29 replies to this topic

[Tenebris]

Welcome back to Inspirational Friday fellow denizens of the Eye. In the previous week we were writing about our cultists and their chaos cults and a lot of nice things came out of it. As will become customary before we move onto the new topic for this week an award is in order.

 

For the most wacky and inspirational post about chaos cultists this week's reward goes to:

 

disease 

 

For his awesome "Disciples". The reward goes to him because his cult was something really original and their purpose properly portrayed as chaotic in all its glory. There is something special in this reiteration of "the eternal dance" which is aptly chaotic, strange and completely insane, just as we like our cultists. 

 

disease, come forward and collect your reward:

 

 

 

Now onto this week's inspirational hokus pokus:

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 12/09/2014  - LEGACY WEAPON

 

A legacy weapon is a powerful relic from the legion armoury, it is a weapon that has spilled the blood of countless enemies since the golden days of the Great Crusade. Such weapons often have a dominating machine spirit and slowly gain a presence in the Warp, a resonance that calls to its wielder. Those are not "daemonic weapons" but really powerful artefacts from an age past. Many legionnaires still cling to their humble bolter and chansword with which they were awarded when they were elevated into the ranks of the astartes yet some carry into battle even more powerful and master crafted weapons, never to be replicated again, and ever thirsty for a foes blood.

 

For this iteration of Inspirational Friday write a short snippet of fluff about a weapon with which your legionnaire has fought since the age of the Great Crusade, or otherwise considers it an inseparable item, of which neither death or dishonour can part him from. 

 

So let us be inspired and may the best and most inspired win.

 

 

Tenebris

Edited by Tenebris, 12 September 2014 - 08:51 AM.

[incinerator950]

I know mine is a renegade Chapter, but I'm presenting my story regardless. Also on the phone, bare with the mistakes.

The Annihilator

With the wake of the Annihilators rebirth as the Beasts of Annihilation, all bodies and battlegear within the Chapter felt the cold, burning wash of the Warp. Lord Kyron, formerly Captain of the Second Company, had been reborn with the possession, his sanity intact. He had achieved symbiosis with the demon inside, and with him the manipulation of his body to control tools of the battlefield in ways an Astartes cannot dream dream of. His weapons were with him past the plunge, and of him.

The Annihilator had been a Chainsword before the awakening. Neither Relic nor gift of prestige, the blade was nonetheless a masterpiece. A bright, bloody finish streaked across while being simple in ornamentation. The teeth where torn from the jaws of thrash sharks and coated in Adamantium before being smoked in a promethium pool. Kyron had kept it through the ranks and after his rebirth, passing relics of his Chapter to his peers and spoils to his lessers. Imbued with both the Demon's and Kyron's power, the Annihilator fights with a ferocity of a greater dragon's cleaving bite. Its haft has grown into Kyron's right arm as a direct extension of his will. Three small, but crudely sharp studs protrude from the top of the swords rotary housing. Small, dew-claw appendages form where the weapon and armor meets demonic infused flesh, with bio-support cables running from the arm to the flesh connecting the haft where a hand and grip may grasp. The blade has kept the extension of the Beasts colors, and ironically is not a Demon bound weapon.

The Chainsword drinks the blood of its victims, and it has only fed more in the thousands of years through violant conflict and the serenity of the Warp, drawing geysers from the lowest cadres of the gods' hordes,veteran Black Legionaires and former allied Astartes of the Corpse Emperor, to Kings, Saints, and the Ascended greaters and kin of the blessed tide.. As the blade courses with the passing of casualties it sings through, the Demon grows stronger within Kyron. Through fresh kills, the blade picks up grinding speeds which are freakishly startling, and can achieve a cutting strength no chainblade should achieve. Felling powerful Chaos Lords, false heroes of the Imperium, and demons with a simple, powerful slash. Singing with a clarity that drowns the maddness and roar of demonic, wretching horror.

Edited by incinerator950, 13 September 2014 - 12:00 PM.

[Xenith]

Since I missed the cultist version, here is my contribution to this weeks thread, I hope you enjoy.

 

 

Iron Phantom

 

War was nearly upon them. He knew, because his arm twitched. The right one.  Torsch’lag felt the familiar tingling, burning sensation in his finger tips, the one that he had felt a thousand times before. His mind flicked back to the day the feeling ended. His eidetic, gene enhanced memory recalling the skull faced chaplain of the blood angels, making his hand clench in fury. He battled with the priest of false religion, the tingling sensation became a burning, jaw clenched, his arm aflame with the sensation of misfiring synapses. The priest struck out with his crozius arcanum…and then nothing. The feeling subsided, as it always did. Torsch’lag  looked down at the nothingness that his right arm used to occupy. Underneath the simple robes he wore, the space below the ruined stump of his shoulder was empty, as it had been for centuries, his arm dismembered and mangled by the chaplain’s ancient power weapon. The Blood Angel had died for that, with his servo arm pinning down the black armoured warriors own weapon arm, Torsch’lag had choked the life from him in a fit of rage, in the mud and the scraps of ruined tanks.

 

He could still feel the limb. He tensed and flexed imaginary muscles, opening and closing his phantom hand. A tapping and twitching motion in the corner of the room caught his eye.

 

It awakens.

 

Torschlag suppressed the mild dread that came with the tapping. He arose, and walking to the corner of the room, drew back the fabric draped over a transparent, lidless, plasteel coffin.

 

His new limb was awake.

 

It knew blood as to be spilled, and it thirsted for carnage. The horrific fusion of flesh, metal, daemon and spite began to writhe in its suspensor field, the blue glow expanding and contracting in time with the thrashing of the oiled-silver monster. The arm was his gift and his curse: the three fingered mechanical claw of immense power gifted to him after swearing as an ally to the Dark Mechanicus thralls of the Thousand Son, Ahrabeth.

 

He stilled his mind, his gaze locked upon the twisting contraption. The daemon inside was strong, and he must remain in control. The beast's flailing slowed, then stopped. It knew he was near. The fingers of the mechanical claw opened and closed, gently, almost beckoningly. Torsch’lag steeled his will. The power of the Dark Mechanics and their Tzeentchian master was great, and they would have him enthralled, a slave to their bidding. He knew that each time he donned the claw, he lost a part of himself to it. In battle they acted as one, a perfect blend of man and machine, wreaking havoc on the soldiers of the false emperor, but afterwards, the techno-organic contraption became harder and harder to remove. With it, he was a god. Without it he felt weak.  The temptation to wear it constantly was great, which is why his iron resolve did not allow it. The beast was sheared off by his apothecary post battle in dark ritual, the weapon-daemon returned to its casket. But it could never be far from him. It called to him in his dreams, as it does now. He opened and closed the fingers on his missing hand, and the claw echoed the motion, the Iron Warrior and Iron-Daemon’s motions synchronised.

 

Torsch’lag placed the ruin of his shoulder into the casket, and powered down the suspensor field with his good hand.

As the claw began to drop, copper tentacles shot from within the arm, puncturing Torsch’lag’s shoulder, and winding their way towards his neck as the claw pulled itself close, latching onto his flesh, metal teeth burst from the shoulder socket and buried themselves into the Iron Warrior.

 

The screams were heard throughout the ship. Laughter echoed through the immaterium.

 

The marine opened his eyes, and saw the floor. Panting, he placed his three fingered mechanical arm on the ground, and rose from his knees to his full, post human height, and gazed at the world through ancient eyes, the claw-fingers clicking in time to an unknown staccato beat.

 

Activating the ship wide vox, he announces: “War calls, brothers, to arms!”.

 

Striding towards the armour stand in the corner of the room, a thought passed through his head, reverberated for a second, and then dissipated:

Torsch’lag, would soon be gone, and in his place there would only be…THE CLAW!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Based on the personal history of Warsmith Torsch'Lag, of the Iron Warriors.

 

++++Pictogram depicting Warsmith Torsch'lag++++

++++Traitoris Extremis: Of the Excommunicated Legio Iron Warriors++++

To find out more about the adventures of Sorcerer Ahrabeth, Warsmith Torschlag and their rag tag band of evildoers, please click  the red button now the link in my sig.

Edited by Xenith, 13 September 2014 - 09:32 PM.

[Kierdale]

That was outstandingly good, Xenith!
I don't think I can top that, but I suppose I do have a tale to tell about one weapon.

[Loesh]

 Schism

 

Hailing from the Holy world of Terra are a number of death cults and dueling societies, amongst them arose the practice of forging Charnabal Sabres, these ancient weapons were preferred by many officers in the Emperors Children and the Palatine Blade. Sigvald, a member of the Emperors Children carried such a weapon throughout his life, an elegant and agile weapon which killed enemies one cut at a time, a warrior up to the Siege of Terra when he fell to warpcraft he renamed the blade Schism, both to represent severing from the imperium and the duality between it as a weapon and a focus for magic.

 

Reforging the blade wasn't easy, during the Horus Heresy while the others were liquefying the adminstratum into drugs he was hunting along the streets for the original craftsman, the patterns inside a Charnabal Sabre were a writ and to one knowledgeable enough to read them they were like a signature. For days he hunted the forger through the streets, finally coming upon him in one of the ancient shelters from the Age of Strife. Slaughtering everyone inside he consumed the mans mind, taking his memories and every sensation he had ever felt throughout his life.

 

Using this knowledge Sigvald worked both the force generator for the weapon into it's pattern, press folding it over the duration of the battle and finally impressing his own ritual with a Slaaneshi tinge to mark it as his and his alone. This pattern also incorporated a channel into the blade, draining the blood into it's base from which he would cast his spells. Treated bloodletter skin wrapped around the hilt, it's pommel shaped into the star of chaos complete with a tiny silver bead at it's center.

Edited by Loesh, 13 September 2014 - 02:25 AM.

[Xenith]

Thanks, Kierdale!

 

Just something I knocked together last night, I'm glad you liked it!

[incinerator950]

Mine is cobbled in a short span from getting off work st 0600.

[MaliGn]

The Sundered Crozius,

As the Word Bearers began to teach the primordial truth to the galaxy in the aftermath of the shaming at Monarchia, the holy Crozii Arcanum wielded by their Chaplains as staves of office were defiled and reconsecrated to the gods of the empyrean. Kor Ladron, penitent chaplain of the Chapter of the Sacrificial Chalice first bathed his weapon in the blood of eight Ecclesiarchy priests before carving arcane runes along its haft. The head of the crozius was remodelled by chapter artificers; using forbidden rites to bind daemonic essences into its fabric, they transformed the holy weapon into an unsettling icon of blasphemy. Wrought of adamantium With a leering daemonic skull at it's centre, surrounded by a ring of spiked blades filigreed in gold. the infernal majesty of the maul rendered it's makers utterly insane and in a frenzy they fell upon each other; anointing the accursed crozius in their lifeblood.

When Kor Ladron claimed the Crozius from the carnage of its birth he was pleased, here, truly was a talisman of the Dark Gods. It was not until the Warmaster Horus ordered the Word Bearers to Calth that he would wield it against the worshippers of the false emperor. The Chapter of the Sacrificial Chalice, led by Kor Ladron rampaged across the plains of Calth, striking into the heart of the Ultramarine forces and mercilessly butchering their former brothers. As he struck down all who stood before him, a deep bond was forged between marine and malign maul, an unholy union born of hatred and religious fury.

Following the failure of the Heresy and the flight into the eye of terror Kor Ladron would embark on a fateful penitent oddysey. Accompanied by a coterie of the remaining marines of the Sacrificial Chalice he voyaged deep into the Eye of Terror. The coterie faced many dangers as they were tested and punished by their fickle new masters, ultimately the final trial would force Kor Ladron to pay the ultimate price, in a titanic battle with a foul Daemon Prince he would suffer a fatal wound; caused in part by the psychic backlash as he struck the killing blow with his crozius. In a cruel twist of fate the blow shattered the blasphemous maul, freeing the daemonic essences bound within, it was this that laid Kor Ladron low. His Acolytes bore their stricken leader and the remains of his holy weapon back to the daemon world of Sicarus where Kor Ladron was interred in the sarcophagus of an ancient dreadnought, there to see out his penance for eternity. The broken pieces of the Crozius were fused with a barbaric power halberd and fitted to the war machine when it takes to the battlefield. Reunited with his Sundered Crozius Kor Ladron continues to smite the servants of the corpse god with righteous zeal and furious hatred.

[incinerator950]

I was asking myself if everyone simply forgot about this topic.

[Tenebris]

"Dendera - Archeotech Plasma Pistol"

 

Dendera is an ornate and deadly plasma pistol. A master crafted variant of the Ryza "Sunspite" pattern, this weapon was made to last throughout the ages and lasted it did. The personal sidearm of Lord Sorcerer Tenebris, this weapon was awarded to him on his promotion to the astartes ranks. Named after the ancient form of lightning of Aegyptus this weapon proved its worth countless times on countless battlefields. One of the finest examples of legion artifice "Dendera" has a powerful but very volatile machine spirit and its caged energy is quite impressive. Lord Tenebris is very fond of this weapon and despite his armory is full of such mighty tools of death Dendera is always at his side. Engraved beneath the power coils is written "The Light of Reason" in ancient Prosperine runes, a common phrase among the warrior scholars of the Thousand Sons, a ritual phrase said to ward of the volatile tendencies of such a temperamental weapon. 

 

In the countless years that followed the Horus Heresy, Dendera was always at the side of its master. In time the weapon developed a searing machine spirit, violent and temperamental, though not yet a fully formed sentience in the Warp, Lord Tenebris had to inscribe several runes of warding on the weapon capacitator. It is said that a certain Warpsmith covets the secrets hidden in this weapon for its artificer, an artisan of the Thousand Sons imbued this weapon with a powerful magnetic chamber and plasma intakes. Though once a common weapon in the legiones astartes, Dendera is by virtue of its modification a rather unique specimen of plasma based weaponry and it is said that the artisans of the Thousand Sons used to assemble their weapons by using complex lay line technologies and technoarcane runes which allowed for very powerful and intensive plasma flares. Yet not even mighty Dendera escaped the touch of the warp for what was once a mighty caged sun coiled within an all too temperamental weapon, nowadays Dendera is imbued by the warp magicks of its master and spits searing bolts of ectoplasma, no longer it is fueled by hydrogen caskets but by the sheer arrogance of Lord Tenebris, always defiant in the face of his foe. 

Edited by Tenebris, 17 September 2014 - 10:46 AM.

[Xenith]

His Acolytes bore their stricken leader and the remains of his holy weapon back to the daemon world of Sicarus where Kor Ladron was interred in the sarcophagus of an ancient dreadnought, there to see out his penance for eternity. The broken pieces of the Crozius were fused with a barbaric power halberd and fitted to the war machine when it takes to the battlefield. Reunited with his Sundered Crozius Kor Ladron continues to smite the servants of the corpse god with righteous zeal and furious hatred.

I...need to see this in model form. Right away.

[MaliGn]

There is the thread here: http://www.bolterand...le +dreadnought

[Xenith]

That's a nice looking dread!

[MaliGn]

Thanks!

[Tenebris]

I concur, very nice looking indeed. I am proud of you people, we are few days into this Inspirational Friday and already I am hard pressed to choose the best for all contributions are great. I must say that all of you are doing an excellent job on this thread, so many ideas and all well thought of. Keep the good work!

[incinerator950]

Well this has spurred a Warband idea.

[Xenith]

^^ Ooh, do tell?

 

And Tenebris:

Nice work, A plasma pistol powered by your own sense of self satisfaction.

 

 

http://imgur.com/r/thesimpsons/amLiu6v

Edited by Xenith, 17 September 2014 - 08:40 PM.

[Phantomzero17]

Jeddek, like his fellows, having survived implantation and training on board was now supposed to petition a claw for admittance.  Instead he found himself elsewhere on board.

 

It hung by a leather strap in a room that had not felt a mortal breath in centuries.  Few things tended to remain in the arming chamber of claw that no longer lived to inhabit it.  He knew it's name as much from the few tales he'd been told during his training as from the fact that it seemed to pulse through his mind with every moment he remained standing in the room.  Sanity's Edge they had called it, a weapon borne into battle forging the Imperium and once again in casting down the walls of it's greatest palace.  He reached up to grip the hilt and memories not his own flooded his mind.  He allowed them to soak in, to stoke the fires of his rage, and to feed his bitterness.  Never would he ride with 3rd claw, capture spirits with the Warden's 4th, take skulls with the Terran's 5th, lose himself to concoctions of the 9th, or any of the others.  No if he was to be forced into this life of slavery to dark gods and the memory of a martyred father he never knew it would be on his own terms.  Looking around the chamber he could still hear the whispers of glory, of duels against the greatest of foes, of the names of brothers and foes he would see ended.

 

5 hours later he stood on the bridge alone save for the Captain, the Atramentar, and the crew and declared "7th Claw stands in midnight clad."

[incinerator950]

^^ Ooh, do tell?

And Tenebris:
Nice work, A plasma pistol powered by your own sense of self satisfaction.


http://imgur.com/r/thesimpsons/amLiu6v

In my quest to find a Warband from eithet Legion or Chapter, I've contemplated the quest for enlightenment and stimulation to make a EC army blatantly plagerizing the BoA and using CS rules.

[Forté]

Keep it coming people.

Never thought about naming any weapons and having little stories behind them. I do now

[Kierdale]

Will get mine up tonight.

[Kol Saresk]

It screamed as it sundered the air. Blood ran down its length in artfully crafted channels. Its teeth tore through flesh and armor, that it might fill its appetite.

Left and right. Up and down. Back forth.

The metal of its shaft still remembered its birth-flames of a war-forge, from so long ago. The leather grip remembered how once it was the muscled flesh of a great predator that had been slain in a ritual hunt. The teeth remembered how they had once been part of a great whole, a mighty sword that had been shattered protecting its master from death. It remembered its birth, and it remembered the master who wielded it, even now.

It cut and cut and cut. It devoured the muscle meat of a shoulder. It drank the lifeblood of a torn throat. It carved through a lesser weapon, the shrieking of destroyed metal sounding its disapproval of the inferior craftsmanship. Weak metal, weak spirit. It did not deserve to be in battle. And so the great axe, known as Gorehowl, drank the blood of the sundered blade's master.

[Kierdale]

In their hunt for the Eldar - both to exploit the aliens for the Psychopomps' own ends and for their souls as sacrifices to the renegades’ dark patron - the Psychopomps discovered the remote maiden world of Mesusid. It appeared that the planet had long ago been seeded and xenos terraforming initiated, yet only recently settled: the Psychopomps vessel which discovered the world almost dismissed it as an uninhabited paradise before scanners finally picked up signs of life. A lone settlement in a valley at the foot of the planet’s largest mountain range. Enhanced auspex revealed distinctive Eldar architecture and a pair of Eldar ships on the greensward to the south of the settlement. Whether the Eldar had just arrived, periodically visited the planet or were the first of more settlers to come mattered little to the Psychopomps.

They had found Eldar.

How the depraved marines did rejoice.

Sergeant Physes of the chapter’s 8^th company - for during those early years they still clung to the trappings of their loyalist organization - was amongst those tasked with leading the assault upon the Eldar outpost. While two assault squads were each assigned to the disabling of the alien vessels, Physes’ squad and one other dropped upon pinions of fire into a square near the very heart of the settlement, for at the very center was what appeared to be a temple.

They found the pristine alabaster streets seemingly deserted, and made their way through the labyrinthine alleyways toward the center of the settlement. The buildings grew in height toward the interior and grew closer. Before they reached the xenos fane, the aliens sprung their trap. Having waited in the shadows to determine the nature of the intruders, the Eldar had also let the astartes advance into the close terrain of the center where their bulky jump packs could not be used…

Seven of the twenty assault marines were cut down before the alarm could be raised. Physes himself was only saved from ambush from behind by firing his jump pack’s engines: not to escape but to incinerate his attacker.

Nine marines made it to the clearing before the temple; a tall, elegant building, its entrance flanked by half a dozen statues of Eldar heroes. Here the astartes believed they could fight on their own terms; the marines used their jump packs to lift themselves to balconies surrounding the clearing, intending to descend like raptors on the yellow and green-clad Eldar warriors when they stalked from the alleyways...but once again the hunters had become the hunted as the aliens’ own airborne forces dropped from above raining explosives down upon the perched marines.

It was during the ensuing melee that sergeant Physes came to face the Swooping Hawk exarch. The latter was far more graceful in the air and the slender warriors flew rings about the Psychopomps. Again and again he fired his jump pack, rising to hack at the diving exarch only to have his chainsword deflected. His warriors dropping from the skies around him, Physes leapt once more at the exarch, casting aside his chainsword as he did so and instead grabbing ahold of the alien.

The two tumbled from the sky, off balance and too heavy for the intricate wings of the exarch’s flightpack to support. They smashed down into one of the statues before the temple, ironically that of a winged Eldar champion, felling the wraithbone effigy. The exarch’s anti-gravitic wings were mangled by the crash and so the alien drew a slender dagger and advanced upon the assault marine sergeant. Cursing himself for discarding his own blade at the last moment he swept up the closest improvisable weapon he could find...the broken statue’s blade.

With one stroke he slew the exarch.

Mesusid was ravaged by the renegades and a great deal of trophies, both living and otherwise, were taken. Along with the Swooping Hawk exarch’s spirit stone, sergeant Physes kept the wraithbone sword- the statue’s hand still attached - as a reminder of that duel, using it whenever facing Eldar warriors of the same aspect, relishing their outrage.

Edited by Kierdale, 18 September 2014 - 01:52 PM.

[Prot]

Malivate and the sword of Kith'arous

 

As a sorcerer of dubious faith in the warp, Malivate needed an edge. His power; raw, unfocused, but ready to boil over at a moment's notice.

 

Combined with the Balestar of Mannon and the 'gift' of the voices, Malivate knew he needed a true focusing agent or the powers he harnessed would easily overwhelm him one day and the very potential of power he sought to achieve, would simply turn on him, and devour him like so many sorcerers before him.

 

Malivate contemplated this fate often in his meditation chamber aboard the Crimson Slaughter flag ship. Finally, this day his trance slipped into a state of clarity that overwhelmed him with nausea. Briefly, Malivate felt both of his hearts stop. Was he dying? No... a sensation of floating, leaving the materium, and a deep blue light that seemed to shine with the power of a thousand suns, yet he was transfixed by it and could not look away.

 

The light grew to a gem, and then a large world, but not of the material world. This world was wracked with pain and suffering, seemingly this blue tinted world was a projection of emotion, not reality. None of this was real.... was it?

 

Gliding towards the brightest source of the light, Malivate was drawn towards the source of this image, the source of the pain and suffering. A massive daemon the size of which Malivate had never encountered before stood before him. Even hunched over the daemon was easily the height of three stacked landraiders. It appeared to be in extreme agony, trembling at times, involuntarily at times the warp beast's neck would spasm uncontrollably. It appeared to be bound, but no restraints were visible.

 

Malivate found himself with feet planted on the blue hued daemon ground staring up at the giant winged beast, "Why am I here?" He asked.

 

"Because I invite you. You exist, only because I allow you, and I will give your life meaning from this moment forward." The Daemon responded with a psychic link to Malivate.

 

Before Malivate could respond, a sudden flash of intense imagery flooded through his mind. Along with the imagery came a flood of emotion. Hardly able to control the raw emotion of the living memories, Malivate doubled over, trying to catch his breath. Both of his hearts beated like he had never felt before.

 

The daemon's name.... was Kith'arous, or at least its most recent name... ancient, wise, and incredibly powerful. Malivate struggled to process all the imagery that smashed through his mind. Then the agony, and the pain came. He wondered how something so powerful could be bound here, on this warp fueled planet.

 

Finally the imagery slowed to show a mighty battle. Kith'arous was hunted for a very long time by a large contingent of Grey Knights. Now the source of pain became greater, more focused. Debilitating pains had spread across Malivate's back. He could barely stay conscious. The Daemon's back; something was there, something that prevented the daemon from leaving this plain.

 

"You are here because I deem it so. And you will benefit from that which has confined me to this wretched place." The daemon projected to Malivate's mind. "Now remove it, and seek the focus, and power that you desire."

 

Malivate stood, fatigued at the waves of emotion, and imagery he struggled to process. Wearily he climbed up a blue crystal rock formation and slowly came to face the back of the daemon. There in the center of its spine was a black sword planted deep into the mass of Kith'arous. Malivate hesitated, was this a trick? Was any of this real?

 

"REMOVE IT!" Came a startling psychic voice. "Our connection will be complete with this act. We both live in this moment, or die together in the next. These are strings that even I cannot see, but I do know we are connected from this moment forward."

 

Malivate leaned over, and with both hands he slowly withdrew the black sword. Servo motors in his armour struggled to assist his superhuman physique and finally the weapon came free. The gaping wound in the daemon's back emitted blue lightning, pure warp energy, a part of the beast itself fired through the wound and into the sword.

 

Glowing, and staggering in pain, Malivate fell to the ground with his new weapon. "How are we connected?" He stammered. "How does any of this matter, and how did you find me?"

 

Kith'arous, free of his binding curse turned to smile upon Malivate. His toothless, almost bird-like grin hung several feet over the sorcerer. "When your chapter joined the warp, or the 'curse' as your master would call it, that is when I saw my chance. There was a brief moment, a nano-second of your time, when your chapter was very open to receiving the voices of the warp. That is when I used all the power I could summon and I bonded with you at that moment. From then on I have slowly cultivated our bond, until finally I could project you towards me."

 

With a glowing blue eye, the daemon gestured towards the sword Malivate held. "That is our bond. An essence of me now resides in you, and it connects us and that weapon for eternity. There is no breaking this bond and by freeing me you now ensure that your power will be focused, and grow in time. But for now my time, your time, in this place must conlcude. Maybe you will already feel this too? You see the Grey Knights will know of my freedom, and this presents a danger for you as well Malivate."

 

Malivate finally broke his gaze from the black sword, as blue lightning continued to lick the length of its blade. "What do you mean by that?"

 

"That sword contains my essence. It not only focuses your ability it is my life essence. The Grey Knights will be likely to hunt and track you as they do me. Heed this warning Malivate, and use the gift of the sight I have given you to misdirect, and confuse them." The Damon was slowly floating away.

 

Just as Malivate was going to respond, an intense flash of light blinded him. His eyes opened to a loud boom, the sound of two titans colliding. He was thrown across his meditation room, back aboard the Crimson Slaughter flagship. His body slumped forward and hit the ground with a thud. A moment later he heard a clang of rock and metal hitting the floor as well.

 

Malivate sat up slowly, trying to absorb the experience. His hands wrapped around the ornate golden handle of his new weapon, "The sword of Kith'arous." He mouthed quietly and grinned.

 

 

+++ Malivate and the Sword of Kith'arous +++

[Soldier of Dorn]

 -The Scythe-

 

After Skalathrax, our legion was fractured, in body and in soul. Not only the Legion, but companies, even squads, abandoned their own.

And I am ashamed to say even the 64^th was rent apart.

One of the lost was Tyberes Unel, Champion of the 64^th.

This is his tale.

+++

The Death Guard were coming. Unel Daemonrider saw them across the plain, and smiled. The Khornate Champion was alone, in the Warp, abandoned by his brothers, standing against a hundred foes.

His blade was broken, as was his mind. The journey into the realms of Chaos, his quest, had destroyed his sanity. What little was left was drowned out by the roar of the Nails, but they finally began to fade.

Coherence came back in a rush as he gazed around him. He had killed many, he was certain of that. But his strength was fading as he stood astride his great Juggernaut, Zel'dor'gath, and faced the final enemy.

The Plague Marine was obviously favoured by his god, that much was certain. Pus ran in rivulets down his ancient Terminator armour, and his face was covered with buboes. At his side, he held a manreaper, a former symbol of rank in his dead Legion.

The Plague Lord spoke, in a thick, sloppy voice.

'I offer you one last chance, World Eater. Accept the blessing of the Grandfather, and I will spare your worthless life. Decline, and recieve his curse.'

Unel laughed.

'Surrender? I stand over the broken bodies of your soldiers, and you ask me to surrender! Stubborn till the end, get of Mortarion! Today, I claim your skull for the Throne!'

He spurred Zel'dor'gath on toward the Death Guard, who raised his scythe in defence. Fifty yards, now forty, now thirty, the Juggernaut was an unstoppable force, but the Terminator-armoured Space Marine was an immovable object.

Twenty, then ten, Unel reached out his hands.

Too late, the Death Guard realised what Daemonrider was attempting to do as he grabbed the Plague Marine's bare head and weapon, and brought the two together.

Diseased flesh gave way to corroded metal, and Unel raised both to the sky.

'Lord of Battles, I offer this skull to your Throne! Though it be rotten, it is a Champion of one of the Four. Bless me. Bless this blade, as I shall surely concecrate it in the blood of my enemies!'

Unel Daemonrider looked into the Warp and laughed.

 

-END-

 

Not my absolutly best writing, but I only saw this topic twenty minutes ago, and I wanted to write somethng.

And yes, I realise the scythe isn't an artefact of MY legion, but it's an artefact of A legion. That still counts, technically, right?