Inspirational Friday 2019: Blessings and Boons (Dec 27)

[Scourged]

So it shall be!

[Sanctimonius]

I'm still trying to format the rules part so... enjoy flavour text!

 

We were created for a single purpose, to make our enemies fear the wrath of the Emperor. We were the retribution and the justice of the Imperium made manifest. And for that, we were cast out, betrayed by lesser men. For being who we were made to be, we were chastised and broken by those we called brothers, hunted into the deep corners of the galaxy, driven to the shadows.
But the shadows… They belong to us. They are not our prison, they are our refuge. They are not our purgatory, they are our salvation. The shadows are our freedom. And in the shadows, we waited, and we watched, and we planned.
And we have returned - The Harvester

        Seen as something of a legendary figure by the Night Lords, the Harvester is a creature of archaic cruelty. Cloaked, hooded, bearing a message of black hope, he travels across the Imperium. Appearing as a harbinger of fear to some, a symbol of a lost age to others, he appears seemingly at random. Countless tales are told amongst the VIIIth Legion of the ancient warrior appearing on the eve of a conflict, offering his services, offering his wards for the warbands. And each time he leaves just as suddenly, taking with him some new artefact, some new tome of heretical knowledge, some item of great power.
        The being who became the Harvester was born Vaes Righ. Birthed in darkness, in a hidden prison cell deep beneath Terra’s crust, Vaes was one of countless multitudes jailed for forgotten crimes committed by distant ancestors. He was thrust into a life of desperate conflict, of roving gangs, of petty crimes and violations, of easy death and cheap life. But the slight youth seemed blessed by a higher power. He possessed preternatural reflexes, seemed forewarned of dangers before they even happened. Time and again Vaes guided his gang away from ambushes and attack, leading them instead to weaker and simpler targets. Time and again he seemed as if he were a gift sent from some deity, and Vaes began to feel something greater watched over him.
        It was here, fighting with rival street gangs in the blackness of the underworld, striking from the gloom at those stronger and preying on those weaker, that the nascent VIIIth found him. They scoured the Underhives for those blessed with the talent for butchery and brutality. Created to fight a new kind of war, a war of justice and vengeance, the VIIIth were the Emperor’s wrath made manifest. For those who saw the light of the Emperor and turned back to the dark, the VIIIth served to remind them that there were far worse things in the shadows. It was here that Vaes was inducted into the Midnight Brotherhood, painfully forged into a Space Marine. Yet still he was plagued by foresight, by the sense that something far greater than even the Legion approached.
        The arrival of the Night Haunter changed Vaes utterly. Striking from the night, the epitome of pain and terror, Curze appeared as a dark avenging angel to the warriors of the VIIIth. He spoke eloquently of justice, of the need for a dagger in the darkness and a warning left in the light. Of the need to bolster the ephemeral loyalty of man. Vaes listened raptly to his new lord, and immediately became one of his strongest advocates. Even as the mental stability of Curze declined, even as the Legion turned from the light of the Emperor, even as Curze was lost and the Heresy itself was repulsed at the very Gates of Terra, Vaes remained loyal to the ideals of the VIIIth. A true believer in their mission, he argued the Night Lords should continue their mission of justice and vengeance against the Imperium that spurned them.
        Once again Vaes was vindicated in his faith. A signal from the void lured the Night Lords to be reunited with their Carrion Lord at Tsagualsa. To Vaes, Curze’s return was a sign that truth yet lived, that their revenge on the Imperium was imminent. It was on Tsagualsa that Vaes’ belief turned into zeal. It was here he became a fervent acolyte. Yet it was also here that Vaes was shaken most in his newfound religion. The death of Curze was foretold, by their lord, by Vaes himself, yet it still devastated him. The idea that something as indelible, as permanent as the Night Haunter could simply be ended was something that Vaes could not accept. To see Curze as little more than cooling meat nearly broke him.
        Disillusioned, Vaes abandoned his brothers. He ignored the petty squabbles that consumed his brothers and despaired of them, seemingly content to be little more than raiders and butchers. And he bitterly cursed the Imperium for their role in his father’s tragedy, in casting him out, in murdering him, in betraying the Night Lords for fulfilling the roles for which they were created.
        And so Vaes disappeared.
        Little is known of Vaes during these centuries. Tales and rumours place him at the heart of innumerable raids and skirmishes and conflicts. Stories began to spread of this pilgrim in Midnight Clad, searching for esoteric knowledge and power, willing to fight for any who dared accept his offers of aid. And there were many desperate enough to accept. Each time the vagabond warrior appeared, devastation and carnage were his companions. Enemies were butchered in the most horrible manner. Seemingly impregnable strongholds were destroyed from within, doors cast asunder to reveal horrors inside.
        Each time payment was rendered with a shaking hand. Dark tomes written in the blood of madmen, exotic weapons built for a non-human hand, trinkets that gibbered and whispered to those who bore them, vessels containing daemons and spirits; these and more were accepted by Vaes. And sometimes he took more, accepting the very youngest and cruelest warriors, those who displayed aptitude for butchery and slow death, those in whom he saw the spark of something greater. And from these groups he took something else, a new appellation gifted as much for the bodies he left behind as the treasures and followers he took with him: Harvester.
        To the Night Lords the Harvester is an anachronism. Seen almost as an omen himself, the Harvester is mistrusted amongst the Night Lords even as they venerate him as a remnant of a mythic past. He appears without warning, hunched, shrouded, his baroque armour covered in fetishes and scrivings of power. He offers his wards for the Long War, already blessed and blooded in the ways of the Night Lords. And he offers whispers of hope to those who would dare hear. For it is rumoured that the Harvester searches for their lord beyond the material realm, that the tortured spirit of Curze still wanders the Empyrean. To those who would hear, the Harvester brings hope. To those who would believe, the Harvester is a dark prophet. And to the citizens of the Imperium, the Harvester is terror incarnate. Striking from the shadows, he is an ancient horror bearing a curse on his lips that has blighted the Imperium for ten thousand years.
        ‘We have come for you.’

 

Pts          M    WS    BS    S    T    W    A    LD    SV

170        12"    2+    2+   4    4     5     5     9     2+

The Harvester is a single model armed with Retribution, a bolt pistol, frag grenades and krak grenades.

 

Retribution

The Harvester has worn the red since the early days of the Heresy. His hands long since taken, they were replaced with intricate bionics that, at a gesture, erupt into viciously cruel lightning claws known as Retribution. Stained black with the blood of his enemies, the Harvester uses them to terrifying effect, tearing and maiming through enemy squads before they even know he is there. Then, as the bodies begin to fall, he is already moving towards his next target…

Retribution increases the bearer’s Attacks characteristic by 1. In addition, you can reroll failed wound rolls for this weapon. S+1, AP-3, Dmg D3

 

The Umbra Nox

The Harvester wears armour of ancient and unknown origin. Covered in arcane symbols and witches fetishes, the armour turns aside bullets at the last moment, blasts are inexplicably weaker when they strike him, and power fields are disrupted when he is struck. It is unknown if the mystical symbols that festoon his gear are responsible, or if the extreme durability is due to some forgotten manufacture.

The Harvester has a 2+ armour save. Further, any attempts to Deny the Witch use 3d6, using the highest two dice.

 

Abilities

Death to the False Emperor

Lord of Chaos

Sigil of Corruption

Jump Pack Assault

Terror Tactics

Night Haunter's Curse

Psyker - The Harvester is a psyker who knows only Smite and Prescience. He cannot change or pick a third power.

 

Keywords

Chaos, Heretic Astartes, Night Lords, Character, Infantry, Chaos Lord, Jump Pack, Fly

 

I'm going to admit my knowledge of 40k point costing is pre-8th, so if this looks wildly off let me know.

 

As ever, hope you enjoy.

Edited July 23, 2019 by Sanctimonius

[Trevak Dal]

Sworn to War.

 

Marick knelt within his chambers, breathing in slowly filling his three lungs completely before expelling the air once again. His thoughts were quieted as he reached out with his fingers dipping them into the paint he had prepared earlier.

 

He was a descendant of the 12th Legion, broken at Skalathrax, but that was long before his time. He gently pushed the flickers of memory away, embracing nothingness as he traced lines with his covered fingers under his eyes down to his jaw towards his chin.

 

The Fight would be soon. What other Warbands would call a "battle" or "attack" his clan called "fights" or "raids". It was as it had been on the Eyeworld Cheytac, where he had been born into war.

 

His people had lost the ability to use the dreaded brass nails, the secrets of their manufacture long lost in the millennia between Skalathrax and when the Warsworn crashed on it. Some of their cousins would say they lost what made them World Eaters, though others would say they found their way back to what they should have been.

 

They communed with the War God over the years, tribals coming to them to face the trials of ascension. Eventually the Warsworn, reborn of their ashes left Cheytac, carrying their traditions with them.

 

Marick was the latest Lord of the Warsworn.

 

He breathed out again, ever slowly as he dipped his finger tips in again, tracing three lines over his right eye. Reaching out, his arming servitors began to bolt his armor to him, seals locking in place, sockets fitting into his black carapace ports, all the while maintaining the cadence of his breathing.

 

At length, the power pack was locked in place and raw energy coursed through his second skin, Marick appreciated the snarl of his armor's predatory machine spirit. It knew a fight was coming.

 

The Black King had asked the Warsworn a difficult task. They had to bring a fight to the Imperial forces on Tula Mare, a world near a semi-safe passage in the Great Tear.

 

Marick reached out taking his helm, the mark of his God on the forehead, and locked it place, his vision darkened for a moment before his autosenses tuned and cycled through his helm's displays. His warriors were exiting their cells as he was. Extra magazines for his bolt pistol adorned a belt wrapped around his chest, and a power axe was fastened to his hand.

 

His warriors nod to him, crossing their arms across their chest in salute to him. He nodded. The Lord of Bones stood before them, and Marik and the others knelt and received the Apostle's blessings, and felt their battle lust rising.

 

The Lord of Bones bid him rise, so Marik did,

 

"Warsworn!" He shouted, his warriors banged their weapons to their chests and vocalized a shout in return, "to the fight! Blood for the Wargod!" He shouted, pointing to their landing craft.

 

The battle plan was simple. They would load into rhinos, and drop out the back of fast landing thunderhawks, advancing on the enemy.

 

His Warband organized into fighting teams consisting of his Berserkers, backed by close heavy weapons support would advance rapidly and close with the enemy. The Primaris chapter called "Warhawks".

 

As he strapped himself into his rhino, his chosen companions following along with him, he mused. A good name. His Warsworn would test these Warhawks this day. He smiled inside his helmet and the Lord of Bones voxed him,

 

"Are there troubles Marick?" The shaman asked, Marick laughed, "No Lord of Bones, today will be a good day!" His men laughed as well.

 

he would just be a chaos Lord with power armor, a bolt pistol and master crafted power axe who can attack twice like Berserkers natively (no command points used) and unlocks that ability in any Warsworn units.

 

Basically my take at not rampagingly nuts/Hulk/Brolly World Eaters.

Edited July 24, 2019 by Trevak Dal

[Kierdale]

I got some stuff written - stuff I like - but it’s gone off the topic :D so I’ll file it away for the future and have to pass on the current challenge.

Also, I’ll be away for much of the next three weeks. Back with some inspiration - I hope - late next month.

[Scourged]

Figured I'd brush some of the dust off of my old characters and give them a little flavor. For more details about them, well... there's literally years of stories about them in the IF threads.

 

Hidden Content

Debriefing

 

[Crackling static, then the audio resumes with a tinny echo]

 

Don't mistake madness for insanity. The Seekers have been driven mad by their pact with the Dark Gods, yes, but many in their ranks are well and fully sane, if mad with delusion. Their leadership reflects this, with the Brothers Dhelmas. 

 

They lord over the Scourged together, but Rahaund’ul Dhelmas is the true demagogue of our now-tainted servants. I do not know why he was chosen to lead the now-heretics, but he was. Before their fall, he was a Seeker of no remark, an aspirant to the Librarius and little more. But now? He wields more power than any in the warband, rivaled only by his brother. 

 

[indiscernible audio from Inquisitor Alexandreta]

 

What?

 

[indiscernible audio from Inquisitor Alexandreta]

 

No, let me clarify - the Heretic Astartes did not choose him to lead. Something else did, that damned power which now serves as their Taskmaster in my stead. And Rahaund'ul accepted that burden with open arms and the sacrifice of his soul. I have seen my fair share of heretical psykana. I am no stranger to the power the Warp imbues in those who can channel it. But in the case of the self-proclaimed Sorcerer Lord, his gift is that he wields it with finesse. Where others must work to channel and focus their psychic might, Rahaund'ul wields it with the effortless gesture of a twitching finger. Rather than raw power and might, the Dark Gods have amplified his skill and technique instead. 

 

[indiscernible audio from Inquisitor Shakshush]

 

Envy him? How dare you! You wanted a report, and I'm giving it. The whole reason we're in this situation is because we did not understand our adversaries, and now that I'm offering a clear description of the truth-

 

[indiscernible audio from Lord Inquisitor Drake]

 

...fine, Lord Inquisitor. Moving on.

 

[Mumbling and shuffling of documents from an unknown source]

 

He's not a charming warlord, nor a sadistic one. But he is an authoritarian driven by purpose. The Scourged... they know things. Their so-called Gift lets them hear our lies, and they use it against... everyone, Imperial or not. And Rahaund'ul embraces that Immaterium-spawned curse more than any other, weaving and scheming all manner of insidious plans and fates that his warband follows without question. Yes, they all band together form their shared malady, but Rahaund'ul has found means to give them purpose, so they follow. 

 

[indiscernible audio from Inquisitor Alexandreta]

 

No, he is not like the others. The Scourged are minor when compared to the... the Legionnaires... But you wanted a description, and I'm giving an honest one. And honestly, Rahaund'ul Dhelmas is not to be dismissed as so many other warlords in the Eye are. 

 

[indiscernible audio from Inquisitor Alexandreta]

 

Yes, his brother. I did not forget. Scindus Dhelmas is the other half of the leadership of the former Seekers. It's possible he may have been "chosen" by that same awful power in the Warp. No, he is not a psyker, at least not outwardly. But an ascension to power was never a path he would have taken as a Seeker of Truth.

 

Scindus is not like his brother. He is not grand and prophetic. He is not verbose and hubristic. No, the Martial Champion of the Scourged is damn near silent. He speaks never more than is necessary. He does not taunt or bait his opponents in combat - never has. He fights with a purpose, and a dedication to that purpose... though I cannot tell you what that purpose is now. No loyal citizen to the Imperium could. 

 

Rahaund'ul may have absolute authority over his followers, but he does not make a decision without the counsel and approval of his brother. It's rare that it will happen, but Scindus is the only living being capable of swaying Rahaund'ul's mind. Perhaps it's a mutually beneficial arrangement, a way of circumventing their Warp-born curse to think rationally. Or, well, as rationally as a Heretic can.

 

[brief laughter from multiple sources]

 

[indiscernible audio from Lord Inquisitor Drake]

 

Of course not, Lord Inquisitor - just don't go near him during battle. In the same way his brother exemplifies an effortlessness of psychic mastery, so too does Scindus display an effortless mastery of martial prowess. It's not that he moves with the speed of a xenos, or has some heretically-amplified strength or resilience. By all accounts, watching him fight would at first yield no indication that he was in any way touched by the Dark Gods. But that is only because his mastery is a subtle one. Even I did not see it at first, until a description was relayed to me by one of the Angels Vermillion. 

 

Scindus knows how you will fight before you make the first move. Every action you are about to take he has already anticipated and is moving accordingly. It's some latent precognition that manifests in battle, or some peculiar side-effect of hearing lies and mistruths. You cannot bluff or feint with this warrior, because he has already positioned himself to counter. The only true way to fight him is as a mindless barbarian, swinging wildly and powerfully... which any Astartes can put down in a matter of seconds from such clumsy blows. What makes it all the more impressive is that Scindus does so with a massive power fist and set of claws. 

 

[indiscernible audio from Inquisitor Shakshush]

 

Again? I thought I made this clear. There is no envy in my words! No envy, no admiration. Just respect for the power they wield. A careful, foreboding respect. You would do well to feel the same, rather than dismiss them as "just heretics."

 

[indiscernible audio from Lord Inquisitor Drake]

 

I don't need this. You asked me here, for my report. I'm giving it. You wanted it thorough. It is. How is it my fault if he is too close minded to actually listen? And too cowardly to accuse me of the heresy he believes I have committed? Yes, Shakshush, it's written plain as day on your face - you think I'm in league with the Scourged. So why don't you stiffen your spine, sit up straight, and grow a pair of-

 

[Transmission End]

 

-Excerpt from the Debriefing Report of Tsalie Krejcik, former Taskmaster of the Seekers of Truth

 

 

Oh, what's this? Datasheets for them? Why of course! (Just ignore the Google Doc red/blue squiggly underlines from these screencaps, heh)

Hidden Content

 

[Scourged]

Thank you for all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: Aspiring Warmasters

Sanctimonius told us all about the Harvester. From birth and genesis to their current state in the galaxy. There’s always such a rich playground when working with the Night Lords, and the Harvester is an example of just what can be done. The ‘flavor text’ for the relics was a very nice touch.

Trevak Dal was next with a look at Marick, the (current) Lord of the Warsworn. This time, our look at our character was introspective, from their own thoughts and motivations. It’s nice to see a bit of introspection from a Khorne Lord. We shall see if the Wargod favors Marick, and if he shall rise in time…

Lastly, I went back to my roots, giving us a two-for-one deal with the Brothers Dhelmas, Rahaund’ul and Scindus, fraternal leadership of the Scourged. The inquisitor tasked to hunt them is giving a report to her superiors, and she takes the time to focus on the two heretical Astartes who know control the traitorous Seekers of Truth.

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: Nebulous Loyalty

Loyalty is a fickle thing, is it not? Where does one draw the line? During the Horus Heresy, so many of our predecessors were branded as disloyal to the greater Imperium, yet it was because they remained loyal to their Primarch. So which is true? How does one gauge loyalty and its true worth? Does such a concept even have meaning for those living within the Great Rift? Given the propensity for so many to change sides and dissolve allegiances, I would wager it is a meaningless concept.

For our new topic, let us explore those who have cast aside their loyalties to swear allegiance to another. It could be a historical tale of so many who shunned their home Legion to instead wear the Black of the Warmaster. Or perhaps the ideology is much simpler, and our hero defects to another warband simply because of greater profits to be gained. Or maybe your protagonist has learned that their patron God does is not to be served, and they swear their allegiance to one of the other Gods.

Tell us a story of defection, of betrayal, of new allegiances forged to be broken later.

IF2019: Nebulous Loyalty runs until the 16th of August

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

The winner of IF2019: Aspiring Warmasters shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

[Sanctimonius]

The judge of this one will be our own Scourged - I love that he had the datasheets prepared. I look forward for a Chapter Approved so I can use them in my own armies.

[Trevak Dal]

Of Angels and Men

 

 

M35 Developing Imperial World Xerius 3.

 

Tyrael Adrastus had many years and lifetimes to come to grips with what he was, and he still didn't really understand it.

 

His previous engagement had been with some pirates, some 200 odd years ago before he bravely went down with the ship as it was lanced by the system defense ships of this system.

 

When he'd woken up, his armor was shredded and he had to dig himself out of the ship sized crater. Immortality was a hell of a thing-but at least he hadn't been left adrift in the void.

 

He was an Astartes of the First Legion, or had been. He had been a newly elevated full battle brother and his first actual battle hadn't been against the monsters of his homeworld or to take a world for the Lion or the Emperor, but to fight his own Legion.

 

Calloused hands rubbed together slowly over his shack's fireplace. He'd spent months building it up in the wilderness several miles from where he'd crashed. He enjoyed it. His eyes momentarily flicked to the forest trail towards the cave where he hid his armor and weapons. Out here he was Jon Sawyer, a trapper and woodsman.

 

He mused of all the jobs and guises he had assumed over the centuries since the destruction of his homeworld.

 

Rebel, traitor, freedom fighter, pirate, slaver, He'd even fought with other Legionaries and former Legionaries at times.

 

He winced recalling the bad times he'd had fighting with Night Lords.

 

"Fracking 'boo Boys'," he muttered, remembering an old Sargent's slur for the Eighth legion, the corner of his lips pulling to a smile. The water in the kettle was whistling, and he gently poured the hot liquid, made from melted snow into a metal cup, stirring the mashed recaff into a steaming black.

 

Tyrael sniffed deeply, the roasted, processed and freeze dried beans having been brought in from offworld as standard rations sold at general stores all over Xerius 3.

 

It was colder than Caliban by a few degrees, like it was just coming out of an ice age. Mega fauna that were mamalian analogues roamed the forest and were the dominant animal type of the planet. Not accounting for insects. The planet was odd in that its daily rotation was North-South. To his recollection of the engramed memories he'd learned while he had trained, it was a rarity. He'd never been on a world like it before.

 

The Imperium had business interests who were developing the planet, though right now it was frontier out on the Eastern Fringe, far enough away from the Five Hundred Worlds so as to be safe from surprise Ultramarine or one of their successors from showing up.

 

Though so long as he kept his head down, Tyrael looked like a big mountain man, like maybe he had some Ogryn in his family line. And kept his ports covered up, though that was easy enough in the colder temperatures. And he moved on every ten years or so.

 

He sipped the hot liquid and savored the flat flavor as it went down to his stomach, peering out the window.

 

Spring would be here soon, and with it the thaw. It would be a good day for trapping, maybe he could get some fishing in.

 

 

200 years later.

 

Tyrael stared out the windows of the mag train bound for the Central City, staring back at the mountains. The Imperium was big on bringing civilization to a place hard and fast. It had taken longer than it used to-what with the aftermath of The War and the Scouring. He sighed in his business suit, missing his simple fur trapping.

 

The aristocrat was talking to him,

 

"These druggies are just frakking scum," he muttered. Tyrael looked at the smaller man, nodding but maintaining his role as menial to the guy. He could kill him with his bare hands, augmetic parts or not.

 

Polliver Qask was a lesser rogue trader down on his luck and looking to parlay himself into more permanent political power. He was a bigoted, supremacist, social darwinist prick. But he paid better than the warehouse Tyrael had been working at.

 

"Just always there, with their hands out, 'oh please, spare us some crowns for the Emperor's mercy' and the panhandlers!" He scoffed, enjoying the sound of his own voice as he ratcheted up, working himself up thin face turning red,

 

"They don't do anything but live off the the Emperor's dole and shoot that up their noses! This is going to become a :cusshole like Necromunda or every other Hiveworld in the verse,"

 

Tyrael shrugged,

 

"Wouldn't know Mr. Qask, never been off Xeris." Qask glowered, "Toland, I promise you they are absolutely terrible. You have to scrub the smell of decrepitude and poverty off you with bleach."

 

Tyrael had been going by 'Toland' for a while now. He'd been a man he'd worked alongside twenty years or more ago at a ranch. He'd enjoyed that time, working with animals that were similar to the steeds they used to breed on Caliban, though they were far too slow to be warsteeds. And dumb at that. Now he was this aspiring politician's muscle for when he went into bad areas of the capital city.

 

Tyrael didn't understand why he wanted to rule over a place he obviously hated so much. Maybe he just was tired too? Tyrael enjoyed his simple life, but had missed fighting. He was made for it, trained for it.

 

Though the few times he had brutalized rival criminals, they hadn't been much of a challenge. Some had firearms, and while there was never an excuse for complacency, it was just...banal.

 

"Hell really is other people" Tyrael said.

 

"What?" Qask started, Tyrael cleared his throat, "Oh nothing Mr. Qask, so we are going to rough up some protesters here?" He asked, indicating the rapidly approaching stop,

 

"Yeah, bunch of junkies all crying over the layoffs and protesting. Arbites aren't doing their jobs and kicking in their teeth, that's where you come in, it will look great for the campaign"

 

Ten years later.

 

Qask had predictably failed at gaining governorship of the planet, but had become a crime boss, and alas, not a very skilled one. He was wide eyed, eyes blood shot as he leaned over his massive desk with piles of the drug he had hated the junkies for taking all those years ago. A young woman was dead, her head bashed in by Qask when he was on a rip after she confronted Qask about being pregnant with his child.

 

"Toland! Oh by Sanguiness' blessed wings I'm glad you're here!" He said, snorting another batch of the poison, and he shuddered, "oh, oh Polly Boy really stepped in grox :cuss this time Toland," he said chuckling nervously, his chuckling became instantly anger,

 

"The frakking bitch, come up into my office and tells me she's pregnant! As if I'd breed with a low born whore like her, I am a noble, a-a fra-frakkin Rogue trader!"

 

Tyrael kept his disgust masked, "what do you want me to do Mr. Qask?" The crimelord's wrath turned toward Tyrael, "the hell do you think you big Ogryn frak? We got major problems, there say the Arbites are working with an Inquisitor looking into the fritz."

 

'Fritz' was the slang name for the stimulant/hallucinagen that Qask's organization had assumed control of all distribution of.

 

That Tyrael had helped sell, and enforced Qask's will.

 

That Tyrael had helped him peddle.

 

"Hey frak head, why are you smiling?" Tyrael met the crime Lord's eyes with full intensity, "I'm well aware of the Inquisitor's involvement Polliver. I informed to her and the Arbites."

 

Polliver, a failed Rogue Trader, failed politician and a failed drug Lord raged at this betrayal, pulled out his shotgun and blasted Tyrael in the chest four times, screaming his fury. Tyrael later learned that he had tried to fight his way out of building in an Arbites dragnet with Inquisition support, fritzed up out of his mind before being taken alive. They lost more than a few Arbites, but Polliver was going to be talking with the Inquisitor.

 

When Tyrael awoke, inside the ambulance on its way to the city morgue, his lungs sharply filling with air as he sat up. He quickly dispatched the medicaes who were startled by his resurrection, and then killed the driver before turning off a side street and then down an alley.

 

Perhaps it was long time for Tyrael to leave Xeris. He parked the ambulance, stepping out into the alley and quickly climbing a fire escape up to a apartment he kept. He changed his clothes, bagging up the bloodied rags and putting some shabby robes on. He phoned up a cab to take him to the shuttle port. He booked passage on a freighter sending off goods to another world. He smiled, leaving this world and the lives behind.

Edited August 2, 2019 by Trevak Dal

[Sanctimonius]

As a Night Lords player I'm appropriating Boo Boys.

[Sanctimonius]

Penance

 

        The wind made the dust seem the only thing left alive on this world. Flurries of sand danced around his legs, around his helm, cocooning him in a tiny world of his own. As he trod the landscape, one foot in front of the other, always moving forwards, it seemed as if he really were alone. Certainly from orbit he had seen nothing to indicate life on this world. A vestigial remnant of a long dead race, this world had no name, not anymore. Not a name recognised by man or god, at least. But from a distance, as he had first seen it in his viewscopes, Qin Zha had thought it looked pretty. A pale gem spinning lazily in the black. Up there, in the silence, it had seemed calm.
       The sand shifted beneath his steps. He steadied himself with the butt of the guan dao, using it for purchase in the treacherous ground. He could hear the whine of his filtration system as it struggled beneath the onslaught of micro-silica. He had placed a heavy cloak over his armour in the hopes it would at least mitigate the sands, but clearly nature was not to be denied. He considered engaging void protocols and shutting himself entirely from the local conditions, but he knew he wouldn’t have enough oxygen for what he needed to do. That at least he did know.
       Qin Zha had already been walking for several hundred hours, it seemed. It was hard to know for sure. It was hard to judge time in this place and his internal chronometer had never been particularly reliable. Several times the sky had darkened, though never deep enough for a true night, since he had touched down at the edge of some vast cityscape. But the sun had never been visible, not through the clouds and the dust. Not once had he felt it shine, not once had he felt her warmth on his skin, not once had she smiled at him.
       Not once had he stopped. One step, then another, then another, forever drawn onwards.
       He crested one more rise and the wind cleared for a moment, affording him a brief vision of another ruined settlement. Idly he wondered who this xenos race had been. Not Eldar, the buildings lacked the grace and arrogance of that ancient race. No, these buildings were formed of megalithic stones, irregular yet tightly fitted together without any binding agent. Boring, without aesthetic, yet they had endured the millennia of dust storms travelling across the world. They still towered, bent but unbroken, proud sentinels of a treasure long stolen.
       He turned towards the buildings. They seemed as promising as any others he had seen on this world. He slowed as he approached. Qin Zha rotated the guan dao and slammed it into the sand, still not breaking his stride. He didn’t like leaving it behind but these buildings were tightly packed, and there wouldn’t be the room to use it properly. His Sharp Tooth would be better once he found his prey.    He drew his combat blade, as long as his forearm.
       He walked to the first door and slowed, head bowed. The doors were some analogue of wood, yet far more durable. Perhaps they were treated with something to weather the local environment. Regardless, they were uniformly ruined, hanging on hinges, sand piled up against them as they leaned precariously. He moved to the next building, slowing once more as he passed the door, then the next, and the next. Each of these buildings were derelict, with little evidence of the prior owners. Each was a husk.
       He passed a small plaza, in which a broken, misshapen statue had once stood. Only the embers remained, enough to give a vaguely humanoid shape, enough to hint that life had once been here. He ignored it.
       He came to another one of the small buildings and slowed once more in front of the door.
       Qin Zha burst into action. He dove at the door, smashing through it easily. A blade narrowly missed him as he rolled, and he twisted his body just enough to raise his Sharp Tooth to deflect the followup. Still on his knees he parried several more times before he was able to stand and gain room to manoeuvre, no matter how little. His attacker pressed him hard, knowing that once he was able to gain his footing the fight would soon be over. A marine struck at him again and again, his longer blade lending him the advantage in the fight. His armour was rent, ill-repaired, and the pale orange paint was scoured and scuffed. The sigil on his left shoulder had been ritually excised, as had the left shoulder of Qin Zha’s own armour.
       The attacks came in a flurry, with a controlled fury, yet Qin Zha could feel a sense of desperation beneath the strikes as he met each one. Patiently he parried time and again, refusing to counter as he waited for his moment.
       And all of a sudden it came. A thrust overextended by the merest fractions of an inch, yet it was enough. Quicker than thought Qin Zha rolled his wrist a little faster and stepped to his opponent, inside his attack, and jabbed the pommel of his Sharp Tooth into the chin of his attacker, drawing a grunt of pain. As his opponent reeled he flipped his knife and rammed it into the join between helmet and gorget. His other hand reached around to cup the head of the marine and he gently lowered him to the floor. The marine pawed at his chest, at his helmet, his blade forgotten on the floor. Qin Zha couldn’t see the marine’s expression but he knew it would be filled with the purest hatred. ‘Traitorous bastard…’ he managed, his voice gurgling as his lungs filled with blood. The marine’s movements slowed, then stilled.
       Qin Zha pulled his knife clear, then carefully levered the helmet off the marine. It was difficult. The armour was in terrible repair, pitted and stained, the glorious artwork of the chapter a bare memory beneath the patina. The clasps that held the helmet were corroded and he had to break them in order to remove it cleanly. The face underneath was scarred, the right eye missing, the other staring without sight.
       ‘I offer up this death to the Lord of Skulls. In His name I do this.’ Qin Zha gently closed the remaining eye. Qorost had been close, once. They had fought side by side for centuries, first as Singing Blades for the Summer Tempest Chapter, then as headsmen for the Zarak Tal. They had been friends, of a sort. And now Qorost lay dead by his hand. An ignominious end for a distinguished career. But then, did he deserve any other sort of end?
       Another step. The path continues.
       Qin Zha reached up and removed his own helmet. Immediately he was assailed by sand, reaching into the little room that had become the last resting place of his brother. The air was thin, tanged with some chemical. He had to squint as he bowed his head, the sand enough of an irritant to bother even an astartes’ eyes. He ignored the rapidly cooling body and knelt, head bowed, breathing deep and slow. He sucked the gritty air into his lungs, felt the dust settle on his tongue and throat with each draw.
       He remained like this for several minutes. He expression was clear and calm, with a peace that came from a clarity of purpose. His face was curiously boyish for a marine, without scar or blemish.
       His eyes snapped open. Nodding to himself he rose to his feet and replaced his helmet. With a final bow to the marine at his feet he left the ruined hut behind, pausing only to pull the guan dao from the sand, heading off in a direction that was almost like any other.

       The sky dimmed three more times before he found more ruins. Qin Zha had not rested since he had met Qorost, had not paused on his holy journey. He took bites of dried meat as he walked, sipping drops squeezed from the dry air by his reclamation systems. Still, it was barely enough. He could feel his body weakening. Astartes physiology was a miracle of biological engineering, capable of surviving in desolate and lethal conditions for long periods of time, but even a marine was not immune to the demands of sustenance.
       It didn’t matter. He sensed the end of his journey was near. One way or another.
       A shape loomed out of the dust ahead of him, above him, forcing him to finally stop. Qin Zha swayed as he looked up. Monolithic stones towered over him, crested with girders that seemed to tear at the sky. He closed his eyes. He was close now. They pulled at him, barbs under his soul. His hand flexed at the haft of the guan dao, an involuntary motion.
       He forced his legs into motion once more, ignoring the pain that shrieked at him. Just a little longer. He aimed for the building. It seemed as good a place as any, yet as he approached he could see no entry point, no method of ingress. The edges were hidden by the swirling dust, so he chose left and followed the stones as they led him into the unknown. Visibility was a matter of feet now, but nothing seemed to break the monotony of the wall, until it abruptly ended. A vast gateway, the doors long since destroyed and turned to rubble, disappeared above him. Beyond dark shapes hinted at more buildings, more remnants of this mysterious race.
       Qin Zha peered around the post of the gateway, his eyes narrowed.
       He took a deep breath, then broke into a sprint, heading directly for the closest dark shape. Immediately shots rang out. Bolter, Phobos-pattern, enhanced muzzle for range. Gul-Xa, probably. And where the was Gul-Xa, there would be-
       A figure burst out of hiding, a small gap between the buildings enough in this sandstorm to hide his bulk. Liu Ba, the Bear, already swinging that mace towards Qin Zha’s head. He ducked and rolled, the guan dao snaking out to glance off Liu Ba’s breastplate. He rose to his feet and kept running, bolt shells peppering the ground around him but never quite finding their mark.
       ‘Damned coward! Come back and face me, turncoat.’ The rasping voice of Liu Ba was already softened by the eddying dust.
       ‘In time,’ whispered Qin Zha. He had no idea how Gul-Xa could see him through the swirling dust, but he could guess where he must be based on the firing patterns. He angled his runs, keeping to the scant cover and darker shadows. Somewhere behind him Liu Ba still roared, somewhere up ahead Gul-Xa lay waiting.
       A taller building emerged to his right and Qin Zha cut towards it. The shots stopped as he closed with the stone of the building. As he had suspected, Gul-Xa had put himself in the tallest building that afforded him the best view of the gateway. He spotted the door to his right, yet another rickety affair struggling to stay upright under its own weight. He reached for it, then paused. Gul-Xa knew who was coming for them. Gul-Xa was no man’s fool.
       In the distance he could still just about hear Liu Ba bellowing challenges, still demanding Qin Zha fight him. He did not fear the Bear, despite his power. He knew how dangerous he could be with that mace, however, and knew to be wary of any fight Liu Ba offered.
       He switched to a wide-band vox network, one favoured by the Zarak Tal.               ‘Brother,’ whispered Qin Zha. ‘Come. I wait for you.’
       ‘Where are you, runt?’ snarled Liu Ba. ‘I’ll tear off your arms and beat you with them. I’ll pull off your head and down your throat, you little worm. Nobody betrays the Zarak Tal.’
       ‘The Zarak Tal betrayed itself, Liu Ba. I am the just result of that betrayal.’
       ‘Don’t listen to him, Liu Ba.’ Gul-Xa’s voice was low, sibilant. ‘He is here at the tower.’
       ‘Hah! I have you.’
       Qin Zha braced himself, stance wide, guan dao readied as if he were hunting pigs. ‘Come, Liu Ba. You know Qorost is dead? As is Utt, and Yan-Mei. They are dead by my hand.’ Liu Ba screamed at him over the vox, loud enough to cause the aural dampers to engage for a moment. ‘Yan-Mei begged, Liu Ba. He begged me to remember our days in the Summer Tempest. He begged me to remember our vows when we joined the Shining Blades. We would always be brothers, wasn’t it? Always remain true, that is what they told us. Tell me, Liu Ba, do you think you remained true? Do you think Yan-Mei remained true as he bled on the floor?’
       ‘Liu Ba,’ came Gul-Xa, a note of warning in his voice.
       ‘Yan-Mei died hard, Liu Ba. I cut his hands from him before he died. I think that broke his spirit.’
       Liu Ba emerged from the sands. The speed, the sheer ferocity almost caught Qin Zha off guard, even though he had been expecting it. He nearly wasn’t able to dive out of the way, to jab at Liu Ba’s feet and turn his momentum into an unstoppable freefall. But he was able to throw up his arm and shield his head as Liu Ba struck the wooden door.
       The explosion shook the entire tower. Qin Zha was thrown aside, the impact of the blast forcing the air from his lungs. If it wasn’t for his ceramite, if he had been a foot closer, the blast would have torn him to shreds. Just like it had done to Liu Ba.
       It was several moments before Qin Zha could stand again. His legs threatened to give way beneath him, and his ears rang. That was a bad sign. The circuits in his helmet must have been fried by the blast. He made a mental note to verify the damage once he returned to the ship. If he returned. Perhaps it did not matter, perhaps his journey was about to end. The Lord of War cared not from whence the blood flowed. He tapped the side of his helmet, hoping to jog the aural circuits back into action, but all he managed was to shut down the visual feed as well, leaving him with just bare eyesight tinged green. He sighed. He reached up and removed the helmet, dropping it to the sand. It would not serve him inside the tower.
       He turned to see the guan dao lying in the sand. His fingers flexed again before he retrieved it. He leaned on it for a few long moments and looked at the doorway, blown wide open by Gul-Xa’s trap. There was little damage to the stone of the building, amazingly, despite the ferocity of the explosion. He guessed they had used all the frag grenades they had between them, plus whatever other explosives they had managed to rig. They had really wanted to see him dead. He didn’t blame them, truthfully. Perhaps if the roles were reversed he would have wanted the same.
       He glanced at the ruined remains of Liu Ba. He wondered if he should offer it up, but dismissed the thought. Though he had played his part, the kill belonged to Gul-Xa, truthfully. Qin Zha raised his head. ‘Are you going to make me come up there?’ He received no answer save the ever-present winds. He sighed again and nodded. Disappointing. Expected. He stepped into the tower.
       Inside it was dark and bare, save for rubble and debris. The long dead civilisation that had built these settlements did not believe in flamboyance or decoration. The building was large enough to have internal walls, but these were not as gargantuan as those outside. These had suffered the touch of time, collapsing and leaning precariously to one side or another. He didn’t dare touch them in case he brought the whole tower down. Heavy stone steps, the blocks the same as those without, lay across the room. Seeing no other option, he began to climb.
       ‘I’m guessing Liu Ba is dead,’ called Gul-Xa from somewhere above.
       ‘You guess correctly, brother.’
       ‘Damn fool. He always was too headstrong.’
       ‘I’d say we could all be accused of that crime.’
       ‘There’s the Gods’ own truth to that,’ replied Gul-Xa wearily.
       Qin Zha reached the second floor. It was even darker here, without a window to the outside. A small antechamber greeted him, several doorways leading to darkness. He ignored them. He knew that his brother remained above him. There was little sense in putting things off, so he started up once more.
       ‘Do you ever think of when you joined the Shining Blades?’
       Qin Zha shrugged even though Gul-Xa couldn’t see the motion. He continued up the steps, willing his legs to keep moving onwards. ‘Sometimes.’
       ‘I do often. Proudest moment of my life. We all stood there in the bright sun, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Gul-Do had hand-picked us to be the next generation leading the vanguard of the Summer Tempest.’ There was a pause.        ‘You didn’t have to kill him.’
       ‘Yes I did,’ replied Qin Zha. He reached the third floor. It was that familiar dark inside, but he could see more ruined walls and detritus. A single window overlooking the yard below. Gul-Xa was beside it, bolter-rifle steady and pointing at his former brother. He also wasn’t wearing his helmet, so Qin Zha could see the emotions warring over his face. His brother’s face was haggard and worn, his beard matted, his hair lank. Despite his calm tone, rage and desperation competed, sending twitches in his cheeks and brow. Qin Zha paused at the edge of the steps. ‘Gul-Do lied to us.’
       ‘He set us free, brother. He opened our eyes to the hypocrisy of the Imperium. To the lies of the Chapter. The evils that we did… Entire worlds purged, and for what? Some notion of purity, or vengeance, or… I don’t even know.’
       Qin Zha nodded. He remembered. It had been a terrible time. The Chapter of the Summer Tempest had been created for a very specific purpose. They had been made to wander the stars, searching for the inconstant, the wavering, the rebellious, the iconoclasts, the heretics. And these they were to chastise, to crush, to tear down and level to allow those more deserving to replace and rebuild. Planetary governors who begged the Imperium for relief from crippling tithes. Populations rife with mutation and psyker activity. Charismatic preachers calling for the Imperium to hear some new interpretation of the Imperial Creed that fell foul of strict dogma. All of these felt the kiss of the Summer Tempest. All of these were ruthlessly crushed, entire populations wiped out or sent to the penal colonies, with millions more dead from famine or disease, their crippled economies no longer capable of sustaining them.
       And each time the Shining Blades, the Second Company of the Summer Tempest, were at the forefront. The bravest, the most skilled, the most dedicated led the charge, led the Chapter into warzone after warzone, conflict after purge after pacification. And each time Gul-Do had been the point of the spear. Leading his handpicked warriors, they had fought and killed and butchered, closing their ears and their hearts to the cries of the innocents caught in actions not of their making. Each time Gul-Do had grown grimmer, his mood blacker.
       Sometimes he could still hear the screams of children calling for a mother who would never answer.
       Things had finally come to a head when Chapter Master Uxor had called on Gul-Do to attend one of their recruitment worlds. The planetary governor had requested a reduced tithe to stave off starvation caused by a poor harvest. Uxor had flown into an apoplectic rage, demanding absolute fealty from his wards, or ultimate sanction from his warriors. He had commanded Gul-Do to lead a punitive mission to the world, to raze the capital of the planet and kill every one of the ten million inhabitants.
       Gul-Do had refused. Aggressively. The resulting battle had seen Uxor dead, with no fewer than ten of the First Company alongside. And so Gul-Do had fled, leading his Shining Blades into the night. They had taken the title of the Severed, the Discarded, the Vagabond Dead. The Zarak Tal, in the tongue of the homeworld.
       ‘Gul-Do set us free from a lifetime of murder and genocide,’ said Gul-Xa softly.
       Qin Zha moved then. His arm came up holding his bolt pistol, spraying shells at Gul’Xa who dove to his right, his return fire tearing into the wall behind where Qin Zha had stood a moment before. In the darkness of the room the staccato bursts of fire lent an eerie quality, a stuttering bent to his movements. Actions were strobed with light as both marines clung to cover and sniped at one another, blowing apart ragged furniture and broken walls. Qin Zha heard a click from his brother’s bolter even as his own ran dry. He reloaded smoothly and quickly, knowing Gul-Xa was doing the same.
       ‘Gul-Do betrayed us, brother,’ said Qin Zha. ‘You know this. He led us from the Imperium for his own ends, not some high-minded nobility. He struck down Uxor because he wanted to become lord of the Chapter.’
       ‘What does it matter? Uxor was a fool. We would have been better served with Gul-Do at our head. ‘Qin Zha risked looking around the corner of the rubble he crouched behind and nearly had his head blown off for the trouble. Silently he thanked the unknown builders for the durability of their craftsmanship. ‘Gul-Do would have led us to glory. No longer controlled by the Imperium. We could have forged our own destiny instead of slowly dying in pointless wars against humanity.’
Qin Zha burst from cover, firing towards Gul-Xa. Unfortunately his brother was well concealed and his return fire struck Qin Zha across his plate and arm, spinning him to the ground. He managed to roll behind another broken wall, dragging himself to rest against it. Pain spread across his chest and he felt at the ceramite of his armour. It was cracked in several places and blood was beginning to drip to the floor, the rich scent of astartes blood filling the air. ‘That’s a powerful kick in that bolter of yours,’ he grunted.
       ‘Not powerful enough, clearly.’
       ‘Clearly not. By my count you’re nearly empty again. How much ammunition did you bring?’
       ‘Not as much as I should have,’ admitted Gul-Xa. ‘It’s hard to find good supplies these days, especially when a dog snaps at your heels.’
       Qin Zha barked a laugh despite himself, then grunted as pain lanced in his side. He raised his pistol, tightened his grip on the guan dao. Once more he leapt to his feet, pistol firing until empty. The impacts studded the wall Gul-Xa hid behind, throwing off his return fire. As Qin Zha charged he saw Gul-Xa rise, saw the bolter clip eject, saw him reach for another and realise he wouldn’t have the time. He threw the bolter at Qin Zha who batted it aside, but this gave him enough time to draw his jian blade and parry the thrust of the guan dao. They traded blows for several long moments. Qin Zha’s reach was stymied by the treacherous footing and closed confines, but Gul-Xa was struggling to counter the momentum of his brother and could only parry, unable to find an opening for his own attacks.
       They broke apart, both breathing hard. Their advanced physiology had been sorely tested by the long chase, and this world held little succour for them. Pushed to the limits of endurance, both warriors seemed ready to fall.
       Gul-Xa’s gaze fell to Qin Zha’s side where blood seeped and dripped to the floor. ‘That looks painful.’
       A shrug as Qin Zha stepped forwards, his eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve had worse.
       Gul-Xa grimaced as he held his blade steady in both hands. ‘Why, brother. Tell me that at least. Why did you kill Gul-Do? Why have you hunted us down?’ His voice broke a little. ‘Why did you betray the Zarak Tal?’
       Qin Zha launched himself at Gul-Xa. The initial thrust was caught, but that was a feint, and he allowed the momentum to swing the guan dao around to strike at Gul-Xa with its heel. He followed with a kick to his brother’s knee, sending him reeling off balance, and he barely managed to avoid a slashing attack as Qin Zha pressed. A risposte licked out and nearly removed Qin Zha’s head, forcing him back once more.
       They picked their way carefully around the rubble and debris scattered on the floor. Neither looked away, their eyes locked, their movements controlled. Despite their exhaustion they were marines; practised, veteran, deadly.
       It was Gul-Xa who attacked this time. Taking his blade in both hands he tried to batter down Qin Zha’s defences smashing the guan dao aside and trying to time his reverses to gut his opponent. But Qin Zha knew his brother well. He knew his style, knew that he had never been patient in close combat. He could outwait a stone with a bolter in his hands, but get close to him and sooner or later he gave in to his urge to kill and became frenzied. Dispassionately Qin Zha turned aside blows that would have carved him open, bare inches from his body, waiting for his moment.
       It came. Gul-Xa cleaved down once more at Qin Zha, who only partially parried. He turned a blow that would have split his head onto his pauldron, allowing it to shear off a chunk of ceramite instead of ending him. His light parry spun the guan dao straight into the gut of Gul-Xa, the blade buried deep. Gul-Xa gasped as he dropped his jian, wrapped his hands around the haft of the spear. He grimaced as blood flecked his spittle.
       Qin Zha braced himself and pulled on the guan dao. Gul-Xa held tight though, so he punched him once, twice in the face, breaking his nose beneath ceramite, then pulled his spear clear. Gul-Xa fell to his knees, then facedown into the dust. He rolled agonisingly to his back, tried to lever himself up, but his strength gave way.
       Qin Zha placed the guan dao aside and helped his former brother to lean against the nearest wall. Blood streamed beneath Gul-Xa’s fingers as he tried to hold his insides in. He gave a broken smile. ‘Many thanks, brother. I had not thought any of us deserving of your kindness.’
       Qin Zha knelt beside him. ‘We were brothers once.’
       ‘It pains me we are no longer.’ He laughed, blood frothing at his lips. ‘Literally, as it turns out.’ Qin Zha nodded. ‘Just tell me why, brother. Grant a dying man closure.’
       Qin Zha sighed. ‘Gul-Do lied to us all, brother. He spoke of freedom, or truth, morality. But the entire time he consorted with the enemy. He was using us. I found evidence of demonic summoning, of dark pacts. When I confronted him he did not deny it. He simply said I was too small-minded to understand freedom was a lie, that we must all give our service to one power or another.’ He looked to Gul-Xa, who did not meet his gaze. ‘You knew,’ he said, softly.
       ‘I did. We needed direction, Qin Zha. We needed purpose. Gul-Do gave us that.’
       ‘We were meant to be free,’ retorted Qin Zha. Free to make our own choices, to protect the weak from the strong, to be the heroes we were meant to be.’
       ‘Ah. I think I finally understand. You really are naïve, brother.’ Gul-Xa whispered now, his strength almost spent. ‘You never realised we were never the heroes. We were never meant to be. We are weapons, made to kill. All that changes is the hand that wields us.’
       ‘I never agreed to this… damnation.’
       ‘Yes, you did. Every time you struck down a mortal who simply wished to know where their next meal came from, or worried for their family. You were just as damned as the rest of us.’
       ‘Maybe. But as long as I have breath I will end each and every one of us, until there are none left to plague the innocent.’
       Gul-Xa smiled, though his eyes were clouded. ‘Be wary brother. The longer you fight the beast… the more you become one…’
       Gul-Xa slumped. Immediately Qin Zha felt a tension leave him. It was as if a weight had lifted from his soul, a hunger that scratched beneath his surface sated. He knew it would return soon. It seemed the feeling came on stronger and more quickly each time. Each time he had killed one of his former brothers for the sin of betrayal, it had been only a matter of time before he felt that now familiar stirring in his soul, that pull that guided him towards his next target, his next kill.
       He had never asked to turn from the light of the Emperor. All he had wanted, since he was a child gazing up in wonder at the shining fortresses and ships of the Summer Tempest, was to be a mighty warrior, a defender of humanity. All he had ever dreamed of was being the best, the greatest warrior the Summer Tempest had ever seen. And after he was led into damnation by Gul-Do, after they were all cast adrift by his actions, Qin Zha had prayed harder than he ever had before. Was it his fault that answer that came was not the one he had expected? From a source he had not countenanced? Was it wrong of him to seek to seek power that was offered, to seize a way to end his brothers for their actions?
       ‘I offer up this death to the Lord of Skulls. In His name I do this.’ Qin Zha straightened and retrieved the guan dao, the weapon he had pried from the dead hands of Gul-Do. As his fingers brushed the weapon he heard the whispers once more, but he did his best to ignore them. Whispers of justice. Whispers of glory, of power. Whispers of bloodshed, so much bloodshed. He began to feel that pull once more.
       Qin Zha took a step. Then another.

Edited August 4, 2019 by Sanctimonius

[Scourged]

Thank you all for your entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: Nebulous Loyalty

Trevak Dal offered up Of Angels and Men. We were taken through the life of Tyrael, or rather his many lives. What is it that the Fallen do if they don’t turn renegade? How does an Astartes adjust to life among the mortals within the Imperium? In this small vignette, we get some fun answers to those questions, and more.

Sanctimonius continued a submission streak with Penance. We join our, um, “hero” on a quest for vengeance, fist and blade falling upon former brothers. But is it enough? Will their deaths pay for their betrayal? Or, is it he who has actually betrayed them? That will be up to the reader to decide.

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: Interview with an Exalted Champion

For this new topic, we’re going to continue a bit of a tradition for Inspirational Friday: the Interview Series™. In the past, we’ve seen interviews for Lords, Sorcerers, Daemon Princes, Warpsmiths, Apostles, and even Apothecaries. Ironically or appropriately, the Exalted Champions have gone overlooked… until now.

Our Interview Series™ does not require the format to be a literal interview, though it may be if you wish. Nor need it be serious in tone (I always used the topics as an excuse to attempt some written humor). But do find a way to tell us all about an Exalted Champion. How did they rise to their position of power? What drives them to the heights of their prowess? What challenges have they faced, or will they face, in the coming wars? Are they seeking to usurp their warband’s leader, to rise to the level of Apotheosis, or something more esoteric?

IF2019: Interview with an Exalted Champion runs until the 13th of September

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

The winner of IF2019: Nebulous Loyalty shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

[Scourged]

And as for my judgement? This time, the octed belongs to Trevak Dal. Picking a Fallen to be the protagonist for the topic just felt so... perfect. What could befit the theme of Nebulous Loyalty better than that? The theme played out on that higher meta level as well as within the prose itself, with the tale's conclusion. 

[Scourged]

Hello, my dark brethren. I've been meaning to check in with this thread, but wow, life has been a doozy. The holiday weekend, the end of ETL for many of us, and my allergies flaring up and making me a slave to Benedryl. The deadline for our topic this time around is in a couple of days. Is there anyone out there who's still thinking of contributing some Inspiration? 

[Sanctimonius]

I'm hoping others in this thread have the same excuse I do, I'm trying to write something for the BL submission. There's a lot of talent here, and I hope others are joining in.

[Leonite]

Maybe it might be smart to extend this one?

[Scourged]

Indeed. A sentiment I share. We'll give it one more week. Sound good, folks?

[Leonite]

I might actually write for this one!... Might

[Kierdale]

Sorry, I wanted to enter but just haven’t been able to get 40k creative recently. :(

[Leonite]

Likewise sadly...

[Trevak Dal]

I kinda want to write about Giselburtus, but he's not an exalted Champion (that would be Tyrael Adrastus, the perpetual Fallen guy) he's a possessed sorcerer. Think Carnage meets Deadpool and you mostly got him.

 

He is a Nightblade (from their geneseed) so an offshoot of the Alpha Legion. I guess I could do champion Jocko Vash...who is kind of Giselburtus and Tyrael's main back up guy. Real straight man, super professional, was inspired a lot by The Master Chief from Halo but also Captain Rex from the Clone Wars. but a bit more free thinking than most other Nightblades. He's the leader of the Chosen squad Blue Team.

 

 

Or maybe Sigard Maiden Breaker of the Siege Dancers...he is an Exalted Champion, but writing Siege Dancer stuff is hard because it's pretty heavy on non consensual sexual acts.

 

Sigard is a renegade space wolf who missed his reaving, pre Astartes days and ended up joining the Siege Dancers. He does massive quantities of drugs and alcoholic concoctions as he loots and plunders and has lots of non consensual sex.

 

As of the Current Time (by GWs standards) Abaddon tasked the Nightblades to bring them to heel and they did, Tyrael Anathame'd their Daemon Princess (turning her back into a male iron warrior before sundering it's soul completely) Giselburtus, in revenge for past torturing at Sigard's hands blinded him, ripped off his arms and legs and then bound him into a Helbrute sarcophagus to be used at the Warmaster's bidding. He's the only survivor of the Siege Dancers.

 

Alphonse (Warlord of the Nightblades) orchestrated their downfall perfectly as payback for the Siege Dancers betraying them on Cadia. They burned their bodies and geneseed.

Edited September 22, 2019 by Trevak Dal

[Scourged]

Unfortunately, we did not see any entries in Inspirational Friday 2019: Interview with an Exalted Champion

It feels like we’re all in a strange, nebulous state with 40k right now. There’s a weird energy among the frater in the CSM forums (and no, not the usual Warp energies we’ve all grown accustomed to). We finished the ETL and have since moved into the Call, so that for sure will be drawing the attention of some. And the impact of the new book for our Loyalist cousins has definitely been felt by many here. Though I can only speak for myself, I feel others may share my sentiment in that, right now, I’m in a bit of 40k ebb. Despite that, though, let’s see if we can get our Inspiration flowing once more.

Rather than close this topic, I will stick a pin in it. One day, down the road, we will return to this topic and see what inspiration may take us at that time. Until then...

And so begins our second challenge of Inspirational Friday 2019: Warped Mirror

Though not true for every Legion and Warband, the soul (or lack thereof) and identity found amongst the battle brothers is often one that is a warping of another - an inverse, an opposite, a twisted reflection. Some of them are classical rivalries that have existed for 10k millennia: Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists, Alpha Legion and Ultramarines, Thousand Sons and Space Wolves. Or, they may be adversaries from within the eye, due to their patron Gods: World Eaters and Emperor’s Children, Death Guard and Thousand Sons. And others still may be a twisted mockery of the warband itself, a dark shadow to what they once were and still are: Dark Angels and Dark Angels.

This time around, tell us of your Warband or Legion. To whom are they the opposite? Do they differ ideologically, tactically, spiritually, all of the above? Is it a rivalry old as time, or one fresh and new where the source of the schism has not yet become elevated to myth? Tell us of your opposing rivals.

IF2019: Warped Mirror runs until the 11th of October

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

The winner shall claim the Octed amulet:

And the honor of judging the next challenge.

Let us be inspired.

[Leonite]

Hmm... this'll be interesting. 

[Kierdale]

This I think I can get my teeth into. :tu:

 

Oh, will we be having a horror-theme for Halloween?

[Scourged]

Why yes... indeed we will. And not only that, since we've been sticking (mostly) with a 3-week schedule on these prompts, with that in mind... why, the Halloween prompt will close just after October 31st. Could it be... Just As Planned™? 

[Scourged]

Just wanted to check in with the tainted brethren as the deadline approaches. Can we look forward to any thrilling entries in the next few days? I'd love to see an entry or two before we move on to our Spooky™ topic this weekend. 

 

I know I've been trying. I have a couple ideas, but I just... can't... quite get them right. Something about either of them isn't 'clicking,' but I'll see what I can do by Friday. Plus, I've got a tournament at the end of the month I'm prepping for. Also, well, honestly... Warcry is just so much fun.