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


Tenebris

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INSPIRATIONAL FRIDAY - Let us be inspired!

 

Blessed be thy touch oh Princess of Darkness, my muse, my inspiration! Come to me in my dreams, come to me as my pen scratches the paper, as my fingers touch the cord of my lute. Come to me blessed maiden of excess, glorious Slaa'nhet, for without you I am noting, lost adrift in the currents of my dreams, weary of the uneventful, tired of the mundane. Come to me oh lady of excess, inspire me and let us be inspired together!

 

- extract form the Canticle of Woe, heretical text, The Burning of Alastros IV, 373.M39

 

http://shrani.si/f/33/5r/2HfNKAnB/comedy-and-tragedy.png

 

Greetings fellow heretics, lunatics and traitors, greetings and welcome to Inspirational Friday. What is this column you ask, what is this new sorcery, this new heresy?

 

For those who have been sleeping under a rock, battling loyalists on some remote planet or wandering the manifold dimensions of the Empyrean, Inspirational Friday is a weekly column in the Chaos forum dedicated to the glory and fluffiness of Chaos. 

 

In this weekly event we gather together and explore the many interpretations of Chaos, of the Traitor Legions, of the countless warbands and denizens of the Warp, in short we seek together the truth behind Chaos and share it with our fellow heretics. 

 

The past year Inspirational Friday was a great opportunity for many members of the board to express themselves and present their view of Chaos. You can find their contributions as well as their ideas in the "Resources" thread. I invite you to read them despite the peril to your immortal souls, they really are that good!

 

This year Inspirational Friday will be following in the wake of various events on the Chaos boards and we will once again explore the background, the fiction and the glory of Chaos. As it is custom you will be presented with a weekly topic but the difference with the past year is that not only your soul and blood is demanded, or the scratching of your cursed autoquills but you are invited to present also pictures based upon the weekly theme, link topics which are related and display things which have inspired you or you feel adequate for the topic discussed. 

 

Inspirational Friday has the aim to be much more atmospheric, more inspiring thus you are all invited to present your contributions and share in the glory of Chaos with your brethren. The column will still place an emphasis to the fanfiction and the background but along with this we will also give the Inspirational Friday award to the pictures we consider inspiring and thematic, be it renditions in art or exquisitely painted models, anything really which inspires us to heights of heresy.

 

Said so I hope you will enjoy the new Inspirational Friday topics and I am looking forward your contributions to heresy and damnation.

 

Let us be inspired!

 

 

Tenebris 

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Greetings in this first iteration of the weekly column Inspirational Friday in 2015. A new year is here and I can already hear the altered cherubs singing hymns to the Dark Gods as hundreds of flayed serfs write the chronicles of the many warlords of the legions and their exploits in the Long War. Are you one of those warlords or are you a far more sinister figure to regale us with tales of damnation and heresy. Matters not, for your kin demands to be inspired, so you better begin speaking lest I will have your soul as a refreshment for my "guests".

 

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

 

Inspirational Friday - 16/01/2015 - Chaos Warship

 

What is the most important thing for a Chaos warband? Is it its lord, is it its warriors, or is it its undying legions of cultists and daemons? None of those, for what good is a warlord who cannot wage war at his whim, what good are warriors who cannot sail the Sea of Souls to battle the true foe? What good are legions of daemons and scum if they are stranded upon an icy rock, lost somewhere in the Realm of the Eye?

 

The truth, my fellow heretics, is that a warband needs a chariot and a steed, it needs a barge to sail the stars, to bring hatred and purpose to the remote worlds in our galaxy, a warband needs a warship and it is often the most prized relic for a warrior of Chaos. True, there "are" other means to travel across space and time but the will of the Dark Gods will get you only so far. Not in their fits of fancy you should trust but place your trust into a hull of adamantium, into the guns crewed by the mutant herds and into the roar of the Warp engines, in this you should trust, on this you should rely to bring war and a reckoning across the stars. 

 

As you have guessed this week we will write about Chaos warships. I want you to write about this mighty galleons of the stars, about this vessels filled with heretical souls, about this "chariots of the gods" and what they mean to you and your warband. Warhammer 40k history is filled with awe inspiring names, like Vengeful Spirit, The Furious Abyss, The Conqueror, those and many more which denote ships which have plied the trails between the stars and dimensions, voidfaring fortresses which have seen the doom of countless planet. 

 

For this week's Inspirational Friday I want you to express your ideas about the mighty fleets of Chaos, about the ships your warband uses, about the battles in the void your crews have fought. A ship is much much more than just a transport. It is usually a town in space, a fortress for your warband, perhaps even its only refuge or its sole link to their legion or chapter of old. A space ship is an ecosystem on its own, with thousands upon thousands of souls serving aboard this mighty bastions. In time entire cultures and cults spring in the bowels of a warship, battles are fought between decks, the crew becomes an entity on itself, with its own legends, myths, dreams and glories. 

 

If a Chaos warship is the barque of an astartes force then imagine the relationships between the two elements of the warbands. How do those two souls of a warband convive, which rituals they share, which rules they abide. I want you not only to write about your warship or your fleet but also about the groups of mortals and immortal denizens that share their lives in what is a symbiotic relationship between mortals, demigods, daemons and the machine, all required in equal terms to allow a ship to sail the stars and do the work of the Dark Gods. 

 

Not only that but I want you to explore the notion of the "machine spirit" of your mighty warships. Such a spirit is colossal in nature even on a small frigate class ship. It is an entity on its own, primal, powerful, demanding. Imagine the cults which worship the "ship", the Dark Mechanicus adepts and the hereteks which commune with it, the will which drives it. In time every "machine spirit" came to embrace certain quirks, to express and act as a mortal would albeit with the cold fury of an "abominable intelligence" speaking through its batteries of macrocannons, venting its wrath in surges of speed or daring, overriding the pitiful wills of its mortal crew. Explore this core concept of a Warhammer 40k Chaos warship, explore its quirks or write about its corruption and damnation.

 

In short explore the many facets of a Chaos warship. Write about its creation, its employment by the warband, about the society on board or the soul of its machine spirit. If you are not the writing type of heretic, seek out important links, show us renditions of art or present us with the pictures of your Battlefleet Gothic ships. I think a Chaos warship is a cardinal thing for every Chaos warband and I think it is proper that we pay tribute to this most important aspect of our faction's background.

 

Let us be inspired!

 

Tenebris

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http://shrani.si/f/2b/nh/9YtLIlj/chaosreignsbycolumbussag.png

 

- Fantasy Flight Games - Chaos Fleet

 

"My, my, she's a beauty. The hull black as a sin, Avernus IV macrocannon batteries, Sig Petrov lances, Dreadclaw racks by the hundreds and a full complement of the Juroshi Heltalon clans. I pity the poor bastards upon whom will fall the honor to bloody this beauty. The touch of the Dark Gods will surely follow where the Betrayed Maiden will sail, mark my words."

- shipwright Fruzan Detrunal of the Baluroni Factorum Guild

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Well, looks like when I get home I'll be writing some ideas down for my fleet. Are there any resources for ship names? I'm sure I'm not the only one who finds naming things difficult.

-Tarvick

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Well, looks like when I get home I'll be writing some ideas down for my fleet. Are there any resources for ship names? I'm sure I'm not the only one who finds naming things difficult.

-Tarvick

I commensurate with you on this. You don't want a name to sound to commonplace, but at the same time you don't want it to be ridiculous either.

 

Lexicanum has a pretty wide selection of ship names and classes. Google translate is an easy tool for making a name sound like High Gothic, just pick a Romance language.

 

Also, what are the site rules for using GW artwork? Can I use a picture from the Battle Fleet Gothic Books? I checked the rules page and was unable to find this out.

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I think that we have often enough shared art found on the net that this is not much as a fuss. The only request I have is that if the frater knows the original publication where the art appeared or the name of its author those should be affixed below the picture. 

 

Said that I want to see the mighty fleets of Chaos taking to the stars! I want to hear the screeching of your autoquills. 

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Bitter Revenge

 

 

 

You are the Elect. You will lead men and women in battle. You will sail the stars and the Aether in between them. You will make worlds tremble. You will serve amongst demigods, gods of war. You are the Elect. You have been chosen to become officers aboard Lord Carrack's flag ship, The Bitter Revenge. You most assuredly, do not deserve this honor.

 

Perhaps you were born into this class. Perhaps you attended the academy at Howler's Charn. Maybe you were rewarded this opportunity by an officer or one of the great Legionaries. Maybe you bribed your way out of the lower decks with stolen coin. It matters not, learn your occupation or be cast out of the Elect. While your days are spent training with your mentors, your nights will be spent studying the knowledge required of your class, starting with this treatise on the organism of the warship you will live and die upon. Sleep when you can at your own peril.

 

The Anatomy of Revenge

 

The ship, the skeleton. The Bitter Revenge started out as a Retaliator Class Grand Cruiser constructed at some forgotten forge world of the Corpse God's lackeys in the 35th millenium. Numerous reconstructions, refittings, and customizations over the centuries have left Bitter Revenge with little in common with other ships of the same class.

 

The Bitter Revenge is best characterized as a lance strike ship. She is a sniper not a knife fighter. She relies on getting into a good position and taking apart enemies at range. The ship's broadsides have been removed in order to upgrade the engines and dorsal and prow lances. Bitter Revenge relies on her squadron of cruisers and escorts to protect her flanks in close range fights. Of course she is a Black Legion warship, so her greatest weapon is the Astartes aboard her, and they are quick to take to the boarding torpedoes and dreadclaws to come to grips with the enemy.

 

The Crew, life blood of the ship. Over 90,000 souls toil away aboard the Bitter Revenge. Most are unskilled labor, mutant rabble that lift and push or pull chains and shovel waste at your orders. The rabble form short lived factions, cults, and gangs for protection from their fellows, as well as from the unspeakable horrors that pierce the geller fields in the midst of the raging warp. These factions are frequently in conflict over choice assignments, living quarters, and other resources. Do not be surprised if your work crew shows up with an entire new cast than the previous shift. Such is life in the under decks.

 

Black Spark Technomancers, the dark heart of the ship. These are the Dark Mechanicus cult that worships and attends the engines and generatorums of the vessel. They control the power of the ship. The vessel will not move, fire, or even allow breath to be drawn without their say. That being said, only rarely have they refused request from the Elect in the running of the ship. Just be aware that their good graces must be maintained, so keep the tribute flowing.

 

Techna-Drones, the immune system of Bitter Revenge. This is a loose confederation of the tech adepts that maintain all other aspects of the ship. They are vital in keeping Lord Carrack's Flagship operating. When a macro cannon shell breaches your deck, the Techna-Drones will be leading the damage control party in order to get you back on line. Make alliances with the Techna-Drones that you will regularly work with, while maintaining leverage over others is a wise policy for an Elect.

 

Lord Carrack and the bridge officers, the head of the ship. This is where your commands originate from. Fail to execute them and you are ultimately failing Lord Carrack, not a wise choice for one with a mortal soul. The previous commander, Lord Huma, favored intricately laid traps, often involving a carefully turned traitor in the enemy's midst. Lord Carrack studied void warfare under Lord Huma and implements many of the same stratagems, but differs from the previous lord in two ways. First, Lord Carrack adheres to the Black Legion doctrine of applying overwhelming force to the critical point in the enemies defense much more closely than his predecessor. Secondly, the call of the Blood God rings ever in the ears of our lord, and he is never satisfied with a victory unless his axe is reddened with the blood of the Imperium.

 

The machine-spirit of the Bitter Revenge, soul of the ship. The machine spirit of our vessel is caustic and bitter. It is like ashes on your tongue. It is an imperial ship of a less than illustrious line, for which it is bitter. It was allowed to be captured by traitor marines, for which it is bitter. No attempts were ever made to reclaim it for the imperium, for which it is bitter. Warp-tainted Xenos were used to subvert its will, for which it is bitter. It was purchased by the Black Maw warband like a common commodity, like nothing more than a draw of flour bought by a matron to feed her illegitimate brats, for which it is bitter. Know that this bitterness will make those who must commune with the soul of the ship hesitant to do so. When you must get the navigator to guide the ship, or a Techna-Drone to plumb the subconscious data cores, you are asking them to open themselves to an immensely powerful spirit of pure spite. Do so sparingly and with abundant recompense.

In many ways the Bitter Revenge is an organism, it has aged, grown, hurt, and healed. She has her own soul and desires. It would be wise of you to treat her as such. The galaxy will burn in her wake.

 

 

 

Note: sorry about the lack of images I am without computer access this week and can not figure it out with my so called smart phone. I would banish the thing to the warp if I could. (Then regret it 5 minutes later)

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Just a little something I had fun doing.

 

 

 

973.M30   The Tyrrhese, commissioned by Martian decree in conjunction with their fruitful alliance with the III Legion, is completed. The mighty war vessel is assigned to the Emperor’s Children Legion, 27th Millennial. Lord Commander Achlectur Priumne makes the superior vessel his flagship. The mortal captain Karel Saeros is outraged at this treatment of the former flagship, Trasena.

 

 

014.M31   The Tyrrhese adds to the Warmaster’s terrible fleet as part of the rearguard, fighting a constant war in the outer system against Terran defenses and reinforcements. The 27th Millennial makes a name for itself, rendering many enemy vessels frozen in the void after terrible boarding onslaughts. Tyrrhese beats Trasena in number of kills, though Trasena’s captain disputes many of them.

 

 

 

017.M31   Both Tyrrhese and Trasena are finally forced from the Imperium and into the Eye. In order to appease his great ship, Lord Commander Priumne unleashes exterminatus-grade ordinance on four Imperial worlds while in flight.

 

 

 

439.M32   Tensions reach a crescendo between the 27th Millennial and what is left of the Emperor’s Children Legion. Achlectur Priumne releases his men from the Legion and relinquishes his title, becoming warlord of the Highborn. Trasena is captured by the Iron Warriors, and will remain with them for seventy more years.

 

 

 

291.M33   Tyrrhese pulls anchor over a frozen world emitting signals of xenos origin, millennia old. The Highborn are unable to contain themselves in their fervor to reach planetside. Tyrrhese remains in orbit for three years until contact is made once more with the Highborn. Fully staffed before, a bare third of the mortal crew survived. Though provisions were plenty, the few who had access were the first to fall victims to the power plays in the absence of the Highborn. Trasena had refused to ration to the Tyrrhese.

 

 

 

332.M33   The frozen citadels were constructed. Unreliable cartographical data gave the world the name Hyberna. Tyrrhese’s database lists it as Cel. The planet becomes the Highborn’s primary port of call. Trasena comes under the command of Achsantre Aivas, sole surviving former Captain of the long-dead 27th Millennial. The flesh-infused command console is washed in hated flame, erasing what is left of Karel Saeros. The two ships’ depleting reservoirs are refilled with water from the world below.

 

 

 

541.M34   After bitterly waging war over the Erinn Sector since the early 200’s, the Emerald Tigers Chapter finally brings the Highborn to task. Chapter Master Conn Eremon slays Chaos Lord Achlectur Priumne. Achsantre Aivas takes command of the Highborn, transitioning to the Tyrrhese as the warband is forcibly removed from the Imperium once more.

 

 

 

325.M35  The Campanians, under the influences of umbrosia, assault the Povalii. War, once begun, would continue for sixteen months. Initiating a pogrom of extinction, many Povalii are massacred where the Campanians invaded. Rallying attacks and crippling espionage saw the Campanian front falter, and finally turn back upon itself. The Povalii are ultimately victorious, and the Campanian people are slain to ensure a lasting defeat. The loss of the Campanians left the guns on decks 12 to 13c silent in the next battle. The Highborn purge the Povalii from the Tyrrhese, forcing the remaining crew to spread itself thin before the next influx of slaves.

 

 

754.M37   Acting as a vassal warband to the Black Legion, the Highborn do their part in tying up elements of the Segmentum Obscurus’ immense warfleets. Though badly damaged during the attacks, the Legion lord that had gathered the forces of Chaos succeeded in his assault on the Segmentum Fortress, Tudrin. Imperial vessels did not have the Tyrrhese or Trasena in their records, and were classified as the Frigus and the Etrurian.

 

 

 

651.M38   Trasena opens fire on Tyrrhese, firing a macro-shell that strikes her undefended prow. Many upon Trasena’s bridge are executed for the error, but review of the machinery shows no firing command logged. Investigation on the macro-cannon deck revealed all slaves within long dead, frozen stiff under a thick sheen of grey ice, a common sight since the first touch of Cel. The cavernous room is cleared and more slaves brought in. Reparations to the Tyrrhese reveal potential lasting damage to the vessel’s ‘spine,’ but this knowledge is repressed for fear of punishment over the news.

 

 

 

865.M40  The vessels of the Highborn shed the sable colors once more, returning again to independence. The alliance proved exceptionally fruitful, as both Tyrrhese and Trasena are nearly fully armed, with plentiful ammunition, a state that they had not been in since they initially split ways with their former Legion.

 

 

 

921.M41   Allied with the Eyes of Tivan, the Highborn send a revenge-strike against the Erinn Sector and the Emerald Tigers Chapter. Attacking in full force, much of the isolated Pacificus Sector is brought low, the hated Chapter spread too thin to contain the forces of Chaos. The graceful vessels of the Highborn prove too elusive to the neutered Loyalist Astartes ships, and the brutish warship of the Eyes of Tivan proves adequate when the lines do meet.

 

 

 

948.M41   Tyrrhese and Trasena bombard the planet of Tara, home world to the Emerald Tigers, as the Eyes of Tivan and the Highborn massacre across its globe. Unexpectedly, a large contingent of their First Company arrives in-system, immediately boarding Tyrrhese. With many of the Highborn planetside, the Emerald Tiger veterans are able to wreak much havoc aboard the ancient vessel, though her war spirit did much to defend herself. Sabotage and heavy explosives nonetheless did their work, and 728 years after her first commission, the Tyrrhese is destroyed. With the Highborn’s greatest ship broken in two, and Brute Tyrke, Chaos Lord of the Eyes of Tivan, crumpled at the feet of an Emerald Tiger Contemptor, the forces of Chaos retreat. Trasena survives, now the sole vessel of the Highborn. The fate of Achsantre Aivas is unknown.

 

 

 

 

999.M41   The 13th Black Crusade begins. A ship matching ancient records as the Etrurian is seen among the Black Legion’s great fleet.

 

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Black Legion Warship - "The Weeping Daughter" - "Filia Lamentis" 

 

Class: Devastation-Class Cruiser

Dimensions: Approximately 5 km long, 0,8 km abeam

Mass: Approximately 28,5 Mega-tonnes

Crew: Approximately 80.000

Acceleration: 2.4 Gravities Maximum acceleration

Weapon Systems: Averno-Class Macrocannons, Firali-Petrov Lances, Dreadclaws, Fighter Wings

 

Built in M36.743 (approximately) by the Tech-Clave Hephaestus Tertius, Dark Mechanicus

 

Cosigned to the Black Fleet, The Pride of the Warmaster in M36.756

 

 

The story of the "Weeping Daughter" begins with a weeping man, a weeping astartes. The space marine did not weep tears of pain but he wept tears of joy as at long last he was reunited with this true brothers of the legion he so faithfully served for centuries. Let none say that the Warmaster does not reward those who serve faithfully the Black Legion for he ordered the concalve on Hephaestus to build him a fleet worthy of his legion, a Black Fleet. Among this new chariots of the gods was the Filia Lamentis, a true daughter of the Kingdom of the Eye, and she was told to weep, to weep tears of metal and fire, to weep the souls of those loyal to the Warmaster.

 

A Devastation-Class Cruiser is a rare sight among the fleets of Chaos. Rare is the warlord who has the patience to orchestrate intricate dances of lance and torpedo, rarer still the one who is willing to forgo the glory due in order to support the Black Fleet with fighter craft and landing barges. Let none say that the Weeping Daughter is a vessel not deserving glory, for when her eyes open, tears rain down on the planets desired by the Warmaster.

 

The Filia Lamentis was given to a former Epistolary of the Sons of Horus legion, a true believer in the old ways but also a calm voice in the council of the Black Legion host. In his infinite wisdom the Warmaster entrusted this mighty vessel to the one who does not crave glory, to one of those "rare" officers of old who are willing to stay their hand, to bait their time and to act when the time for waiting is over. 

 

To those who understand the vision of the Warmaster, they too understand the existence of such deadly vessels such as the Weeping Daughter. Said to glide toward the planet soon to be conquered, or following in the rear of the Black Fleet, the carrier duty of the Filia Lamentis is to be fulfilled when the last shot is fired and when the fury in the void is spent. Then and only then her cavernous holds open, swarms of fighter craft fly from here, entire Heltalon clans, all eager for the blood to spill, all eager to grant their mistress glory at last.

 

As shoals of fighters dance their dance of death the true purpose of the Weeping Daughter is revealed. Barging its way across the debris left from the enemy fleet, the Weeping Daughter closes with its victims and as soon as they are in sight, the daughter shows her claws. Full complements of Dreadclaw Drop Pods rain down toward the besieged planet, or claw their way into the hulls of the enemy ships. As they descend the claws unfold and the poison is released in the bloodstream of the enemy.

 

Squads of astartes reveal themselves to the enemy as their Dreadclaw steeds rise once again toward the sky, hordes of mortals rage forward from the landing barges and the dreaded machines of the legions of old move with contempt from their slave ships. The poison is released, and what was to be a battle of cannon and lance soon is revealed to be the cherished Speartip. An assault of shocking proportions which leaves the enemies of the Warmaster reeling, weakened, shattered.

 

As the centuries turned into millennia the Weeping Daughter proved to be a loyal maiden. She fought in the Battle of Medusa and now she is shattering worlds in the Cadian sector. Wherever her shadow appeared in the sky, death followed, and with death the Dark Gods are appeased. 

 

Her machine spirit is a cantankerous one. Like one of the "donnas" of the ancient Terran nobility, she is hard to agree with. Always battling for her right to be at the fore, smiting the enemies of the Warmaster like a base ship of the line, thirsty for glory, thirsty for success. The Weeping Daughter knows the role intended for her, but she resents, and her resent in shown by the sheer belligerence she demonstrates when she is given the right to speak. Woe befalls those arrogant enough to think their mistress a warrior maiden, easily appeased, easily content with the blood spilled. Nay, the Weeping Daughter is a true daughter of the Eye and only those willing to wreak sheer havoc among the enemy, only those willing to be her claws, have an use for her, the others,... the others are shed as her tears.

 

In the turning of centuries the Weeping Daughter lured many brave warriors to her bosom. Heltalon clans fight for glory to be the first to fly, to wet their claws upon the enemy. Entire communities of warriors share the landing barges, protecting them as a noble would do with his mansion, fighting for the ownership of a drop ship. Only those clans deserving a drop ship are allowed to descend upon the foe, to feast on the enemy's flesh, to fill the holds of their mansion with the treasure fit for conquerors. The Black Legion encourages the crew to fight for the right to be the first in the fray and for this the claws of the Weeping Daughter are sharp indeed.

 

As for the true lords of the Weeping Daughter, the sons of the Warmaster, they do inhabit the most vast and spacious of the upper decks. Here the warriors enjoy themselves in the many harems, train their deadly skills in cruel pits or study in one of the many libraries. Served by helots and guarded by eunuchs, cherished by choirs of castrati and healed in the white halls of the chirumeks, here the warriors of the legion want for nothing and the right to be one of the chosen is worth a hundred deaths in the arenas of the lower decks. 

 

Yet the heart of the Weeping Daughter is not a bright thing. Deep in the shadow of the many engines and systems lies the Warp drive and around it the Dark Mechanicus holds sole domain. They venerate their mistress, offer her daily sacrifices and give themselves to her in order to satiate her voracious appetite for the fleeting neural impulses of the mortals. On this decks a true bastion of industry resides. Dark machines stalk the corridors, hundreds of servitors drone around and the crimson priests prey on the foolish or the brave to practice the many infamous rituals of the machine. It is here, in this dark heart, that the mighty machines of the legion rest. Helbrutes stay dormant, each in a separate alcove, tended, worshiped and appeased by the mortals that flock into their shadow. This mighty engines of flesh and metal share their space with the many tanks and vehicles employed by the Black Legion and it is said that from time to time the belligerent machine spirits rise from their slumber and vent their anger at the mortals who dared to chain them to the deck. Still, only the most venerable and deserving warriors are allowed to stride in this mighty holds and rare is the one who dares to anger the priests of the machine, yet even so the sound of toil echoes as the beating heart of the Weeping Daughter, a metronome, a hourglass in the hands of the crimson priesthood. 

 

A notable feature of the Weeping Daughter is the observation deck. A vast orrery denotes this place, a serene haven for those studying the mysteries of the Warp. Here among ancient telescopes, astrolabes and wondrous astrological charts, the conclave of Sorcerers plies its trade. Sending their voices across the Warp, dreaming of their brothers, of their efforts of war, of the will of the Warmaster. Bonded guilds of witches and covens of scryers serve their lords as a choir of voices and it is said that the Weeping Daughter does not resent their chanting, for it is said to soothe her dire spirit.

 

The central nave of the warship is the true marvel of the Weeping Daughter. The nave is a deck completely offered to the service of the legion and its dark patrons. Between pillars of crimson veined marble and murals of battles past, the relics of the warband are proudly displayed. Banners and papers of oaths, ancient archeo-blades vie for glory with elaborate suits of power armor, tomes of sorcery contend with the many scrolls penned by the Warmaster himself. It is in this nave that the warband meets and all mortal souls on the ship are demanded to attend to the many ceremonies. 

 

Among censers of brimstone and candles made from human fat a song rises from the main shrine aboard the Weeping Daughter. Spreading across a dozen decks, from the heart of the Warp engine to the towering Navigator spire, the cathedral stands and hymns to the Dark Gods are chanted here. Despite the cries of the sacrificed ones and the whispers of the Neverborn the cathedral is the most wondrous place on the ship. Towering statues of the Dreaded Four adorn the many plinths, among them the depictions of the many marquises of the Warp vie for prestige beneath the stern visage of their gods. Here, among the legends and myths the Dark Apostle leads the rituals deserving of such a maiden as the Weeping Daughter. Many cults aboard the ship come here to pray or to participate in the many orgies, or to listen to the sermons of the dark priesthood. Altered cherubs dance and play between the towering arches of the cathedral and from time to time denizens of the Warp are asked to grace the faithful with their boons and blessings.

 

And so the Weeping Daughter sailed across the real and the unreal for centuries, or for days, or for hours, matters not. She is a true ship of the Eye, her very essence infused with the will of the Black Legion, her noble countenance cast in dark adamantium and blessed by the deaths of thousands. The Weeping Daughter fought, and suffered, and won, and lost, across the many epochs of her service but she never faltered in her allegiance to the Warmaster, the very being whose words gave her life and allowed her to feel the touch of the aether and wet her claws in the flesh of the weak, the strong and the undeserving. 

 

Truly is the Weeping Daughter a daughter of the Eye. 

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

 

Greetings and welcome to Inspirational Friday. The past week we explored the warships of Chaos and I must say that the winner is Conn Eremon and his depiction of events which led to the legend of The Tyrrhese and the Trasena. Two mighty ships which have fought in the void for thousands of years. I especially liked the format of the post and I think I will shamelessly steal your idea hehe. 

 

Congratulations Conn Eremon. Here is your reward:

 

http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/14/friday-award.png

 

Inspirational Friday - 23/01/2015 - Interview with a Chaos Lord

 

Indeed, we kick in this Inspirational Friday with an interview. A lowly chronicler will ask your Lord ten questions with the intention to write them down in the archive of your warband. To enshrine the deeds of glory and deceit which allowed your commander to ascend to the rank of Lord of Chaos.

 

Gr...gr...greetings m..master. I am thankful that you graced my humble scriptorium with your presence. I know that your highness is occupied with the efforts of running the warband but please, just a few questions so that my scribes can write down for posterity your legendary deeds.

 

F...first one, m..my lord. Where does your legend begin. Of which legion of old or mighty chapter did you bear the colors in battle and what was your calling in those ancient days?

 

Se...sec...second question lord. How have you managed to gather such a mighty warband such as ours and which is your favorite way to use your warriors? 

 

Third qu..question. Do you worship the Dreaded Four or your soul answers to only a single god of darkness, or are you not concerned with them at all?

 

Fourth question. Which is your greatest deed to date?

 

Fifth question. Which is your favorite method of war and why, on ground, in the void?

 

S...sixth q...question. What is the vision you have for our warband, where it will lead us?

 

Seventh question. Do you still entertain contacts with your former brothers or do you seek new allies? What do you think of the Warmaster?

 

Eight question. Where is your place in the Long War?

 

Ninth question. Which are your favorite weapons and armor? I understand that our warband is rich in relics and plunder, so which artifacts of old are your favorite my lord?

 

Tenth question and last. What do you think of the denizens of the Warp, the Neverborn, the Daemonkin?

 

 

P...please don't kill me. I beg of you my lord. I am just a mere chronicler. But your deeds... your deeds are legendary my lord, they need to be written down. 

 

 

Let us be inspired!

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Greetings and welcome to Inspirational Friday. The past week we explored the warships of Chaos and I must say that the winner is Conn Eremon and his depiction of events which led to the legend of The Tyrrhese and the Trasena. Two mighty ships which have fought in the void for thousands of years. I especially liked the format of the post and I think I will shamelessly steal your idea hehe. 

 

Congratulations Conn Eremon. Here is your reward:

 

http://shrani.si/f/e/r4/KG83M5z/14/friday-award.png

 

Congradulaions Conn. I especially liked the part of your story where the one ship's malevolent spirit blasted the other ship. That was cool.

 

 

Thanks to both of you for your compliments. I'm glad it was well received. ^_^

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The following entry for Inspirational Friday 23Jan15: Interview With A Chaos Lord, is very long. I have put it into a spoiler box so that it doesn't explode your screen if you don't want to look at it.

 

 

“You are the cheekiest skrunt that has ever come up here.”

I learned later that a skrunt is type of rodent, but at that moment I had an enormous skull-masked helmet looming a bare centimeter from my own nose and accepted it as the slur it was surely meant as. Terminators are so large and bulky that I never would have believed that one could move so suddenly, or accomplishing that to have pulled up short with such control. For a split second I had thought he meant to head butt me to death. It would have only taken the once, and my head would have split open like a melon.

I was imagining how the story would sound to everyone back in the refugee center, providing that Murk made it back alive to relate. I guess that’s what saved my life, because I forgot to scream, though I can admit now that I did pee a little. Murk told me later that he didn’t run because I didn’t. He kept on filming, and I guess the two of us looked just exactly as cheeky as it had been declared.

The Terminator I came to think of as Mr. Angry didn’t seem much to appreciate that we were still standing there, but his partner, who I later learned was the senior member out of the two bodyguards to the Warsmith, members of his Comitatus fanatically loyal and answerable only to him, appreciated the frustration our lack of reaction caused in Mr. Angry. I knew that one for weeks as Mr. Laughs, though eventually I did learn their proper names.

A Terminator in fits of laughter is at least as scary as a Terminator going nose to nose with you.

Mr. Angry and Mr. Laughs gesticulated at one another in an exaggerated pantomime, and it took me a moment to realize they were conversing privately over their armour’s vox. It looked for a minute like Mr. Angry was seriously going to strike Mr. Laughs and that a deadly fight would ensue, but eventually Mr. Angry stomped over to the armoured door and slapped at the controls causing it to slowly rumble open.

“Woman: you go on in and ask the Warsmith whatever you like.” Mr. Laughs motioned at me with his large hammer. I couldn’t believe my luck and moved on by quickly before they could change their minds. Murk tried to follow me, but Mr. Angry blocked his path with the handle of his own hammer.

“Man: the pict machine cannot proceed. Leave it here or sod off back to the refugee decks with it.”

And that’s how I ended up alone in the Warsmith’s residence.

++

I had expected a series of antechambers followed by a large, grand room. Probably an ornate throne surrounded by more bodyguards and the room filled with a handful of flunkies and slaves. I would wait in line amongst other supplicants, perhaps, and eventually get to state my purpose for visiting. The room would sneer at my audacity, then the Warsmith would order me beaten for wasting his time. Pausing after a moment of thought he would then change his mind. In my fantasy the Warsmith would suddenly have a desire for a confidante, an outside observer that he would find relief in revealing truths to. Or maybe simply a fresh audience for his maniacal tirades, but that would work too.

Crazy, I know. I’ve taken more than my fair share of beatings from the thugs of crime lords, the entourages of callous nobles, and the goons of corrupt politicians. I even once had a tooth knocked out by a Sister of Battle’s deftly swung boltgun for daring to directly address a Cardinal as he was leaving the Cathedral (I hate to think what she might have done had I managed to get to the actual question.) But every beating paid off in a story, thus validating my seemingly suicidal impulse to confront the powerful and violent.

And honestly I don’t believe there is anyone more powerful and violent than the lord of a space marine war host, so in a way this was all inevitable.

++

Instead of progressive antechambers there was a maze of corridors and a multitude of side rooms. There were servants here and there quietly going about domestic tasks, and the rooms that I dared to look into varied in decoration and construction but seemed largely designed simply to exist. I recognized a minimalist tea room, which piqued my curiosity and made me reevaluate my notions of what this Warsmith would be like. At least one room was completely empty save for a reed mat in the center. More than one was filled with curios of a mostly martial nature, though nothing as brutal and obvious as I had envisioned. There were several libraries with a mixture of the printed word and dataslates. Some were neatly organized with the undisturbed air of a forgotten museum, while others were held reading desks littered with haphazard stacks of dataslates and covered with open tomes, the kind with as much scribbled in the margin as printed on the page.

I didn’t know where I was going, but none of the servants challenged my presence. I wandered about for a disconcertingly long time, but I was afraid if I asked where the Warsmith was someone might decide that Mr. Angry and Mr. Laughs had made an error and have me escorted out (or worse.)

Eventually I turned a corner, walked up a few steps, and suddenly found myself in an open courtyard. The outer decks of the space hulk have large promenades, but nothing so impressively voluminous as the inner cylinders. There is enough open space in the interior cylinders that a blue sky is effected, and enough atmospheric variation that the air is fresh in a way that even the grand promenades of the alpha decks cannot match.

It was certainly a long way from the cramped corridors, low ceilings, and stale air of the refugee decks, in every way.

Centered prominently in the courtyard was an elegant hedge maze, and I could not help myself but wander through its white marble arches. Amongst the exotic breeds of roses, delicately weathered marbles, and ivy covered follies of the hedge maze I found at the center the Warsmith.

++

He was sat upon a marble bench, unarmoured and with no weapon at hand. He is of extraordinary size, even for a space marine. His scarred and tattooed flesh stretched over huge slabs of muscle, and even in the simple orange robe and sandals he exuded an aura of raw, physical power. His hair was tussled though his grey beard was woven into a pair of braids, tied off with ordinary rubber bands. He sat with his hands folded in his lap, eyes half closed, looking at nothing in particular.

A small girl child was sitting on the paving stones near his feet. She was using a small stick to worry the clumps of moss and lichen growing from the dark stone obelisk marking the center of the maze, oblivious to the dirt she was getting on her doll-like black and white chequered dress, or the tear she had put in the knee of one of her rather expensive looking stockings.

My fantasy was long forgotten by this point, and the scene before me was so incongruous with any expectations I had that I could only stand just inside the archway and stare.

I don’t know how long I stood like that, and I have never been able to remember exactly how our conversation started. My initial disbelief and confusion seems to last forever in my memory, with the memory of the subsequent conversion beginning in media res, with the notion of my interviewing him having already been discussed and accepted.

++

“ Where does your legend begin? Of which Legion of old or mighty chapter did you bear the colours in battle and what was your calling in those ancient days?”

The question did not seem entirely my own. I mouthed the words even though I didn’t understand the context of some few of them. The feeling I had was that my very perception had the quality of a dream, the kind where words and phrases unconsciously heard over the course of the previous day come back to the dreaming conscious as strange non sequiturs.

“I have always been of the IV Legion, an Iron Warrior.” The Warsmith absently rubbed at an old tattoo upon his forearm. I could make out a skull shape, but the numerals or slogans surrounding it were marred by the passage of both time and enemy hostile intent so as to be unreadable. “We are more than Iron Warriors in this age, but we are not any less than the Iron Warriors we once were. When I was but a rank and file legionnaire I served our Primarch in a Destroyer squad. I have been many things since then, but during the Great Crusade I carried weapons that were officially illegal, but deemed necessary against certain obstinate breeds of xenos.”

It was a surprise to hear his claim to have lived during such legendary times. I know the Warp makes such time distortions possible, or even common place on a much smaller scale, but he might have just then told me he witnessed the very creation of humankind itself for as mythical as it seemed to me at that time. The God-Emperor who rules over trillions of humans across millions of star systems was not yet upon His Golden Throne, and there I sat talking with one who could have feasibly conversed with Him as directly as he then conversed with me.

I could not stop myself from asking, from blurting out the question:

“Did you ever see the Emperor in person?”

++

I was worried that I would not be able to see the Warsmith again. Weeks had passed since our first meeting, and I was beginning to accept that I had thrown away my one chance. One question had been asked an answered, but the second question had caused him to close his eyes and become like a statue. He did not stir except to take deep, measured breaths.

The girl child, whose presence I never received an explanation for, eventually looked upon him and told me that I should leave. Nothing I had experienced that day unnerved me more than the sound of her little voice speaking with such commanding wisdom. She returned to her childish game with the stick and I retraced my steps back through to the residence door. Mr. Angry and Mr. Laughs said nothing to me when I left.

 

++

It was Mr. Angry who came to find me later. He caused quite a panic on the refugee decks as he stomped around demanding to see the face of every woman he came across. He located me in the cafeteria line as I was having breakfast slopped onto a tray.

“Woman: I require your attendance.” He did not even wait to make sure I was complying with his order before he turned and stomped off. To be honest it would not have crossed my mind to not follow him even if I wasn’t hoping he would lead me back to the Warsmith. The space marines are rarely seen by regular folks, and they are a terror to behold. Even though I am now used to conversing with space marines I still feel at the base of my spine the tingling of primal fear urging me to obey whatever whim one might direct at me. I wasn’t even sure he wasn’t going to lead me to a refuse chute and toss me inside as a petty revenge for our first encounter, but I followed anyway. I’m not sure I could have said no if I had wanted to.

In retrospect, after having come to know him better, I know now that had he wanted me dead he would have simply cracked me on the head right there as I stood in line waiting to eat breakfast. It would never have occurred to Mr. Angry to consider the feelings of anyone behind me in line or the inconvenience a messy corpse in the food line would have caused.

++

The Warsmith was arrayed in his full panoply of Terminator armour. There was a large throne this time, and also a large room with a gathering of courtiers.

“Stop gawking and get up there.” Mr. Angry shoved me forward into the room. On the dais the Warsmith was sitting upon the throne arguing with Mr. Laughs. Each had one hand upon the shaft of a large power axe. I did not understand the curt and gutteral language they spoke, but it was clear that the Warsmith was mildly annoyed with his bodyguard and was rapidly approaching the transition to completely angry.

“What am I supposed to do?” The courtiers made me nervous, not the least because I seemed to be intended as part of whatever strange thing was happening.

“Do whatever you did last time.” Mr. Angry did his level best to whisper this to me, but the vox caster in his skull-faced helmet articulated this as a deep toned, distortion filled growl directly into my ear. It was painful and I tried to pull away, but he gripped my arm and drew me closer still. “He sat still for three days when you left. We didn’t think to use the time to hide that damnable axe, and now he won’t let go of it again.”

I had no idea what was going on, but I approached the throne with as much courage as I could muster. Which was just enough to move my feet in the Warsmith’s direction and no more. He seemed a very different person right at that moment. The aura of raw, physical power he had exuded in the middle of the hedge maze had been like the strength of a fortress or a mountain. It felt solid and constant, imperturbable and ageless in a majestic way. With each step I took toward the Warsmith now I felt as if I were sneaking toward an annoyed alpha bull grox. I was small and incidental, and one shake of the bull’s head would see me absently destroyed on its horns.

Eventually I came to the steps of the dais and found my voice.

“My... my lord...”

“Eh?” The Warsmith looked at me, not bothering to change the expression of frustrated disdain on his face, distracted as he was by his senior body guard. “Oh... I remember you.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

This got a reaction out of him, though not in the way I had intended.

“Thank me for what?” He still had a firm one-handed grip on the power axe, but now his attention seemed completely focused on me.

“I...” I didn’t quite know how to answer that. I cast about my mind in a bit of a panic and latched onto the first thing that popped into my head.

“I... thank you for accepting the request from one as humble and lowly as myself for our interview.” It sounds pathetically obsequious and servile even as I dictate it to my servo-scriptor, but I challenge any mortal to not willingly degrade themselves in such a situation.

“Fine then. You are welcome.” The Warsmith at this point looked about the room, seeming to notice the courtiers as if for the first time. He once again looked annoyed, frowning at the assembly in general. For a very short moment a strange look seized the features of his face. The Warsmith released his grip on the power axe and withdrew his hand as if the weapon were suddenly red hot. He took a moment to compose himself upon his throne in a more imperious posture, then announced that the courtiers were a lot of skrunts and commanded them to return to their quarters, then described an impressively imaginative array of deviant activities they could perform upon one another for all he cared about it.

I could never put into print his exact words, even if I am now unburdened by state censors.

Mr. Laughs quietly removed the contested power-axe from the throne room as the courtiers deserted with a quickness. Mr. Angry shouted vile things at them in encouragement of their departure, though despite the explicit threats of a visibly upset Terminator the general demeanor of the group was that of a crowd going through well rehearsed motions in response to a predictable occurrence.

“They think that they can handle me.” The Warsmith grumbled out loud. I say ‘out loud’ because I did not get the sense that these words were directed at me specifically. “I am going to have to kill a few of them very soon. String a few of them up by their guts and make the others state their business over the screams.”

I did not move or say anything for a good while. It is perfectly acceptable for me to admit that I was very scared at that moment.

“So,” The Warsmith finally looked at me again. “Ask me some more of your questions. I could do with the distraction.”

“Yes, my lord.”

++

“ How have you managed to gather such a mighty warband as this, and which is your favorite way to use your warriors?”

The Warsmith leaned back in his throne and ran his armoured fingers through his unkempt beard. I have seen many powerful people in the act of carefully considering their words, and I knew that I was about to be lied to, or at least about to receive a streamlined version of events.

“I rose through the ranks of the Grand Company largely by attrition of command. There was a high rate of casualties in the period between the abandonment of the Terran Campaign and the Legion laying claim to Medrengard. There were a lot more after the Grand Company decided that Medrengard was no home for us. By that time I was a member of the First Company, so assuming various leadership roles was natural. One day... one day I saw that the 49th would cease to exist as a functional organisation if it continued to operate under the policies of the Old Warsmith. I assumed command and few questioned the wisdom of it.

“The Old Warsmith is down in the Armoury. I’m sure he remembers things differently, but I don’t advise you seek him out to hear his version of the story. Once you get him started it’s difficult to get anything else out of him for a long while. Dreadnoughts have a fantastic capacity for singleminded endurance, and this applies to their tales of grievances and woe.”

The Warsmith paused again, and his eyes took on a faraway look. This was an honest look, I thought.

“How do I like to use my warriors? A good pitched battle. There are two moments I like best in a campaign. First, I like the initial pitched battle. It’s the one where I’ve got all my forces planetside but no major ground operations have yet occurred so the enemy still has the majority of his forces and his order of battle is still largely intact and well organised. I use the client warbands that are weak to entice the enemy into coming out and concentrating forces en masse. The enemy wins some initial crushing victories against these vermin and become confidant. They pull out all the stops to chase them down in a decisive blow, you see? When they’ve brought all their forces out for this anticipated decisive victory, that is when I maneuver the Grand Company into the open and drive straight into them. Two full armies, thousands of troops, hundreds of tanks and war engines all whirling together in a chaotic melee... Glorious...

“Second, I like the end game. The final push. The Big One, as they say. The first big battle breaks the enemy’s army, but usually not his will to fight. While we pause to revel in the victory and enjoy the moment, the enemy commander is taking stock of what is left and rallying the retreating units. He still believes he can win, or at least hold out until help comes. They fight some delaying actions against our auxiliaries who come out to harass them. They send saboteurs and assassins to harass us. Feints are made to mislead us as to the location of their fallback positions. Often units will volunteer to make heroic sacrifices of themselves in order to buy their fellows time. These sorts of skirmishes go back and forth, all the while the enemy commander is piecing together his plan.

“Sometimes it comes in the form of an all or nothing gamble, such as a surprise offensive or some cobbled together doomsday device. If the enemy commander is unimaginative he will concentrate his forces behind the walls of the most fortified city, cowering under void shields, sending every able bodied citizen to wait for our arrival with a lasgun and a prayer, hoping against hope that their frantic calls for help will be answered by a force far more capable than they could hope to be. I like it best when the enemy commander shows some fortitude and creativity. Sometimes they will attempt to prepare a battlefield, making the best use of what they have to the best detriment of what we can bring. They will try to turn our own strategy against us and lure us into a killzone, surprise us with hidden weapons, make daring, forceful attacks against our command structure, that sort of thing.

“But always it will come down to the final battle. Everything they have left will inevitably be concentrated in an area with no way out and one way in. All other reasons to fight will be forgotten, and they will exist only to kill us so that they may continue to live. Their situation will be hopeless, but they will have fighting spirit. As our machines roll toward them, as our war engines shake the ground under their feet, as our tactical aircraft darken their skies, as the sound of thousands of marching armoured warriors fills their ears... they will stand should to shoulder with their comrades, they will swear oaths of undying love and honour, they will raise their banners in defiance, and they will know in their bones that the final moment of war is upon them.

“There is no siege. There is no wait. There is no anticlimactic maths of war by attrition. We seize that final moment and make it our own. There is one apocalyptic ringing of the bell, and all of our existence concentrates in that final chaotic break-in, one resounding crash of noise that ends in the utter silence of their annihilation.”

The Warsmith sat quiet, eyes closed, his face a tranquil, expressionless blankness.

I was done with my questions for the day. I remembered that apocalyptic crash. I remembered the sudden, eerie silence that announced to us civilians huddled in our bunkers that we would emerge into a new, terrible world forever removed from the one we had been born into.

It wasn’t so very long ago that the Warsmith had come to my planet.

++

“ Do you worship... the Dreaded Four... or does your soul not concern with them at all?”

It was three days and many glasses of the horrid synthetic booze they make available to the refugees later. I liked to think of myself as a seasoned correspondent. I covered gang wars and the inter-House skirmishes of the nobility. I was embedded with the PDF when they put down the Hive Tertiarus rebellion. I was with the Governor’s Hundred when they committed the Guild Hall Massacre. I also reported from the front lines on what we were naively calling the Four Week Crusade. It was one thing coming to terms with the total defeat of our entire fighting force, but knowing that our hard won victories were empty gestures of an enemy who was but toying with us while he remained 100% in control of everything that happened. Who enjoyed it. To know that we had danced to his tune the entire time, as hundreds of others had done using the exact same steps that we were so proud to believe we had invented in our moment of need...

It hurt a lot. My Gaspar had died so bravely pursuing those early, hollow victories, and all that time I had consoled myself with the heroism of his sacrifice. I hated the Warsmith back then for taking those feelings of tragic yet fierce pride away from me. It was a very long time before I did stop hating him.

But I was a correspondent, and the idea of completing my questioning, of understanding this brutal force of destruction, kept me alive. Many of the refugees just gave up. Every day people were found killed, by their own desperation or that of another. Every day people wandered off into the unknown sections of the space hulk, never to return. Every day people lost all sense of self control and initiated fatal encounters with the Warsmith’s human House Guard soldiers. Some people even lost any sense of their refugee status, the pride of the survivors of Nova Mariborus VII, and could be seen wearing the uniforms of menials while they labored about the space hulk. I used to hate those people even more than I hated the Warsmith.

“ Do you worship... the Dreaded Four... or does your soul not concern with them at all?”

“Mutation is a taint outside of your control. Those who embrace mutation embrace their own slavery. Power comes from self mastery. The so-called gifts of the so-called gods are intoxicating fetters. When a lapse in will causes a corruption of the flesh, that corruption must be replaced with augmetics, the cold iron of mechanical appendages reflecting the cold iron in the mind and soul of he who would be truly free.

The creatures that inhabit the Warp who dare to call themselves gods and daemons are fit only to be bound into brass and adamantium, yours to command, and then annihilated when their usefulness has come to an end.

To trade the slavery of a False Emperor for the slavery of False Gods is a contemptible folly.”

It sounded recited, a well-rehearsed speech that never went unsaid long enough to need the dust blown off of it. Of course I know now that it is a key teaching, part of the Shadowsword Sutra from the Sayings of the Warsmith. The Inquisition took my copy from me so I can’t reference the entry, but I’m confident I know the words by heart, if not the stanza and page numbers.

The words were etched into the gold of my cybernetic hands, a gift from the Warmith’s Master of the Forge, but the Inquisition took those too.

++

“ Do you still entertain contacts with your former brothers or do you seek new allies? What do you think of the Warmaster?”

That was the question I asked Master Bolverk on the day he took me with him to inspect the damage of Hive Primus on ++REDACTED++

I still felt guilty passing the refugee wing. I was not a collaborator, but I cannot deny that I was given special treatment. I complained once to the Warsmith of the conditions on the refugee decks and he asked me, “why don’t you just move to the Gamma Habitats?” I don’t believe it occurred to him that such a thing was impossible on your own initiative if you were anybody but him. Even the space marines aboard the Child of Calamity are at the mercy of the Billeting Authority if they want to secure their possessions anywhere but their company barracks.

But he wondered this aloud in the presence of members of the House Guard, and every random utterance of his is received as an explicit order by those men and women. Before the end of the next day I had been assigned better housing, though there was no official change in my legal status on the space hulk. Not at that time, anyway.

Whether I used the place or not it was there, empty, waiting for me. I visited it the once just to look at it. I visited again when I didn’t know of any other way to keep the other refugees from going through my few meager possessions when I was away from the barracks. I stayed there just the one night after a woman I knew from before the war accused me of being a collaborator and struck me in the face and promised to kill me. I started visiting it for short periods of time throughout the days when I needed just a little bit of peace and quiet to collect my notes and jot down the recollections of my talks with the Warsmith. I visited for the last time and made it my home the day the Survivors Committee informed me that the woman who struck me was arrested by the House Guard and hadn’t been seen for days. There were unfamiliar men, rough looking men in clothes of Nova Mariborus origin hanging about outside my refugee barracks entrance, so I never did retrieve the last few things I still kept there.

“ Do you still entertain contacts with your former brothers or do you seek new allies? What do you think of the Warmaster?”

Master Bolverk, the Warsmith, walked beside me in a plain suit of Artificer armour. His favorite, I knew, was his Terminator armour, but he had set that aside that day for reasons of his own. We walked not to his personal hangar, nor even the hangars where they kept the space marines assault craft, but through the civilian areas of the space hulk to where the general purpose freighters operated from. The Tau, he had told me, were naive creatures who took appearances at face value, not knowing enough about Human society to be capable of understanding the improbable farce that our announced cultural exchange and interview of their Gue’vesa represented.

“We dedicate our armour in the orange and the black, but we are still Iron Warriors. I keep my old set of Mark III armour as it once was, to remind myself where I came from. You have not seen them, but I have honour guard squads that still wear the colours of the Legion and fight under the old banners.

“In that respect, I receive my fellow Warsmiths with open arms when they call upon me. I answer the call of the Lords of Medrengard when I hear it. Sometimes, granted, I answer, “no,” but I still respect the memory of what the Legion once was, what we tried to be, to answer them. I am glad when I come across Grand Companies that wear the old colours. Our Way is not the same as theirs anymore, but we shared the path for many long years before we found our own Way.

“I have destroyed my own kin when I needed to, though. I have ripped the geneseed from more than one Warsmith with my own two hands, and given it to others who I believed could grow to be far worthier of the blood.

“Allies... I do not seek allies. I will cooperate with any war host who has goals that align with my own. It should not surprise you by now, Irena, that the 49th has fought alongside Imperial armies almost as much as we have fought against them. We do not carry the trappings of the so-called Gods, and we do not compel ourselves into correcting the beliefs of those who follow the faith of Terra. So many in this galaxy are ignorant of the history of the Imperium, and there are a good number of greedy and ambitious governors who understand the realities of control in the Imperium. We’ve been paid by loyal Imperials to destroy corrupt Imperials, and by corrupt Imperials to destroy loyal Imperials, and by both types of Imperials to destroy xenos, and by xenos to destroy our cousins of the Legions who exist by clawing at the edge of galactic civilization like diseased vermin.

“The Warmaster? The Warmaster is dead.”

++

“Irena: you have not been by in weeks.” The Terminator bodyguard I once knew only as Mr. Angry, growled at me. “Not since the recent anti-Tau campaign.”

“No, my lord Freiki. Master Bolverk expressed a passing interest in the establishment of a station-wide picter broadcast, and the House Guard set about dragooning anyone known to have that sort of experience.” I explained to him. “I am turning the notes from my talks with Master Bolverk into a multi-part documentary. Do you have any suggestions for other topics?”

“Broadcast the executions of the remaining Gue'vesa.” Thegn Freiki answered immediately. “Do it in high definition holography.”

“I was thinking more in the line of general entertainment and education.” I told him.

“It would be entertaining.” He answered with frightening sincerity. “And educational. In the few moments we have been discussing it I have come up with a long list of creative ways that the executions could fit their crimes.”

“I will give your idea serious consideration.”

++

“ Which are your favorite weapons and armor? I understand that the 49th is rich in relics and plunder, so which artifacts of old are your favorite, my Lord?”

The Warsmith led Murk and me through several of his curio rooms. Murk had been allowed to bring the picter in, though a member of the House Guard always stood unnervingly close behind him while he was using it.

“This is a Mark I helmet.” The Warsmith held it out for me to inspect. I did not understand at the time exactly how old and rare such a thing was, only that it was heavy and ugly. “Ancient Abelardus gifted this to the Old Warsmith when he assumed command of the Grand Company. Abel was a rank and file space marine of the original IV Legion, and he earned this fighting in the last battle of the Unification Wars. I used to have the skull that went with it... I think... I might have put it on Abel’s chassis the last time we woke him up. I’ve known many Dreadnoughts, and most are varying degrees of angry. Ancient Abelardus is the only sullen Dreadnought I have ever heard of. Would you like to go down to the Armoury and meet him? I promise you it won’t be like when we went to see the Old Warsmith.”

“I think that would be a good segment, my Lord.”

++

“ What is the vision you have for the 49th, where it will lead us?”

I wore carapace armour and a helmet that was just too large for my head. It kept hanging down to one side or the other, causing me to have to constantly straighten it up or get used to holding my head crooked. I hated it, but I hated the thought of catching shrapnel or a stray lasbolt through my head even more.

Murk and I were strapped into space marines sized jump seats in an assault craft I was told was a... something-Eagle. Storm or Fire or Hell or whatever the usual naming convention required. It was loud inside and I had to yell all of my questions. I was positive that Murk’s picter would not have any recognizable audio and that we would be left with nothing but shaky pictures of space marines armour boots and the interminable noise of atmospheric entry.

“We are all going to be killed.” Warmsith Bolverk stood with his Terminators of the Comitatus in the middle of the troop compartment. He said this calmly and honestly, and several of his Terminators bobbed their heads in agreement. I went cold with fear, thinking he meant imminently. It was easy to believe, as violently shaky and loud as our descent was.

He is a superhuman product of cold, military science tempered by the madness of millennia of brutal warfare, and the Old Dead Gods know how often he exists in a dissociative fugue, but he is not completely ignorant of or insensitive to the feelings and reactions of mere mortals.

“I meant that it is inevitable over the course of time.” He assured me in perhaps the most human gesture I ever witnessed him perform. “We are warriors, and it is a warrior’s fate to die on the battlefield. You are a combat correspondent, a remembrancer of our battles. It is likely you will die on the battlefield alongside us. Maybe today, but probably not, but also possible in any second. We are taking heavy fire even as we speak. It is not all the turbulence of reentry that you hear and feel.”

“I’ve seen you among the faithful and I know your Tutor, Irena. You know that there is only death and rebirth, that this is all an illusion, and only Khalder’s Favorable Gaze can retrieve us from Samsara and the Ruinous Powers who dwell within. Your rendition of the Mercy Song is hauntingly beautiful, and I come to listen when your troupe has their turn at the Outer Temple. You sing the Mercy Song, you know the words, and your understanding of them makes them beautiful. Do not leave your faith on the temple steps when you return to your quarters and your friends and your job.”

“I understand, Master.” I replied with a chastened bow.

He continued, “I have attended the funeral feasts of thousands of my warriors. Maybe I will join the Bodhisattvas in the Armoury. I think Fabricator Volundr would enjoy constructing me an engine. But even then I could not endure forever. You saw Forn Gangari’s metal body when we brought it home. Even one as mighty as he must die, as do we all, as must the 49th as a functioning entity. But I live every moment of every battle with the hope of dying in a manner as glorified as he did.

“And eventually I will be killed, whether it is atop a pile of butchered enemies or one of the many ignominious deaths of hapless circumstance that take otherwise mighty warriors every day. But I will die. Whether Khalder turns his face to me in that final moment or not, I will die. Whether I am carried to the Pure Land of the Old Dead Gods, or the evils of the Warp capture my soul for their torments and annihilations, I will die.

“Come, Irena, die with me.”

Come, die with me.

The Warsmith, our Beloved Master Bolverk, recited those words before every battle. I had heard them now dozens of times. A recitation to his warriors before battle, a macho inspiration. But like the lyrics to the Mercy Song I could believe them without understanding them in a true, visceral way.

But in that moment, in our final seconds of descent before the bone stressing, gut wrenching thrust of tactical deceleration, before the ramp dropped and we ran again into the fires of war and madness together, I finally understood.

He meant it every single time he said it.

It was not the gallow’s humour of the soldier, or the romantic oath of a cultured warrior, or empty propaganda, or a mindless rote tradition. It was a genuine invitation to live our ethics and values, to exist in the pure moment, together, scorning the illusion and living in freedom as only those who have embraced the inevitability of their own mortality can.

I followed the Warsmith and his Comitatus down the ramp and out into the criss-crossing streaks of enemy tracer fire, and the fear I had always felt before was replaced with elation.

++

From the horrors of the Kinmzani Migration War to the living hells of Inquisitorial interrogation chambers, from the degradations of a fugitive to the glories of a commander of legions, I will endure. I will endure and I will be reunited with my Master.

I sing to my followers the Mercy Song, but I sing only for the Warsmith’s pleasure, wherever he may be.

++

Excerpts from the forbidden memoirs of Irena the Searcher, Cantrix Misericordiae and Arch-Demagogue of the Second Gefeought Cluster Heresy, Excommunicate Traitorus

 

 

I hope you enjoy it.

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Revelations to Jodi 1-3

 

1. Upon the Promontory Rock

 

A thunderous wave crashed off the promontory rock, sending salty spray 20 meters into the air, and sea foam rushing over the legs of both myself and the subject of my interview, Lord Carrack, Slayer of Multitudes. The giant Chaos Lord was unmoved and unperturbed by the raw power of the sea and continued staring out into the grey horizon with his helm clutched in the crook of his left arm. His axe haft rested on his other shoulder held by the grip with his right gauntlet, at rest, yet not stowed. The natural violence of the sea did not, however, leave me unmoved. The rushing surf swept my boots off the algae slick rock with the incoming rush. The armor weave in my leggings was reinforced with a synthetic padding in the knee, likely the only thing keeping my knee from shattering. Worse yet, as the wave rescinded it threatened to take me with it back to sea to undoubtably be crashed on the rocks with the following waves. Still, I was able to scramble to my feet and sprint to the shelter of a jutting protrusion near my lord before the next wave tried its best to kill me and destroy this rock that had the audacity to interrupt the shoreline and reach into the sea. I crouched near the mighty Lord Carrack clutching the protrusion with both hands, drenched to the bone, salt water and wind messing my hair and composure alike. I fear I resembled a wet rat, more than a Disciple of Lavam.

 

After a long pause, I am sure orchestrated to demonstrate the gross inequality between he and I, the Doom of Kasr Woolten, Lord Carrack, spoke to me in a voice that was not shouting, but easily carried over the violent sea, "Who are you and why do you trouble me while I reflect on our latest victory? I knew he already knew the answers to his questions, but was allowing me permission to start speaking with a more easy response than some of the questions he knew I would ask, in order for me to regain some of my dignity. I took a deep breath and answered,"I am Jodi, Disciple of your Dark Apostle Lavam. I have been sent here to ask of you questions that our Discipleship can pen into tracks and hymns that will be used to enforce your will on this new land and lay the foundations that will both ensure the loyalty of your newly conquered slaves and separate them from the false devotions of the cursed Imperial creed."

 

For the first time in my twenty three years of life Lord Carrack, a demigod of war, a leader of a Black Legion Warband, my ultimate Liege Lord, looked me in the eye. It was not a pleasant experience. The power of the sea was a pale reflection of the power in his eyes. The bleak gray endless horizon was a shadow of the bleak grayness in his eyes. He said to me, "Lavam occasionally does gestures like this interview in order to prove his loyalty to me and to tell me he has no designs on instigating a revolt on my authority. I think this gesture is genuine, for the moment, and will proceed. If my instincts tell me otherwise, I will send him a message with your skull,". He said this without any malice, or threatening tone, merely a statement of fact. "Very well, you may proceed."

 

I began with a carefully rehearsed preamble telling him I, of such insignificance was apprehensive about asking questions of such an imposing Lord, when he immediately cut me off, "I know you are fearful, I hear your heart beating at a rate consistent with a fleeing guardsmen. You are shivering more than what the cold water would cause. Your pupils have expanded similar to a prey animal about to take flight. All of this in spite of the sedative smoke that lingers ever so slightly in your wet cloak and hair. Skip the pleasantries and ask your questions."

 

Lord Carrack acknowledging my fears only seemed to amplify them, but I pressed on, "Of which legion of old or mighty chapter did you bear the colors in battle and what was your calling in those ancient days?" He stared at me for another moment raising my anxiety further and said, "Originally I was a Legionnaire in the Luna Wolves, you most likely have not heard of them, but that was the original name of the XVI Legion at the early and middle stages of the Great Crusade. I started out as a regular Legionnaire, but was quickly field promoted to squad Sergeant following the loss of our Sergeant to a green skin's claw."

 

2. Under the Gloom Tree

 

 

]With the first and easiest question answered, the dreaded Lord Carrack spun on his heel and walked back to the beach, sweeping me under his great red cloak trimmed with the pelt of a Greater White Bear. I was thankful to be escorted off the treacherous promontory rock, but wary of being in such close proximity to a warrior in grand terminator plate festooned, as it was, with barbed hooks and cruel spikes. I should not have worried, Lord Carrack wore his spiked, bulky terminator plate with as much ease as I would wear a night shift. He walked me up the beach to a makeshift command post underneath a massive tree with gnarled roots extending dozens of meters. A map table sat before an Astartes size campaign chair. To the left an orbit capable vox unit had been erected with its antenna lashed to the side of the tree trunk with vines. Attached to the vox was what could only have been an encryption module. To the right was a runic circle three meters in diameter carved into the stump of a larger tree the circle was bisected with the Eye of Horus painted in blood in the eastern half, and the remains of a bloody, burnt offering in the left. PDF officers decorated the tree, some hanging from their necks, but most dangling from brass hooks or even their own entrails. A scattering of thralls, hunched, malformed, and hideous attended the machines as they were ignored by my lord. A squad of Black Legion Astartes loitered around the command post, weapons ready and casually monitoring both the vox and the circle. As we entered the command post Lord Carrack continued, "I fought for millennium as the champion of my squad. As I did I constantly forged bonds of honor and blood with my peers and others whom could be important to my goals. When my predecessor, Prince Huma, ascended to his current status amongst the Lords of Daemons, he bequeathed the Black Maw to, as he stated, "the strongest". I was among the contenders, and because of my careful politicking, only had to duel one other contender to gain my command of the Black Maw."

 

I have always been convinced of my own intellectual superiority. I studied the teachings of Lavam harder and longer than the other Disciples. I always won debates with the other Disciples of Lavam. This feeling of superiority came to an abrupt end, when I posited a question to Lord Carrack. I had the audacity to ask, "The illustrious Lavam teaches that all of the Great Four are equal and like the four points of the compass. He teaches that the path to enlightenment may go through a single god like a path may go east or west, or that enlightenment may be reached by going inward and balancing the Great Four as you might balance a compass. It is well known that you, great lord, follow the path of Khorne. How then do you lead a band of warriors who are often traveling a different path than yourself?" He donned his great spiked helm and rebuked me, "Lavam may be your teacher, but he is my servant, do not quote the words of the servant to the master as if the words were wisdom, for the master is greater than the servant." I felt shame at being rebuked, but awe at hearing Lord Carrack speak in the rhythms of the warrior lodges that my teacher spoke of so much.

 

Lord Carrack leaned over the map table and I could only guess that he was sending and receiving vox messages to his forces through the in built systems in his helm. He did this for several minutes, occasionally glancing at the runic circle as if expecting some response from it. Since I was not expressly dismissed, I decided to continue, "Which is your greatest deed to date? He responded without hesitation, "The conquest of your home world, Hell Holdfast and the founding of Howler's Charn. I certainly have won harder fought personal battles, and won greater victories fighting in the Eye, but Hell Holdfast is a world that is securely in my control in real space. It allows me to strike out at the False Imperium of Man without having to fall back to the warp for succor or supply. The longer I control Hell Holdfast the more it destabilizes the Imperial Sector. Howler's Charn shines like a decadent beacon to the pirates, rebels, and bandits that prey upon the Imperium, and I gain complete fealty, service or substantial tribute from all who make port there."

 

The stirrings of patriotism strung in my heart at hearing of my Lord's value of the world I called home. I continued, "Wha..What is the vision you have for our warband, where it will lead us?" The next moments were hectic as a lighter burned its way through the atmosphere and came screeching into a low hover by the command post. With unparalleled precision, the squad of Astartes and the grizzly thralls loaded up the command post, map table, campaign chair, vox unit, and even the stump with the runic circle onto the lighter. As almost an afterthought the squad champion, Vinno, I believe, grabbed me roughly by the arm and hauled me into the lighter's bay as well. As he did so he harshly whispered, "We will go to Terra." Lord Carrack witnessing the exchange, nodded approvingly and added, "Soon, but not today."

 

3. At the Fall of Cantu

 

I took stock of my new surroundings. I was in a cargo hold with a squad of thousands year-old demigods, Their lord, called Slayer of Multitudes, and a handful of hideous mutant thralls. On the far side of the hold were two iron cages warded with brass symbols and spiteful little bound daemons chained to the corners that would occasionally gleefully lick flames into the cages to the sounds of screams from the occupants. Screams of rage, not pain. Heavy black incense smoke obscured whatever was kept in those cages, for which I was thankful for. I was suddenly aware of how unthreatening I was. I was trapped with killers, mutants, and beasts, with only the blessings of Lavam for protection, that and a sacrificial dagger for what that was worth. I felt like a hen caught in a wolves den. Like a seal pup abandoned on the ice before the Greater White Bear. In spite of my trepidation, I inched closer to the most fearsome being in the hold as he readied his weapons with a level of care for every detail that was subtly amazing, considering the amount of times he must have performed the same ritual. I asked, "Which are your favorite weapons and armor? I understand that our warband is rich in relics and plunder, so which artifacts of old are your favorite my lord?" His reply was a shrug of the great pauldrons of his terminator plate and a blindingly quick flourish of the cruel battle axe he held in his right hand. Before I could ask another question a klaxon sounded it's blaring warning and the lighter descended.

 

As soon as the loading ramp opened the squad of Black Legionaries deployed in a defensive arc, finding ample cover in the frost covered rocky terrain. The horrid mutant thralls set to work dragging the stump with the runic circle to the ground below and Lord Carrack took calmly took up a position in the center of the hasty defenses. I rushed to his side and humbly knelt in the shadow of his cloak. The lighter remained in a low hover behind us. Off in the distance, facing my lord was a walled town built into the side of a volcanic mountain. Smoke stacks from refineries protruded above the walls. After a short while an Astartes in black armor adorned with skulls, scrolls, and talismans was allowed passage through the lines. He strode to a place a few paces before my lord and dipped both a knee and a force staff in salute. He gestured to the town behind him and said, "Welcome to Cantu my lord." My lord acknowledged the salute and said, "Ghannor, appraise me of the situation." Ghannor complied, "My lord, the defenders of this world, Sanctus Piety, have ascertained your strategy. All of their power plants, save Cantu, have fallen to your assaults, and soon their orbital defenses will be dry of power and bereft of shielding. Cantu, however will keep them supplied for a month or two, a long shot, but perhaps enough time for a rapid relief of their world. In their dire straights, they have reinforced Cantu with all of the air mobile infantry they have left. I believe a company of storm troopers have bolstered Cantu's defenses." Lord Carrack replied, "Very well, spear point attack pattern alpha at my signal, ready your men." Ghannor turned about and trotted off to a rocky point just out of range of the town's defenders to join another squad of Black Legionaries. The squad defending my lord opened up a wide lane and the mutant thralls shuffled back to the lighter and opened up the cages.

 

The Fall of Cantu took less than an hour. It was enough bloodshed and carnage to fill a warrior's lifetime. I confess that I was overcome with awe from the onset, when the first cage opened up and five masses of mutated flesh, tentacles, and mouths scrambled out and rushed the town. The spawn withstood withering fire as they tore open the gates and charged into the town. This allowed my lord, Ghannor, and the two squads of Black Legionaries to advance into the city as the defenders blasted away at the spawn of chaos. What ultimately sealed the fate of Cantu was the opening of the second cage. Out of the lighter strode a vile amalgam of flesh and machine towering twice as tall as a mighty Astartes. The Helbrute charged into the city firing its multimelta and crushing troopers in its claw screaming +I AM KHARFUS+ the town fell to the onslaught of Astartes, chaos spawn and, helbrute.

 

As the din of battle died down, Lord Carrack came stalking out of the flames of the dying town dragging some hapless defender by the hair and with the sorcerer Ghannor in his wake. I could hear the sorcerer muttering the phrases of a spell that was making my head swim with fever. My lord flung his captive across the rune carved stump and motioned for me to come closer. As I did he explained, "The spell my sorcerer casts will channel the bloodshed of this towns destruction into this sacrifices heart. With it we will bring forth Daemon Letters of Blood from the warp. They will survive and multiply on the slaughter of this world until either they are defeated, or they exhaust their ties to reality with the deaths of the last of this worlds sentient lives. We will amplify this sacrifice with orbital fire, now free to reign down on this world unimpeded by any defense. Then when we return to this world at the end of our raiding circuit, we will conquer it with ease." The Slayer of Multitudes then grabbed the sacrificial blade from my hip and pressed it into my hand. He told me, "Such a powerful spell of course will be perilous to the caster's soul, this is why I have endured your presence Jodi, now strike the captives heart and slay this world my subject, or I will replace her with you and have another strike your heart." I hesitated. Fortunately he did not notice my faltering for what it was and went on to boast, "This is the nature of the Black Maw's ties to the Daemon. They use us to bring them forth into reality, and we use them as slave soldiers to do our bidding." I did as I was told and struck the captive's heart.

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I liked writing this story. Although I didn't answer all of the questions or come up with any unique questions I felt the action answered some of the questions that were not verbally asked. I liked the format that our Lord-Moderati Tenebris used. I think it fits well with the loose canon of the lore of the setting. Much of which is filled with biased accounts, censured reports, and other apocryphal accounts. Thanks for allowing this creative outlet.
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Gr...gr...greetings m..master. I am thankful that you graced my humble scriptorium with your presence. I know that your highness is occupied with the efforts of running the warband but please, just a few questions so that my scribes can write down for posterity your legendary deeds.


 


F...first one, m..my lord. Where does your legend begin. Of which legion of old or mighty chapter did you bear the colors in battle and what was your calling in those ancient days?


 


My story begins in the ranks of the XVIth Legion. Back than I was merely a legionary of the Luna Wolves and my company acted as a reserve aboard the various battleships of my father's mighty fleet. I and my brothers were called to defend the ships of the Warmaster from boarders, to guide the fleet in combat and when I was accepted into the ranks of the Terminators I acted as part of the strategic reserve when my sire needed warriors for his lauded "Speartip".


 


Se...sec...second question lord. How have you managed to gather such a mighty warband such as ours and which is your favorite way to use your warriors? 


 


I did not gather the warband but it was the warband to find me. Back in the old days I was a chieftain, a lord among warriors and when Abaddon needed someone to command the dreaded Beholders I was "persuaded" to hold the rank. My expertise in void warfare, my seniority in the hermetic lodges as well as my contingent of terminator armored warriors were all the credentials that were needed and it was only a matter of time when the Warmaster would call upon me. 


 


Third qu..question. Do you worship the Dreaded Four or your soul answers to only a single god of darkness, or are you not concerned with them at all?


 


I do observe the rituals of the Four, I was at the head of the Nine Moons Lodge in the old days, the rituals and the will of the Dark Gods is not unknown to me but so far I have not pledged myself to them, yet. But I do use the boons they grant me and to my warriors. It is the wise thing to do, lest my soul be forfeit. 


 


Fourth question. Which is your greatest deed to date?


 


My greatest deed to date is the death of Captain Sal Broln of the Iron Hands. He was a former oathed brother of mine, our companies fought together a number of times and we were close friends. It was with great pleasure that I tore his still beating hearts from his chest upon the blood soaked battlefield of Istvaan V. This deed opened many doors for my ascension in the ranks of my legion as well as it sealed my commitment to the cause of the Sacrificed King. 


 


Fifth question. Which is your favorite method of war and why, on ground, in the void?


 


Let it be know that in the old age I was primary a marine in the truest sense of the term. My duty was to fight in the deadly Zone Mortalis environment of a battleship, to board enemy barges, to fight my way to the key targets of an enemy ship. This is a dire, ruthless way of war and this is the reason why I favor it still, it weeds the weak from the strong, it shows who really is competent and inventive. 


 


I am most at home at the helm of a battleship, dancing the dance of void battle, calculating lance fire, computing the trajectories of the many macrocannon batteries under my command. My expertise lies in ship to ship combat but as a reserve in my legion of old I have participated in all sorts of actions and battle plans. 


 


I am considered a traditionalist, I still do practice the tactics mastered by my legion of old, the Speartip, the Beheading and other forms of shock warfare. I have no stomach for sieges or pitched battles, I am a wolf, I do go for the throat and that is why my warband excels at sudden and highly aggressive raids which behead the enemy command structure and dismantle the enemy lines. 


 


S...sixth q...question. What is the vision you have for our warband, where it will lead us?


 


My vision, I am not entitled to a vision of my own little scribe. I am a soldier of the Warmaster, I am Black Legion. My future holds only war, the Long War. Anything else is considered vainglory, arrogance or betrayal by the Warmaster. We go where Abaddon commands, we kill whom he commands and we destroy what he commands. The Realm of the Eye is a hell spawned by human dreams, it is not the place for a mortal, nor for a sane person, thus our only way to survive and prosper as a species is to shatter the edifice of the Imperium of Man and take the reins of mankind for the good of all. 


 


Seventh question. Do you still entertain contacts with your former brothers or do you seek new allies? What do you think of the Warmaster?


 


I do entertain contacts with my former brothers as well as other warbands under the Black Legion banner. We are a black leviathan, our number is legion, so it is wise to know your worth and the worth of others fighting the Long War. I still go to the meetings of the lodges and communicate with my brothers and cousins, an ally is worth the value in souls while an enemy can be useful too. As for the Warmaster, I owe Abaddon my life, he is my master and I am his warrior. I am not expected to question his orders nor to falter in my line of duty. From the very first moment I have donned the armor of black I am no longer a warrior on my own, I have brothers, cousins, enemies, commanders and warriors, I am a legionary once more and I owe to Abaddon for giving me a purpose once more. 


 


Eight question. Where is your place in the Long War?


 


I am a product of the Long War, I hate the Imperium of Man, I hate that this so called empire is failing in its duty to our species and thus it must fall. I am a mere warrior in the Long War but I am Black Legion too, I AM the Long War. It is the purpose my Warmaster gave to me, it is my destiny and my doom. To us and to many other warbands falls to fight and die to see the Imperium toppled, the order restored, to see mankind ascendant once again. My place is upon the blood soaked battlefield of the Long War, to fight, to die, clad in the black of my legion. 


 


Ninth question. Which are your favorite weapons and armor? I understand that our warband is rich in relics and plunder, so which artifacts of old are your favorite my lord?


 


From the moment I wore for the first time my terminator armor I have made it a call to master it, to make it my second skin and the Warp obliged. As for the weapon, I have my Kai Howler always on my person, hatred is a weapon too and my hatred is pure and unlimited, unbound, eternal. 


 


Tenth question and last. What do you think of the denizens of the Warp, the Neverborn, the Daemonkin?


 


From the moment that my cousins from the XVIIth legion opened my eyes to the mysteries of the Warp I was always curious about this Neverborn, about the children of daemonkind. It was my curiosity as well as my dedication to the lessons of the Word Bearers that has allowed me to rise in the ranks of the Nine Moons lodge. I have seen "warpcraft" restore brothers thought to be lost, I have seen daemons ravage enemy ships as well as reward and curse my warriors. I have never sought the touch or the boon of daemonkind but I do realize that in them lies the key to our victory in the Long War. On the other hand I have my Sorcerers bind daemons into weapons, armor and artifacts. In such forms the daemonkin is useful, can be controlled, and I patronize those willing to embrace this sort of pacts and compacts with the denizens of the Warp. 


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Mine turned out rather long too so I'll Spoiler it.

It links to one of my earlier entries...

 

 

“Uuuurrraaaaaarrrghhh!” the scream tore from the man’s throat as he was woken in agony. He thrashed against the torment but could not escape it, his body enveloped in a fine mesh suspending him in the air, trapping him and at once needling his entire body and setting it aflame. He did not know how long he screamed but when the pain subsided his voice was hoarse and his body ached from thrashing and involuntary contortions. Yet his body was unharmed by the mesh. Beyond the circle of light beamed down onto him, was darkness.

“I will ask once more. Who are you?”

Between haggard breaths he raised his head to regard the one who addressed him, striding from the darkness into the light. It was a post-human, bulked up further by the suit of tactical dreadnought armour it wore. But this was not one of the Angels of the Emperor, beloved by all. Not anymore. The armour was trimmed with polished metallic embellished with spikes and the imagery of fell beings. Leering visages cast in bronze adorned the knees. What appeared to be pale faces dangled from chains at the being’s shoulders. In its left hand it held a mammoth scythe though the blade was not the typical arcing edge of a farmer’s tool turned to war. No, this weapon terminated in a circular blade flanked by spikes curving about it like protective arms, with a crescent pointing to the rear. A blasted icon which was repeated upon the renegade’s armour.

“Rogue trader Gaicorne Joerus-“

“A LIE!” his interrogator roared, though the voice was muffled slightly.

His body was wracked with pain once more, his jaw clenching hard, grinding and eventually a tooth shattered.

And as soon as it had come, the pain vanished once again.

“Then where is your retinue, lord rogue trader?” the renegade marine asked.

He spat the fragments of tooth from his bloody mouth. “You killed them.”

The renegade brushed off the comment with a wave of his free hand.

“’twould be a poor, poor man…a sorry excuse for a rogue trader who ventured to the stars with such a small contingent. You lie. Your Warrant of Trade?”

“Th- the Lords of Terra will hear of thi-!” the captive shouted, his final words mangled by his own scream as the pain glove was activated once more.

Again he not know how much time passed but when he regained cognisance a table had been set before him upon which lay a suit of fine clothes, a rough all-weather cloak, a rebreather, a leather-bound girdlebook, Catachan Devil-hide boots, a pair of holsters, a survival knife and jewelry including a pair of large signet rings and a necklace featuring a large red oval crystal.

The terminator wore no helmet, though much of his face was hidden behind a leather mask. A brass vent covered his mouth and cables snaked past trepanation scalp scars back into the armour. One eye appeared pearly white while the other was its antithesis: the pupil dilated in the extreme. The renegade stepped forward to regard the items arranged on the table, and nodded.

“The appurtenances of a rogue trader.” It ran its gauntleted hand over the rich clothes, a finger along the blade of the survival knife and tapped the cover of the book, the leather extending beyond the tome itself to form a strap to secure it to one’s belt.

“My prayerbook,” the suspended man answered, his voice rough and dry.

“A devout man, are you, rogue trader Gaicorne Joerus?”

“My lord, th- this is a test? Of my piety?”

The renegade took a moment, finally smiling, the oiled flesh of his face creasing in amusement about his mask. “Of a kind.”

The man proceeded to begin reciting a prayer to the Emperor of Mankind with the manner of one who had uttered the hymn since he had been young enough to speak.

The terminator nodded once more. “I have no doubt you are possessed of a fine singing voice, and must apologise for what my ministrations have done to your throat...but what is such a pious man doing with...this?” he carefully popped the clasp of one of the holsters, drawing from it a slender pistol, too elegant to be of human design. Its body tapered to a flattened barrel, behind which there was a large, flat, circular magazine. “An Eldar weapon.”

The man stammered, urgent to excuse himself, “a find, m’lord. A souvenir of my travels.”

“Hmmm?” the terminator replied, amused. “And these?” it indicated the rings.

“Signet rings, m’lord-“ and he paused at the shaking of the terminator’s masked head. “Digital weapons,” he corrected himself.

“A hidden sting, eh?” the voice was considerably cultured for one rebuilt for war.

The suspended man managed to smile with his cracked lips.

“And what lies beneath that first deception?”

The man’s smile vanished, replaced with a frown of innocence. However, it had been a fraction too slow. There had been the hint of something else between the two expressions. Fear.

With surprising dexterity the renegade terminator picked up one of the rings and examined it, pointing it off to one side, into the darkness. A bolt of laser shot out from the ring and drew sparks from the metal deckplates.

He realised he was aboard a ship.

The terminator then pressed one side of the ring with a fingertip and the top flipped up to reveal a seal. The terminator nodded and carefully set the ring upon the table, the exposed icon facing his captive.

The inquisitorial seal.

“The game -as they say- is up. Ordo...?”

The captive raised his head, defiantly. No longer the weak trader, eager to prove his innocence, his faith. The casting off of his guise appeared to invigorate him. Restore him.

“Hereticus.”

The terminator nodded to himself once more, pacing behind the table. “I expected as much. Or Malleus.” He turned to face the inquisitor. “You have been trailing us since our retreat from Fulcrum.”

The inquisitor shook his blood-matted blonde hair. “I was there. I was part of the infiltration team before the Templars struck. Paved the way for them. I saw what you did to your people. What you unleashed.”

“Your name?”

“Loheran Darkmane, at your service, chapter master Sophusar of the Stygian Guard...or should I saw lord Sophusar, maestro, conductor of the spheres, the great harlequin of the Psychopomps.”

The terminator cocked an eyebrow and looked to the man’s golden locks.

“My father chased skirt. Fell for a blonde. Broke centuries of family tradition.”

The terminator regarded the man with suspicion for the first time since the interrogation had begun.

“You are most verbose for a member of the Ordos, inquisitor Darkmane. And what caused you to place yourself into my hands? Let us dally no longer with the fallacy that we captured you.”

“To discover why. Why you fell.”

“You know of our mission to Cyprius III?”

The inquisitor nodded. Over a century earlier the majority of the first company of the Stygian Guard astartes chapter lead by captain Viphic, along with an Ordo Hereticus inquisitor by the name of Tobias Fen had been dispatched to the planet Cyprius III to investigate rumours of corruption. That the chapter had been ordered to send so many of its veterans on what was overly an escort...

“Ships which visited the planet after you left found scenes of mass butchery.”

“The majority of which was committed by captain Viphic and his men, driven to bloodlust.”

“How? How could this happen?”

Lord Sophusar looked from the iconography on his armour to the larger one forming the blade of his scythe. “You of all should know the import of this mark.”

“She who thirsts.”

Sophusar arched an eyebrow. “A translation of the Eldar term, but yes. And you know of her nemesis.”

The inquisitor nodded.

“We believe Viphic and his men fell to worshipping the Lord of Skulls. When I and the rest of the chapter arrived, having heard nothing from them, we found them blood-raged barbarians, butchering the Cyprius populace.”

“And what happened to you?”

Sophusar’s eyes narrowed as he remembered his shock at the change which had come over captain Viphic, his most trusted lieutenant, and his crack troops. The rest of the chapter had joined the war against the clearly corrupted populace, fighting on as they always had: emotionless, cold, calculating. And yet the hordes of cultists came on. It had been Angra - of all people - who had suggested having the scouts infiltrate the cult dens. Bring them down from within. And so they had. The scouts clad themselves in the garb of the cultists, adorning themselves with the markings, tattoos and jewellery typical of their practices. And as the war went on, the trend spread. Not only the infiltrators but assault squads, tactical squads. Bearing trophies of their victories to strike fear into the enemy. Then came competition between champions. Here came pride.

“And what of the first company?”

“If you were on Fulcrum that day...”

The inquisitor nodded. “I heard reports afterwards. You released the survivors from your fortress’ dungeons. They attacked your own astartes as well as the Templars.”

Sophusar chuckled. “Indeed they did. I shall have to give Viphic a talking to about that.”

He lives!?

The chaos lord nodded. “In chains.”

“And you, like he, trod upon your oaths to the Golden Throne, only to shackle yourselves to infernal powers,” the inquisitor spat.

Sophusar appeared as if he was about to reply, but turned and motioned off into the shadows.

Darkmane felt the neural glove’s fibers prick his flesh once more, the prickling soon turning to the sharpness of blades. Though he could see his skin was unblemished, it began to feel as if his own weight were dragging him down into a net of monofilament wire.

“Are you a hard man, inquisitor Loheran Darkmane?”

The suspended human nodded, though a tick started in his cheek and his jaw was set, muscles bunched against the growing pain.

“I don’t doubt that you are,” the fallen astartes nodded slowly, watching him as his breathing quickened, “but you would agree that all men, all things have limits, no?”

The man nodded, his forehead beading with sweat.

“Then I will tell you of our fall. Be sure to let me know when you reach your limit,” he added as an afterthought.

 

“We were founded centuries ago. Scions of the great Dorn. Inspired by lord Vladimir Pugh of the Fists we sought to excel in asceticism. We felt nothing but our sense of duty. And that was our weakness.”

He was about to go on when a sound escaped his captive’s lips and he turned from his pacing.

“Ext- you took an extreme,” he stammered out the words, his eyes half shut.

“Indeed. Something a member of the inquisition should be familiar with, no? And on Cyprius III we encountered our antithesis. Excess. But you agreed with me earlier that all things have their limits, yes?”

The man nodded determinedly, the motion interrupted by twitches.

“Even the cosmos?”

His captive struggled to control the spasms which began to shake his body. “There is - there issss naught bey- beyond...”

“-the sight of the astronomican,” Sophusar finished the rote verse. “And yet some suppose the tyranid menace came from beyond...? And what of the Eye?”

“M-m-m-madness!”

“Now you’re talking my language,” the Chaos lord approached the man once more. “What if I were to tell you there is no limit?”

The man was unable to respond, a froth of bubbles streaming down from his mouth, his eyes rolled back in their orbits.

 

“There is no limit,” the deep voice, filtered by that brass-grilled mask, woke him. He was still hung from the ceiling, still illuminated in blinding light, surrounded by darkness.

“Our every taste of that which seems most exquisite: every emotion, every drive, every thrill...we have no sooner reached the climax than in a whisper She tells us there is more.”

The man barely heard, his eyes searching over his body for the inevitable scars of the agony he had endured. All he felt was a soreness in his shoulders and back, no doubt from his involuntary thrashing.

Lord Sophusar of the Psychopomps waited for the man to finish examining his body.

“We mastered the ascetic limit and She showed us how weak it made us. She who thirsts showed us a true goal to strive for, and such magnificent experiences.”

The man shook his head. He could feel that his hair was matted with dried sweat. He had been unconscious for some hours.

“For example?” he sneered, lip curled.

“How the mighty have fallen. One of the inquisition’s own agents consorting with xenos,” Sophusar tutted with mock scorn, tapping the shuriken pistol on the tabletop once more.

“How very rich,” spat Darkmane. “I know you and your people consort with far worse.”

“Touche,” Sophusar replied flatly.

“You are no threat to the Imperium?”

“You ask a great many questions most openly, inquisitor,” Sophusar said disparagingly and stepped forward. Darkmane could see that the pale faces dangling on chains from his great pauldrons were in fact the faces of statues, carved in a material as pure as alabaster. Clearly once beautiful they had been roughly hacked from their heads and defaced. “You make a poor spy.”

“What have I to lose?” the other returned. “My life? I would give it willingly for the golden throne.” Spoken like a mantra.

The Chaos lord caressed the suspended man’s cheek with his gauntleted fingers before gripping his jaw tightly and wrenching his head round to bring them face to face. He gazed into Darkmane’s eyes.

“And what of your soul? You have never tasted one I am sure, inquisitor, but I assure you the Eldar...their emotions...their very souls...are an ambrosia. A divine philter.”

The man creased his brow in revulsion and incredulousness. “What do you want?”

The renegade chapter master narrowed his eyes as he explained. “Their consumption. The consumption of their anima, their atman, pneuma...call it what you will, it brings one closer to Slaanesh-“

The suspended man reeled at such indiscreet use of the Chaos god’s name but was unable to pull his face from the marine’s grip, his body swinging in the pain glove.

“-I can hear her birth scream...echoes of it…within their tamashii,” his voice had dropped to a whisper.

“What of the other races? The Greenskin? The Necrons? Tau?”

Sophusar shook off his reverie and backhanded the man, setting the pain glove swaying wildly, and motioned off into the shadows once more. The pain came hot and sharp, increasing more rapidly this time.

The Chaos lord raised a reprimanding finger as he turned back to his prisoner.

“Too quickly. Far too quickly, Darkmane. If that is your true name. We care not for the Ork. Their beastly souls…” he made a spitting sound. “And the withered pissant husks entombed in metal? The upstart Xenos, blind to the Greater Powers of the galaxy? Their realms will fall. Tasteless, compared to this!

Sophusar snatched up the necklace and held it before the man. Blood ran freely from his mouth and nose, and his right eye began to close from the marine’s casual backhand strike.

The oval red gemstone hung at eye level.

“Whose was it?” Sophusar gazed from the soulstone to the man. “A comrade? A lover?” he spat with relish and his eyes widened with realization at the furious glare the man gave him. “We were responsible for her death, weren’t we?” He motioned off behind him into the shadows, raising his hand. The pain glove responded accordingly and the screaming began.

“A choice. Loheran Darkmane. Gaicorne Joerus. Whoever you are. Tell us where you got this and I will not eat her soul before your very eyes. I may even let you keep this bauble. Teach you how to surpass your limits. Embrace Her. In time…you may come to consume this,” he jangled the necklace and soulstone, “yourself.”

“Never!”

He motioned once again and the power ramped. The man’s bloodshot left eye searched the shadows.

“Enough stalling, mon keigh,” Sophusar spat, “Whoever sent you, they are not coming to rescue you.” He grasped the man’s head once more and with his other hand pulled the mask from his own face before picking up the stone again.

“Where?” one final question before an inhumanly long, serpentile tongue extended from the Chaos lord’s distended mouth and wrapped about the soulstone. Sophusar looked sidelong at the man before he began lowering it into his maw.

Viarphia!” the man wept.

The stone lowered into the devil’s mouth, needlelike teeth closing in an alligator’s grin about it.

“Noooooo!”

At another gesture the nerve glove was set to level Tertius and the screaming ceased.

 

Another fallen astartes appeared from the shadows. His armour, under the gaudy shades and lurid patterns, still showed some of the blue of his former station. His four upper limbs and the serpent’s tail which comprised the lower half of his body was an insult to the Emperor’s vision for his angels.

He bowed to the terminator.

“Find this `Viarphia`. I grant you access to all the prisoners.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Who was he?”

“No inquisitor, for sure. A pawn, sire.”

"Indeed. But whose?"

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Gr...gr...greetings m..master. I am thankful that you graced my humble scriptorium with your presence. I know that your highness is occupied with the efforts of running the warband but please, just a few questions so that my scribes can write down for posterity your legendary deeds.

 

What shall I inscribe as your name and titles, L..lord?

 

You may refer to me as Master. I neither need nor have any other title.

 

F...first one, m..my lo...Master. Where does your legend begin. Of which legion of old or mighty chapter did you bear the colors in battle and what was your calling in those ancient days?

 

That is not for you to know, worm.

 

Se...sec...second question lord. How have you managed to gather such a mighty warband such as ours and which is your favorite way to use your warriors? 

 

This warband has long been in service to the Architect of Fate. Some three millenia ago I learned from Him in a vision that the Hands of Fate was in need of a new destiny...and leader. Two millenia ago my plans came to fruition. Now the warband follows my visions. As for how I use my warriors, they are my pawns to spend or save as I desire, just as I am in service to the Great Architect.

 

Third qu..question. Do you worship the Dreaded Four or your soul answers to only a single god of darkness, or are you not concerned with them at all?

 

Our warband follows the will of Tzeentch. There is a small cult within dedicated to Slaanesh, but only by the Architect's will. There are also some others who believe themselves independent but also serve Tzeentch.

 

Fourth question. Which is your greatest deed to date?

 

That is difficult to say for while Tzeentch blesses with with visions of what actions to take, their ends are not always so clear. The skeins of fate can be difficult to read, and at their most misleading just when one thinks he grasps the answer. I once personally slew a feral ork tribe that would have prevented the rise of another tribe that would come to launch a waaaagh that engulfed a major forge world in war 500 years later. Using standards of "greatness" better suited to your feeble mind, I suppose the razing of the shrine world Corales and destruction of two companies of loyalists marines and countless Imperial Guard and PDF forces was one of my more impressive deeds since taking the reins of the Hands of Fate.

 

Fifth question. Which is your favorite method of war and why, on ground, in the void?

 

We are most comfortable either with our feet on the ground or, lacking that, in boarding actions against our foe. The screams of anguish and smell of blood on the battlefield satisfy my warriors far more than the sterilenesss of void warfare. That is left to out menials and bound daemons.

 

S...sixth q...question. What is the vision you have for our warband, where it will lead us?

 

Whereever the Architect leads us, to glorious defeat or ruinous victory as it suits Him.

 

Seventh question. Do you still entertain contacts with your former brothers or do you seek new allies? What do you think of the Warmaster?

 

We seek whatever allies are neccessary for our cause. As for the Warmaster, he is a mighty warrior who throws a long shadow over every possibel future. I have the utmost respect for him as one blessed by the gods.

 

Eight question. Where is your place in the Long War?

 

Wherever the Architect leads me.

 

Ninth question. Which are your favorite weapons and armor? I understand that our warband is rich in relics and plunder, so which artifacts of old are your favorite my lord?

 

My favorite weapon is the energies of the immaterium. My armor is of little consequence. I wear the same power armor I always have, although Lord Tzeentch has seen fit to change it to better suit me. We have collected many relics over the millennia. I suppose one of the most interesting is a sword possessed by a great daemon of the Decadent Prince. That one I entrusted to one of my most valued lieutenants and it has spilled much blood for the warband.

 

Tenth question and last. What do you think of the denizens of the Warp, the Neverborn, the Daemonkin?

 

Holy as reflections of the great powers, but lacking the value of those of the Materium who can serve the gods of their free will. They are tools to be used.

 

P...please don't kill me. I beg of you my lord. I am just a mere chronicler. But your deeds... your deeds are legendary my lord, they need to be written down.

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I had not yet read everyone's entries (but will). I have read Warsmith Aznable's and it was outstandingly good.

 

As a general rule I do not read others' entries until I have submitted my own, lest they cause me to consciously or subconsciously copy. I do feel inspired however to revisit and expand upon some of my entries, perhaps in the fanfic section, at some point in the future.

 

Thanks for the inspiration, is all I can say :)

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

 

Greetings and welcome back to Inspirational Friday. The past week we have seen several lords of chaos give their accounts in an interview and I have to agree with Kierdale, the winner is hands down Warsmith Aznable who managed to capture the sheer charisma of an astartes and the transhuman dread he inspires in his mortal cohorts. The whole interview is a great piece of fluff and while the others are outstandign too Aznable wins this week. 

 

Step forth Warsmith Aznable and claim your reward!

 

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

 

In all honesty the honorable mention of this week goes to all the other posts. Each was intriguing and Kierdale once again showed the young kids the worth of a veteran of Inspirational Fridays. Each interview was touching and I must that that those were some of the finest IF articles to date. 

 

Inspirational Friday - 30/01/2015 - Interview with a Chaos Sorcerer

 

And here we go again, I think you will like this one. Have an interview with your Chaos Sorcerer and describe the experience of meeting a being who can read your every thought and dominate your mind at will. Unlike the previous week I will not post fixed question, the artistic licence displayed in the past IF showed me that you want to create and the interview is much better if you add to it your personal touch, so I will grant your the liberty to ask your Sorcerer what you wish.

 

I might suggest though that you try to present a bit of his origins, his discovery of his psychic powers and his role in the past and the present both as a legionary and as a brother. I give you full rights to go bonkers with this one and I am eagerly awaiting your posts. 

 

Let us be inspired!

 

Tenebris

 

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