who kindly provided us with the location of Lieutenant Merriweather, who obligingly pointed us towards Major Keeler. Keeler in particular had been most upset with us, adamant that she was protected, that she was untouchable in her little bunker. Surrounded by the remains and viscera of her coterie, she had denied our right to be there, our very existence, right up until we started cutting. Then she became rather co-operative.

          Keeler had not known in any degree of certainty, only rumours and innuendo. But in the chaos of warfare, what could be more reliable than gossip? Keeler pointed us – well, gestured, she no longer had the fingers with which to point – towards a ruin deeper within the city. It had once been a shrine, a temple to the ridiculous divinity of the Emperor. As I looked down upon the tumbled walls I couldn’t contain a sneer. The notion of worshipping a crippled god, of allowing myself to be humbled before a creature that couldn’t scratch his nose if he sneezed… I snorted. The area was deserted, even the constant shelling seemed muffled here. There was a sense of calm that overlaid the area.

          I raised a hand to hold my aspirants in place. I scanned the area through a variety of wavelengths, infrared through to ultraviolet, skimmed the audio spectrum. There was nothing. It was a dead zone, a tiny slice of silence in a noisy world.

          She was here.

          I led the way. My children, while raised far beyond mortals, were still limited in many ways. None could pierce the darkness as I could. Still, they acquitted themselves well. Even to my enhanced ears they were practically silent, ghosting towards the broken walls of the shrine. Which almost made it a surprise when the firing began.

          PDF troopers appeared along the walls and began pouring lasfire at us. They must have been very still to remain hidden from my preysight even at this distance. My wards scattered, gaining whatever cover they could, but not before Bechan took several solid shots. Stupid boy. But there was no time for chastisement now. I could hear the screams of the one who led the guardsmen, yelling out orders and commands. She was calling for the heavy gun to be wheeled around. I glanced over the rubble that shielded me, saw the barrel of a heavy bolter come into view. I cursed softly. Such a weapon posed a threat even to me. It would tear apart my aspirants, wasting the work of many months. I could not let that happen.

          I rose smoothly even as I flexed my fingers, retracting my claws. I drew my pistol with my left hand, pulled a frag grenade free with my right.

          You must understand, this is something that the Sons of the Raven Lord or the insidious XXth sometimes fail to appreciate. Quiet, silence, striking from the darkness to wreak havoc – these are but tools. These are merely a part of our arsenal, employed to create a specific effect: fear. Fear is the killer of men, the death of reason, the end of resistance. And there are many ways to cause fear. Sometimes it is to be unseen, to kill, to tear, to flay. Judgement from the blackness of night. And sometimes it is the sight of a warrior of the Lords of Night, in Midnight Clad, rising as an avenging angel to end your miserable existence.

          Sometimes the fear is in the unknown. And sometimes the fear in in the knowledge that your existence in measured in mere moments.

          I saw their leader instantly and fired a single bolt that ended her life before she could react. The grenade flew towards the heavy weapons crew, tearing them apart even as they aimed at us. Behind me my wards rose from cover, their weapons free to add to the weight of my fire. The ruins that sheltered the troopers exploded under the bolt rounds. We had brought heavier shot, far quieter than the regular explosive rounds, but they still were of a far greater calibre than we faced. The ancient stones of the shrine buckled, gave way under our onslaught. Even before we reached the defenders half of them had fallen, bodies torn apart by our firepower. I flexed my right hand to release my claws once more and tore into the defenders, red spray and screams marking my passage. Behind me my wards joined the fray.

          The defenders were slaughtered to the last man. It may have been considered brave to onlookers, a last stand against impossible odds. To me it was pathetic.

          As my aspirants finished their work and began marking our presence to those who would come later, I surveyed the shrine. Temperature fluctuations heralded a hidden area beneath us, and it was short work to find a thick iron door covered poorly in brush. They had tried to conceal this area from me. I called Alikser forwards, took a meltabomb from him and placed it on the iron of the door. A few moments, a brilliance that hurt even my eyes, and we were in.

Beneath was a single room that contained three people, two men and a woman, and a whole array of communications equipment. The men cringed back from me as I descended the stairwell, already reeking of fear and voided bowels. But the woman, she stood defiant. Her back was straight, her eyes fearless as she gazed up at me. I think she was trying to impress me, trying to show how unafraid she was of my evil. That she, in some way, had opposed me, had thwarted my plans for however short a time. That even a small victory was, in the end, worth it, no matter the cost.

          I broke her over the next few hours. Her screams, when they came, were delicious.

          Our task done it was time to head back to the Iron Warrior’s encampment, several miles outside the limits of the city. Light would be coming soon, and I had no desire to announce my presence to the entirety of the PDF. There was the question of what to do about Bechan, of course. He was wounded, lasburns across his body, and he gritted his teeth as he looked up at me. He didn’t beg, of course. He knew the futility of that. He tried to fight when the other aspirants picked over his weapons and armour, adding to or replacing their own gear, but he was too weak to resist. And after all, isn’t that the point of life? This is the lesson we bring.

           You resist what you can, and suffer what you must. We are the Lords of Night. And we will have our due.

Well its a good thing you decided to press on because that was superb. I think this is the first time I've read your work, as I dont remember your name, so I was probably around before you joined us, but im glad you have. That kicked ass dude, I guess i may have to go back through all the entries I've missed in the past to hunt some more out. Do you always write Night Lords? Or was it just for this particular challenge? 

 

 

Glad you liked it! This is the third one I've done for these, I didn't even know it was a thing until fairly recently. It's my first NL story for here, but it's based on characters I've written a couple of short stories for - I actually submitted part of my origin for Alikser and the Harvester to Black Library's open submissions a year or so ago.

[Scourged]

Thank you for all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: Shadow Wars

EesiOh has returned to our thread with Deafening Silence, and it is a welcome return. Trust is hard to earn in the 41st Millennium. Will the brother at your side have your back or stab you in it when a decisive moment arrives. Can you ever truly know where loyalties lie? So often the Imperium teaches its children that Ignorance is a virtue, but is it always?

Sanctimonius joined us at the last minute with A Teachable Moment. “Fear is the killer of men.” We bore witness to such fearful slaughter following a small band of Night Lords in their preferred element. The right tools must always be brought to the battlefield, and for this small operation of assassination, the Sons of Curze were the right too. While the Iron Warriors would break the walls, the Night Lords will break the spirits.

Also, Teetengee offered up some extra details about their hero from our previous topic the weeks prior. Perhaps these insights into Arkash might come in handy for our new topic...

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: Aspiring Warmasters

We just witnessed the small scale of Kill Team in our narratives. And this weekend, we find ourselves on the precipice of Apocalyptic-level engagements once more. So for our next topic, I do believe it’s pretty obvious what the scale of our next prompt will be…

Yes, this week we will focus on a single character.

When we compare the loyal Astartes to the heretical Astartes, there are so many contrasting themes between them, but one always helps to define the true difference between them: individuality. Falling to Chaos is the awakening of the ego in indoctrinated corpse-worshipers. With the clarity of a raging Warp Storm, they are suddenly aware of the importance of self, and work to achieve their goals, their aspirations, their desires. Even all those who swear allegiance to Abbadon and his Black Legion only do so to benefit their own interests. Such motivations and drives on the individual level is what helps give Chaos Space Marines their, well, character.

In this week’s challenge, tell us of your Chaos Space Marine character. We all have them, whether they are fleshed out after years and years of short stories, or only just beginning to take root. Tell us who they are, what drives them, their victories and defeats, their spoils of war.

But then, let’s take it a step further. Now, this next part is optional, but I would love to see all of us add it in with our prose. Give us all a datasheet for your character. Show us the stats they would have, their weaponry, and their abilities. It could be just a Lord/Sorcerer/Warpsmith/Apostle with a unique load out, or it could be taken even higher that your character may rival the Blood Reaver or the Despoiler.

Oh, and a picture of a model would be an awesome addition, too.

IF2019: Aspiring Warmasters runs until the 19th of July

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

The winner of IF2019: Shadow Wars shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

Edited June 30, 2019 by Scourged

[EesiOh]

Also I just realised my story doesnt make a lot of sense if you either arent familliar with the Silent Laughter or if you forgot abou them (which I cant blame people for, ive been gone for like more than a year)

on another note,I think im going to do a second story because of the events of a dark heresy game im playing that just happened. Though unfortunately the dastardly imperials win, its defintely very much in the vein of Shadow Wars 

[Teetengee]

Sorry about my tardiness. Sanctimonious, you've got this one.

[Scourged]

Been a bit quiet in here, partially on my part due to a work-related trip across country. Perhaps another week is in order, for anyone still interested?

[Sanctimonius]

I'm finishing something up but I don't mind if people want more time?

[Kierdale]

Another week would be much appreciated!