++Inspirational Friday - 19/06/2015++

[Carrack]

I find myself out of Likes.

That was fantastic, Warsmith Aznable!

I'm glad to hear the four-armed snake mongrel did not die well. I have a soft spot for such types

I will admit to that description being inspired by a certain Daemonic Pact conversion!

To be honest I expected Iron Warriors to start dropping when I read Kierdale's story.

[Kierdale]

 

 

I find myself out of Likes.

That was fantastic, Warsmith Aznable!

I'm glad to hear the four-armed snake mongrel did not die well. I have a soft spot for such types :D

I will admit to that description being inspired by a certain Daemonic Pact conversion!

To be honest I expected Iron Warriors to start dropping when I read Kierdale's story.

Firstly, I'm honoured, Warsmith Aznable!

 

Secondly, maybe I'll try to write some Iron Warriors into a future Stygian Guard/Psychopomps entry, though I've only read Angel Ext'.

I wonder how they would interact...the pre-fall Stygian Guard are perhaps not so different from the IW...though after their fall, exceedingly so. Something for me to explore. :)

[Tenebris]

http://shrani.si/f/1a/o3/bgHYhQ/2/gallery2900410383202531.png

 

Here we go, once more unto the breach as the Iron Warriors can attest. This week was an interesting one, we have learned of the first steps unto damnation of our warbands and the tragedies that usually followed. I must say that we had some remarkable entries this week. The classy Kierdale indulged us with his Stygian Guard gone heliotropic while on the other hand a new entry, TDF surprised us with a vicious clash of ideals and the sundering of a brotherhood, but we have an undisputed winner too, Warsmith Aznable. His entry was about the jaded Iron Warriors, of the erosion of their ideals, of their identity, of their fall. Like a beam of iron their fall was not a silent one, nor a bloodless one, it was a cruel and indiscriminate one, planned and executed in a proper Iron Warrior way. I think we all agree that Aznable is the winner of this week. 

 

 

Step forth Warsmith Aznable and claim your reward!

 

http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/15/friday-award.png

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 06/03/2015 - Chaos Sword

 

The sword, the icon of the warrior's way, the weapon of the angels, justice and judgment both, a keen edge, a red edge.

 

For this week I want you to write about a Chaos Sword, a weapon which can be daemonic, heraldic, legendary, a heirloom or even a trophy, but a sword still. Many such weapons exist in the galaxy and many have some dreadful names like the daemonic sword of Warmaster Abaddon, Drach'nyen, and such weapons have a history, a powerful and bloody history.

 

Write about a Chaos Sword, how it entered in the possession of your warband, its history, its lineage of deed and blood, its name and it most famous kill. The sword was always seen as the iconic weapon of the officer but it is also a potent symbol, especially in the hands of a Chaos Space Marine. No other weapon is so reviled like a Chaos Sword for what was once a symbol of duty and protection, loyalty and honor, is now corrupted in both deed and name while wielded by our Chaos champions. 

 

Let us be inspired!

 

Tenebris

[Teetengee]

This is the Emperor’s Gift.

It was the destruction He promised to the enemies of man.

This is the Emperor’s Gift.

When I became sergeant, it cut through the lives of the enemies of Him on Terra.

This is the Emperor’s Gift

When my captain turned on the Ecclesiarchy and my chapter was torn apart as brother fought brother, it was the weapon that eventually removed that captain’s head.

This is the Emperor’s Gift.

When I became the captain I swore it would put an end to corruption in my hands.

This is the Emperor’s Gift.

When our penitence did not save us from the scorn of our chapter master, I swore to make it slick with the blood of fools.

This is the Emperor’s Gift.

It brings the true faith to the real enemies of humanity.

This is the Emperor’s Gift.

It is the destruction He promised to the enemies of man, and as all the gifts of Him on Terra, it is a double-edged sword.

-Balgo, Captain of the Thrice Cursed

[Kierdale]

Congratulations, Warsmith Aznable!

Well earned!

[Warsmith Aznable]

I don't know what to say except I'm glad y'all liked it!

[Tenebris]

Shadow's Mercy

 

 

 

The vast doors opened and the eunuch guard stepped aside as two towering figures entered into the Cathedral of Woe, the inner sanctum aboard the battleship Arrogance. In this vast and ancient holds plinths stood equally distributed on the sides of the three main naves, each pedestal a stasis generator, each an altar to a weapon of the Black Tears. The warband was known to have a well stocked armory but in the Cathedral of Woe only the weapons worthy of a name were sheltered, each an icon to the bloodshed unleashed by the warband across entire sectors, each weapon a relic of the ancient past of mankind, some of which even the product of the dreaded daemonic forges in thrall to the Black Legion.

 

The two figures advanced slowly, marveling at the display of might bound in adamantium and steel, behind them a host of techpriests followed, chanting ritual litanies of the Machina Daemonica cult. One figure was bareheaded, leading the processional along the left nave, the Dark Apostle was an awe inspiring sight in his panoply of ritual and his determined stride set the pace of the sacrament which was unfolding.

 

The processional stopped before a plinth bearing an ancient sword. The manufacture of the blade was impressive and the icon borne on the hilt spoke volumes of its creator. The quillons of the sword were two engraved wings of a raptor, the pommel a stylized avian skull, the blade an elongated curve, scimitar like, engraved with images of Death driving the souls across a gilded portal. The inscription on the blade wrote "Servo Umbra et Mortis", a Slave to Shadow and Death. 

 

"Master Velanoth Dur'lanao, that is a blade of the 19th..." the second figure broke the eerie silence as the Machine cult stopped its ritual chanting. 

 

"It is a Terran blade, it belonged to the Pale Men who served in the shadow of our sire..." 

 

The figure who spoke was an astartes, his armor was polished black, unblemished by the wear of time and war, the brass on its edges cleaned to a mirror sheen, his hand resting on the ornate hilt of a plasma pistol. Aspiring Champion Drujak was examining the blade which will soon be his, the ritual demanded it so, the crowning of a champion of the Black Tears demanded it so and he was impatient, yet still very much awed that the Dark Apostle chose this blade for him.

 

"The sword is called Shadow's Mercy, it was crafted for the first sons of the 19th as they left the cradle of our species. In those days of yore the 19th was a different breed, a more true breed, unlike this mongrels who dare to call themselves the Raven Guard. This blade was recovered on Istvaan V as our legion destroyed the scions of Corax, Manus and Vulkan yet not all Raven Guard were true to their sire and died with their front to us, some of them we enjoyed to hunt, some of them turned their backs and ran. 

 

They were the Pale Noma, the executioners, the hunters, the slave drivers who fought with viciousness and cunning in the shadow of our sire. The Sacrificed King once honored this warriors, praised them even until the father of the 19th was returned to their legion. What a shame. 

 

The 19th might have forgotten their roots, the glory to be found in the subjugating ones enemy, of putting a slave into the chains, the glory to call themselves masters of our species, but this sword never forgot this glory, never forgot the Dust Clad. 

 

You will be our pale hunter Drujak, you will enslave our enemies, sunder their flesh and scour the shadows for them. Our legion once used the 19th as the death in shadows, you have proven to be death to all who oppose the Black Tears, you call the shadows your home, you always did. 

 

By my right as Dark Apostle, by the will of the Dreaded Four and the blessing of the Crying Lords you are to be anointed Aspiring Champion of the Black Tears, this sword will be your badge of office, your oath to the warband until death and beyond. Now bare your throat son of Cthonia!" 

 

With a hiss of valves the helmet came off and Drujak knelled before the Dark Apostle. His features were ragged and cratered by a lifetime of war and unlike his armor, very much rent and torn. The deep cut over the right eye was still visible, the parting gift of Surzan before his cold corpse hit the ground. His mentor was a formidable marine but Drujak was set to surpass his squad commander and he succeeded. Surprisingly the Crying Lords, the leaders of the warband agreed with his move and the Dark Apostle was here to officially sanction him as an Aspiring Champion of the Black Tears. The techpriests begun to chant and the eunuchs stood at attention as Drujak barred his throat to the Dark Apostle, an ancient Chtonian gesture of submission, reminiscent of the old days of the XVIth legion.

 

The Dark Apostle climbed to the plinth and deactivated the stasis field, Shadow's Mercy fell in his hands, seemingly eager to serve once more. With a deft movement the Dark Apostle rose the blade toward Drujak, cutting him at the throat just to let a few drops of blood to anoint the blade. The representative of the Dark Mechanicus then sprinkled the sword with blessed oil, consecrating the blade to active service to the Black Tears. 

 

"In the name of the Pantheon and under the decree of the Crying Lords I dub you thee Aspiring Champion of the Black Tears, warrior of the Black Legion, servant of Abaddon the Warmaster, Slave Lord and commander. With this blade you are entrusted to carry an ancient legacy, with his blade you were offered pardon for the slaying of Surzan the Red in return for your eternal service to the warband. Do you accept Drujak of the Froven Reavers, do you pledge yourself to the Crying Lords?"

 

Drujak looked at the blade piercing his flesh, he could smell the metallic ting of his blood, the rich aroma of the incense, the sacred oil anointing the blade. Shadow's Mercy was to be his sword, his legacy, his right. No longer will he be forced to contend with a chainsword for he will be master of a killer blade, of a shadow blade. Shadow's Mercy would be his reward, a power sword able to pierce even the thickest of the power armor, a testament threat to anything and anyone of the Black Tears. With this blade in his hands Drujak will become a threat to the Crying Lords and their terminator bodyguard but he will also become a fearsome weapon of the Black Tears. A fair bargain as far as he was concerned. The sword seemed to like him, the gentle curve of Shadow's Mercy was pleasing to behold, Drujak loved this blade already.

 

"I do pledge myself to the Crying Lords, a Black Tear until death and beyond, a Slave Lord I will become, this I vow!"

 

The Dark Apostle was pleased with the answer of his new charge and as Drujak rose he presented him Shadow's Mercy and an ornate folder for the sword. With a look of complicity he nodded to the Aspiring Champion and Drujak smiled, one last thing and the ritual would be complete. 

 

With a swift sidestep Drujak presented his blade to the techpriests and after a deft pirouette he beheaded the closest of the eunuchs attending to the ceremony. The blade was finally consecrated, anointed in the blood of the wielder, anointed with the blood of the slave, blessed with word and sacred oil, Shadow's Mercy was once more in the hands of a killer and the blade sung of joy as she weaved and danced among the remaining eunuchs. No longer a blade set to defend mankind in its darkest hour, but a weapon in thrall to the Pantheon, a Chaos Sword, a killer's blade. 

 

 

[Carrack]

The Sword of Defiance

 

 

 

Treveur sat down heavily on the steps and wiped the sweat from his brow with the whitest portion of his tabard. Most of the garment was blackened with soot, or reddened with blood, some his own, some his brothers', and some that of the enemy's. He keyed the vox in his helm and answered with a heavy heart, "Confirmed Brother-Chaplain, I am the sole survivor of Crusader Squad Sanctity." The Chaplain responded, "Wait there Neophyte, I will come to retrieve you in 8 minutes."

 

Treveur, with a monumental effort of his weary muscle, scooted up a few stairs so his back could rest against the plinth of some headless statue, partly for the support the plinth provided, and partly for security. Even with the heretics driven off, the lower levels of the Red Hive remained a dangerous place. In fact he could hear the scuttling and horsely whispered patois of scavengers in the alleys near him. As a deterrent, Treveur unholstered his empty bolt pistol and laid his chainsword across his knees, in truth, he did not know if he had any fight remaining within him. He began to scan the body strewn plaza before him when he noticed the sword.

 

It was a chainsword same as his own, yet vastly different. The pommel was a cruel hook finished over with bronze, polished and devoid of verdigris, yet worn and revealing of the steel core underneath, old. The handle was ivory, not the pearl handle of a Orleander pimp, definitely ivory. Another bronzed hook served as a crosspiece for the reverse edge, the cutting edge was unguarded. A red glow illuminated the exposed rotor mechanism, was it an overheated power cell? No, something far more malevolent. Treveur struggled to suppress a shudder. The frame was decorated with a bronzed arrow similar to the armor of the traitor who wielded it. The teeth, gruesomely reddened with the blood of Treveur's brothers. The point was embedded into a slab of the dirty ferrocrete of Red Hive, Siliquastrum, sub sector capital. A defiant symbol, Treveur pondered, defiant both as a strike at the very ground of the Most Holy Imperium, and defiant to the heretic who lodged his weapon into the ground and was forced to abandon it.

 

The imposing, terrible skull faced visage of the Chaplain marching up the lane, broke Treveur's troubling fascination with the chaos sword, and he quickly stood to attention, sore muscles be damned. "Report!", boomed out of the Chaplain's vox grill. Treveur dutifully replied, "My squad was advancing up the lane, when the Black Legion assaulted us from ambush out of that alley." Treveur pointed to an alley and continued, "They were ferocious Brother Chaplain, they attacked with fury and took us by surprise." Treveur hung his head in shame. The vice-like grip of the black, powered gauntlet grasped Treveur's jaw and lifted his head, forcing the neophyte to meet the gaze of the the Chaplain's fearsome helm. "Continue young neophyte." Spoke the Chaplain. "We fought back, but they pressed their advantage at every opportunity." Treveur struggled to contain the emotions that were just now filling his hearts as the adrenaline left his pumping blood. In spite of his efforts, his throat caught and eyes misted as he continued, "Sword Brother Gael's throat was opened by a Black Legion chainsword cutting upwards from the low guard. He still slew his attacker and wounded two others all the while spraying bright blood. I have never seen such zeal." The Black Templar Chaplain shifted his crushing grasp on Treveur's jaw to a reassuring, parental grip of the Neophyte's shoulder. Treveur said in a quiet tone, "Soon I was the only Crusader standing. I was saved when Squad Purity's Razorback hit the plaza cannon cycling. The heretics fled like cowards."

 

The Chaplain helped the exhausted neophyte down the stairs and they headed down the lane. The Chaplain spoke, "Cowards for sure young Treveur, but clever cowards nonetheless. We thought we had them when their fleet translated into the system. We came in from their rear and were chasing them into the orbital defenses of Siliquastrum. We had the PDF shift their guns to the Western Hemisphere where we would slam into them like a hammer strikes an anvil." The Chaplain was becoming more angry with each word he spoke, hardly unusual behavior for a Black Templar Chaplain, but still alarming to the young Treveur. He continued, "Somehow they had a ship elude us and sneak to the lightly defended Eastern Hemisphere. They managed to insert a small strike force into the lower levels of Red Hive undetected. They were here for three days slaughtering the scum of this level in some frantic search before the authorities discovered their presence. Those of our brethren whom remained to garrison Siliquastrum got here as soon as we were made aware of the heretic's presence, but they escaped our zealous wrath. No doubt through the use of foul witchery. "And the fleet Brother Chaplain?" Asked Treveur. The Chaplain replied, "Sixteen minutes before you first hailed me young Treveur, the Black Maw Fleet spit out one of its ramshackle merchantmen, it's engines failed and it appeared to be abandoned by its fleet. The Honorable Marshall Clarence deemed the scow unworthy of a lance strike and ordered it to be blasted by our cruisers as it passed through our fleet. But it was a fireship. Packed with munitions the ship blew apart in front of our formation and damaging several of our Crusade's ships. More cutting then the damage to our fleet, the explosion threw our formation into disarray and allowed the Black Maw warband to gain enough distance to translate back to the warp."

 

"What were they after, I mean why risk their fleet just to have a strike force root around in the bowels of the sub sector capital? What could they possibly want in this dump?" Asked Treveur. The Chaplain replied, "I do not know, and that worries me."

 

----------------------------------------

Lord Carrack gazed into the smokey mirror held before his throne on the bridge of his flagship, Bitter Revenge. The vision he saw was of one of his champions, Vinno standing on the bridge of another vessel gazing into a twin of Lord Carrack's mirror, and Legioniare Copil swearing loudly and breaking things behind him. Lord Carrack demanded, "Tell me you got what we came here for Vinno." Vinno obediently replied, "Yes my lord, we got her." Lord Carrack, seemingly pleased, leaned back in his throne and as an afterthought, asked, "What is wrong with Copil?" Vinno replied sheepishly, "He lost his sword in the Red Hive."

 

[Kierdale]

The Hydra's Fang

 

The Hydra’s Fang

The blade caught the candlelight but reflected little, such was the cloudy nature of its surfaces. Knapped and twisted, such a malformed blade would have been a disgrace to any blacksmith worth his trade, but this blade was no fruit of the forge. It blade and tang, the latter of which went the full width of the weapon, resembled flint though who truly could saw what the weapon was made of, let alone when or where it had been created? It had passed through hundreds of hands over the millennia, all but one of them the hands of evil men in the end, and though it appeared clean -anointed as it now was with sacred oils- those with the Sight could see the taint of the lives it had taken and the blood it had spilled. Shamans and conjurers, diabolists and exorcists, some had taken up the weapon with the intention of studying it or, in their hubris, meaning to do good with it, but its very touch besmirched the soul. Not only of the wielder, for once taken up they believed they were its master, but also of those cut by it. Not all were slain, for to wield such a weapon took much skill and most of those who tried were far from the most skillful of swordsmen, and those who survived a cut from it too saw a dark veil fall upon their worlds. It was a bastard curse. Inescapable.

Aeëtes stared at a bead of oil that hung from the tip of the athame. The candlelight coloured the orb a warm amber and within it he could see his future and the neverborn which whispered to him in his trances, the power it promised to grant him should he simply provide a suitable sacrifice for its birth.

Tearing his eyes from the unctuous phantasm he looked down at the form prone before him. Thick iron chains held her tight to the brass Octed, arms and legs splayed. Channels within the arrows would drain the woman’s vitae until the holy symbol was fully consecrated.

The athame was far larger than any of the ancient blades he had ever witnessed before -more of a short sword than a dagger- and it brought the dark apostle much pride to have acquired it. It had been quite the cunning scheme, Aeëtes thought to himself, basking in his own glory before he was to make the kill.

The blade had been lost centuries before, that much he had been able to discover by piecing together scraps of information, rumours from myriad sources and the near-mindless doggerel of forcefully-possessed thralls. But its final resting place (and indeed that of its former bearer) was unknown. So Aeëtes had taken a gamble. He had seen to it that the existence of the weapon and the fact that it was sought by a warband of Word Bearers became known to a particular Ordo Malleus inquisitor with whom he had crossed both paths and blades with on several occasions in the past.

He had to admit that shadowing the inquisitor lord and his agents had been a formidable task, and it had taken much imploring his own lord for the warband’s resources to be diverted to the hunt. But they had managed to track the inquisitor who, with superior resources Aeëtes had to admit, had succeeded in locating the athame...and the Word Bearers had ambushed them as soon as it had been recovered.

A great many had died on both sides but once Aeëtes had presented the athame to his lord, their losses had been forgotten about. Now all he need do was to make good on his promise. The battle brothers lost would be replaced with a daemonic horde.

Aeëtes looked down upon the young woman again. Her eyelids fluttered as she awoke. He did so detest screaming and so raised the athame overhead, the words of the blasted paean upon his lips.

It was then that the woman’s feet seemed to slip from the chains with which his disciples had seemingly bound her so tightly. Her shapely limbs were freed before he could reverse the upward rise of the sword and as he drove it down toward her those legs flashed out at an unnatural speed, her feet locking behind his head, her shins hard against the sides of his neck.

His downward stab missed as the woman, her upper half still bound, arched her back to one side away from the blade. Her legs were like a vice about his neck and he felt the pressure increase despite his post-human strength.

He took one hand from the blade and reached for his holstered pistol as her arms somehow came free from their chains. A single, deafening shot rang out, fired wildly as he cleared his pistol and she rolled from the brass table. Thought it was not enough to break his spine, her movement threw him to the ground and he came up with the pistol in a steady two-handed grip just as she plunged her hand, straight and firm as a knife, through his bodysuit and into his throat.

Flicking the Astartes blood from her hand she frantically looked about for the athame.

 

In the antechamber beyond stood eight Astartes in the crimson of Bearers of the Word, their armour decorated with unholy script and daemonic visages. At the sound of the gunshot from within, the eight exchanged glances, raising their weapons. Screams and chanting were expected, but they knew enough of their master’s work to know that sacrifices were not carried out with bolt pistols.

One made a curious gesture with his fingers, akin to a complex form of battle cant and the marine next to him performed, in less than a second a distinctly different symbol.

The third marine copied that of the second and was promptly gunned down by the other seven.

The first, once all had successfully identified themselves, made for the great door to the sacrificial chamber and, stowing his stolen bolt gun on the thigh of his stolen armour, hauled the portal wide open.

The woman, now clad in a skintight blue-green suit of spray-on synthskin, darted out, the flint-like blade in her hand and the lead Astarte barely managed to speak before she drove it through him.

“Jinx!” he hissed and she stayed the blade scant centimeters from his neck.

“Alpharius?”

The seven nodded. “We are your escort out of here.”

She looked from one of the infiltrators to another, to the others. “Then lead the way.”

The first shook his head and pointed at the blade she still held at his neck. “You were trained how to use that. Now you have it. Cut us out of here.”

“The theory, yes...,” she started.

“Then learn,” the Alpha Legionnaire interrupted, “And learn quickly.”

Another added, moving to one side of the doorway out of the antechamber, bolter raised. “We will keep you alive in the meantime.”

“Now, we move!” said a third, opening the bulkhead door into a corridor.

[Lucio]

The Sword (with apologies to Terry Pratchett)

 

The blade didn't have a name, nor did any know it's full history, only certain bloody events in the history of the Imperium that a dedicated Administrium clerk might correllate. Deep in the archives of the inquisition these history's were gathered and compared in an attempt to chart the true nature of the blade.

The Sword itself was unassuming, a 3ft length of metal, sharp on both edges but pitted and chipped in places, with a battered cross guard and age-worn leather hilt. No insignia decorate the blade, and what ornimentation once adorned the crossguard have worn to the point of unrecognisability. What made it "The Sword" was the feeling that when one looked on it, they were seeing not just a blade, but the true essence of a blade, a device whose one purpose was to kill the enemy.

One early rumour attached to The Sword was that it was once wielded by a warrior on Ancient Terra, a great leader who conquered a great swathe of land. These archive fragments draw allusions to the Emperor's crusade but are even older.

Another fragmentary account has The Sword wielded by a King in exile, one who could have ruled an entire Hive City, but instead chose the role of an Arbite, an officer of the law. It was said that The Sword was able to pierce a solid stone wall.

Later, The Sword was lost when the city burnt in a violent conflagaration, some say that it disappeared into the Warp itself. Perhaps those rumours are indeed true, because the next account has The Sword in the hands of a great Chaos Lord, as he forged his path through the Daemon Worlds of Khorne. Fighting an endless battle, The Sword itself wasn't accredited with any great deeds at this time, perhaps it's powers only work for those deemed worthy?
 

 

 

[Castellan Cato]

The Blade of Time

 

 

 

 

Anhazar ducked behind a low wall as he continued his flight through the lifeless tomb-city.  His eyes flicked left and right, trying to identify an enemy in the fields of tombstones and mausoleums.  More than once, he began to react by instinct, only to discern that his would be attacker was another all-too-real mourning sculpture.  His pursuers were not far behind him, this he knew was certain.  The Black Legion sorcerer had come to this seemingly deserted planet alone after his most recent conquest.  He had after all found a weapon of great power and desired to learn is secrets before the next time that the Legion called him to battle.

 

He turned a corner, only to see two Chaos Space Marines in armor the color of bone coming at him.  Their weapons snapped up and took aim.  Anhazar cursed the four under his breath and pressed his thumb to the rune on the hilt of the curved dagger he carried.  Pressure built in his ears and a cold wind blew across his face.  He felt himself falling backward.  But this wasn’t the fall of a man who had lost his balance.  It was the feeling of being thrown back through time, the power granted him by this cursed blade and one that he was growing fond of.  He was back behind the low wall and running for his life.  He ducked into a shadow just in time for two bone white marines to come barreling past his chosen path.

 

He looked down at the blade in his hand.  This weapon was truly powerful.  Not the most offensive weapon by any means, its barely six inch blade would leave most assailants unharmed, but its occult properties were astounding.  It had already saved his life three times just in the past hour.  His thoughts drifted back to when he had won the blade from a Thousand Sons champion just a few short weeks prior.  Anhazar considered himself a fine swordsman, but had hardly landed as strike on the marine.  Most attacks were easily dodged before he could have even seen them coming.  The Black Legionnaire chuckled to himself.  Now he knew why.  The blasted sorcerer HAD seen them coming.

 

He heard more footsteps approach and took off down a row of graves.  They were getting closer.  He needed to keep his wits and not get hemmed in.  Certainly they had found his ship, and hiding was not an option.  He needed a getaway and he needed it soon.  He was approaching one of the larger mausoleums.  Perhaps this one would lead to the crypt tunnels below the surface.  Anhazar ducked through the doorway, and immediately regretted it. 

 

Kneeling before a defaced altar that was the focal point of the mausoleum was another bone colored marine.  However, this one was no line warrior.  A great cloak sat across his shoulders and filigree was etched into his armor.  Anhazar turned to flee, but found he was now staring down the muzzles of four bolters.

“Leaving so soon, cousin?” the chaos lord’s voice wheezed from behind him.  Anhazar turned to face him and was surprised to find that the lord was helmeted.  An unusual pattern of helm, fashioned into the visage of a skull hid his … wait… those WERE his features.  It wasn’t a helmet at all.  The lord’s face was not but bone and his eyes were soul-dark sockets.  Again the ghoulish voice wailed from his mouth.  “I…am Lord Skeletus of the Shepherds… of Rot.  Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing.” 

 

Anhazar held his tongue. 

 

“No matter.  You will be dying now anyway.  We cannot have you going and tattling to Abbadon about our plans for this planet.”

 

“Lord Abbadon does not have the time to trifle with your petty affairs,” Anhazar exclaimed, chaffed at Skeletus’ arrogance.

 

“Ahhh…. This one does…. Have some fight in him….”  Skeletus seemed to only be able to find his voice in short spurts and it gave him a ponderous, overly patient air.  He filled the pauses with more wheezing and heavy breaths.  “It’s good to see … the Legion’s warriors … are not becoming … soft.  Very well cousin…  Draw your blade.  Let us fight like the honorable warriors… we were intended to be.”

 

Anhazar solemnly drew his power sword with his right hand and clutched the dagger in his left.  Skeletus released a massive power axe from his back and brought the killing field to life.  They squared off and stared each other down.  Anhazar went for the attack, feeling confident he could get a strike in before the axe had been readied.  Skeletus moved at a speed that was unnatural, even for an Astartes.  He easily deflected the blow and landed a solid punch to Anhazar’s exposed cheek.  Anhazar ducked back, ready to charge back in, but found the axe already swinging for him in a decapitation stroke.  He thumbed the dagger and spun time so that he was just out of reach of the axe.

 

“Hmm…. So we both have some trickery…” moaned Skeletus, bringing his axe back up to guard.  He took a deep breath.  Anhazar braced himself for some more threats, but instead the chaos lord let out a belch of toxic fumes.  Before he could react, Anhazar felt it waft over him and his armor began to corrode.  He looked down to see his boots fusing to the stone floor and the armor joints deteriorating.  As he looked up again, he felt the haft of the axe hammer into his chest, sending him sprawling to the ground.  Still the insidious poison did its work, locking him in place despite his struggling.

 

“The Plague God’s touch… is potent…” gasped Skeletus.  “I would think…. one serving all Four… would… know that.” The giant strode over, raising the axe for the executioner’s blow.

 

Anhazar still had his dagger though.  Luckily it was still in his hand.  The pressed the rune with all his might as the axe came hammering down on his chest.  He felt it pierce his armor, his breastbones, and both of his hearts.  Extreme pain flooded his body. A fatal wound.  Just before he lost consciousness, he felt the familiar pop in his ears and the wind against his face.  He cheered to himself as he passed back through time.  He steeled himself and wracked his brain for an out.  As the warp smoke of the time change cleared from his vision, he saw only one thing.  The blade of an axe heading straight for him. 

 

“No!” Anhazar cried aloud.  He heard the wet shunct sound and felt the searing pain as the axe was buried in his chest again.  A whistle-pop and a breath of wind.  The feeling of falling.  The dreaded axe.  Bones breaking. Pain.  Whistle-pop.  Falling. Axe. Bones. Pain. Whistle-pop. Axe. Pain.  Whistle-pop….

 

[Warsmith Aznable]

Oh ho, Castellan Cato... GRIM.

[Castellan Cato]

Chaos is both a blessing and a curse! ;)

[Tenebris]

http://shrani.si/f/1a/o3/bgHYhQ/2/gallery2900410383202531.png

 

A sword, the iconic weapon of the angels, the symbol of justice and honor, besmirched by those who sought to serve Chaos, the angels who have fallen. Another week and another Inspirational Friday, but what a week this one was. First thing first all the contributions were epic in their own way. The veteran Kierdale surprised us with a "twisted blade" and a twisted plot while Carrack did an awesome job on his post too, I was smiling by the time I have read his contribution, but we have a winner and I think we can all agree who this is. Castellan Cato surprised us all with this time weaving short sword (Prince of Persia... hehe) and the final showdown between two cheating chaos lords was just the cherry on top to secure him a win. I especially liked the mockery he made of the abuse of the Warp, and as his words attest, Chaos is both a boon and a curse. 

 

 

Step forth Castellan Cato and claim your reward!

 

http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/15/friday-award.png

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 13/03/2015 - Chaos Spawn

 

Ah the Spawn, one of the most iconic creatures of the Chaos warbands, a hero lost to tragedy, a would be Daemon Prince cursed to eternal disfiguration and immortal slavery to the Dreaded Four. The Chaos Spawn has been a fixture of Chaos for as long as I can remember and every creature has a story behind it, a champion's heart and a lesson to those who deal with the Pantheon.

 

There are many reasons for the creation of a Chaos Spawn. Most are creatures wrought raw from the aetheric energies of the Warp, mutated beyond recognition, shaped by the will of the Chaos Gods, yet those creatures are common, all too common in the Chaos Wastes in the Realm of the Eye... the true Spawn, the most powerful specimens on the other hand, are usually champions who drunk too deep from the well of power or who craved the blessing of the Four too much.

 

For this Inspirational Friday I want you to write about the Chaos Spawn. Most of the current armies feature several of this dreaded beasts yet we tend to forget that behind each of this creatures there is a story, a tragedy and a betrayal. Explore this aspect of the Chaos Spawn, what power toyed with the flesh of this would be immortals, what led the Pantheon to curse this champion of theirs and how do the Spawn live their object and eternal failure in the eyes of their Gods. 

 

An interesting aspect that I would also invite you to explore is how your warband deals with the Chaos Spawn, how are they treated, summoned and led into battle by their brethren and most important than all, how does your warband use this gruesome monsters in battle. 

 

In short explore the many facets of the Chaos Spawn, their background, their existence prior the transfiguration, their fall and now their cursed immortal life. Tell us how this creatures of Chaos fight in the service to your warband and how do your astartes relate to this living lessons of failure and deceit by the powers of the Warp. 

 

Let us be inspired!

 

Tenebris

[Kierdale]

Congratulations, Castellan Cato that was particularly good!

[Castellan Cato]

Thanks for the kind words.  May chaos guide your prose this week everyone!

[Carrack]

Congratulations, the ending was particularly good.

[Kierdale]

Here’s my entry for this week.

The Promise of Apotheosis

 

 

Margrave Hial Vitusa sat in his cell awaiting execution. He had been granted no stay, rather his end had apparently been delayed by the appearance of Xenos raiders in orbit. A planet-wide alert had been called. As much he had been able to garner from the gossip of his Arbite custodians as they had aborted preparing him for transport to the execution chamber. No immediate bolt shell to the head for him upon his arrest, for the depths of his crimes (and those of his two associates) were such that their ends were to be public. Broadcast to the masses as a warning against such diabolical acts.

He sighed. 119 days...and then they had been caught. So close.

He admired his finely manicured hands, devoid of all visible stains of the sins he had committed over the years beyond the sight of the masses, in secret chambers of his ancestral estate. He could not similarly vouch for the purity of his soul. He cursed the proletariat for their simple minds, their hypocrisy. And he cursed himself for being caught. He, his brother and his son were but the latest in a long line of Vitusas stretching back centuries to have indulged in such acts. But the first to have been caught.

Where had they gone wrong? The majority of the youths had been obtained from orphanages well paid for their services, and the maiden had been his very own niece. Had it been the warden of that last orphanage? The man was no angel, Margrave Vitusa knew as much, though the man had demanded more than the usual payment this time. The depraved noble cursed himself for not simply paying the wretch more. It wasn’t as if the Vitusa coffers were empty.

He laughed bitterly. No doubt his family’s riches would be donated to the sects of the Imperial Cult. He then smiled, an old memory coming to mind. He wouldn’t begrudge the Exalted Fecund a few pennies, for he owed them as much, having convivially misled devotees of that particular sect on several occasions over the decades.

Perhaps it had been his brother, baron Vitusa? The younger sibling was lacking in discretion while excelled in vitality. His appetite was vast and he lacked the control of the older Margrave. Hial blamed their father for sparing the younger boy the lash in their youth. He sneered. Aye, young Musasis Vitusa had always been their father’s favourite, always softer on the boy during their `games`. The Margrave’s back bore the scars of that disparity. Oh but he had evened the score upon papa’s passing, hadn’t he? He had succeeded his father as the new Margrave Vitusa. And he had not spared his own son the lash. Oh no.

Hours passed, the Margrave pacing back and forth within his cell. The immaculate, bare walls mocked him. Disgusted him and raised his ire. How he desired to splash them with vitae. Blood, excrement and other bodily excretions. To daub them with blasphemous symbols.

Hours turned into days, the hatch in the door sliding open to emit a tray of tasteless pastes at intervals which were his only way of marking the passage of time. And yet still he lived.

Had some ally of his come to his aid? He had as many colleagues and accomplices as he had enemies, but he did not believe for a moment that the Adeptus Arbites could be bought off. Political might, then? That tall man at the soiree last month, though he had never removed his mask during the night’s debaucheries, had had the look of the governor’s son about him. The line of his jaw. Perhaps..?

As the days passed he gave in to his urges and did indeed besmear his cell with his bodily fluids, his fine clothing too soon stained and ruined. Such was the way with excess. The electrifying arousal of the event; the splash of brilliant crimson, rich browns, golden yellows and pearly whites, all soon faded and fouled, begging him to exceed them in his next act.

He jumped at the sound of his cell door sliding aside. The cell had never darkened once since he had been thrust into it as if his captors though the brightness might burn some of the sin from his soul. No such chance.

Sleep had been fleeting and his mind was almost unraveled by his confinement and his acts. Jerkily he turned his head to face his fate, but it was no Judge stood in the doorway. The figure was far, far larger. One of the Emperor’s Angels of Death.

Somewhere deep within, he felt a flicker of pride, that they would send one such as this to end one so foul as he.

The skull upon back-to-back scythes on its pauldron marked it as one of the Stygian Guard: the chapter native to this very world of Fulcrum, and that it was clad in armour black as night indicated his visitor was none other than a chaplain. The girdlebook, the skull-visage of the helm, the shining Crozius Arcanum and other accoutrements affirmed this.

Master of Sanctity Angra looked at the walls awash with myriad stains and he saw in them patterns with which he had recently became familiar. Whether the nobleman knew the true import of his scrawling Angra was curious to know. He finally looked down upon the man. He cowered, as was the way with mortals who first beheld one of the Astartes. His clothes, once exorbitant finery, were now torn and stained. Welts crisscrossed his flesh where he had clawed at it and the fallen chaplain saw meaning therein too. The man was a mess, but in his eyes Angra could still see the spark of intelligence. Hope.

Hope was the first step on the road to despair, and it amused the head chaplain. The man had all but came to accept his fate, yet wondered at it being drawn out and now wondered despite himself if he might yet live. His desire to live and to continue his dark deeds was almost tangible. It was tantalizing.

Angra turned to the Arbites behind him.

“You will render this man and his two accomplices to my custody.”

 

Upon the return of the Stygian Guard to their homeworld of Fulcrum, after their fall on the planet Cyprius III and the driving off of the Eldar -those Xenos harbingers interfering too late to turn the chapter from its course- the Astartes sequestered themselves in their fortress monastery to study and explore what they had learned. In this they were led by Master of Sanctity Angra, who had overseen the accumulation of all the fell tomes and knowledge of the Cypriusian cults, and by the newly promoted chief librarian Holusiax. The latter, reborn by the hand of Slaanesh herself, was a figure of awe to much of the chapter and Angra had played upon this, while chapter master Sophusar commanded all.

And they had needed materials for their great work. The post-human flesh of Astartes was too valuable for such experimentation and so the wanton libertines, profligates and scum of Fulcrum had been rounded up; seized from their jails and gallows. Overtly they were to receive punishment at the very hands of the Emperor’s Angels. In truth the Psychopomps -for that was how the Stygian Guard now referred to themselves in secret- meant to grant them apotheosis: they would become hosts for those who spoke to the Psychopomps from beyond the veil.

 

Angra held his chin in his hand, looking on with anticipation as the current batch of voluptuaries writhed upon one another within a circle formed by Holusiax and his disciples, who chanted paean to She Who Thirsts in low voices. As both the activity and their chanting reached climax the flesh of the cavorters began to run. First slowly like candlewax and then fast as quicksilver. Bodies were bodies no more, limbs were fluid and faces shifted and ran. The chanting of the dark librarius continued until the transmogrification was complete.

Holusiax spat a curse as he regarded the form before them. It had neither the beautiful, svelte form of his daemonic liberator, nor the serpentine mode of his own reformed body, but was a twisted aggregate of the sacrifices. A coagulation, a bastard clot of humanity, moaning and shivering in shared delight and agony.

There was a hiss as the head enchanter unsheathed a pair of red blades, one marked with the rune of the masculine, the other the feminine, and he advanced upon the creature.

Several eyes turned to regard him, while limbs and other extremities continued to fondle and thrust at its own flesh. When he raised the daggers a limb swept out and it was only the preternatural reflexes of his new form that saved him from behind driven to the ground by it. Darting away he reevaluated the monstrosity and motioned to the others of the librarius who raised their hands toward it.

“Hold,” came Angra’s deep voice from across the chamber.

Holusiax glanced questioningly at the dark apostle while his brethren stayed their arms.

“You would abort your child so swiftly?” Angra asked. “It is blessed by Her. I know you of all can feel it, Holusiax.”

The chief librarian nodded slowly reluctantly, and looked back at the tangle of bodies now one.

“It lacks the beauty we had expected, does it not, Master?”

Angra too nodded but continued, “It does not fit the human ideal but we have learned to look beyond what our race once held sacred, have we not, my brother?”

Holusiax bowed his head to the other’s wisdom.

 

Over the months rituals produced more of the grotesques, each differing from the last. They were studied by the Psychopomp librarius and chaplains, occasionally dissected by chief apothecary Polus and examined for the pursuit of haruspicy. The Exalted Fecund sect was elevated above its peers across the planet while its teachings were debased and corrupted. And spread, yes: spread to neighbouring worlds. Soon the most devoted of the sect volunteered themselves willingly for apotheosis and found themselves welcomed into the fortress monastery by the members of the chapter’s librarius with kisses upon the devotees’ cheeks.

 

”Margrave Hial Vitusa and his son Sartes, baron Musasis Vitusa,” Angra explained to the chief librarian, indicating the three men writhing like a maddened myriapoda in the middle of the circle.

Holusiax raised an eyebrow, “I am privileged.” He drew his blades and advanced toward the trio. Pins and rings pierced their flesh, anchoring chains which bound the three bastards together in their unholy union.

He rested a hand upon the rear of the three and carefully carved the symbol of the Dark Prince deep into the man’s back, eliciting a muffled cry though whether it was of pleasure or pain was hard to discern. Indeed the Psychopomps had learned that the two were often one.

The ritual was commenced and the three became fused.

 

Some months later.

 

”Master Sophusar had granted us permission to make use of one of them.”

The dark apostle and the sorcerer stood before a cell deep within the chapter’s fortress-monastery. While the chapter’s first company - the Bloody First - occupied the lowest oubliette of the fortress, and the many products of the two’s biological alchemy were held in chambers above, these cells were home to the few precious Xenos the chapter paid host to. The Eldar.

Upon the chapter’s decanting from warpspace on their return from Cyprius III and the mission which had changed the chapter forever, they had found Eldar craft toying with the planetary defence forces. As soon as they had arrived the Eldar, headed by a female warlord, had broadcast warnings for the Stygian Guard to avoid `the planet of cults`. Cyprius III. They had been all too late, and had spat curses in their own tongue at the Astartes as they had fired upon the fleeing Xenos. It was from a translation of these epithets that chapter master Sophusar had smiled and taken their `Psychopomps` as their new name.

Some of the Xenos vessels had been crippled and captured in bitter boarding actions. It had been Holusiax who had heard the call from the Empyrean not to simply execute the aliens. She had a higher purpose for them. Rather than simply devouring their souls, for Slaanesh had an insatiable appetite for their anima, she deigned that her new servants make use of the Eldar to further their own enlightenment...

“The blessings of the Dark Prince upon him,” Holusiax intoned in response, gazing through the armourglass at the willowy alien female within.

 

A particularly brutal convict from the Fulcrumese regiments of the Imperial Guard was chosen as the other half of the experiment. He had been apprehended by commissariat cadets and it had only been the Eldar incursion and subsequent Astarte return which had, like the Vitusa nobles, saved him from a bolt shell to the brainpan. A savage sociopath, his and the alien’s forearms were severed. Iron pins were hammered into the marrow of their stumps and chains filled to tie the two together inescapably while one attacked the other within the circle of chanting sorcerers.

 

The air was electric and immediately all those in attendance knew that something was different this time. That this communion was blessed from on high.

As the two’s flesh, as every time before, began to flow there came with a shuddering of their bodies an explosion of fine tentacle-like appendages from several orifices. One’s belly began to swell, inflating unnaturally in a blasted parturiency. Angra could not tear his eyes away as belly of the creature - for it was now more one than two – split open like a flower blossoming. The head, formerly of the guardsman, bit madly like an animal at the petals of flesh while from within a skeletal form unfolded, entrails from within the host body snaking upwards to wrap themselves around the offspring, which shivered as layer upon layer of flesh wound about it, steadily taking on a form which was neither entirely male nor female.

 

Holusiax looked across at Angra and smiled.

 

 

 

 

I hope I said enough without saying too much.

 

EDIT: just a small edit to correct a number of days in the story to 119.

[Carrack]

The Howls of Dag

 

 

The last of Dag's pack mates fell on Cathary V, cut down by a hail of sorcerous bolts spit out by the Old Enemy, the Thousand Sons. Dag's howls of grief eclipsed his revving chainsword and cut across the battlefield.

 

Unable to abandon the memories of his first pack, Dag refused to bond with new packs and chose to fight on as a Lone Wolf. Yet still, he fought as part of a Great Company, and was not truly alone. Not until the fog of war, a head wound, and the rapid redeployment of his Great Company left him unconscious and bleeding, partially submerged in the muck of the poisonous Garden Bogs. Days later, when the potent toxins of the swamp shocked him out of his healing trance, Dag discovered that he was the only Space Wolf, nay the only sentient being left in the system. Dag howled in the heart wrenching pain of loneliness.

 

Years passed. In vain hope of rescue, Dag never strayed from the Garden Bogs where he last saw his brothers. The virulent poisons in the air, water, flora, and fauna of the bogs slowly seeped into his lungs, his blood, his soul. The poison was too strong. Dag lay dying on a hummock staring into the night sky when his super human vision saw the colorful twinkle of a ship spilling into reality at the edge of the system. Quick calculations by his hypno-trained mind equated to a fast ship being within three days of Dag's position. Dag estimated that at most, he had seven hours to live. In despair, Dag gave in to the festering wound in his soul, he howled out to the callous powers of the cruel Galaxy. The Grandfather answered.

 

It was fitting that the ship that came late to Dag's rescue belonged to the Arch-Enemy, because by the time it reached him, he belonged to them. He now had new brothers to fight beside to go with the new black of his armor, and he fought well. He fought so well that his Granfather bestowed gifts upon him, and Dag howled with joy at their recite.

 

As more years passed, Dag's prestige grew with both his new brothers-in-arms, and his patron god. Dag began to crave the accolades of both. His brothers, some veterans of thousands of years, were more close fisted than his god. Grandfather Nurgle, however, is ever-most generous. The rotting, pockmarked thing that Dag has become, now merely howls at everything, ceaselessly.

 

[Tenebris]

 

From the "Chronicles of Tears and Ash" by Galerius the Blind, Scribe of the Black Legion
 
It is the duty of a chronicler to record the events which transpire in the warband, the many legends, myths and lore, for while the Imperial think us as savage beasts, as barbarians, I reckon that the Black Legion records are some of the most extensive and well maintained among the many humanity's enclaves in the Eye and beyond. 
 
Such record is the story of Azub, former Champion of the Dark Gods, warrior of the Black Tears and now a miserable heap of warped flesh, pseudopods and writhing tentacles. Azub the Spawn, or as we know it, Azub the Removed. 
 
Azub's story begun with great portents, the Arrogance was sailing deep in the Empyrean, the ship was greeted by countless infant faces screaming their wrath at us and the Dark Apostle attests that he dreamed of wings and claws, of ascension. Under this portents a child was born to a couple of slaves in Deck 62-F, lowly ratings both but their child was strong and heavy and unlike many born on the Arrogance, not marked by the Dark Gods with vile mutations.
 
The news spread across the ship and the warband descended to the lower decks. Torn from his mother's still bleeding tit the youth was taken by the legion and never again seen by his parents. Azub like many healthy male children was raised and tutored by the harsh drillmasters of the Schola Lacrimae, the School of Tears, a group of slaves who had the duty to train prospective warriors for the Black Legion, to shape them into astartes material and to break them upon the anvil of toil and training.
 
Azub excelled in the tasks put before him by the drillmasters. When he was six he came back with the head of Ruban the Vile, a mutant plaguing the aft gunnery decks and when he was seven he killed two aspirants in a brutal clash over a bowl of food, the only alternative being to starve and perish like a weakling. This callousness and cruelty marked him as legion material and when he was old enough Azub ascended into the ranks of the Black Legion.
 
The Dark Apostle demanded that the aspirant receives the true geneseed of the warband, the Horus genome and despite the high risk and very painful flesh forging Azub survived and even bore the mighty features of a true Son. If his skill and drive were not enough, the portents spoke true and Azub now was an image of the Sacrificed King, a true Black Legionnaire. 
 
Azub's rise in the warband was meteoric. Not long after he received his power armor he dueled Zerun of the Seven Blades to a deadly combat for the leadership of his cohort and tales are still told how mighty Azub smashed Zerun's skull asunder with this trademark weapon, a vicious looking meteor hammer, a weapon scavenged from the battlefields of Hagia where the Black Tears fought their cousins of the World Eaters after a territorial dispute, and promptly won.
 
As an Aspiring Champion Azub scoured the galaxy in the service of his lords in the Black Legion and under the inspired leadership of the Crying Lords of the Black Tears he soon was a force to reckon. It is my duty as a chronicler to record that at this stage Azub was a towering astartes, his trademark meteor hammer was a screaming bell of pure adamantium, wreathed in blue fire as for his armor, he merged with it and the more he killed the more his armor took the shape worthy of Khorne, for it is to the Blood God that Azub offered his soul. 
 
The mighty Azub served the Black Tears for more than three centuries of sidereal time and during this time he and his warriors were the bloody fist of the Black Tears. Their charges were legendary as was their sheer bloody mindedness in battle, prevailing against all odds as befits the scions of Khorne. The Dark Apostle begun to whisper of an ascension when Azub joined the Lodge of the Many Tears and he immersed himself into the cult practices of the Hounds of Abaddon, the devotees of the Blood God among the Black Legion brethren. It seemed that Azub fate was to cavort the stars as a Daemon Prince and never was this more clear when the Black Tears met their rival warband, the Slashed Hands in ritual greeting and exchange of tribute as demanded by the Black Legion creed.
 
During the greeting the two fleets stood at high anchor over the world of Galuna Secundus, an imperial world soon to be raided by the two warbands. Gifts were exchanged, a feast took place aboard the Arrogance and an invitation was offered to partake in the many excesses of the legendary harems of the Slashed Hands. The culmination of the greeting was a duel among the best champions of the warbands, not to the death but should one of the opponents die it was considered a great blessing and sacrifice to the Blood God. The Black Tears named Azub their representative champion and he soon squared off with Jurgan of the Slashed Hands, a revolting servant of the Plague God and a deadly warrior favoring the curved scythe so common among his former Death Guard brethren.
 
What followed was a merciless clash between two paladins, a whirlwind of gore and rot but ultimately Azub broke his opponent's scythe with his hammer and choked the vile Nurglite with the spiked chain of his meteor hammer. As a tribute the Slashed Hands took the burnt of the enemy guns when the planet drop was made by the two warbands, the rival warband leading the way and dying so that the Black Tears could smash the enemy resistance asunder.
 
After the ritual duel Azub became the Champion of the Black Tears, leading other Chosen into battle and winning glory for the warmaster, yet somewhere in all his prowess, in all his might and strength, he lost himself to the Blood God. Initially he bore many blessings, an extra set of arms, cloven feet, vicious tusks and vestigal horns, yet when his form molded into a hulking brute of sinew and crimson fur it was clear that on his journey he was lost, lost to the red haze of spilled blood and rent flesh. 
 
The warband was quick to capitalize on Azub's fall to madness and other records attest to the ferocity of the "Crying Beasts" ,as the Spawn are known among the Black Tears. This packs of vicious warp creatures have always been a fixture of the warband shock doctrine, for few opponents can stand their ground against the visage of hell given flesh and talon, the Crying Beasts of Khorne being some of the most deadly specimens of their kind. Such was the fate for all Spawn, such was the fate of Azub, to act as a living battering ram, or as a warp predator, a stalker, a reaver. It is true, the Crying Beast know neither pain or want, they are immortal, able to regenerate even from the most grievous wounds, blessed by the many infernal powers, yet if there is a lesson to be learned it is that the fate of Azub was indeed decreed at his birth, with mighty portents and dreams, but the nature of the Dreaded Four is fickle and every servant of the Black Legion, warrior or slave, should be ever mindful to whom he offers his soul in return for power.

 

[Tenebris]

http://shrani.si/f/1a/o3/bgHYhQ/2/gallery2900410383202531.png

 

This week it was a calm one, the Spawn was an interesting topic but it could not compete with the awesomeness of the new Khorne Daemonkin news. Still the two contributions were very interesting and I feel that both frater deserve the accolade this week. The Howls of Dag written by Carrack was a touching story of an abandoned ... ahem dog while the sinister nobility described by Kierdale did strike an echo with my more "grimdark" tastes. Still I consider both the frater as great participants and in this case I do agree that both should share in the victory. Well done Carrack and Kierdale. 

 

Step forth Carrack and Kierdale, and claim your reward!

 

http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/15/friday-award.png

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 20/03/2015 - Champion of Khorne

 

In line with the new release of Khorne Daemonkin I want you to write about a Champion of Khorne. I leave it at that since I do want to see what kind of champion you will present and I invite you to be as extravagant as possible in your writing. 

 

For the added challenge I will set a word limit in order to see how you manage this type of writing. Try to evoke the narrative with as few words as possible and try to be creative. The word limit is 250 words. Good luck!

 

 

Let us be inspired!

 

 

Tenebris

 

[Warsmith Aznable]

Meant to write an entry last night but was sidetracked by an basketball tournament watch party... :(

[Beachymike123]

I'd like to start by saying I love Fridays simply because of this lil' piece of fluff exercise in these sacred halls. Inspirational Friday is a great read and it does what it says. I'm certainly thinking of a cyber construct for my Iron Warriors following last weeks entries. Great reads from all of you. 

 

Lieutenant Rualteth, Master of the Airborne, Slayer of the False. Rualteth was recruited into the IV Legion as the sons of Perturabo left Olympia in its death throws during the Scouring. He was one of the first post-Heresy Iron Warriors, and he wears this with distressful pride. He is the first one to point out, however, that this is the past, and he only looks to the future.

Rualteth achieved his position in the Siege Makers through a series of both martial skill and destroying any who opposed him. Despite being a follower of Khorne and wanting to engage the enemy in hand to hand combat, he is a brilliant tactician and can recognise enemy weak points just with a glance. To this end, he will often lead an advance in person, his ancient jump pack flaring while he grips his ornate axe, a gift from Khorne himself. Helslash grants Rualteth a large reign of freedom to enact the Warsmith's will, and as long as the younger veteran of the Long War achieves the targets set out, this works well for both parties. 

Many in the Siege Makers are born from Perturabo's geneseed, and a few feel the pull of the Blood God more strongly than others. As Lieutenant, it is Rualteth's responsibility to stem the mad tide before they descend upon one another. He has done this with a number of measures, from one on one combat while not in a warzone, to beheading those who defy his word and wearing them as trophies. 

 

 

Edit: Taken out non-essential paragraph to fit closer to the word count. My bad. 

[Carrack]

Red Hive Monster

 

 

"16 Angels Follow the Red Path of Doom". This graffiti was painted onto the facade of the derelict building. Sharky read it as he slapped the belt onto the feed tray of his jackhammer, and sucked hard on the haze crystals in his mouth. He yelled back at the pair of Weaver Lane gunners to hold tight until he was through. The rat-a-tat-tat-tat of the jackhammer broke the silence of the empty streets. Jackhammer rounds hit the first window and stitched a line up and left across the hideout of the interlopers.

 

A while back, some muties squatted in this building, holed up by day, and occasionally scuttling about by night. Then three days ago, they were everywhere, asking about a tattooed woman and disrespecting the Weaver Lane Crew. When they got answers, some killers would storm a tenement and leave neither survivors nor witnesses.

 

The jackhammer clicked dry and They rushed the door, shaking hot casings out their clothes. Sharky was a step behind from reloading. When he entered he saw a monster toss the two gunners' heads onto a pile to his left. The monster was big, over two meters, and completely encased in black armor. Great horns and brass trim, runes and spikes, made the monster even more fearsome. Sharky had a bowel voiding moment to behold the monster before a powerful sweep of its red glowing sword decapitated him. Although dead, Sharky's brain kept going a few seconds, enough time to hear the monster speak, "More skulls for the skull throne."

 

 

Ps. That's 258 words, the extra 8 is to honor the Blood God

[Tenebris]

Zeron was chosen, of this there was no doubt. The Dark Apostle told him that his veneration of Khorne is excessive, that a Word Bearer should embrace the entire Pantheon, but for Zeron it was the Blood God who has seen him triumphant in countless battles.

 

It begun, as many thing begin among the Word Bearers, with a whisper and then with a word, Blood! This was no dream, no mirage; it was a sound request, nay a demand of a bloodthirsty deity. Initially Zeron followed the council of the Dark Apostle, he appeased Khrone with his bloody deeds, with his commitment to battle, with his willingness to shed blood for the Word, yet the demand was ever present, the haze of bloodlust ever on his eyes.

 

Maybe it was the carnage of the Shadow Crusade, his skill shown in the training cages of the XIIth legion, or maybe his willingness to go further than his brothers, to assail the unassailable, to fight even when the razor edge of death’s scythe was but a mere breath away, the fact is that Khorne was pleased with his chosen champion and few dared to gainsay Zeron on the matter.

 

Strange how things come into perspective when death stalks nearby, when the blood pumps in your veins and when the sound of war drums in your hearts. For Zeron there was a lesson to be learned with every axe swing, with every word of hatred, a simple lesson. Blood for the Blood God!