327 replies to this topic

[Teetengee]

Well done Carrack!
Also, and perhaps I didn't show it well enough, but Starscream was no Astartes, although he filled the role of apostle. Just thought I would point it out, in case it changes how anyone reads my piece.

Edited by Teetengee, 16 November 2015 - 01:24 PM.

[Carrack]

Armor of the Evil Giants

Spoiler

Bluish moonlight found its way through the pines to reflect off of the snow, illuminating the forest floor in a ghostly light. The tracker paused at a good print, less disturbed then most by the last three days of light snow. It was big, padded, with claws retracted, one of the hunting felines with broad paws perfect for walking on the crust of the snow. It was not the much larger footprints of the white and grey beasts that the tracker had seen before, but those of the medium, man-sized spotted felines that hunted alone. The tracker didn't have the luxury of walking across the top of the snow, he was too heavy in his armor, so he trudged after the trail in armored boots, sinking a meter into the snow, barely up to his black armored thighs. The tracker glanced back at the equally heavily armored warriors following behind him single file, in an effort to conceal their numbers with their own tracks. They stoically followed the tracker without a word spoken between them.

The trail was leading into another village, but the tracker knew that. He was following the feline to find its private entrance to the village, which wasn't the single gate that broke the encircling wall of dirt and rocks between thick timber palisades. He was confident that he could equal the athletic cat in jumping and climbing. He reached a point on the eastern side of the village where a pile of snow covered fallen trees had provided a launching point for the feline to the nearby wall. He climbed the timber pile, and with a leap assisted by humming servos in his armored legs, struck the wall near the top with a dull thud. Spikes on his armored shins and forearms kept him from sliding down the icy wood. With no real effort, he crested the outer palisade and crouched on the fill between the outer and inner timber walls. He waited until his warriors had followed him onto the wall, casually picking the ice out of the brass runes that embellished his black armor, then as one, they drew their weapons, the tracker choosing a boltgun clamped to his large backpack power plant. After waiting in silence for a few minutes, to see if anyone had heard their entrance, they jumped, one by one into the village, snow caked skulls hanging on chains from the tracker's waist jangling for a moment, the warriors resumed their single file formation.

The village was empty, burnt to the ground in most places, same as the last one. Embers were still glowing in some of buildings. The warriors silently stalked through the ruins of the recently depopulated village. Burnt bodies lay in the shells of their homes and halls, indicating to the tracker this had been another nighttime massacre, striking the villagers where they slept. The warriors followed the tracker into the center of the village to where a grander, but just as destroyed building lay. Before what was probably the entrance to this three story building was a small shattered satellite dish, damaged by a small explosion. One of the warriors told the tracker in a low whisper, "Mass reactive bolt." Indicating the damaged dish. The tracker nodded in agreement. The tracker walked through the open entrance into the shell of the building, unconcerned about the structural integrity of the charred rafters over his head, and bent down at a wide red stain over the snow covered ashes. Drag marks followed the stain out a hole in the south wall. The feline they had followed into the village had found an easy meal. The Tracker stood up straight, and opened a vox channel to his master from an inbuilt system in his great horned helm, "Lord, this village is the same as the last one, the central building was attacked at night three days ago. The attackers cut communications, then razed the village. We will continue our search, but I am not optimistic we will find any evidence of the Wanderer." After a brief pause of silence, the receiver replied, "Acknowledged and continue, Vinno."

*****

Invidge peeked up through the ash covered slats in the larder door from beneath a pile of furs. He caught glimpses of the new invaders of his village through tiny openings in the ash he had made with the knife clutched to his chest. They were different then the ones who had burnt his home, razed his village and left him the man of the house at the young age of nine. But they were definitely invaders, that was clear. They were giants from the old stories his grandma had spun while doing her knitting by the fire. Invidge had matured enough to not be so sure of his grandma's wild tales, but these huge creatures fit no other description. Except the armor. In the tales of the giants, armor wasn't mentioned, but what was mentioned was that some giants were helpers of men, others were enemies. The armor of the giants announced which type of giants were standing in the wreckage of his home, the wreckage of his young life. Their armor was black, trimmed with brass and gold, and encrusted with spikes, hooks, and blades. Skulls hung from chains or were affixed to spikes and gauntlets, human skulls that looked small against the size of the giants carrying them. They looked like child skulls, like his very own skull. Their huge pauldrons were left an unadorned black on one side, the left for some and the right for others, with the opposite shoulder bearing runes of eight pointed stars or single eyes. They weren't just runes like you would see at a waystone at a fork in the trails though. Staring at them made the back of Invidge's eyes ache. One of the eye runes, the one on the giant who was standing up straight and talking, blinked for a moment, and an evil red eye stared down at Invedge. Invedge involuntarily shuddered, after desperately trying to be still, then the eye blinked back into a rune. Invedge realized he was holding his breath, and slowly let it out, so as not to draw attention with a gasp. Then, just as quickly as the invaders arrived, they left. Invedge resolved to stay hidden a while longer before he would venture out of the larder and face his ruined world. Perhaps the winter cat would come back again and save him the somber and heavy duty of burying his family members. Maybe even it would come for him.

I'm not sure how well this story works, but I've had it in my head for a few days with no other power armor stories springing to mind. Enjoy.

[Kierdale]

Mine is a bit of a sequel to my Nemesis story, moving along the Psychopomps' storyline by a matter of minutes.

 

 

Price Paid

Hidden Content

Elathrandiir lowered his long rifle.

There was an eerie sound carried on the wind off the plains. It howled like the wind blowing through a ravine, yet there was naught but a gentle breeze.

“Ceiba-ny-shak,” he swore under his breath and raised it again, using the scope to survey the approaching Enemy. Pawns and children of She Who Must Not Be Named, their very presence here upon the maidenworld of Viarphia was an insult to Elathrandiir’s race. A slight the Eldar would see righted, or die in the attempt.

To the fore was a sea of cultists: Mon Keigh devotees in the majority but there was also a large number of mutants, their taint written in their very flesh: cloven hooves for feet, horns sprouting from bestial faces. Skin various unnatural hues of pink with pitch black tattoos curving and winding across muscles and limbs. Chains rattled, linking weapons to bellies, to lips, noses, nipples and loins. Logic and decency was anathema to these mad beings.

 

For decades now autarch Qarasion of craftworld Carth-Lar had led the fight against the Psychopomps: a chapter of Mankind’s angels of death who had fallen to the worship of She Who Must Not Be Named. Her comrade and companion, farseer Emrana had foreseen the chapter’s fall and Qarasion had attempted to intervene, to change the Mon Keigh’s course, but the Eldar had been too late. By a cruel twist of fate or by the design of the Infernal Powers, they had arrived after the corruption of the Astartes. Since then the craftworld had spied on the renegades, directing Imperial forces to discover their heresy where possible and combating the pawns of the Great Serpent directly where necessary.

Carth-Lar still wept for the loss over a decade ago of Mesusid, a sister planet to Viarphia. The Psychopomps had descended upon its emerald swards like furies and had reaped that world and its caretakers of all that was good.

And now somehow they had discovered Viarphia.

 

Elathrandiir, an Eldar pathfinder, was perched high atop a tower in Viarphia’s sole settlement. The Eldar sought to cultivate the world into a natural paradise - natural, yes, for how else could the ancient, noble race’s tender, nurturing ministrations be described? It was not the brutal chem-forging that the Mon Keigh forced upon barren rocks in the void - and prayed that one day they would be able to inhabit it as they had their own worlds before the birth of She Who Must Not Be Named.

As a pathfinder, one who had walked the Path of the Outcast for centuries, he felt kinship with autarch Qarasion and her defiance of Carth-Lar’s more pacifist Seer Council. Having been absent from the craftworld for so long he was unaware of the details of the feud betwixt the autarch-who-refused-to-abdicate and the seers but he had swiftly answered her call to arms and now found himself, along with the entirety of the craftworld’s able aspect warriors (but none of their guardians or spirit warriors for the Council had forbade them to sally forth), awaiting the Enemy’s assault. A part of him was grateful for the Council’s judgement, for while the maiden worlds were dear to them, the craftworld was their home now, and within it was held the Infinity Circuit and the Avatar’s chamber: that final guardian of the craftworld.

 

The sniper shook himself from his reverie and shifted his aim once again, the audio pickups of his rifle sensing the wailing sound once again, for his weapon enabled him to both spy upon foes visually and audibly from a distance and to strike them down.

The cultists and beastmen were naught but chaff to him. They would be sliced up by the shurikens of the Avengers and the webs of the Spiders soon enough. It was the sniper’s duty to observe the enemy and spot for the rest of the Eldar forces (a duty he shared with the flocks of Hawks currently roosting atop other buildings about the city’s perimeter) and to take out key enemy targets with his rifle.

The keening grew as he settled the crosshairs of his rifle upon an enemy Astarte, adjusting his aim according to the hololithic data projected by the scope. Air temperature and humidity, wind direction and strength. Elathandiir had no love for the post-human space marines; theirs was a brutal, inelegant approach to war and their armour, their weapons and their very bodies reflected this. But he respected them. However these renegade Astartes had taken their genenhanced bodies and let the powers of the Sea of Souls twist them. They were no better than the cultists and mutants they drove before them.  The one in his sights lacked a left arm, rather an unarmoured, snaking tentacle of reddy-pink flesh protruded from under its shoulder pad. It was neither scaly like a serpent nor covered in suckers like the limb of an octopod, but was a boneless length of undulating muscle webbed with veins. The very look of the appendage was repulsive. That it firmly gripped the fore of the marine’s firearm attested to its control and strength.

His sights drifted over the armour the marine was clad in. Though the leg armour with the knees protected by high greeves was indicative of mark-six, it appeared to be made up mainly of mark-seven plate;: the arms, the shoulders, helm and torso - Elathrandiir was familiar with the armour of the Astartes and could recognize the different marks; it was essential for him to know the weaknesses of his potential foes - but one of the most immediate differences was that it lacked that element which gave mark seven the appellation “Eagle Armour”: the Aquila was absent from the chest plate, replaced with a pale, embossed skull. Another skull was set upon the renegade’s left pauldron, framed by a design he could not be sure was a mane of black hair, or the damned halo of a lost star but as his scope focused on the design he saw that tentacles of darkness extended out from the halo to form the icon of She Who Must Not Be Named. Elathrandiir resisted the urge to fire upon the symbol with all the hatred of his race, his training and centuries of experience telling him that his shot would fall impotent against that great curve of armoured ceramite.

The renegade’s armour bore decorative trim that one did not see on that of Astartes still loyal to the Mon Keigh’s rotting empire. Bolts, arrows, skulls, spikes and horns complimented the trim but as the Eldar sniper calmed his spirit once more he noted that many of these were not mere decorations. The curved spike upon the right knee was stained ruddy. He could imagine how it would be used as a weapon; thrust upwards into the groin or gut of a held foe, piercing the armour there, softer as was necessary for mobility. Aye, while the marine’s armour was painted such ridiculous, contrasting shades of pink, purple and blue, its form was honed for deadliness.

A holster of cured skin hung from the left shin holding a bolt gun, and a belt sheath - likely of some other unfortunate’s own flesh - held an asymmetrical, waving blade if the shape of the scabbard itself was any guide. Unlike the bolt gun, this was no combat weapon but a tool of rituals.

The wailing lament grew again as he continued his observance of the enemy champion, tracking up the foe’s body to that most common of sniper targets.

The head.

While a great deal of Astartes - devotees of that archaic gilt contraption and the corpselike god-being it held, and those who danced to the wills of the Primordial Annihilator alike - both went into combat unhelmed much to the delight of opposing snipers, this one wore a helmet. Modified from a standard mark seven, the vent which ran from the back up over the scalp to finish above the forehead had been reshaped into an arrow. Elathrandiir’s attention was drawn to the eyes. That the eyes were windows to one’s soul was an idea shared by Eldar and Mon Keigh alike. The lenses of the Astarte’s helm were curious in that they were different colours, one red and the other green. Never had the pathfinder, in his centuries of combat, seen the likes before. That the wearer of that helmet was insane Elathrandiir was already sure, but how might those lenses distort reality further? Bathing one half of his mind and indeed his world in a baleful, melancholic green whilst the other was tinted pink or perhaps even a bloody red? Or perhaps his vision was clearer than that of the falcon Faolchu as some whispered that the mad saw the universe the clearest and could hear the music of the spheres?

Such pondering was naught but B’fheidir: the sickening swirl of `maybe` and `perhaps` that only a farseer sifted and fathomed.

The marine’s helm was crowned with a pair of horns - as were those of the rest of the renegade’s squad - rising high over his head. While those of the other marines in the unit terminated in points, the leader’s met and were joined in what appeared to be a small bronze skull. The Eldar spent little time pondering the significance of this for the wailing had become fierce and he searched for its source: the Astartes’ backpack.

The power-plant of the marine’s armour was not the Anvilus type he had observed on the backs of many other Astarte servants of Chaos, though it was similar in silhouette. The two globular vents had been extended out on arms, taking them above and away from the shoulders. They had been rotated, too, so that the grills pointed forwards. A blink changed his own helmet’s perception to infra-red and he saw the heat pouring out of the vents though what was curious was that while the intensity of the heat was standard for Astartes powered armour, the haze rippled rhythmically, for here he found the source of the banshee-like wailing. Somehow the back had been engineered to spout this horrendous noise through its exhausts! But to what end other than the irritation of one’s foes? It was not of sufficient intensity to cause physical damage, though the more he focused on it, the more he felt his nerves shaken. And the closer he realized the damned horde, those slaves to darkness, had advanced as his eye had wandered endlessly over this single champion of Chaos.

The shot!

He shook himself from the trance, his eyes being pulled into twisting, swirling patterns of icy blue upon the breast and shoulder of that marine.

The shot!

He slowed and steadied his breathing despite his pulse now racing in his ears, all but drowning out the commentary from the Hawks as they swooped overhead and the Eldar prepared to engage the Enemy’s lead forces.

That keening wail reverberated through his ears and his years of experience were as naught for he could not steady his aim and with a curse he cut the rifle’s audio pickups, bitter at how he had been bewitched so. He cut too the comm from his own forces and took a moment to center himself within the silence of his own helmet, the image of the enemy’s own headgear fixed in his mind. And the keening...it echoed still within his mind.

He gritted his teeth, trying to force the sound from his mind, and found his target once more...

 

 

 

Fires burned within the temple and Elathrandiir swept his rifle back and forth as he picked up way through the rubble. What manner of weapons could have cracked the sturdy wraithbone walls so? Chunks of the psychoplastic stone lay scattered about, fallen from arches overhead, pillars and the intricate friezes which had decorated the walls. He crouched and risked his life, taking his left hand from steadying the barrel of his rifle to pass a hand over a fallen statue of Isha, mother of his race. Her face was gone and the sides of the statue’s head showed vicious chipping as if her visage had been forcefully removed. The heathen bastards knew no limits!

He advanced further into the smoke-choked darkness, peering round corners but it seemed that the Enemy had fled, or withdrawn. He had been busy sniping the enemy as they ransacked the city, providing overwatch and initiating ambushes with the Aspect warriors below, finally hearing that the enemy were leaving the city, and not stopping his work until the last was out of sight; to him the back of an enemy was as valid a target as the front.

He had then descended to the streets and observed the devastation the enemy had wrought, which he had been unable to fully realise from his lofty perch. Bodies; Mon Keigh cultists, beastmen, twisted spawn which sickened his guts to gaze upon, pools of ichor: the remains of daemons...and a terrible number of fallen Eldar. He had raised his chin and held back tears as he wove between the bodies toward the temple, knowing that there he would find whether all had been in vain or not.

 

He raised his hand from the statue of Isha at the sound of coughing from within the central chamber. There was a lingering heat, like that of a recently-dead forge and he carefully moved into the smoke-filled room, sweeping his rifle about, checking all the corners, alcoves and the deeper shadows cast by the great columns. Banners lay scattered about, soot-stained, torn and some even burning as he watched. The pillars themselves were cracked and pitted, seemingly by the blows of great melee weapons. The twilight coming in through the shattered upper windows provided little illumination and what glow-globes there were within were dead. He trod carefully over broken crystals as he searched but could find no trace of the Enemy.

Following the occasional pained cough he found the body of autarch Qarasion upon the steps to the dias. Lowering his rifle and dashed toward her, relief flooding his system as he discovered it was her coughing: she still lived, though only barely. She was badly bruised, with lacerations across her chest and forearms which had penetrated the weave of her armour and if the pained coughs were any guide, ribs were broken. Blood crusted her ears - she must have been assaulted by one of the Enemy’s sonic weapons - but no other liquids which would indicate damage to her skull.

He hastily called for aid via his helmet, before noticing another form prone atop the dias, swathed in rising smoke. A large figure.

The Enemy?

Had Qarasion felled the enemy leader, almost giving her life in the bargain?

He raised his rifle once more as he ascended the steps, cycling through filters until he could see the form better.

It was no suit of terminator armour, for this thing was far larger. Its surface was black, like the crust of slow-flowing lava, a dying red heat showing in cracks and crevices. And there were a great many cracks, for its form was heavily damaged. Irreparably. For who could repair a god incarnate?

Elathrandiir wept as he looked down upon the broken, dying form of the avatar of Kaela Mensha Khaine and he realized what Qarasion had done: stealing the avatar’s tomb-chamber from under the Council’s noses in an attempt to awaken it without their blessing. One of the Exarchs must have given their life, volunteered rather than being chosen by the Farseers, to animate it. What heresy was this?!

He watched as the heat bled out of the prone, broken god, and his fists shook.

Born unblessed and slain here, unable to return to Carth-Lar, their avatar would perish, never to rise again.

The pathfinder took shaky, unsteady steps as he descended the stairs toward autarch Qarasion once more.

And rested the muzzle of his rifle upon her temple.

 

 

Epilogue

The corridors and halls of Charon were filled with a deafening clamour. The victory roars of the renegades, the screams of their victims. Whilst they had not riven the maiden world of Viarphia as they had Mesusid, they had succeeded in taking a great number of the Eldar captive and now, intoxicants flowing freely, they celebrated their victory.

Captain Dophesia, master of the furies, swaggered, laughing bellicosely and accompanied by a coterie of his raptors. He came to a halt before the portal which lead to lord Sophusar’s quarters, finding master of sanctity Angra and chief librarian Holusiax stood before it, as if guards.

“Brothers, where this fine evening is our good lord?” he laughed as he hailed them, giving a flourishing bow, wine sloshing from the upturned helm of an aspect warrior he was using as a cup. “Cares he not to celebrate this fine victory with his men?”

Angra shared a glance with the sorcerer at his side before he regarded the captain coldly, “our lord is incommunicado.”

“He who delivered us this feast of blood, flesh and torment? Can he not sample of the delicacies himself? Was it not he who felled the xenos god?” he voice rose, “His men would hear of his prowess!” Dophesia pushed, quaffing what potent brew remained in his makeshift chalice.

“Then tell them of it,” Holusiax answered, rising up on his serpentine body to tower over all present, his forked tongue flickering, “You, Dophesia, are as good a tale-teller as you are a warrior, we all know.”

Dophesia dropped his drunken façade before continuing, voice even and grim, “Then would I tell them he still lives, or that he was felled as he slew that alien deity?”

 

[Scourged]

Here's my latest. It turned out quite self-referential toward my other works, but I dig it. This thread has been the single greatest push to flesh out warband backstory, and I'm loving it. Anyways, enjoy.

 

Legacy

Spoiler

Legacy

The past should never be forgotten. The unchangeable actions of history will always determine the eventual actions of the future. It’s the paths already ventured that create a man’s legacy, not the paths yet untaken. Few understood this significance. Fewer still could filter through the fictions written by history’s victors to discern the true lessons. Scindus, however, was an avid student of the past.

Scindus had gained a reputation amongst his fellow warriors. Those of a more positive opinion simply noted that he dwelled on incidents long forgotten. Those who held him with less regard were quick to state he was obsessed with trivial matters from centuries past. And his brother… ah, well… his brother’s opinions rarely mattered anymore. For Scindus, he studied the past, he learned from it, and he conducted his life in a manner to see it devoid of foolish repetitions.

+Kathalon awaits. Prepare yourselves and gather at the shuttles. Warriors, the time has come to serve our Master.+

Cold and needling. Those telepathic broadcasts from the Lord always annoyed his mind with splinters of ice. It was the intrusion, more than anything, that annoyed Scindus. Spoken voice can be ignored, vox transmission can be muted, but the message of a telepath could never have anything less than full attention devoted to it. To speak into the mind was to force your will upon another. Even after the centuries surrounded by endless psykers, Scindus refused accept such intrusions in his mind without resistance.

And it didn’t help that Lord’s message was inherently redundant for Scindus; he was already in his personal armory, moments from donning his ancient power armor once more. This process, like so many others for him, was a ritual to be followed without interruption. These rituals, regardless of size or duration, gave Scindus the necessary time to reflect on the past once again and ensure his current path was correct. His rituals steeled him for every battle he would fight. His rituals paid reverence to those who helped him and the fortunes of Fate. His rituals… kept the voices quiet.

“Armor.”

The spoken words cause a stirring in the iridescent fleshmetal of the walls. The soft and articulate structure slowly peeled open from a sealed wall into four irregular flaps of sinew and skin, rolling back and revealing the hidden armor and weapons of Scindus. The immaculate ceramite hung on hooks of spines and talons. Yellow spittle fell in globs at all corners of the small cavern, not one drop daring to splash on the armor plate. Scindus moved as his ritual dictated: he fell to one knee, offered a prayer to his True Master, then stood with feet apart and arms outstretched.

The wall-maw squealed gleefully, the sound both of an aging ship’s straining lower decks and of an excited jungle fowl's mating calls. The fleshmetal was eager to rid itself of such uncorrupted materials once again. Tendrils and tentacles and amorphous limbs found their way into the maw and delicately took hold of the individual pieces of the armor. Tenderly they lifted the pieces aloft and held them in place, an organic facsimile of a servitors mechanical limbs. Scindus, in his ritual, reflected on the history of each piece of armor as it was attached to him.

The boots and greaves were first. Dark, rich sapphire paint covered the smooth ceramite, and the irregular trim had a dull shine of aged gold. But originally, it was black - not blue - that covered these plates. One of Abaddon’s lap dogs sought to instigate a fight while within the Eye millennia ago. Scindus never bothered to learn his name. The little pup wanted to prove himself as a great champion, promising to slay the mightiest of this newest warband to fall to the Dark Gods. The whelp was an embarrassment to his “legion.” The duel saw Scindus’ armor pitted and scratched, but found the pup without his head or bowels. The reclaimed armor was the spoils of victory, along with earning a slight respect from the veterans in black.

The cuisses were next, the same polished blue as the lower half of the legs, same waving golden trim. No glory was found in these plates. These recent additions were a convenient scavenge from a slain havoc. It was on Chalos, while bringing vengeance to the corrupt bureaucracy that choked the life from the planet. Yes, upon landing, it was quickly learned that the populace was as corrupt and full of lies as their government, so that is how the purge of all Imperial life started. The havoc, Nanduschil, fell to a swarm of irate peasants. Ignoble, yes, but the line was held even with his death. His autocannon could not be saved, but thankfully his cuisses could.

Adorning Scindus now were the chest and back pieces, locking his torso inside the warm sapphire plates. These were not the scavenged or looted pieces that made up the rest of his armor. No, great pride was placed in the chest plate surrounding Scindus. The trim wove around, wavy like the rest, catching the light with the same golden polish, but the lower edge mimicked a jawline and ivory teeth protruded down from it. And in the center rested the globe of an amplified vox caster. This was the special commission assigned to a dark artisan in the Maelstrom. It was an idea spawned from midnight inspiration: why not broadcast the lies and sins of the Imperials and Traitors alike as he slaughtered them? Beautiful, really. The maddening elegance always brought him a sliver of joy.

The fanged skull codpiece finished the custom chest, nestling underneath the ivory teeth of the chest. Hanging from the skull’s fangs was a dull orange cloth tabard, with a human femur tied to the fringe. These were amusing trophies of the warrior’s past. An inquisitor had been following Scindus and his fellow Scourged for quite some time. Avoiding inquisitors was normally easy - their lies and betrayal sang louder in their minds than entire planets - but this one proved to be a nuisance. The woman very creatively caught them in a blockade while trying to flee to the Eye. She and her retinue boarded Deception’s Call and proceeded to make a grand slaughter upon their arrival. Even with Scindus’ heightened awareness, the inquisitor was quite the challenge in melee. Her blasphemy was eventually silenced with four plasmic claws slicing her apart at the waist.

The vambraces and elbow guards were attached next. The helm followed as well, though it was not the same sapphire as the rest. Yes, it shared the golden trim, weaving into a mask over the face, but the bare plate was painted a crimson so deep it would pass for black. These few pieces were all that remained of his original armor, when Scindus was a Seeker of Truth. It was not because they held any significance - there were no stories of glory in these pieces of ceramite. No, it was simply to him essential that some artefacts of his former life remain present. His time spent as a Seeker, aimlessly wandering in the Imperium’s darkness for any light, should never be forgotten. These, like so many other items and events, marked pinpoints of the past’s timeline that must always be remembered.

Two pauldrons followed, the same rich scarlet as the helm, but each was a twisted mockery of a loyal Astartes’ shoulder guards. The right was dotted with holes and pits that still resembled the open sores of the dead and decaying. Four centuries back, their True Master demanded their service in the Great War of the Dark Gods. On this instance, the Scourged were tasked with the slaughter of those who let their flesh fester and their armor rot in foolish service to the Father of Disease. Scindus had done as asked, fighting in the war of attrition. Annoyingly, it ended as it began: a stalemate, thus a victory for the God of Decay. But, Scindus came away from the pointless skirmish with the pauldron as his prize, having bested a champion of pus and plague.

The left pauldron, however, bore the twisted changing that befell all those residing in the Warp’s safety. It, too, was once a relic of his days as a Seeker, but had long since mutated beyond recognition of that past. Horns sprouted up from the plate as a backdrop to a small daemon pushing its face out from within the ceramite. The beast was thankfully not sentient. The eyes would blink, the teeth would nash, the tongue would hang and slobber, but it was little more than an articulated decoration for his left shoulder. Despite the offending mutation, Scindus would never replace this pauldron. The symbolic mutation of his Seeker armor held a great meaning to him - his old life had twisted and reshaped into something darker, just like the pauldron.

The power pack followed, the last sapphire gem upon his frame. It was a donation from some devotee of She Who Thirsts. On one of the many crusades launched against the Imperium - the fifth, Scindus remembered - the violet and fleshtone grunt was long dead when discovered. It was some backworld planet in the Gavlan system, though he could barely recall which one as it wasn’t an important detail. His own power source had been breached with the luckiest of blows from a mortals autogun. Stumbling upon the corpse of the Flawless Host grunt had been quite fortuitous.

The Champion of the Scourged stood now in resplendent plate, his baroque armor assembled around his form. Still, the final two pieces of his armament were yet stored away as the wall’s tentacles and tendrils retracted.

“Weapons.”

Two smaller caverns opened within the ship’s fleshmetal wall, the prized arms of Scindus held within them. Both bore the same deep crimson and golden decoration as his helm, and his fingers twitched with anticipation of their attachment. On his left the appendages attached a large powerfist, Vymazach. And on his right was attached the long-bladed powerclaw, Vypatroshich. These weapons, now rippling with power fields, were more than trophies, or spoils of war. These weapons were his greatest achievement: ceremonial awards for the warband’s liberation of Tachylite.

The home of the Changemongers was under siege by the Imperium. Their worship of the Zephyr - the True Master - did not sit well with the Ecclesiarchy, and their so-called Imperial Truth. There was rebellion, and war, but the Scourged did not find themselves involved until the Angels Vermillion had made planetfall and threatened to extinguish the Changemongers. And had it not been for the True Master forcing Scindus and his brothers to intervene, the Angels would have succeeded.

The Tachylite Campaign was a bloody one. But the True Master insisted that the fallen Seekers repel the Angels Vermillion and liberate the servants of the Zephyr. And so, across the major cities throughout the capitol continent, the warriors of blue fought to push back the angels in red. Alone, the Scourged would have lost, but with the ever-zealous Changemongers and their tides of spawn and beasts the Angels Vermillion found themselves routed to the streets of the capitol, numbers dwindling. There they sat, defending their position beneath the arches and gargoyles of a massive basilica. In this city square is where Scindus found himself staring down the enraged company captain, Vanni Montalis.

The captain singled him out from all other fighters in blue and charged, fist and claws drawn. Scindus braced himself and powered his dual swords. He embraced the running, screaming angel, blades crossed to deflect the incoming blows. What followed was a long fight. The angel lacked speed with his attacks, but he compensated with enraged ferocity. And in his blind rage, the captain betrayed no intentions or tactics in his attacks, so Scindus could not read his feints. For the first time in centuries, the champion of the Scourged faced an even fight. The battle only finished when both swords found a lucky opening in the angel’s stance and sliced inside the vulnerable joints beneath the chestplate. Montalis was quick to slam down both fists and shatter the power swords, but the damage had been done, and it wasn’t long before the captain was exsanguinated.

The Angels Vermillion finally fled, and Tachylite celebrated immediately. The saviors of sapphire were lauded left and right, praised for their divine intervention. Treaties were signed, agreements bound with blood, and the Changemongers devoted themselves in eternal service to the Scourged. At the final banquet, the Zephyrmaster - the name the Tachyliteans gave their spiritual leader - paid special award to those who ranked highest among the warband. The Sorcerer Lord was gifted many baubles and trophies, as well as many other meaningless medals given to other Astartes. But saved for last, beneath a velveteen sheet, were the restored and repainted weapons of Captain Montalis. The Zephyrmaster presented them to Scindus, with the honorary names of Vymazach and Vypatroshich.

The pair of weapons have been Scindus’ weapons of choice since that day. As he felt them slide over his hands now, the sensation of triumph in the defeat of Vinni Montalis washed over him anew. The warrior was now dressed for battle, his ritual complete. He had reflected on all that had been his past. He paid homage to his armor and its sources. He learned and relearned from the events already transpired. He was now prepared for those experiences yet to come. Leaving the chamber, he opened his vox and spoke:

“Leaving for the shuttle now, brother.”

 

Oh, and my main character is entirely based upon the subject of my bike/disc conversion. One of these days I'll write a story on how he comes to acquire that steed. It's this guy:

Spoiler

[Kierdale]

Very nice work.
I find myself out of Likes today!

Daemonic steeds...yes...
#adds to list#

[Teetengee]

The Hollowed

Hidden Content

Excerpts from the Field Notes of Adept Ullur, fate unknown, presumed dead

During the interrogations of the survivors of the cleansing of Rehshan Tertius of a minor infestation of plague daemons, several similar stories arose of a lone power armoured individual fighting alongside the daemons.They all described a single being wearing a suit of Mark Three Power Armour devoid of all markings of any kind. Reports were varied, some suggesting that the wearer was surrounded by a cloud of large insects, others that they exuded a sense of crushing defeat, but we know there were at least three confirmed kills and as least as many unconfirmed. A militiaman who had delivered one of these kills seemed to believe that all of these individuals were in fact one being, coming back from the grave to haunt the living and was given the Emperor’s Grace immediately, rather than risk such a belief spreading to any of the officers and therefore rendering them ineligible for mind wipe…

..when we entered the crypts under the Church of Saint Crane to determine the cause of the infestation, mostly it was as expected. The tainted filth was cleansed with holy promethium as we went. Eventually we found the reliquary, where instead of Saint Crane’s skull, (as we had expected from reports) we found a suit of power armour devoid of all iconography, also Mark Three. That its resting place was entirely untouched by the filth which filled up entire levels for at least three floors above and below was a sign of its holiness. We wrapped it carefully and returned it to the surface, a true symbol of the incorruptibility of true faith in the God Emperor. I believe that this explains the earlier reports of the power armoured enemies. Their mockery of this holy artifact must have been an attempt to poison the belief of this strong population. An attempt which failed, of course….

...when we discovered that the suit was still sealed. Concerned that one of the Emperor’s Angels was trapped within the armour, and believing the inhabitant’s faith to have been what drove away the corruption, we set about removing the seals in an attempt to waken the wearer, or at the least to take his body and separate it into relics to be used as a reminder of the faith. However, upon opening the armour, we found nothing but icy cold air. Our mechanicus assistant insisted the armour had been sealed from commands given by a wearer, but I believe it to be mistaken…

...corruption on board the ship. Flies fill the walls even here and heavy footfalls stalk the corridors followed by bolter fire and screams. I have locked myself in Inquisitor Polea’s study, Emperor rest her soul. I am sending this data slate out to the local Ordos Malleus outpost in the hopes that they may recognize whatever signs I may have recorded before it is too late. The being that hunts us does not bleed, does not stop, does not die. Even a direct hit from Polea’s plasma pistol was quickly repaired as flies fused into the metal of the enemy’s armour. As an Adept of the Ordos Hereticus, I have little information to consult for a way to defeat this servant of the Enemy. I can hear it coming now, and I commend my soul to the Emperor. I will die with a flamer in my hands and the enemy in my sights. The Emperor protects.

Spoiler

A little background for a relic from my homebrew chaos codex project.

[Kierdale]

Thanks to all those who submitted entries on the subject of CSM power armour.

 

MaliGn gave us The Armourer, telling us of The Host’s victorious return to Sicarus and the penitent journey of several Astartes to the Malefactorum and its master: the fearsome Armourer. This malefic smith binds the armour he works upon, binds it to the wearer permanently; working daemons into its very fiber. Daemons the Armourer can call upon the loyalty of, should the need arise...

 

Armour of the Evil Giants was Carrack’s entry this week, following a squad of legionnaires as they investigated attacks upon settlements, while watched by a survivor of one of these attacks, who studied the armour of these black-clad giants of legend.

 

I gave you a sniper’s eye view of one of my noise marine champions during the Psychopomps’ assault on the Eldar maiden world of Viarphia, his aim wandering over the various parts and decorations of the Enemy’s armour. And I moved along the Psychopomp’s timeline just a little past the assault’s climax...

 

Scourged, there’s nothing wrong with self-referential pieces. Almost all of mine and Carrack’s are detailing the same warbands and often refer to earlier entries.

In Legacy he told us the history of each single part of Scindus’ armour as it was taken out from the fleshmetal walls of his arming chamber and put on him.

 

Teetengee gave us The Hollowed, a curious tale of haunted(?) armour, blessed by Grandfather Nurgle itself it appears. A revenant warrior protected by a cloud of flies.

I particularly liked the writer mentioning that if they could not awaken the marine then they would separate his body and use the parts as relics!

 

Step forward Scourged and claim your reward!

I’m awarding it to Scourged this week as he really went into detail about the different parts of Scindus’ armour and its history.

An honourable mention to Teetengee as I really liked your piece too. That the armour was not the typical heavily-corrupted type we usually associate with Nurgle was most refreshing. But I wanted more! To hear more about it and what the marine had done, a short delve into origins, even if just the supposition of an Ordo Malleus follow up perhaps.

 

And here begins our next challenge...

Tales of Hubris

Following on from Tales of Glory, this week’s theme is Hubris.

Described in the modern context as extreme pride or self-confidence and in its ancient Greek context as violent and excessive behavior rather than an attitude. It was hubris which caused the downfall the biblical Lucifer in Milton’s Paradise Lost and in the 40k universe the Crimson King, Magnus of the Thousand Sons and his legion, and no doubt countless others over the millennia since.

No matter what form of this vice you choose to depict, and whether it is the curse of the antagonists or protagonists of your piece, please submit your entries by November 27^th.

 

You have one week.

Let us be inspired...

 

P.S. The bonus Challenge is still in the works. When it happens, it happens.

[Kierdale]

Bonus Challenge: Objectives
The current Daemon Forge is focused on making objective counters:
Daemon Forge X
And so I am setting a linked challenge -independent of our usual weekly/fortnightly challenges- for you to submit a write-up of one of your objective counters (or more than one) along with photos of the completed model(s). No picts: no entry.
The objective counters needn't be ones you made during/for Daemon Forge X (you may have lots already and not want to make more) though I do encourage members to take part.

Please post both the write-up and image(s) in the same post.

The challenge runs until December 20th.

[Scourged]

It's funny... last week, I had a thought for a Inspiration topic: I figured, with all of these tales of glory and victory, stories about failure and defeat would have a place in our threads. Then, sure enough, this week's topic came out. Just as planned...

 

Wingless Champion

Spoiler

Wingless Champion

Astartes offered no sport in the hunt. No sport. They did not scare. They felt no fear at all. No fear. Each of them was a brave warrior, all loyal servants to the Corpse God. They were not like the mortals, who stank of terror and ran in all directions. If it was not for their martial prowess Junska would not hunt Astartes at all.

But this one would be a good hunt. A good hunt. This one was strong. This one was a champion of the angels. Hah, angels! What a horrible name for these warriors. Where were their wings, if they were angels? These vermillion warriors could not fly. Could not fly. They could not soar in the skies like Junska. They could not drop from the heights and shriek with fury. Pathetic! But even amongst the wingless, this warrior would be fun.

Junska wanted the challenge. Too many red angels had died too easily. Too easily. Their heads and helmets were not worthy trophies to him. Junska had lept from the heights to prey on them all. None ever suspected, none were ever prepared for the hunter. Junska never once needed to jink their haphazard shots from gun and pistol. Each of the pathetic angels fell with the slash of his perfect bladed. Pathetic angels. No one here could come close to Junska’s skills!

But this one would be a good hunt. This angel had claws and fist, and it was slaughtering the little mortals squirming around. Slaughtering. This angel could fight, and it roared with fury before each blow. This angel was a monster. Monster. But it could not fly like Junska. It could not soar. It could not rend the flesh from bone with its piercing shrieks. It was inferior to Junska. It was weak to Junska. It would die to Junska.

The angel was busy now, charging down an alleyway. The champion would fight one of Junska’s Scourged allies. That little Astartes would not last against the armed behemoth. Would not last. But it would give Junska a diversion. Junska could take flight - oh, glorious flight! - and approach from behind. Junska could dive down and hammer the angel in red armor. Then Junska would claw it, cut it, break it, slice it, kill it. Kill it. The angel’s shining claws would make such a beautiful trophy.

The throbbing of the jump pack and the rushing air made the Raptor squeal happily. Junska was finally back home: in the air. The air! No more restrictions of gravity, no rough rooftops to awkwardly scramble upon. No longer forced to use the insulting locomotion of the ground-dwellers. Yes, Junska was free again! Free! And the angel did not sense him. It was busy pulverizing the weakling ally. Junska would not fall like the Scourged thing. Junska would prevail. Bolt pistol would strike true. Power sword would cut clean. The prey would fall. None were better than Junska!

The cacophonous hunter’s cry was amplified in the narrow alleyway. The power sword was alive with energy and thrust straight down. The bolt pistol was already pounding away with round after round. The Raptor was plummeting forward beyond terminal velocity. The strike alone would crush the angel into the ground. The crippled warrior would be unable to walk with knees so shattered and armor so ruined. Then the kill would be clean. Almost there! Almost!

Junska did not strike. The bolt pistol missed. The power sword cut air only. And the enraged angel - red bloodstains blending perfectly with vermillion plate - turned its bulk and grabbed the screeching beast to counter, Junska’s own speed and momentum used against him. Bricks shattered from the impact, wood and stone crushed under ceramite. The hunter had succeeded only in destroying a hab dwelling’s wall. Junska missed.

Missed? Missed?! No, no, no! This angel will die! None are better than Junska. None! Back on feet and talons, charging forward at the prey, jumpack screaming to accelerate the hunter. Sword met claws and sparks showered them both. The hunter screamed, the angel roared. Blades unlocked and unwieldy blows were parried. The angel was skilled, but Junska was still better! Junska would win! Win!

More shattered bricks, and a helmet beyond repair. Another counter forced the Raptor off balance, where the angel kicked the beast through another wall. No, no, no! Junska couldn’t see. Damned helmet, now removed and cast aside with the rest of the useless rubble. The claws were back, faster again, aimed for bare throat. Junska parried, always the better hunter, but it was close. Something was wrong. This hunt was not right. Not right. Balance was off. The prey felt no fear. The prey was gaining ground. The prey had advantages. No, no, no! Junska could not lose!

The angel roared more and more. Claws left cuts in the hunter’s armor and scalded paint. Fist fractured the hunter’s arm. Headbutt concussed the hunter’s vision. Backhanded blow knocked the hunter’s weapon away. Junska was going to die. Die? How? How could he die? Junska is the best! None are better than Junska! Even dazed, down on knees, armor ruined, weapons gone, Junska was still the best! The angel raised both fists high, above the Raptor. No, not this day. Junska would not lose here and now! Junska would-

***

Company Captain Vanni Montalis finally slowed his heavy breathing and let the rage fade from his vision. The abomination was slain, just like the rest of its brethren. Snapping his wrists he flicked what blood and viscera he could off of his weapons. The thing called Junska - as it was so fond of screaming endlessly - had been an annoyance. It, like the rest of those in sapphire armor, could not match him in combat.

The lower torso of the tainted being finally slumped over at his feet, yet more gore spilling out. For a moment, Captain Montalis entertained the idea of smashing the remains to oblivion with his fist, but time was not on the side of the Angels Vermillion. Latest vox transmissions indicated a mission failure. The invasion of the Traitor Marines was unexpected, and the combined renegade forces could not be surmounted. He needed to head to the city square and prepare for extraction. They needed him there to repel further renegade attacks. After all, of the Angels Vermillion, Captain Montalis was the best.

[Warsmith Aznable]

Because interest was expressed: How the Warsmith Won the Heart of His Fourth Wife.

 

Hidden Content

The Dark Eldar Wych had a cruel beauty. Even in the fury over her humiliation she moved with the careful grace of a jungle cat, bloody-minded rage focused in elegant deliberation. The symmetry of her face and form was just alien enough to remind a human that she was other, but so exceedingly pleasing to the eye that the horror of the xenos became a dangerous, addicting thrill. In the fewest of words, she was heretically sexy.

 

She said two words during the ordeal: "I do."

 

Casting a vicious look at her brother, Ythwn Hardheart, a look that said so many more words of dark and violent promise, she demurely slipped her arm around the Warsmith's and walked with him to the balcony a short flight of stairs down from the Observation Deck that overlooked the cavernous spacehulk's interior. A reworked colony cylinder from the forgotten aeons before Humanity had discovered artifical gravity, the truly enormous space had a blue sky with naturally occuring wind and clouds. The ceremony had been conducted on the Observation Deck just outside of the Warsmith's Throne Room, with only the highest ranking members of the Warsmith's 49th Grand Company and Ythwn's Hardheart Kabal present. Down at the foot of the artificial Olympus, in serried ranks along the broad avenue that separated the temples, theatres, and museums, was displayed the full might of the Grand Company, its thousands of auxiliaries, and tenant warbands.

 

"Just remember it took all of that to put me here." Yseult whispered at the Warsmith without looking at him. She dug her nails through his orange and black robes, just enough to draw little rubies of instantly coagulated blood.

 

"Whatever it takes to keep the Webway nexus secure." Bolverk ignored provocation of her razor sharp nails. "It will be much easier to deal with your brother while he struts around my Throne Room instead of scuttling around my cellar."

 

Yseult frowned, but none of the multitude below who roared their adoration for the Warsmith could the see plain hatred that the two openly held for one another. They cheered the appearance of the newlyweds, just as had been made plain was mandatory, and a large portion of the mortals huddled around station viewscreens to watch the ceremony had desperate and squalid enough lives that they genuinely were happy as they enjoyed the spectacle.

 

+++++++++

 

"What troubles you woman?" Bolverk sat in the centre of his garden upon a white marble bench. Through a classic marble archway set into one of the high hedge walls of rose and vine emerged Yseult. She had taken to wearing an orange and black dress, flowing and elegant. It had originally been one of her many mockeries of the Iron Hound's symbols and cyphers, back before she had ceased to assault his fortress of indifference. Then she had found that it had a positive effect on his underlings and wore it when she wished to exert a more subtle influence upon them. Then, she hated to admit to herself but eventually did, she found she simply liked it.

 

"I've tried to kill you fourteen times." She caressed one of her raven braids with her long, pale fingers.

 

"You didn't put much effort into the last attempt." Bolverk opened his eyes and looked at her. She turned away and walked along the verdant edge of the hedge maze, absently plucking petals from the white roses as she strolled past them.

 

"No." She admitted. "The longer I stay here the more infected with this miasma of melancholy I become."

 

"Have you come to me for idle diversion?" Bolverk asked without interest.

 

"I despise these illusions you cultivate." Yseult told him petulantly. "You make no sense, even for one of your kind. If being your wife didn't let me bathe in the endless blood of victims I think I would stop coming home to you, husband."

 

"As you like, wife." Bolverk said, and closed his eyes again.

 

"You aggravate me." Yseult paced back and forth before him, bearing her teeth at his unseeing face. "Show me the kindness you offer even the least of your servants and give me a proper reason to hate you. Give me something I can hold on to, something that will make me feel again. This comfortable lie, this world of illusion you've built is smothering me!"

 

Yseult shook with rage and contemplated a fifteenth attempt on her husband's life, right there in his private garden. She relished the thought, even as she felt it slipping away. In moments she was cold again. She stared at the Warsmith for several long minutes. He never moved nor spoke, and she could not tell if he was being deliberately insulting again or was genuinely lost in his contemplations. After a few more minutes of trying to figure that out by studying his face she felt herself becoming angry again. She didn't want to lose it this time, and hurried into the maze with the intent to disappear into the bowels of the space hulk for a few weeks of hunting the feral space marines and mutants who hid down there.

 

She lost track of time as she turned her way through the maze, and eventually realized that she was more than lost. Even if she doubled back she found that she no longer recognized the path.

 

"You have to know in your heart." The small voice came from behind her. Yseult turned quickly, hoping to find a servant she could work her anger out upon. The owner of the small voice was apparently a small human girl child. She wore white stockings and a black and white checkered dress. Her hair was tied up with blood red ribbons (the red was too, too vivid) and her black shoes were meticulously shiny. The eyes set into her pale white face were dark and dead inside, and the Wych saw deep into them and felt a chill in her heart.

 

"Know what?" Yseult asked slowly, every instinct she possessed warning her of some incomprehensible danger.

 

"You want to go that way." The strange little girl (who Yseult knew damn well was not a little girl, even if she didn't know what it was) pointed, and there appeared an archway and a path that Yseult knew was not there before.

 

"He writes to me." The otherwordly child told her. "It's a secret, but I don't mind."

 

Yseult considered refusing, but realized with a start that she didn't want to. There was a truth in this monument of lies that she was forced to call home, and she needed more than anything to know it.

 

She never looked back to see if the frightening creature was still watching her.

 

+++++++++

 

"What are you doing in my private study?" Bolverk stood in the small doorway. He struggled not to show his anger, but his right hand gripped the wooden doorpost so tightly that it cracked with a loud snap. Yseult sat at his writing table, reading from the large leather tome filled with his own flowing script. "How did you even find this place?"

 

"How monstrous!" Yseult breathed in shock, looking up from the journal for the first time in many hours. "How delightfully terrible! You are worse than evil!"

 

"You know nothing!" The Warsmith crossed the room in three great strides and back handed Yseult out of the chair. The Wych had made no move to dodge the powerful but slow fist, and tumbled onto a stack of smaller books and loose sheafs of paper piled onto the floor around the writing desk. She fell hard and sprawled awkwardly, but kept the Warsmith's private journal clutched to her chest.

 

"How many hundreds of thousands have you sent willingly to the annihilation of their souls?" Yseult ignored the ugly bruise rising on her cheek. She did not bother to wipe away the blood from the broken skin that ran freely along her aching, fractured jaw. "How many of your beloved children have you thrown down the maw of this lie?"

 

"You. Don't. Understand." Bolverk stood over her, his entire body shaking with rage.

 

"You're not just another madman, husband." Yseult scrambled to her knees and pressed her bruised face to his thigh in an affectionate embrace. "You are the most ambitiously vile creature I have ever known!"

 

"I will make it true!" Bolverk shook her from him and stalked to the other side of the room. He slammed his fists down on a side table and sent a miniature diorama of a siege tumbling into disarray.

 

"Does your primarch know?" Yseult stood up and embraced Bolverk from behind, laying her head against his shoulder. "Could you even tell him after you called him a coward?"

 

"You don't surrender to the Warp!" Bolverk picked up a small wooden siege engine and dashed it against the wall. "You master it!"

 

"Oh husband, your hubris is terrifying." Yseult had known the compulsion to follow the strong, she had willingly knelt before the powerful, she lived to serve until the day that none could match her thirst and skill for violence. This one's ambition was soaring as she had never known another's to be, and the enormity of his hipocrasy caused her to doubt her own sanity. It was so brazen a lie that it had to be true, so impossible a gambit that she saw she had to be there to reach for it with him.

 

"Woman." Bolverk spun and grabbed her. He loomed over her, and she melted into his rough grip. "Look at me."

 

Yseult looked deep into her husband's eyes, and Bolverk was startled by the intensity of the desire he saw in them.

 

"I have to kill you." Bolverk told her quietly.

 

"You won't." Yseult answered with quiet confidence.

 

"I will." Bolverk slid his enormous, rough hands around her slender neck.

 

"You have to let me see this through with you." Yseult made no move to escape or resist.

 

"I can't risk another soul knowing." Bolverk said as if he were speaking to himself.

 

"The loneliness is crushing you," Yseult reached up placed her hands on his cheeks in an loving gesture. "Let me share your burden. Let me share in your great work."

 

Bolverk stood with his hands around her neck for a very long time before he made his final decision.

 

+++++++++

 

"You seem... different." Ythwn Hardheart took note of his sister as the Warsmith's court slowly began to gather in the Throne Room for the weekly business.

 

"Do I?" Yseult wore her favorite arena leathers, but Ythwn noted with consternation that the Hardheart Kabal colours and insignia had been completely replaced with those of the Iron Hounds. The dreadfully tacky orange and black with bones motiff still somehow managed to look good on her, he admitted. She no longer wore their trappings with obvious mockery, and it was perhaps how naturally she seemed to bear the Warsmith's colours that bothered him the most.

 

"Come and see me after this." Ythwn said suddenly. "The Kabal is going on a raid and I need you to lead your coven."

 

"Perhaps." Yseult answered. Ythwn looked as if he were about to say more, but the Warsmith and the bulk of the court were making their entrance. Yseult turned away from her brother as Bolverk appeared, and smoothly crossed the Throne Room and sat at his right hand on a smaller stone throne that Ythwn had never seen before.

 

"Well isn't that just interesting?" The Haemonculus at Ythwn's side sneered, ignoring the Archon's acid look.

 

Note: there are varying laps of time between the passages separated by the +++. Also this begins before her last appearance and ends a considerable amount of time after it, so she has not had the revelation or change of attitude from the second to last passage when she appears in the last story.

 

I do hope this fits the bill for hubris, even if I don't say exactly what it is that's at the heart of the Warsmith's soul.

[Teetengee]

Mutation

Hidden Content

Jonquill stood above the splattered corpse of his once-brother, boltgun smoking after removing the head of the last Night Lord in the ambush. He stared at the armour fragment fused with the battle strewn flesh, it’s three connected white lines squared dimly in his three eyelenses. “Spawn,” he smirked, “they have their uses.”

 

He pulled the vox from fleshy claspers on his right leg. “Captain Balgo, this is Squad Jonquill reporting. We have engaged with the enemy. They came at us from the sewers. One of the spawn alerted us to their coming and took the first volley. We took no casualties. We are advancing toward the flank of the Cathedral now.”

 

“How many spawn did you lose Jonquill?”

 

“Just the one sir, we have one remaining, perfectly sufficient to get us in so we can place the charges. Just waiting on your order.”

 

 

“Go ahead Jonquill.”

 

Balgo was too soft. Concern about the spawn was unnecessary, they had ultimately proven their worth before, weak, and lacking in faith. Jonquill knew that those who fell to spawndom deserved their sorry fates, for anyone weak enough to fall to their gifts clearly was unworthy. As Squad Jonquill approached the Cathedral, remaining spawn ranging aside like some hideous hunting dog, he stopped.

 

Four Night Lords in terminator armour stood at the cracked foundation, their intended entry point. All of their armour was ornate and covered in trophies, but one in particular stood out amongst the group. His armour was completely covered in blood covered skins, pinned on with bone hooks. Atop his back stood not just the standard trophy spikes common to his kind, but a living trophy, screaming in agony atop a steel cross, skin peeled back in displayed vivisection, tubes entering and leaving his body at several sites in order to preserve the torturous image.

 

The sight enraged Jonquill, not from the depravity but for the wastefulness, these godless fools put their faith in their own psychoticism, rather than in the true gods. That such effort be expended so pointlessly spurred his wrath. Jonquill’s long tongues slid out from the grill at his mouth and he tipped his head back, letting loose an undulating howl as his tongues squirmed in the breeze. On that signal, the terminators turned to receive the charging spawn and Jonquill’s squad.

 

The two pronged downhill assault threw the enemy terminators off balance. Jonquill could feel the eyes of the gods on him as his heavy and wide curved power blade slicked wetly out from the slit in his left arm and hummed. As his squad landed on top of the enemy, one of them and two of his were cut down in an instant of crackling energy. The battle raged quickly, roaring chainblades searching for purchase against lightning covered armour while heavy fists pounded even the astartes armour of the Thrice Cursed into dust. In ten seconds only two of the enemy and three of Jonquill’s plus the bleeding spawn survived. In thirty seconds, the Night Lords captain was carving the spawn in two as it pinned the remains of what had been his last remaining comrade.

 

Jonquill could feel this would be his ascendency, even though he now faced the enemy captain alone. His three eyes scanned independently over the slowly moving enemy, looking for any weakness to exploit. They found but one, a combat knife was jutting out of a joint near the captain’s left knee; the site leaked oil and blood. He darted beside the hulking lord of shadow, narrowly avoiding the scything talons of a great arcing claw as he broke of the combat blade in the battle-forged flaw. The roar of rage and heavy impact that followed confirmed the hit.

 

When Jonquil turned he saw the Night Lord struggling to stand, left leg locked into a kneeling position and spurting bright fluids. He ran forward and grasped the enemy’s tilted forward trophy, tearing it down to parry a sweeping stroke at his legs. The Night Lord looked up, leg stuck, arm caught in the boiling viscera and twisted metal strapped to his back as Jonquil brought down his blade in a laughing arc.

 

The blade skittered along the armour harmlessly; laughter turned to screaming rage, and grunts to cruel laughter. Still, Jonquil felt something lending him strength. He hammered blow after blow up into the enemy, faster and faster as some dark power fueled his sharp whirlwind. Chunks of ceramite and chips of his adamantine blade flew into the air as the Night Lord struggled to free himself. But it was too late, Jonquill’s blade, eventually snapped and pockmarked from the effort, still managed to carve its way into the thick plate of the captain’s suit. Flesh, bone, and blood began to fill the air as Jonquill’s ever speeding blender of motion sliced off piece after piece of his enemy.

 

He didn’t stop his wrathful scream, tongues darting and snapping in the wind, until well after nothing stood left at his feet but a pile of bloody debris. Oil and blood burned and steamed from the stump of his blade as he shook in the emotions of the violence. The reinforcement team of Thrice Cursed began to approach the now cleared entry point just as he felt a wracking pain in his spine.

 

This was it. His glory. His apotheosis. Jonquill screamed in pain and joy as his neck and spine elongated bending impossibly backwards. He saw the changing reflection of his own face three times in the pools of blood at his feet as his body coiled around itself. The first time, he laughed as he saw the power of chaos flow through him. The second time he screamed, for the truth of his transformation was being made fully clear. The third time he felt nothing but hate, for all that was left of Jonquill’s ambition was being beaten down, subservient to the beast of rage and death which was now being made of his flesh.

 

Muscled tentacles burst forth from its limbs and began to grasp at its neck and torso, slowing the inexorable spinning. Its armour split and rent, even warp blessed as it was, finding the locally changing physics impossible to follow. Black ichor sprayed its comrades as bladed bones burst forward through multiple layers of limbs and torsos. Finally, five limbs, strengthened and reformed and ending in massive claws burst forward from the roiling ball of flesh, each finger ending in a serrated glowing blade. Jonquill’s head, still unchanged from his metamorphosis, stood without any neck to speak off at a 30 degree angle from the horizontal, tongues slavering greedily. It turned its eyes and rushed toward the cracked wall, barreling through an opening in a whirlwind of blades.

Edited by Teetengee, 25 November 2015 - 01:09 PM.

[Carrack]

First off, I apologize for the length of my story this week. I wanted to try something new. I started writing this story last week as the next installation of my latest writing project in the fan fiction section of the B&C, The Wanderer. Then we got this week's challenge, so I tried to incorporate hubris as a theme in the story I was already writing. It didn't really work out, I found that hubris is best described when it's a trait of the protagonist of the story, and I had multiple narrators. So I rewrote the story from strictly the deluded view of Ramone, one of the characters. Then I thought it might be interesting to read both stories together, to see Ramone's view of the entire story in comparison with what actually happened (not that this fiction actually happened, but I hope you catch my drift). Anyway, enough rambling, and sorry for the length.

Dislodged is the original story, Ramone's Fall is his version of it.






Dislodged

Spoiler

Lavam raised a hand to halt his force's movement about 300 meters from the Fingi river, opposite of the mysterious buildings. The trees obstructed the buildings from view, but also hid his force. The trees had gotten considerably bigger as they drew closer to the river. Their were trunks that could hide a rhino, if one could be navigated through such dense foliage. The hetman from the Fewood cult and the chief of the Ursgatch braves came running to his position bowing in the snow in deference. He ignored them for a moment, he knew they felt honored to be serving aside him, a belief he had instilled in them with personal sermons given to each group, but he also must remind them of the vast differences in their standing within the warband, thus their leaders groveled in the snow why he addressed the champion of Crescendo behind him. He said, while removing his helmet, "Moroguln, your squad will be with me as we move up to the tree line before the river, Ramone will take his cultists with us. Barling will take his braves along the river and make a crossing north of the buildings. Once Barling has crossed, Ramone will cross directly into the complex." Lavam pivoted and with a raised palm, brought the mortal leaders to their feet and continued, "Barling, you will approach the complex as close as you can while remaining in the tree line from the north and hold. Ramone you will lead your men and women into the complex openly, declare that you are hunters from the Divi Isles and have lost your way. Ask more questions than you answer. Find out what is there and what they are doing. Avoid bloodshed if you can, and report back to me within 35 minutes. I am relying on you, the gods will be watching you, judging your wit more than your blades. However, if bloodshed occurs, signal with your pistols. Then Barling, you sweep in from the north, while I and Crescendo reinforce Ramone."

Lavam took in their reactions to his plan. Barling was confident that he could accomplish his orders, his braves were use to crossing frozen rivers and hunting in the snow, the braves had already fastened snow shoes to their thick boots, it was why Lavam had selected them. Yet he bristled at having, what he believed to be a supportive role. Ramone was gullibly honored to be singled out, and was smiling with dreams of winning further favor from the gods, that and obscura. Lavam, knew these veterans of Calebra Hive's battles in the lower levels had seen Ramone bind his squad to the Dark Prince, and they had performed better than most of the rabble, that was why they were selected, but he also knew that they had looted a major dealer in potent black obscura and were all high as soaring birds of prey. They weren't in any danger of running out of the narcotic either by what he had heard. They would make the perfect distraction. Then their was Moroguln. Helmeted he was difficult to read, but didn't offer any critique of his plan. In fact he nodded in ascent when Lavam mentioned that the gods were watching Ramone. Was he also fooled by Lavam's manipulation of the magus's pride, or was he supporting it? Lavam had no idea. Moroguln did speak to Barling as he started leading his braves through the forest, he said, "You never fell Barling, you were fallen from birth." The tribesman didn't know how to take the question other than to make a crude sign of Slannesh with his fingers, before drawing his pistol and spiked seal-killer club.

*****

Ramone led his squad through the trees towards the river. He was beginning to warm up after the wind blasted ride atop the Apostle's rhino, but had a river crossing to look forward to. The obscura helped, as did the thick furs, but he was simply unused to being so damned cold. It was an unusual and extreme experience, and he was sure the Slanneshi spirits were happy to experience it, but he himself was miserable. His squad eased into the silent, stalking, pace he had taught them from his days of poaching game from his lord's orchards and lands back on Fewood. The crunching of boots unused to walking in snow made their attempts at stealth pitiful, but the noise of the river was enough to mask their movement.

As the colossal trees abruptly broke their line at the Fingi's bank, Ramone and his warriors paused and surveyed their objective. The river would not be too difficult an obstacle, most of it was frozen solid, save for a rushing, rocky, stream in its midst. Ramone was confident they could cross it without getting wet. Across the river, a brief line of trees sprung from the far bank, but gave way quickly to a cleared area on the steep bank. Built into the slope of the embankment was a large timber two story building with wrap around decks extending from both stories. A snow covered roof was peaked at a similar angle to the slope of the embankment, doing a fair job of concealing the structure from the air. Standing on each deck facing the river, were four men in padded overalls, patterned with a camouflage that seemed customized for the surrounding forest. Sleek optics bands protruded from their masked faces, and long, scoped rifles slung from their shoulders with identically patterned camouflage stocks and barrels. A couple of wood sheds were scattered around in the shorter scrub pines that grew on the slope of the riverbank. Smoke and the smell of slow cooked meat drifted out of the chimney on the northern shed, while the barking of dogs sounded from the southern shed.

*****

Barling reached under his outer coat to pull the Howler 10 autopistol from its holster on his chest, he kept it stowed next to his body to keep the weapon warm and hopefully functional in the freezing temperatures. He had spent enough time on firing ranges during the voyage to Odeanta, that he felt he had a passable proficiency with the weapon, but had heard enough campfire stories about the Outsiders and there weapons to appreciate the limitations of the deadly tools in cold weather. His braves fanned out into a wide and loose line as they neared the tree line north of the buildings. He was glad he hadn't lost a single brave at the river crossing. It was a deceptively dangerous crossing, the ice grew thinner from the bank to the rushing stream of unfrozen water, but fortunately they had found deadfall branches thick enough and frozen solid enough to support their weight crossing the frigid waters. At these temperatures, untended wet feet would be frost bitten beyond any hope of saving in a matter of minutes. Barling and his war party stopped short, crouching low at the wood's edge north of the buildings as he signaled Apostle Lavam with a double click of the vox bead implanted into his jaw.

*****

The ice cracked as Ramone landed on the far side of the stream. He scrambled madly to reach the bank of the wider river, but his squad behind him were already committed to their own leaps, and their landings, equally inelegant, were breaking the ice apart even further. His left foot slipped into the slushy water beneath the thin ice. He gasped out in pain, before he even knew what had happened. Wetness had just started seeping into his foot at his ankle, just over his boot. It was a tightening ring of excruciating pain that started at his ankle then crept down to his toes. Ramone, many years ago, had once been caught poaching monkey meat out of his lord's lands. Due to his young age, his lord had taken mercy on him, and handed the whip instead of the noose to the bailiff. That had been the single most painful experience in his life, and by the end of that morning, it had encompassed his entire back, and some of his sides, neck, and legs. It paled in comparison to what was happening to his foot. But then numbness quickly replaced the pain. Not the numbness he had felt atop the rhino, but a bad, and intuitively "wrong" numbness. Were the Slanneshi spirits testing him? He would prove his worth to them and continue on. Ramone was the driest of his squad by the time they reached the far bank of the Fingi. Then things got worse.

The guards on both decks of the building unslung their rifles and opened fire on Ramone's squad. He didn't even have the chance to call out to them, or draw his own weapons, they simply cut his squad down. Jacketed rounds whispered out of the long barreled rifles to cut through branches of the scrub pines and fell his squad mates one by one. Ramone slid down the slope of the bank, cracking his head on the thick and unbroken ice on the river's edge, but landing protected from the rifles by a short ledge at the start of the sloped bank. His head swam, as much from failing the spirits as his busted head, that and the obscura, of course. As he faded from consciousness, he heard the sounds of the charging tribals to the north, and just before the lights went dim, he saw the apostle and those truly blessed by the spirits leap not just the stream, but most of the river. The champion of the truly blessed, laughing out of the elaborate amplifiers curving over his shoulders from his back pack, looked down at Ramone as he passed, "Yet another fall, Ramone, did you enjoy this one?"

*****

Lavam surveyed the carnage of the lodge as he made his way from room to room following the battle. The defenders were skilled opponents for mortals, but were more prepared to defend against a surgical strike by equally professional attackers than a hoard of screaming tribesmen, and as skilled as they were, they had no answer for the noise marines or himself. On the surface, the building appeared as a well to do poacher's lodge. The rooms were well appointed, if rustic, down mattresses sat upon stained wood beds, the heads of great trophy stags mounted upon the walls, and great heated tubs of a richly veined marble sat behind painted screens. The floors were covered with the furs of silver bears and great white and grey striped cats. Of particular concern were the comms-suite desks with what appeared to be high grade electronics, but the riches of the rooms were not what he was searching for. Nor was he after captives, they had already been gathered at a central room on the floor below the dark apostle. A kinder man would have pitied them being held captive by the savage tribesman of the northern pole of Hell's Holdfast, the base of operations for the Black Maw Warband, and the far worse keepers of the former Emperor's Children. Lavam was far from a kind man though, he never had been in truth, even the faded and distant memories of the boy from Ur Hive on Cithonia were not memories of compassion and kindness, far from it. What Lavam was searching for was the source of a sensation he had immediately noticed when he entered the lodge. It was the feeling of some area or object that drew the attentions of the gods. He had desecrated such areas and objects to attract the gods' attention many times, and knew the feelings it instilled in those like him. Those easily able to discern the will of the dark gods.

Lavam knew he was close to the object of his search when he entered what must be the master suite of the lodge. The fighting for this room was the fiercest in the battle, and no quarter had been given to its defenders. This room also had held what were probably the only noncombatants in the lodge, two beauties who had downed some type of poisonous vials at the onset of the battle. The opulence of the room was clearly visible in spite of the damage sustained in battle. With a practiced eye, long used to the surveying the aftermath of battle, Lavam immediately noticed something unusual in the room. The open floor before the bed that the women had killed themselves on, was covered with the fur of one of the large cats, this one was bigger than the ones he had seen before, a full 5 meters from snout to the base of the tail, and it was an albino, solid white without stripes and pink eyes. But it wasn't the pelt that caught Lavam's eye, rather it was the fall of the bodies, the bullet and bolt holes in the room, the blood stains. The defenders had taken great care to steer the fight away from the rug, and even to not fire over it, in spite of the handicap that afforded them. The rug was probably worth a small fortune, but Lavam suspected the defenders were equally valuable. From what he had seen, advanced optics, high quality rifles and training to match, as well as a lack of identifying papers, and carefully surgically removed scars and tattoos, only perceptible to Lavam's post-human senses, were the hallmarks of elite mercenaries. Something was under the rug, likely well protected. He called down to Moroguln, "Have the failure of Fewood come join me in the master suite.

The cultist champion hobbled down the hall wincing in pain when his left foot took the slightest weight. He was sweating, and shaking ever so slightly, the flood of adrenaline from the fight, along with its affects on his heart rate, must have flushed the obscura out of his system and sobered the former na fruit picker and poacher. He was in the beginning stages of withdrawal. This would make the test even more interesting for Lavam. When Ramone finally reached the doorway, Lavam placed his gauntleted hand on the mortal's shoulder in a painful, but not quite bone shattering grip, and said, "Ramone, underneath that fur is an item of interest to the dark spirits, it is likely warded or trapped, I want you to remove the rug and disarm any protections it may have. The gods are not happy with you Ramone. Not because of your loss of your squad, the spirits delighted in their faithful charge, but your failure to die with them. The spirits have no use for cowards, Ramone. Perhaps you might redeem yourself with a tiny bit of courage now, well after the battle was won by braver men." Ramone was clearly torn. He obviously felt the gods had abandoned him, and his confidence was being further eroded with the onset of withdrawal, but he also still hoped that Lavam had found a way for him to redeem himself in the eyes of his "spirits". He trepidatiously entered the room, drawing the Calebra militia autopistol for the first time this day. Lavam was pleased with himself over the outcome of his little test, and judiciously stepped around the thick timber doorframe of the suite and awaited the fireworks.

There were no fireworks. Lavam heard the sound of the fur being dragged off of its spot on the floor, and then sobbing and retching. He breathed a sigh of slight disappointment and turned back into the room. The rug had concealed a ritual pentagram. Lavam studied it closely, feeling twinges of fear and nausea, but nothing like that of the mortal sobbing as he crawled for a corner through his own vomit. Lavam was well versed in ritual markings from a wide range of practices and began to discern the nature of the one before him. It was clearly sorcerous in purpose, a focus for some spell or arcane ritual, but beyond that, it's purpose would have to be deciphered by one with sorcerous powers himself. But interestingly, the pentagram contained elements of two widely different traditions. First, the style in which the symbol was carved into the wood, and the wax consisting of a mixture of human fat, with just a slight amount of blood to dye the wax red originated with the cult practices of the XVII Legion, but was fairly widely copied by a number of cults with no allegiance to the Word Bearers. Secondly, the wards inscribed around the inside of the circle were protective wards only used by one organization. The Imperial Inquisition. The warning chime on Lavam's vox unit sounded that he had two minutes to his scheduled contact time with Lord Carrack.

Ramone's Fall

Spoiler

Finally the rhino beneath Ramone slowed to a halt alongside the icy road, pulling into the cover of the tall pines of the snow covered forest. When Ramone, and his followers had been selected to ride atop the armored transport of the great apostle Lavam, Voice of the Black Maw, Ramone had felt honored by such a distinction. Truly the spirits had been pleased with him. Yet the spirits bargained for their blessings, and the spirits Ramone had bound his followers to, always asked for the same thing, to relish in the extreme. The extreme they asked in return for this honor, was extreme cold. Back home on distant Fewood, Ramone and the men and women of his coven, had rarely worn more than simple loin cloths or shifts while picking na fruit and poaching game from at first Imperial, then Black Maw lords. After being selected by their new lords, they had stormed the lower levels of Calebra Hive, there they had worn boots for the first time, along with shabby clothes and shabbier armor. On this world, they were bundled from head to toe in thick furs and wool. It was not enough. There was no respite from the cutting wind while clinging to the bouncing rhino, no pity from the freezing temperature, but the obscura helped. In the final days of the war in Calebra Hive, the spirits had awarded Ramone for his service, by leading him into a storehouse of a gang's obscura supply, Ramone and his followers had kept it all, and they still had plenty. Truly the spirits were pleased. Ramone, however was miserable.

The cargo tractor of the less favored, but more numerous cultist-tribesman from the northern pole of Hell's Holdfast, the base of the Black Maw, followed the Voice's rhino into the wood line. Once the bulky vehicle had come to a rest, the rhino's doors opened below Ramone, and the Voice stepped out, followed by the Lords Truly Blessed, the noise marines of squad Crescendo. Apostle Lavam signaled for the cultists to fall in as he began marching to the Fingi River, that the road had been skirting. Ramone and his followers quickly dropped to the snow and fell in behind the Legionaries of the warband. Quick to take the position of honor by being closest to the apostle. As Ramone gathered up his followers, the champion of the Truely Blessed looked at him through pink lenses in his horned helmet, and said, "Did you enjoy your fall, however short that had been, mortal?" Ramone was thrilled that this warrior, clearly an emissary of the spirits was talking to him, even by name, as if they were brothers. He was less sure about the question, was he referring to the fall off the rhino, or a more symbolic fall? He thought the latter was more likely, but weather it was the misery of the cold, or his inability to think straight with the obscura pumping through his blood, he shook his head no. It must have been the right answer since the Truly Blessed laughed. They moved further into the forest towards the Fingi River.

After traveling to about 300 meters from the western bank of the river. The Voice of the Black Maw halted movement with a raised hand, and unsealed his helmet, breath visible in the cold air. The champion of Crescendo, turned to face Lavam as the chief of the barbarians came running atop the snow with what looked like basket lids strapped to his boots. Although the barbarian was moving faster, Ramone was closer, and he trudged the short distance to the apostle to be the first to abase himself in the snow at his feet, another sign of the spirits' favor of Ramone over that of other mortals. The Voice spoke, ""Moroguln, your squad will be with me as we move up to the tree line before the river, Ramone, blessed by the spirits, will take his cultists with us. Barling will take his braves along the river and make a crossing north of the buildings. Once Barling has crossed, Ramone will have the honor of crossing directly into the complex." Lavam pivoted and with a raised palm, brought the mortal leaders to their feet and continued, "Barling, you will approach the complex as close as you can while remaining in the tree line from the north and hold. Ramone you will lead your men and women into the complex openly, declare that you are hunters from the Divi Isles and have lost your way. Ask more questions than you answer. Find out what is there and what they are doing. Avoid bloodshed if you can, and report back to me within 35 minutes. I am relying on you, the gods will be watching you, judging your wit more than your blades. However, if bloodshed occurs, signal with your pistols. I have faith in you Ramone, for the spirits favor you above others. Then Barling, you sweep in from the north, while I and Crescendo reinforce Ramone." Just as it should be, thought Ramone, I will be the focus of both the spirits' attentions, and the mission today.


Ramone led his followers through the trees towards the river. They eased into the silent, stalking, pace he had taught them from his days of poaching game from his lord's orchards and lands back on Fewood. The crunching of boots unused to walking in snow made their attempts at stealth pitiful, but the noise of the river was enough to mask their movement, the spirits had compensated for their lack of grace.

As the colossal trees abruptly broke their line at the Fingi's bank, Ramone and his warriors paused and surveyed their objective. The river would not be too difficult an obstacle, most of it was frozen solid, save for a rushing, rocky, stream in its midst. Ramone was confident they could cross it without getting wet. Across the river, a brief line of trees sprung from the far bank, but gave way quickly to a cleared area on the steep bank. Built into the slope of the embankment was a large timber two story building with wrap around decks extending from both stories. A snow covered roof was peaked at a similar angle to the slope of the embankment, doing a fair job of concealing the structure from the air. Standing on each deck facing the river, were four men in padded overalls, patterned with a camouflage that seemed customized for the surrounding forest. Sleek optics bands protruded from their masked faces, and long, scoped rifles slung from their shoulders with identically patterned camouflage stocks and barrels. A couple of wood sheds were scattered around in the shorter scrub pines that grew on the slope of the riverbank. Smoke and the smell of slow cooked meat drifted out of the chimney on the northern shed, while the barking of dogs sounded from the southern shed.


The ice cracked as Ramone landed on the far side of the stream. He scrambled madly to reach the bank of the wider river, but his followers behind him were already committed to their own leaps, and their landings, equally inelegant, were breaking the ice apart even further. His left foot slipped into the slushy water beneath the thin ice. He gasped out in pain, before he even knew what had happened. Wetness had just started seeping into his foot at his ankle, just over his boot. It was a tightening ring of excruciating pain that started at his ankle then crept down to his toes. Ramone, many years ago, had once been caught poaching monkey meat out of his lord's lands. Due to his young age, his lord had taken mercy on him, and handed the whip instead of the noose to the bailiff. That had been the single most painful experience in his life, and by the end of that morning, it had encompassed his entire back, and some of his sides, neck, and legs. It paled in comparison to what was happening to his foot. The spirits must desire extreme pain from Ramone, to accompany the cold. But then numbness quickly replaced the pain. Not the numbness he had felt atop the rhino, but a bad, and intuitively "wrong" numbness. Were the spirits testing him? He would prove his worth to them and continue on. Ramone was the driest of his coven by the time they reached the far bank of the Fingi. Then things got worse.

The guards on both decks of the building unslung their rifles and opened fire on Ramone and his coven. He didn't even have the chance to call out to them, or draw his own weapons, they simply cut his squad down. Jacketed rounds whispered out of the long barreled rifles to cut through branches of the scrub pines and fell his squad mates one by one. Ramone dove for cover behind a large stump, but slipped, and slid down the slope of the bank, cracking his head on the thick and unbroken ice on the river's edge, but landing protected from the rifles by a short ledge at the start of the bank. His head swam, as much from failing the spirits as his busted head, that and the obscura, of course. As he faded from consciousness, he heard the sounds of the charging tribals to the north, and just before the lights went dim, he saw the apostle and those Truly Blessed by the spirits leap not just the stream, but most of the river. The champion of the Truly Blessed, laughing out of the elaborate amplifiers curving over his shoulders from his back pack, looked down at Ramone as he passed, "Yet another fall, Ramone, did you enjoy this one?"

Needles of pain stabbing into his left foot jolted Ramone to consciousness. He was inside a timber building, most likely the one he had observed from the river's edge. One of the barbarians was leaning over his supine form. The barbarian was a women. That was the first thing he noticed, he had just assumed all of them were men, judging by their height, and the bulky furs they were concealed their features, as well as their forms. This one had her coat opened and hood thrown back, revealing high cheekbones and a long braid wrapped around her neck loosely like a scarf. The pain came from the woman plunging his foot into a bucket of cold water. Ramone, to his credit, did not cry out in pain, yet couldn't hold back a wince and gasp. She said in broken Low Gothic, "I start cold water, then less cold, then warm, too warm too soon, and the foot..." She stumbled for the word, then settled with a chopping motion. Ramone understood. He looked around, most of the barbarians were present, listening to the guttural boasts of their chief, or watching a handful of captives, bound and gagged in a circle. Of his followers, there was only one, he was stripped from the waist down, a trio tubs pushed aside. The same treatment Ramone was going suffering through having failed. Instead a burly man was holding the fruit picker down while another was heating his axe in the fire. Ramone wanted his obscura now more than he had ever wanted it before. The Noise Marines, were taking the captives individually into another room. Wether they were asking questions, or merely having sport with the captives was unclear. All that Ramone heard was a series of screams, each at different pitches, and some longer than others. After a while of listening, he realized that Those Truly Blessed were playing the pain of the captives like an instrument, making their screams a macabre symphony. Ramone needed his obscura. It was in the inner pocket of his coat, more was in his pack tied to the apostle's rhino, both were inaccessible, his coat across the room full of barbarians, and his pack may as well been across the galaxy. He was going to have to suffer without for now. The woman, beautiful in spite of her barbarian upbringing, or perhaps because of it, without comment or word plunged his foot into the next basin, more needles, just as painful lanced into his foot. This time he could not hold back a scream. The barbarians laughed mockingly, but to Ramone's despair, it may as well been the spirits laughing at him, he had failed them in some way, and now they were taunting him, the extreme pain that was too much for him to bear, the beautiful woman who looked at him now as some pathetic weakling, the longing desire for his obscura that was just as close as the woman, but equally out of reach. He must be a failure in the eyes of the spirits, and without any followers, and without the blessings of the spirits, he was really nothing more than a lone fruit picker and poacher in the service of people who still knew the blessings of the spirits and still mattered. Wallowing in misery, the woman held his foot down in the last tub. It was pain he deserved for failing.


Just as the woman removed his foot and wrapped it in a dry towel, the champion of Crescendo came walking back into the room. Over the speakers projecting across his shoulders, announced the voice of Lavam, "Have the failure of Fewood come join me in the master suite." Even the apostle knew he was a failure. Ramone struggled to stand up, his foot still in excruciating pain, and hobbled in the direction the noise champion pointed. Climbing the stairs was brutal, but the servant must obey the master, and that was all Ramone was anymore, a servant with no friends, an addict, and a failure. Thoughts crossed his mind as he climbed the stairs that there was only one option left for him now, and it would end his shame and pain. They were bleak thoughts. He reached the top and saw The Voice of the Black Maw standing just inside a room at the end of the hall. He hobbled like an old woman over to the apostle, wincing in pain whenever his left foot took the slightest weight.

He entered the master suite and saw what once was a room that could only be that of a wealthy lord, but was mostly destroyed by battle, all save a white fur of some predator that could possibly have eaten him whole. He quickly dropped to the ground before Lavam and pressed his head to the floor in submission. Lavam made him wait a moment, probably for Ramone to appreciate his failings of not just the spirits, but Lavam as well. Then the apostle grabbed Ramone's shoulder in a crushing grip, painfully manipulating the bones and tendons, and said, "Ramone, underneath that fur is an item of interest to the spirits, it is likely warded or trapped, I want you to remove the rug and disarm any protections it may have. The gods are not happy with you Ramone. You are a failure. Not because of your loss of your faithful followers, the spirits delighted in their courageous charge, but your failure to die with them. The spirits have no use for cowards, Ramone. Perhaps you might redeem yourself with a tiny bit of courage now, well after the battle was won by braver men." The bleak thoughts from the staircase were meaningless now. Ramone, in spite of his misfortune, did not want to blow himself up in some trapped rug. But what choice did he have, he couldn't disobey the apostle. Maybe this was all an elaborate test from the spirits. Maybe if he did this, not only would the restore their favor with him, but even grant new rewards. He was Ramone, he had held their favor before. But he did not want to die, and that seemed an equally likely outcome. Oh, how he wished he had some obscura. He stepped forward towards the rug as Lavam left the room, left him to his fate.

He pulled the rug a little, it was heavy, the fur thick enough for the beast to survive in the surrounding forest, but it slid easily on the polished wood floor. Nothing happened with the slight tug, so he yanked hard and ran backwards, pulling the fur with him as fast as his left foot let him. There was no explosion, no electrocuting jolts, no poisoned needles showering the room with death, just a symbol carved into the floor and filled with red wax. Oh spirits! My eyes! Ramone had looked at the symbol, and immediately had known that he was beyond any redemption. He knew that the Emperor hated him, he knew that his soul was destined for eternal torment. On some level, Ramone had always known these things, even though he rejected them with the truth of the spirits, but this symbol showed it to him in a dire way that he could not so easily reject, it was terrifying and it made him sick to his stomach. Vomiting, he crawled to the farthest corner of the room, sobbing. Ramone had failed to keep faith with the spirits.

[Kierdale]

A Jinxed Mission

Hidden Content

Aboard Charon, flagship of the Psychopomps
In days of old chapter master Sophusar's quarters had been where he had met master of sanctity Angra and first captain Viphic (though the name of the latter was not often spoken now he resided in chains within an oubliette deep within Charon) and in more recent years the chapter master-turned-Chaos lord held court there, the chamber now open to all his commanders and champions. Larger meetings and briefings were conducted in the flagship's command center where vast hololiths might present tactical data to all who need see it.
But not this briefing.

Not for this mission.
The master of the Psychopomps, Lord Sophusar the facinorous met with the agent in a dark alcove deep within the vessel. Their meeting was closer to the first captain's dungeon than it was the lord's throne.
"A cult magus needs removing."
The agent nodded, knowing that more information would be forthcoming.
"He has overstretched the limits of his office with his ambition."
"Is ambition not a virtue of our patron?" The agent referred to the Dark Prince of Chaos, patron of the Psychopomps.
That the agent was not a devotee of Slaanesh, despite the face she wore, was known to the fallen Astartes lord. She attempted to ingratiate herself.
"Aye, though tempered with forethought. The flower that blooms too early..." A dismissive flick of a great, taloned gauntlet. "Patience is as important in your work as it is my own, no?"
The agent nodded and continued to watch the warrior, far over half a meter taller than she.
"It is too late to save the faithful, his congregation. But you are to eliminate him and ensure nothing leads offworld. He has brought down the Emperor's wrath so you must be swift."
"The Templars?" She referred to that chapter of Astartes, fellow scions of Dorn as the Psychopomps were, who had discovered their corruption and assaulted the now-renegades' homeworld, driving them from it years before.
The towering Chaos lord shook his head. "Another chapter, a most secret chapter. You must be wary. Cautious. Do not let pride in your abilities dull your edge."
The agent nodded.
"Reverend Kalispee. Phioria Four."
And the assassin was unleashed.

Captain Castor emerged from the shadows, stepping to his lord's side. With Viphic and his Bloody First in chains, the former second captain was Lord Sophusar's right hand.
"My Reapers could handle this, Lord. Can we trust her?" Castor asked in a low voice.
"No. And that is why I send her."

Jinx's path to the hangars was not uninterrupted. She managed to avoid master of sanctity Angra and his coterie: lord of the cults -surely there was a reason the chapter master (oh how they clung to their old titles these renegades!) had not tasked the half-daemon demagogue to deal with this rogue cult preacher? A power game betwixt Sophusar and Angra? Jinx had fought alongside warbands of fallen Astartes before and it would hardly be surprising. It was to be expected. But there was something else about this mission...

Holusiax looked into the face of his saviour, though that face had been worn by another at the time.
That he had managed to find her aboard the labyrinthine vessel was no great surprise: he was a master psyker and the two shared a connection. That he had managed to surprise her stepping out into her path (or slithering out, for he no longer possessed legs but rather the lower body of a serpent, not to mention his four arms...) however was unusual and attested to her unbalanced mood.
"Master Holusiax," she bowed her head, removing her hand from the sheathed weapon which hung at her belt, her hand having gone to it in the blink of an eye as soon as the sorcerer had accosted her.
He lifted her chin with one of his lower, purple-skinned hands, feeling the cold stone of her mask. "You need not bow your head to me. Ever."
The two had shed blood saving each other's lives on Cyprius III, for their own ends and reasons.
"What do you ask of me?"
The sorcerer smiled. "You are about to embark upon a mission from our Lord. Do not deny it," he stalled any protest though he expected silence rather than denial, and he was not disappointed. "I ask only a souvenir. From those you will face."

 

Exalted Fecund Cult Den, Phioria Four
One of the Knights turned at a sound, jetting consecrated promethium into a doorway and watching as a flame-engulfed imp staggered into the chamber. At this, a cultist woman broke from her hiding spot and dashed, wailing, toward the figure as it collapsed into her arms.

Justicar Faluse watched her as his squad gunned down the woman’s accomplices and he realised that it had not been a daemon but rather a child.
Now as the mother cradled her burning offspring, the flames ravaging her own flesh too, did the heretic regret her apostasy? Their rejection of the worship of He upon the Golden Throne in favour of the Infernal Powers?
Faluse cared not, for if she did indeed find forgiveness in His Grace then her soul would be guided to His side. If not, then eternal damnation was hers.

A single bolt from his own firearm detonated the crouched, blackened pair and the Purgation squad moved on.

 

The 666^th chapter, that most secret of Adeptus Astartes chapters, had been called in by the Ordo Malleus in response to suspicions that a local sect of the Imperial Cult had been corrupted. Normally such would be the remit of the Ordo Hereticus but the inquisitor had discovered psychic spoor...daemonic spoor no less. Initial suspicions had indicated the influence of the Dark Prince, links discovered between the suspect cult and pleasure dens throughout the capital city but then the magus had moved too quickly and revealed that he knew of the Imperium’s scrutiny: bloody riots were instigated, grisly rituals and the harvesting of skulls. An attempt to put the bloodhounds off the scent and give the appearance of activities worshipping the Lord of Skulls on Phioria. But the Ordo Malleus and their Chamber Militant were not so easily fooled! Faluse could have laughed at the feeble attempt at obfuscation. Too little, too late, too poorly executed. The Knights had pinpointed the cult den and descended upon it like the avenging angels they were.

There had been but two issues with the mission so far, to the justicar’s chagrin - lot least because it was his first mission in that most honourable of positions.

Firstly the cult magus, one reverend Kalispee, had been found dead in his sacristy, torn limb from limb. That the honour of taking the fallen priest’s head had been denied him vexed Faluse greatly, but of greater disappointment was that a fire had been set within the despoiled fane shortly before their own arrival. Clearly no accident, cogitator archives and even stacks of prayerbooks and other printed materials had all been destroyed by a carefully set fire. Yet in the squad’s bloody sweep through the temple and now its catacombs they had as yet found no sign of any agent of the Imperium or a rival Chaos God who could have been responsible. The Knights would smite the cult here - naught would survive, by Faluse’s word - but someone had ensured that no tendrils lead offworld, from whence the corruption had surely come.

 

The justicar’s ceramite-shod boot took the barred door –the last in the entire cult hideout- from its hinges and split the thick beam which had secured it, the sound of the great timbers falling soon replaced by hideous screams from within. A short staircase lead down from the door into the stone-walled vault, perhaps once an ossuary, upon the dusty floor of which writhed numerous forms. Faluse looked upon the spawn with unabashed contempt. Their forms were so twisted that he knew not how many there truly were. Human physiognomy had become the plaything of mad gods. Here perhaps three or even four humans seemed to have fused into one mid-copulation, there was a thing formed from the torsos and arms of half a dozen people though lacked all signs of a head, another - the runt of the bastard litter perhaps seemed to be naught but a single, headless, twisted female, her flesh having run like candlewax, her head having fallen forwards and been merged into her chest, nay swallowed into the ribcage. More than a few seemed to be tied together, silver pins securing chains hammered into the stumps of limbs.

He waved back his squad.

There was nothing more for them to find. They had found the executed magus, and they themselves had purged the entirety of the cult.

He himself would finish these aborted attempts at daemonic summoning.

As he set his foot upon the first step down into the vault he deactivated his storm bolter and with a flourish sheathed his Nemesis Force sword at his hip, running his hand over the cured-flesh-bound tome chained to his belt, a prayer to Him upon the Golden Throne on his lips. Putting his gauntleted hands together he cracked his knuckles and raised his fists, pugilist style as he descended.

While the mission had been a success, he had not found satisfaction. Yet.

 

Bloody minutes later the unpainted ceramite Aegis armour of the Grey Knight justicar was daubed red with the viscera of the slain spawn which littered the floor of the vault about him. He breathed heavily, for talons and claws had found weaknesses in that ancient suit of armour and he had been injured, albeit not seriously.

He was about to turn and ascend the steps, to order withdrawal, when he noticed that the runt still lived.

The twisted feminine form staggered about in the deepest shadows of the vault, its thin hands flailing for purchase on the stone walls and for a moment he stopped to watch it, mirth tugging at the corners of his mouth in a way it had not since long before his ascendancy. Such a pitiful creature.

He clenched his right fist, reaching out with the other to grab the homunculus as he strode toward it. No more than a single blow would be needed to shatter its spine. There was no head to destroy, just that neck craning round to disappear into its own ribcage betwixt vein-webbed breasts. It tottered about on its legs, one reverse-kneed, and he smiled.

As his left hand closed on the spawn, its flesh began to run as it surely must have during its initial contorting of the female form. The beast seemed to stagger and duck as its twisted leg snapped into place, the meat of the bulky body running, muscles moving as if huge slugs squirming in time-lapse under the flesh, migrating from the top-heavy torso to the limbs, thickening them. Strengthening them.

Justicar Faluse faltered as his eyes fixed upon that neck which curved round into its own chest. The ribs seemed to slide aside as a head was pulled from within the chest cavity, rising up to meet his gaze with a jade-masked daemonic visage. As he shot his fist forth the assassin’s own right hand, the digits having flowed into a single blade, punctured the ribbing under his outstretched left arm and into his hearts.

 

 

Epilogue

“Lord Sophusar is most pleased with your work, Jinx.”

“And you?” the assassin watched as Holusiax ran his hands over the tome of daemonology and unlocked its clasp, holding the book his two large Astarte hands while beginning to turn the pages with his other, finer fingers.

“Impressed. Most impressed.”

 

 

Jinx bowed deeply and smiled as she left the engrossed sorcerer, detouring from her way to her quarters to sequester herself in a duct near the flagship’s comms tower.

It was no great labour to piggyback a message to one of the Psychopomp’s outgoing transmissions. One which her masters would have little trouble in picking up.

 

 

After you've read the above...

Hidden Content

I didn't actually plan on doing an entry this week but after Teetengee's spawn one and reading a bit of Chaos Child this week about the planet where polymorphine is sourced I had the above idea. It was a nice chance to write about Jinx, my Chaos assassin, again too and add a bit to `her story`.

[Carrack]

Nice to see Jinx make another appearance. Kierdale. I have to admit, that I too was going to write a spawn story, but I felt it would look like the uglier sister of Teetengee's spawn story, sort of similar, just not as nice.

[Kierdale]

Thanks to all those who submitted entries on the theme of `hubris`. We had but five entries - all from IF regulars (we really need to get our own badge. Win X number of Octeds and you get one ) - but of high quality.

 

Wingless Champion was Scourged’s tale of the overconfident - dare I even say vainglorious? - raptor champion Junska stalking and finally attacking the Angels Vermillion captain Vanni Montalis only to fall victim to his hubris.

 

Warsmith Aznable answered my request for more information on the Warsmith and his wife with How the Warsmith Won the Heart of His Fourth Wife. Fourth!? He gave us tempting glimpses of the hubris at the warsmith’s heart and left us still hungry for answers. You tease, you.

 

Teetengee’s tale told of Jonquill of the Thrice Cursed fighting Night Lords, with the aid of spawn from his warband. He used these as fodder, as hounds, and upon slaying his foe expected to ascend...only for the Gods to laugh at his hubris and reduce him to a spawn himself.

 

Not one but two entries, from Carrack this week, from slightly different points of view (this was very original and something I’d like to try myself sometime). He told us of the Black Maw’s attack upon a mysterious enemy’s stronghold (the winter setting being most appropriate for those of us in the northern hemisphere) using their allies the Crescendo and their pawns the Fewood cult and Ursgatch braves. The story featured the fall of Ramone of the Fewood cult, found wanting in the eyes of the Gods. I particularly liked Ramone’s revelation at the very end.

 

And I gave you the tale of my warband, the Psychopomps, giving a test to their ostensible ally: the Chaos assassin Jinx, who ended up having to cross paths with a squad of Grey Knights, eventually slaying the squad leader in punishment for his hubris, and ingratiating herself further into her adoptive warband.

 

Our winner this week?

Step forward Teetengee and claim your reward!

The name of the thread is `Inspiration Friday`. I had actually not intended to enter this week but, having read Teetengee’s entry (and Ian Watson’s Chaos Child this week…and I can’t give him an Octed too!), I was inspired. The tale was not particularly convoluted but was a good, simple tale of the gods punishing one of their followers for his hubris.

I also loved the descriptions of Jonquill, his tongues and his undulating (ululating?) cry.

 

 

And here begins our next challenge...

Chaos Titan

Those (machine) gods of the battlefield. From Warhounds (we’ll leave the knights for another time) through Reavers and Warlords (including Banelords) up to Imperator titans, tell us of one (or more) of these lords of war dedicated to the Infernal Powers.

 

The challenge runs until December 4^th.

 

You have one week.

Let us be inspired...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just a quick note that while the bonus (Objectives) challenge will end on December 20^th (as will the linked Daemon Forge), our last regular Inspiration Friday for 2015 will end on December 18^th. We will start again on January 8^th. Anyone who feels an urge to write over the festive season: choose a unit from the Chaos Codexes (which we haven’t already done) and get writing…I assure you we’ll cover it eventually.

[Warsmith Aznable]

 

Warsmith Aznable answered my request for more information on the Warsmith and his wife with How the Warsmith Won the Heart of His Fourth Wife. Fourth!? He gave us tempting glimpses of the hubris at the warsmith’s heart and left us still hungry for answers. You tease, you.

 

What kind of lord of Chaos would I be if I didn't answer every mystery with at least twice as many more questions?

 

The truth is some things worked themselves out in my head as I was writing, and I finally found an answer to my warband's need for more grimdark. I want to flesh it out over several more stories before I think about revealing the Warsmith's monstrous secret, as I need to invent and hammer out more specifics. It will probably involve the final confrontation between the Warsmith and his Dark Apostle nemesis.

[Kierdale]

There is a distinct lack of Titans in this thread.
One more week?
I could probably do with one more week to finish mine properly.

[Warsmith Aznable]

Been thinking about it. No real inspiration yet.

[Teetengee]

I have like the first two sentences planned out, plus I think I want to go big with this one, but am unclear on how best to do the description.

also, glad I could be an inspiration to you Kier, you certainly have been one to me (in fact I was thinking of your spawn a lot while I wrote it, actually, I kind of think of your spawn a lot period when spawn come up, they are wicked awesome.)

Edited by Teetengee, 03 December 2015 - 04:25 PM.

[Carrack]

In the event that you choose not to extend the deadline, and nobody else has one ready, and you can't bring yourself to declare your own story a winner, and I don't have time for a better story, here is my submission so I can claim an uncontested victory

The Doom of the Woolten Trench


Boom, boom, boom, came the measured, earthshaking thunder, drawing ever closer to the trench. "Private Pyle!" Shouted the sergeant. "Get your lazy backside up to the firing step and see what that noise is, it doesn't sound like another barrage." The private shouted, "For Cadia!" As he climbed to the ledge a meter short of the trench's top. He had time to call out, "Oh Emperor, its a..." Before the trench was engulfed in the hellfire of an inferno cannon from the approaching Banelord Titan. The end.

No disrespect intended towards this contest and the effort taken to keep it running.

Edited by Carrack, 03 December 2015 - 04:51 PM.

[Scourged]

Nothing on my end, either. I think it's because we all spend so much time focusing on our small warriors and warbands, rather than armies of massive scale. Or, that's the excuse I'll be giving, at least.

[Kierdale]

Thanks for the responses.
As Teetengee is working on an entry, myself too...and with an entry like that from Carrack ( I am tempted to revoke one of your Octeds! )...I would like to extend the deadline until the 11th of December.
I hope no one minds, and that perhaps Carrack, Teetengee or my entries will inspire others during the second week.

That Carrack focused not on the Titan but those facing it is certainly one way to approach it. Or how the Titan (or the full legio?) turned to Chaos? Did it all turn or just part and was there infighting? Was it possessed? How were people corrupted? Who crews it? How does your warband maintain such a huge machine?
Or simply give us a huge battle.

EDIT: or for those of us who had marines at the Siege of Terra (I'm looking at you Iron Warriors) you could tell us of their part in the siege and their witnessing of loyalist and traitor engines there...


That gives me an idea for a future IF:
Memories of Terra: your CSM's involvement in the siege at the end of the Heresy...and a chance to invite those from the Age of Darkness forum to take part.
(From a personal point of view it's not one my Psychopomps could take part in but I could do it from the PoV of one of my daemons...or take a refreshing break and do a story about one of the Traitor legions).

[Carrack]

I actually have found my inspiration. I am going to attempt to use my joke entry inside a much grander, grimmer, and possibly even darker entry. Hopefully living up to the dark glory of the Cursed Titans. Since it seems I'm unlikely to steal a cheap win


Ps. Good idea with the Siege of Terror

Edited by Carrack, 04 December 2015 - 01:51 AM.

[Scourged]

I also like the Memories of Terra idea. Lots of potential. Already have a couple idea for that. Could give me a reason to elaborate on the Black Legionnaire challenging Scindus. Or, I can delve into the words heard by Salazar when he accepted the Gift. Good times!

 

Otherwise, I'll keep knocking around a thought I had with a Freeblade turned renegade. We'll see.

[Kierdale]

Right. I'll schedule Memories of Terra for sometime in January.

And I'm hereby extending 'Chaos Titans' to Dec 11th.

Scourged, I'd like to keep this IF for full-on Titans, and Knights for a future IF. No harm writing it now though