Inspiration Friday 2016: Thousand Sons (until 1/13)

[Kierdale]

Inspiration Friday: Possessed runs for two weeks until Friday the 29^th of January.

There's plenty of time yet. :)

 

Would anyone like this week's IF expanded to include possessed vehicles too, or keep that for the future?

[Kol Saresk]

at this point i guess I win by defualt. everyone you have 5 days left, put your back into it

Be careful what you wish for.

 

Kierdale, I'd say leave it just possessed marines for now. Possessed vehicles run parallel to daemon engines and relic vehicles so they warrant their own category IMO.

[Son of Carnelian]

Inspiration Friday: Possessed runs for two weeks until Friday the 29^th of January.

There's plenty of time yet.

Would anyone like this week's IF expanded to include possessed vehicles too, or keep that for the future?

Keep that for the future.

My entry:

Yoshour hated coming down here. This far into the ship, the air started to stink with a mixture of decaying carrion and the horrid aroma of new flesh growing over metal, courtesy of the Warp. The Cursed liked it down here, for some reason Yoshour could never fathom. Perhaps their mutating surroundings made them feel more at ease about the changes wrought upon their own bodies.

He sneered at the thought. These animals didn't deserve peace of mind. They had given up their perfect post-human form for something far less than perfect and far less than human. Yoshour recognized the power of the Warp and the daemons that made their home there, but as a sorcerer, he mastered them rather than having them master him.

Still, as the resident sorcerer and lieutenant of The Pyre, Yoshour's duties included summoning the Cursed from their lair before each battle. He loathed the task, but moreover, he loathed his lord, Uthtae, for forcing it on him. He had often dreamed of killing Uthtae and taking his place as the master of The Pyre, but Yoshour never moved against an enemy unless he knew he could win. Others named him coward for this. Yoshour called it strategy.

The sorcerer finally reached the hold where The Cursed made their home. If the surrounding levels had smelled foul, the putrid stink in the hold made it seem tame in comparison. A thousand horrible tastes hit the sorcerer all at once and it took every bit of Yoshour's discipline not to simply light the whole place on fire with his abilities.

"Yoshour,' said several voices at once from somewhere in the deep shadows of the hold. 'Have you come to lead us to blood?"

The sorcerer didn't speak, he simply nodded in reply. Though he couldn't see them with his physical eyes, his second sight told him that The Cursed could see him.

"Good,' said the voices with a grotesque echo. 'You know, Yoshour, we Cursed are always grateful for your presence. To stand so close to someone so close to the Warp... it excites the daemons within us."

"I shall take your word for it." Yoshour replied.

"We would follow you to blood anywhere, sorcerer,' the voices continued. 'Anywhere."

Yoshour grinned underneath his helmet. An idea had finally occurred to him. An idea that might finally make Yoshour's lust for command of The Pyre a reality.

"Then come, my brothers,' Yoshour commanded, though he hated calling these things kin. 'Follow me to blood."

[Captain Malachi]

Aeolus trembled in anticipation as the sorcerer paced back and forth in front of him, chanting in a language he could not understand. He and five others had been chosen by their lord for the honour of harbouring a daemon of the Prince of Pleasure, though most of them had perished in the earlier trials, only Aeolus and one other remaining. The other marine sat beside him, both of them waiting for the sorcerer to finish his ritual and summon the daemons they would be playing host to.

 

Just as Aeolus was starting to get impatient, the sorcerer finally stopped pacing and turned to the marine to Aeolus' side. A cloud of purple mist seemed to stream from the sorcerer's staff, quickly sinking in to his skin. Immediately, the other marine began screaming in agony, though it only lasted moments before he fell over, clearly dead.

 

Lesser men would no doubt be terrified by such a display, wondering if the same would happen to them next, but Aeolus knew that it simply meant the other marine had been unworthy of the gifts he had been given. Turning from the corpse, Aeolus glanced at the sorcerer and gestured for him to continue. Another cloud of mist from the staff entered Aeolus, and he finally felt the touch of a daemonette of Slaanesh.

 

"So, you are my new host." The voice sent goosebumps along Aeolus' skin, the sound alone ranking among the most pleasurable experiences in his long life. "Oh yes, I could have so much fun with you."

 

"I expected there to be more pain." He wasn't sure what had made him say that, it certainly wasn't the way he had intended to greet his soul-partner. The sensuous laugh it got him made him forget all about his concerns though, as a spike of excitement shot through him.

 

"Oh, the pain will come, I assure you. Such glorious pain, I can't wait. It's been far too long since I had a mortal body, there are so many things I need to experience." Another smile graced Aeolus' lips at that, it was clear that this partnership would be beneficial to the both of them. "Now then, I suppose we had better get things started. Your body is lovely, but I can think of a few improvements."

 

Then there was the pain, his bones cracking and shifting underneath his skin, his organs moving and his skin morphing, wings erupting from his back and one of his hands changing to a large, deathly sharp claw as the daemonette inside him altered his body to suit her preferences. It was the greatest pain he had ever experienced, and she was right, it was glorious.

 

 

 

 

 

I feel like I could improve that quite a lot of if I took my time over it, but I know what I'm like, I'd get more and more neurotic about it and ended up hating it so I'll leave it as it is.

 

 

Edit- Just fixing a typo.

[MaliGn]

Inspiration Friday: Possessed runs for two weeks until Friday the 29^th of January.

There's plenty of time yet.

Would anyone like this week's IF expanded to include possessed vehicles too, or keep that for the future?

Glad I spotted that, rather alleviates the pressure on finishing models, story and photographs by Friday!

[Kol Saresk]

 

He swam in the darkness. There was no up or down, no surface or depth. The Darkness That Is, just was. Occasionally, he would see visions of The World That Was Remembered.

 

Glimpses of pure sanity that defied his imagination and yet..... They were familiar. Sometimes.

 

Ezekiel. He sensed the Oracle's presence. He didn't call it that. That was what the Dream Voices called it. He never saw it, didn't even feel it really. It was just a deepening of The Darkness That Is. It is time. We must go now, Ezekiel.

 

And so he awoke.

 

***

 

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" Ezekiel found himself chained with thick manacles wrapped around his wrists. Bony growths grew from his arms at every angle and entrapped the manacles to his limbs, preventing his prodigious strength from breaking them.

 

Peace, Ezekiel. You only need to let me have your Rage for a little while and then you can sleep again. the daemon within chuckled.

 

"Oh Forgotten One, the Blessed Oracle, we come to you this day on the eve of battle. We beseech you that you grant us a vision of things to come so that we may claim victory in battle." one of his caretakers chanted. He recognized the former Librarian and struggled as a name rose from the depths of his mind. It was all so cloudy. The daemon normally kept him comatose as the Black Rage gave him the strength to break free of its control, but it needed his awareness to tap into the precognitive inheritance of the Great Angel outside of battle so its directions wouldn't be ignored by his former battle brothers.

 

+NO! I REFUSE TO AID YOU IN THIS MANNER! DO AS OUR FOREFATHERS AND CLAIM VICTORY THROUGH BLOOD AND FIRE!+ he screamed. But there was no sound. He raged against his chains, furious at how far his Chapter had descended. They used to be warriors but now they depended on false visions from the damned to move forward. It was weak. It was pathetic.

 

Hush Ezekiel, you know it is pointless to resist. Now, be still. And so he was.

 

"When the sky rains fire and the ground fills with blood, the light of the Mistress shall smite they foes. When the enemy surrounds you and all seems lost, call upon the Blind One Who Sees. He shall lead you to victory, and onward to the Blackened Throne." A voice that was not his voice monotoned.

 

Ezekiel noticed a curious stiffening in the Librarian at the mention of the Blackened Throne. What was it? Why was it important? What path had his Chapter chosen to follow? How much further into damnation must they go?

 

"Our thanks Forgotten One. We shall you to your rest."

 

And so your part in this ends Ezekiel. Go back to your rest. the daemon chuckled once more.

 

+NO! I WILL NOT GO BACK! I WILL NOT GO QUIETLY! I WILL CAST YOU OUT DAEMON! I WILL UNDO THE DAMAGE YOU HAVE DONE TO MY CHAPTER AND I WILL EITHER BRING THEM REDEMPTION OR I WILL END THEM! I SWEAR THIS IN SANGUINIUS AND THE EMPEROR'S NAME! I SWEAR IT!+

 

You always do Ezekiel. You always do.

 

***

 

He was in The Darkness That Is once more, the nightmare of The World That Was Remembered slowly fading away.

 

The Blackened Throne? Ezekiel? Why were these things important to him? Did he need to know them?

 

Peace Ezekiel. Rest. You need not worry about anything. For now.

 

He drifted towards oblivion as the laughter of the Oracle faded away.

 

 

[Kierdale]

Kierdale, I'd say leave it just possessed marines for now. Possessed vehicles run parallel to daemon engines and relic vehicles so they warrant their own category IMO.

A good point. Let's keep the possessed vehicles for a future Daemon Engines IF.

Here's a short entry by me for the current IF. I say `an entry` as it's not a `Psychopomps` one but another idea that's been knocking around in my head for a while (Nurgle done voodoo-ish). I may flesh The Ghede out -if the whim sticks- in future IFs. Advice and suggestions welcome :)

And I'll probably do a possessed Psychopomps entry sometime before the 29th.

The Ghede, ridden by the Loa

The bokor looked on as his brother entered the peristyle, the ritual space, and began the dance: the banda, while the onlookers beat the drums with a racing tempo which set his blood afire. He had stripped himself of his armour and his bodysuit and his brethren had anointed his body with the symbols: trefoils, crosses and flies. Scarcophagia carnaria, which fed upon the dead and released their souls to Papa Ghede. These symbols would call a Loa and the brother would be mounted. The Loa had lived countless times and to them the cycle of life and death was as breathing. The mounted would be blessed with the secrets of Papa Ghede. They would become an instrument of his benevolent will, to take the lives of those whose time had come, those whom the Papa called to his side. Pain would be as nothing to them. And their bodies, their bodies would be transformed as their black and purple armour was reshaped by the playful Loa for the duration of their possession, returning to its normal state upon the Loa’s relinquishing of their physical form and the return of their spirit to the body. None knew how long the Loa might ride a brother, for it was Papa Ghede’s will. Some perished while ridden, found wanting by the Loa, while others succumbed as the Loa departed their flesh. Those who survived told their brethren of all they had seen and heard as they had knelt before Father Ghede in his garden while the Loa had borrowed their flesh.

[Dizzyeye01]

Here's my own entry. Hope you guys enjoy it

The Returned

Carvus sat patiently on the thunderhawk as it cruised up to the strike cruiser. It had been years since he had left the cruiser on his mission. Lord Tarrak seeked a new member for his chosen warriors and yet the trial was not easy: bring him the heads of eight worthy champions to be judged. If their proved to be worthy enough then the ritual would begin and the chosen would earn the rank of Returned and their powerful armour.

Each champions’ remains was now clung onto by a human slave, fearful of what would happen if they were to even drop the trophy, even with their hands chained. Carvus had made a pact with Tzeentch and each of these names had been burned onto his body as a reminder and guide for his trial. Now as the thunderhawk landed within the docking floor he knew his time had come.

A power Carvus seeked to earn his rightful place as Lord.

…..

Carvus, knelt now in front of Lord Tarrak, his old power armour now taken off and replaced with simple robes. The Chaos Lord looked down from his throne, a smirk etched across his face. His armour showed the many battles and glories that he had been through, from the Battle of Terra to the Black Crusades. His authority was absolute, especially with his bodygaurd at his side. The Returneds.

Their corporal forms were similar to that of space marines’ yet their armour was moving, shifting slightly. Specific details had been purged and merged together. They appeared to have no weapons

Yet their weapons had become a part of them. Anyone and everyone from the warband knew of their predator like instincts and the bodies they left behind.

“So, you have finally returned,” Tarrak said slowly, eying up Carvus with knowing eyes, “Your offerings?” At this moment the slaves came in with the champions’ heads, each wimpering at the presence of the Chaos Lord. With a wave of his hand the Sorceror Enit entered the room, staff and dagger. His armour was covered in runes and etches of madness and rune with parchments attached to his belt. The Eye of Horus was displayed on his shoulder. He said nothing for he already knew his task. He slowly walked up to the slaves and held a hand out at each trophy before slowly speaking.

“Warboss Thrillseeka, touched by the velvet hand of Slaanesh. Last touched by the blade.

Company Champion Arvan of the Genesis Chapter. Dishonoured in death.

Asger the Impaler, Champion of Khorne. Impaled on his own spike.

Farseer Elvier the All-seeing. Blinded.

Inquisitor de Shawe, also known as the Hanger of Devitor IV. Hung by his own rope.

Beastmaster Kaelya. Fed to his own beasts.

Brother-Captain Dorvun of the Grey Knights. Killed with his own blade,” Enit paused after the last slave, turning to Lord Tarrak, “He is worthy of his place, my Lord. I will begin the ritual at once at your command.”

Tarrak turned his head slightly from Carvus, nodding his head slightly. Within moments, more slaves had started coming in. Enit directed them with a hand that only experience could guide, his tongue spitting out sounds that should never have been made with a human mouth. Those who carried the trophies were forced onto the floor, their bodies forced into a shape that made Imperials shake in their own boots: that of the eight pointed star of chaos. While this happened, ancient armour was brought through into the room and offered to Carvus, something which he took with glee.

Soon enough, the ritual was about to begin. Everyone who was not essential had been forced to leave unless they wished to become prey. Carvus now stood in the ritual power armour, awaiting the word from Enit. The chanting continued however, with Tarrak watching curiously on his throne. Something had changed about the room though, nothing that could be seen with the naked eye; mostly a cold sensation that ran down your back or of being watched by eyes not of the natural world.

Suddenly a pain echoed through Carvus, his arms being pulled from his and out into the air like he was welcoming a special guest. For him, everything seemed to be going well: pain was a blessing from the Gods after all and slowly he felt power that he had never possessed before. Enit himself continued to chant, his dagger drawn as he circled around Carvus. Slowly, but surely, he started to lower himself down to the chained slaves, slitting their throats and offering their sacrifice. With each cut, the pain intensified to levels he had never known.

Yet…with every slice the whispers grew stronger and with every slice he realised where the whispers came from. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He was Carvus, son of the fallen Warmaster Horus. He had survived the fall of his legion. He had survived the Legion Wars and he wasn’t going to le-

Then silence.

Lord Tarrak stood up from his throne, his torn cape sliding down the steps with him as he walked forward. He stood in the blood of the sacrificed and the lost, never taking his gaze away from the sight in front of him, “What is your life?” Tarrak asked. For where once stood a ruined warrior garbed in the armour of the past now stood a predator released from the weakness of glory. For where once Carvus stood….

“My life is yours.” Replied the predator, bending his knee to his Lord

…now stands another member of the Returned.

[Scourged]

I've never been big on Possessed, but in my research I found this snippet: "They make superb trackers and can even guide the warfleets of the Chaos Space Marines through the shifting tides of the Warp better than any Imperial Navigator."

 

I liked the idea, and it helped plug some narrative holes for my warband. So yeah... enjoy.

 

 

 

Feed

“Let us… free! Let us… feeeeeeeed!”

Teshin learned long ago to not respond to the beast chained in the center of the room. Letting the beast feed freely had never once ended well - the stories continued to annoyingly live on as myth among the mortal servants. Instead the creature was contained and subdued with sorcery-infused chains, deep in the bowels of the battle barge. Tormented Zyschelan’ul forever stays in its chamber now, at the mercy of its caretaker.

Standing safely outside the bulkhead door to the Navigator’s Chambers, Teshin held the limp corpse of a servant by the neck. Such corpses were never in short supply, thanks in large part to the severity of the Gift. After a powerful toss by the caretaker, the body tumbled with ragdoll elegance before slumping at the feet of Zyschelan’ul. The beast excitedly snatched up the corpse in its oversized hand of nine fingers, the dead human’s bones snapping with the force of the grip.

“No… no good. Feed us Assssstartes!” it complained, as several of the abomination’s serpentine tongues examined the pallid flesh of the meal. Every time it was fed, the beast would complain. When first assigned the task of feeding the Tormented, Teshin would attempt to reason with or placate the creature. He would assure the being that flesh was flesh, regardless of mortal or Astartes. But now? Teshin just ignored Zyschelan’ul’s protests. To say anything else was a waste of words.

Evidently, and as always, the creature was too hungry to truly care that this meat was not the preferred variety. Already the swollen chainsword limb - the cutting teeth no longer ceramite, but bone - tore the corpse into pieces that sloppily fell on the floor. What fresh gore the cutting arm splattered became lost among the red-soaked messes on the chamber walls and floor. The nine-digited fist dropped the pulverized arm to join the remaining pieces, five in all: one for each of the irregular crescent mouths upon the beast.

Its hand grabbed the battered torso and fed the mouth on its head, pushing it past rows of needle teeth. Two prehensile tongues slithered out and collected the severed legs for more mouths, one smiling on the beast’s right shoulder and the other frowning on its lower abdomen. A mass of pink tentacles worked in tandem to feed the fourth mouth slobbering excitedly on Zyschelan’ul’s mutated knee. The last mouth, breathing exhaust from the corrupted powerpack, fed itself with the articulated insectile limb branching from the pack’s apex. Every mouth spoke in a chorus of voices with the meal’s completion:

 

“More…”

Teshin stifled a sigh within his sapphire and crimson armor. The possessed creature always demanded more. It knew the rules, it knew the procedures, it knew the rituals, yet it always asked for more. The ignorant request was a minor nuisance, though. In all honesty, the caretaking of Zyschelan’ul was a blessing. The aetheric influence of the daemon was a soothing balm to the mind of Teshin - the stabbing intrusion of half-truths and falsehoods were drowned out when he stood this close to the beast. A shame the encounters must always be so brief.

 

“You know how this works, Tormented Zyschelan’ul: I feed, you lead. Now that I have fed you, open your Eye lead us to subsector Argaria, planetary system Ophiuchi. A new campaign awaits us, with new flesh.”

 

The half-daemon warrior rocked in its rune-etched adamantium chains. It did not enjoy guiding the great metal beast through the Warp-sea. It offered no thrills! It would connect to the great metal beast - Deception’s Call, it was named - and it would follow the lights in the Warp-sea to new planets. But this was not a real hunt! Zyschelan’ul wanted to stalk and chase and kill, kill, kill his prey up close! Yes, the Scourge-man would bring him food - delicious food! - after it led, but that was not enough. Never enough!

 

“Lead us with haste, Tormented Zyschelan’ul, and I will save you an Astartes corpse.”

An Astartes! Oh, how sweet their flesh was! Their veins dripped with such sweet sanguine syrup. Their muscles were rich with tender flavor. But the hearts were the best, especially when still warm, the fat not yet congealed. It wanted! It needed! The possessed Zyschelan’ul was of a single mind now: the man and the daemon focused on their singular goal. With the bulkhead’s closing, the beast opened its special Eye, and looked hard for Ophiuchi.

 

 

[Kierdale]

A note that Daemon Forge XI shares the theme of possessed. in there why not show us (or make) one of the possessed you are telling us about in the current IF? :)

[Brother Nihm]

Really liking all of these, keep them coming.

[Aqui]

I really enjoyed writing this!

Hidden Content

The cargo bay was in darkness. That in of itself was not unusual for a successor of the Raven Guard, disgraced as they were. But it was more than that. It wasn't just dark, it was a complete lack of any light whatsoever. Hr'Boor, former Chaplain keyed in a sequence known only to him and entered. Silence. That was unusual. Normally the chamber was discordant, the noise physically assaulting the senses, the incumbents within crying out with an unending desire to feed on whatever they come across.

Even he wasn't completely safe from them.

The creatures were Marines once. Noble, proud and dedicated to the Chapter long gone and still to the remnants there after. No more. They did not recognise Brother from any other edible creature, even the ceramite armour was consumed. He stifled a shudder. The Changed were agitated as it was. Fear would merely make things worse. Five former Marines were lost in the last battle. They didn't die, they were left behind, a constant reminder of what lies in store to anyone within their ranks. Even Lord Lurweiss was not exempt. One day, he too could...change.

No one knew what triggered it. Some say that the curse came from the Scions of Corax himself, the meddling done thousands of years ago to the XIX Legions' geneseed folding back finally to claim them. Others stated that their dubious honour of being a part of the Cursed Founding was to blame. It didn't matter. Nothing was going to rid them of this fate. Eventually, all remaining members of the Bahltimyr Reavers would succumb and die a monster.

Approaching one of the cages, he activated the strobe lumens, knowing where everything was by rote a necessity. The Changed hated bright lights, so when he wasn't checking up on them, it was better to leave them in the dark. It also helped to keep prying eyes away...

"And how are you today?" Hr'Boor scoffed at the words, but he knew each and every monsters former name and despite himself couldn't stop thinking of them as anything else. The Lord, however thought nothing of them but shock troops and expendable. The Apostle fervently wished that He would change soon. Perhaps then the chances of survival would increase.

But He had the ear of the Changer of the Way, for now at least. It would be at the Great Mutator's whim, or not.

Cursing, he heard voices at the cargo bay door. The owners refused to enter, the silhouette of one making hex signs to ward off the Eye.

Fools.

"What do you want?"

"Apostle. You have a new one..." the voice was anxious, and wanted to be as far away from here as possible, but fear of Him made him do his duty.

"Bring the unfortunate in."

The newly Changed hadn't fully done so. His body had started warping, but there was still enough of the former Marine left that he was able to walk unaided or restrained. The face was twisting before his eyes. The pain must be excruciating...

"End me!" snarled the Marine. "Do not let me become one of them!"

Hr'boor was sorely tempted, but if Lurweiss found out, he wasn't sure he would get away with it. Tensions between them was already strained.

"You know the right of it, Brother." he replied simply. "End yourself, or allow Tzeentch to show you the way..."

The howl was inhuman, and even Hr'Boor was unnerved. Brother B'Kundiff was not well liked, his abrasive manner meant that he was more suited for scouting than working as part of group. His former role was that of Devastator Sergeant, but since the fall from grace, his was shoved into whatever he was needed to be. Still, his fate was to be...pitied, if Hr'Boor could summon up such an emotion.

"Well?" The Apostle thrust a Bolt pistol into a rapidly mutating fist. The finger tips were distending, extra joints forming, the very armour fusing to his skin and growing, shifting. It was a pity that he couldn't be privy to this in more...scientific conditions. He knew the Apothecary was desperate to see it for himself, but was forbidden by Lurweiss.

"I...Can't grip....gsssss!" B'Kundiff struggled to speak, the vocal cords were no longer able to make decipherable words. Springing forward, the former Devastator made for his former Chaplain. A light, brighter than anything he'd seen threw the creature away, its body hitting the far wall some hundred meters away with a wet smack. With his eyes streaming, Hr'Boor made out a familiar shape. He hissed, anger seething with every fibre of his being.

"When you have finished indulging these creatures, I want them ready for combat. We retranslate into real-space on the hour."

Lurweiss.

"Pity not these beasts, Hr'Boor." that smug, all knowing visage continued. "They have fallen from the Way. Once off the trail, there is no returning to it.

"That is the way of Tzeentch!"

Turning to make his charges battle ready, he could swear he heard the cawing laugh of an unnatural throat. He prayed fervently that he imagined it...

[Warsmith Aznable]

This is going to be very difficult to judge, they are all so good.

 

But being free of judgment myself this time I feel like I can indulge myself a little bit in my own entry for this week.

 

This is the story of Gideon, who is not feeling well today:

 

Hidden Content

The space marine awoke with a start.

Gideon didn’t remember deciding to rest, and a quick assessment of his environs assured him that the Hell Talons had not returned and visited more havoc upon his position. He looked to his squad mates.

They were still dead.

His chronometer chimed a programmed reminder, and shortly after that the man-pack vox came to life. Instead of answering the string of coded words and numbers in kind, Gideon reached out and turned it off. He leaned back in the collapsed fighting position, the effort having exhausted him. What was there to report, anyway?

From his position just inside the tree line he could see down the hill. There was an excellent view of the road, and on the other side of that another tree line. Nothing moved either way on the road, just as nothing now moved in their bombed out observation post. How they had been spotted he did not know, just as he did not know how only he had survived the sudden air attack.

He swallowed, and his throat hurt. It felt to him as if he had swallowed a handful of hot gravel which had become stuck in his throat. His mouth was dry, and he was thirsty. He lay and stared at the sky for a while, putting off the pain until he believed he was ready, then reached for a canteen from the jumble of semi-intact supplies. He did not sip, but took in the mouthful of water in one great gulp. It hurt more, but only had to happen once.

Other than the soreness in his limbs and the pain inside his throat, he was not injured.

A pale image of this planet’s one moon ghosted the horizon above the far tree line. As late as the day before the twinkles and flashes of near orbit void battle could still be seen, but now the only evidence of that great conflict was a straight, dark scar slashed into the otherwise elegant picture of that celestial body, fanning out and fading away at the left end. It was all that remained of his chapter’s strike cruiser, the Virtuous Endeavor.

After a while he levered himself to his feet and slowly worked his way into the trees. In the bottom of a draw were parked two Land Speeders. Gideon checked to see which one had more fuel, dragged the camo netting off of it, then climbed aboard.

+++++++++

From his vantage point at the edge of the foothills Gideon had an excellent view of the plain. Several columns of the Arch-Enemy’s slave soldiers were advancing rapidly in the direction of Manzanar City, which itself was further still and well beyond his sight. The Enemy was racing to surround a rearguard of PDF stragglers. In half an hour, perhaps half that if the bizarre hordes could muster any discipline, the PDF would be hopelessly encircled.

He still had time to reach them.

Smaller skirmisher units from both sides were already in contact. Gideon could easily make out the flashes and after images of their stubbers and lasguns, and pockets of smoke and fire were beginning to turn the lush green field into a much more appropriate backdrop for the familiar drama.

He felt strangely disconnected from it all.

Looking south he saw that the Arch-Enemy had opted for speed, driving straight up the main highway in force rather than sending flanking formations to secure the railway and its agricultural outpost villages. He reckoned that the Land Speeder was fast enough that he could loop south and follow the tracks toward Manzanar City and pass through the lines before the Arch-Enemy made it there. If the Hell Talons and other enemy air forces spotted him he would not make it, but he gambled on their having turned north toward the space port to eliminate the last organised resistance to the inevitable bombing of the capitol.

Gideon’s throat itched, and he fell into a fit of coughing. The pain doubled him over in the Land Speeders drivers seat. When he regained control of himself he felt weak and his limbs were shaking. After a moment he collected himself, and without sparing another look at the developing battle below he angled the Land Speeder south and gunned the engine as he broke cover.

+++++++++

There had been no sudden death from the skies, and he had made excellent time following the maglev track. The handful of stubborn peasants still holding up in the few villages along the way had done nothing but stare as he raced by. Word must have passed along by vox of his approach, for the PDF had let him through the lines unchallenged, save for a single nervous flight of stubber tracers as he first came into sight. Those passed well beyond threatening him, and there were no further incidents of the like.

What must they believe of him? His chapter were not many, and had sent few, and now he was the only space marine left. He was the only off-world help available of any kind. That there was any resistance to speak of was the result of a fortuitously timed Regimental Raising, the Arch-Enemy entering the system before their departure for parts unknown.

Manzanar City would come under siege, but perhaps they could hold out, perhaps another chapter or the sub-sector Navy would respond.

Gideon did not think about the reinforcements he did not believe were coming, and he did not look at the faces of the people as he wound his way through the streets of the city. There was a lot of activity, some of it confused and some of it focused. Gideon passed a multitude of scenarios: conscripts marching toward the perimeter; civilians carrying a wide assortment of personal belongings away from the city walls toward the dubious safety of the city proper; riot police shooting into panicked crowds; the bodies of dozens executed for cowardice or looting; fanatical mobs parading after chanting priests. He could smell their fear, and it made him drive faster.

+++++++++

Gideon picked his way through the crowded hallway of the hospital. It was not like the apothecarions he was used to. The facilities were much more rudimentary, mostly just moveable curtains and cots lining the side chambers. Patients waited huddled against the walls of the hall, with volunteers and nurses performing triage and rousting the ambulatory to make room.

He wasn’t certain what he was looking for, and he was well aware of the psychological effect he was having on those around him. The fear and confusion and misplaced hope washed over him. He wanted to leave, but he reflexively swallowed a mouthful of drool and then grit his teeth at the pain.

Finally he chose a doctor at random, and used his dominating size and commanding attitude to usher the man into one of the few modern examination rooms at hand. Gideon could hardly speak, and what came out was raspy and choked through with agony. The doctor, an older man with a hangdog face, eventually gave up denying sufficient knowledge of Astartes physiognomy and did his best to examine Gideon.

Gideon felt strange letting the little mortal man massage his neck and peer into his mouth. He hadn’t noticed the blood before the doctor swabbed a great lump of it out of his throat. He hadn’t noticed the foul smell emanating from within him until the doctor asked him how long it had been the case. A nurse, a Sororitas Hospitaller, appeared and took the doctor’s place. Her examination was quick and painful, and there was no kindness in her eyes when he reflexively withdrew from the cutting implements she aimed at the back of his throat. After a brief consultation with her dataslate, she mechanically informed him of his condition.

“Aggressive cancer.” She said, sterilizing her narthecium tools for the next patient. “In a pure human years or months to develop, but in your case your altered biology accelerated and exacerbated the condition. It looks like it started in your neuroglottis, then spread to your throat.”

Gideon could only stare at her, unable to comprehend.

“You are dying, space marine.” The Hospitaller told him bluntly. “And very soon.”

“How long?” Gideon finally managed.

“No way to say exactly with such a brief examination.” The Hospitaller frowned at him. “But you should make your plans for martyrdom right now. I do not believe you will be physically capable of combat for more than a few days, at most.”

Gideon said nothing as the stone faced woman left the room. After another fit of coughing, this time with blood laced phlegm, he moved his aching body back out into the hallway and its crush of humanity.

Outside the hospital he came to his Land Speeder. Martyrdom sounded so routine to himwhen the Hospitaller prescribed it. Just get into his Land Speeder and drive to the front line and the rapidly approaching enemy.

He felt weak, and his legs trembled as he tried to mount the vehicle. Suddenly he collapsed, and he knelt gripping the vehicle’s railing for support. His whole body felt weak. His stomach clenched. His breathing became fast and shallow. His flesh felt prickly. A cold feeling corkscrewed up his spine. His brow was slick with sweat, and he clenched his jaw.

An overpowering stench filled his nostrils, and it spiked memories deep inside him. Heretics and traitors, mutants and witches. Fear. He smelled fear, the nauseating smell of adrenaline and pheromones, the stench of the hundreds of mortals he and his squad had purged over the years, the odor of the panicked crowd as he had driven through the city.

“This is what fear feels like?” He whispered to himself.

+++++++++

He didn’t know what brought him to this particular part of Manzanar City. There was a distant thumping and crackling noise that told him the siege had begun, but he was many kilometers away in a suburban hab district. The civilians that resided here had long since been evacuated behind the secondary walls of the inner districts, and Gideon walked alone. He had abandoned his Land Speeder and wandered aimlessly on foot.

“I am unworthy.” He said out loud. Shame drove him to move, but trepidation moved him in circles. He could not approach his Land Speeder, because he knew he should get back into it and drive straight at the Arch-Enemy.

It was well into the night when he resolved to kill himself. All that he had to do was find a proper place. He saw an open door to one of the civilian habs and ducked inside, scraping past the undersized doorposts.

He had never been inside a civilian dwelling that was intact before. Before they had always been bombed out ruins. It was simply two rooms, a living and a sleeping area. There wasn’t much in the way of furnishings inside, but the accumulation of mortal possessions distracted him. As the rumble of the siege increased in volume and intensity, Gideon sat on the floor opposite the hab’s pict-viewer, bolt pistol in hand, staring at the blank screen.

He realized, about an hour before sunset, that he didn’t want to die.

+++++++++

Gideon did not know how long the sun had been up, or how long it had been since the crashing and chattering guns of the Arch-Enemy had ceased. He was not even aware of the quiet until the sound of distant voices drifted through the still open front door of the hab. The voices were unhurried, and though they said casual things there was an edge to them that was coloured with the violence.

Suddenly, ragged soldiers walked through the door. Two of them were fully inside before their eyes adjusted to the gloom and they saw Gideon sitting on the floor looking back at them. With a string of alarmed curses the soldiers hastily retreated. The first one fell and eyed Gideon wildly as he scrambled backwards, failing to find the doorway and pushing himself instead into a corner.

Gideon expected grenades to come sailing in, eliminating himself and the hapless Traitor Guardsman that whimpered in terror several feet away. But no grenades came, and neither was the flimsy hab shot through with stubber rounds. The wild-eyed traitor slowly crawled out, never once breaking eye contact with Gideon.

An hour later another form shadowed the door.

“Who are you?” A harsh voice demanded.

“I’m dying.” Gideon told the crimson armoured space marine. “Leave me be.”

“Is that so?” The intruder stepped further into the hab, pointing a gargoyle headed plasma rifle at Gideon. The Arch-Enemy turned its helmeted head down, examining the bolt pistol in Gideon’s hand. “Working yourself up to swallow a bolt round?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Gideon answered. “I’m dying, and none of this matters.”

“What’s wrong with you?” The red clad enemy growled, sniffing at the air through helmet ventilators that were suspiciously organic looking. “You smell awful.”

“Cancer.” He let out a bitter laugh, then winced as he fell into another fit of coughing. When it was over the bolt pistol in his lap was covered in blood and bile, and the flesh of Gideon’s face had turned pale and clammy.

“Only slaves get cancer.” The enemy sneered at him. He waved the muzzle of his plasmagun to indicate Gideon. “You gonna get on with it?”

“I don’t want to die.” Gideon stated. He wasn’t pleading for his life from this enemy space marine, but he had struggled to put the feeling into words all night. He wanted to say it out loud, if only just the once.

“Hold still.” The enemy shouldered his plasmagun, taking aim at Gideon’s head. “I don’t want to put a hole in your power armour.”

“I don’t want to die.” Gideon said again, closing his eyes. He wanted to point the bolt pistol at the other space marine’s mocking face, but he had no strength left in his limbs.

The other space marine did not fire. He cocked his head to one side, listening to his internal vox. After a moment he growled, but lowered the weapon.

“Maybe you don’t die.” The Traitor Marine sounded disappointed, but crouched in front of Gideon before whispering conspiratorially. “Hey. I take your power armour. You don’t need it, dead or no dead.”

Gideon lay limp while the Traitor tugged and fumbled at the locks and connectors of his power armour. Gideon mumbled incoherently, head lolling back and forth, while the Traitor Marine hummed tunelessly to himself and talked his way through the dismantling of Gideon’s armour.

When the others arrived Gideon lay on the floor covered in blood infused vomit in nothing but a torn body glove. The Traitor Marine had pushed his power armour pieces into a far corner and squatted in front of them protectively. Harsh words were immediately exchanged between himself and several of the others, envious of his treasure, and their growing histrionics were only silenced by a command of the last figure to enter the now crowded hab.

“I understand you don’t want to die?” The black robed figure leaned over Gideon, supporting himself on a blasphemously decorated staff of cold, wrought iron.

“Live.” Was the only word that Gideon had the strength to say. His breathing was shallow and the phlegm rattled deep in his chest, pink foam at his lips.

“And what about your Emperor?” A pale face covered in cuneiform tattoos leered out of the shadowed recesses of the black hood. “What about your chapter?”

“Live.” Gideon coughed out the word, racked with pain.

“Tell me just one more time.” The black robed space marine held out a bony hand, and in it held a small, greenish brown egg. “What is it you want to do?”

“Live.” Gideon croaked out the word, but only with the greatest of effort. As Gideon wheezed out the last part of the word, the dark space marine cracked the egg in his fingers, and a foul, aetheric liquid oozed out. It found and drained down Gideon’s throat with wormlike pulsations, growing in size as it did so until Gideon was choking on the putrid thing.

“And so you shall, my young friend.” The black robed traitor pushed himself back up with his iron staff, then left the hab without further comment. As soon as he was out of the door his minions erupted into a grasping melee, each tearing at the pieces of Gideon’s power armour in a selfish frenzy.

+++++++++

It was like an apothecary’s draught. He could still feel the pain, even the sensation of quivering weakness in his muscles, and the clenching fire in his belly, and the soreness of his joints. As his consciousness reformed and sharpened he could feel even more pain in greater detail. Somehow, though, it no longer bothered him. Physically he felt adrift inside of himself, as if caught between the waking world and a dream.

We live.

It was not his own voice or thoughts, but that of another frighteningly close by yet unseen.

We are immortal.

+++++++++

The space marine’s body shuddered and the lungs rattled their last, and then all was still. For a moment.

“Mine.” The mouth that once belonged to Gideon opened to speak the word, then continued to open. The corpse sat upright, smiling with loosened teeth in bleeding gums as the lips continued to peel back. The eyes turned milky white, and the right one burst and ran like hot wax down a bony cheek. Yellow, broken nails cracked and grew out of the reaching fingers the corpse pointed at the crouched and arguing Traitor Marines as they pulled and scratched at the Mark VII plate.

+++++++++

Gideon sat on the couch in the hab. On the pict-screen hung on the wall opposite him he watched in vivid, high definition as a disturbingly familiar yet horrifyingly putrid corpse-thing slashed and punished the cowering Traitor Marines, forcing them to drop his power armour and flee.

The hab, his hab somehow, was much brighter and nicer than the one on the pict-screen. Everything seemed to fit, as if it were made just for him.

“Would you like some recaff?” A woman asked him from the kitchenette. Gideon did not know who she was, but some recaff sounded like a fine idea.

“Yes, please.” He told her. She smiled at him as she handed him a warm mug, then looked at the pict-screen.

“What are you watching?” She asked.

“I don’t know.” Gideon sipped the spicy brew, never taking his eyes off the screen. “Some kind of action film, I think.”

“Why don’t you go in the other room and lay down?” The woman suggested, gesturing toward the bedroom. It was comfortingly dark in the oblivion beyond the door, and Gideon considered it.

“Maybe later.” Gideon said after a moment. “Right now I want to see what happens next.”

[EesiOh]

 Bad luck that you're the judge becuase that was a 10/10/10 

[Kierdale]

And now for a Psychopomps entry.

Faith

Hidden Content

Promethium, lapping powder, sweat, fycelene, engine oil and burning wax. These were smells familiar to him, and were present to a degree, but as brother Godebert awoke his nose was assaulted by other, alien scents. Patchouli and gugal, galbanum and other smells unidentifiable to even the enhanced senses of an Astartes. That he could smell these scents immediately alerted him that his helmet was no longer upon his head and he struggled to recall how he had come to be wherever he was. He pushed these reflex thoughts from his mind and opened his eyes. More important than how he had gotten where he was, he needed to assess the immediate situation.

His peripheral vision took in familiar sights: he was within the largest chapel aboard the Argent Blade, upon the altar. The candelabra in the cruciform shape of his chapter overhead, the millennia-aged tapestries upon the walls depicting the deeds of his crusade, his chapter and their primogenitors, all the way back to the Siege of Terra at the climax of the Great Betrayal. Familiar, reassuring sights and he attempted to rise from his prone position onto to find his body was restrained. His armour was heavy and sluggish; his backpack was either damaged or disabled, and his body had been bound with chains. That the chains were barbed and etched with script he barely noticed, for the other being in the room stole his attention.

The light was dim in the chapel but as his senses returned he soon noticed the beast. Some three times the height of an Astartes, it was at once muscular and lithe, humanoid and bovine, repulsive and entrancing. It stood on two reverse-kneed legs which terminated in cloven hooves, a pink loincloth its sole garment but for chains and hoops which pierced its chest - one side of which appeared to be masculine, the other feminine - and upper limbs, of which it had four, two ending in humanoid hands each large enough to crush a man’s head, and two with claws larger than those of an alpha-male Catachan devil.

The gilt chains which snaked from piercing to piercing, pulling at its pale pink flesh jingled as its lips peeled back in a bestial grin, its violet eyes ceaselessly staring into his own.

“Trust in the Emperor at the hour of battle…” brother Godebert began to chant as he closed his eyes and strained at the chains and the weight of his armour.

The deck of granite flagstones shook as the daemon advanced up the aisle.

“Trust in him to intercede, and protect his warriors true as-“

“He is not here, brother Godebert,” the beast spoke with a voice far silkier than could be expected from its fang filled, pierced maw.

His opened his eyes and looked to the ciborium in front of the candelabra and the image of the amber armoured, sable-crossed warrior carved upon it. A warrior supreme stood at the gates of his lord’s castle upon a growing mountain of the bodies of his foes. He drew strength from it.

“I know what you are, abomination.”

The beast tittered like an amused child.

“You are a teller of lies, a twister of minds. And you have no power over me.”

Every time he looked at the daemon its size appeared to alter. At first it had seemed thrice the height of a marine, then his equal, then far larger. He knew he could not trust his senses.

“I am naught but a keeper of secrets, brother Godebert.”

“My eyes are blind to your illusions. My ears deaf to your falsehoods. Unbind me and I shall show you a truth. The strength of faith. The strength of a Templar.”

The daemon smiled and looked away from him, toward the tapestries and friezes upon the walls, the figures of heroes of the chapter carved in marble and granite, as it circled the marine bound upon the altar. Would this altar, before which he had prayed in communion with his brothers before countless battles, soon become his catafalque? And where were his brethren? He appeared to be aboard the Argent Blade yet where was the rest of the crusade? A hundred battle brothers and more...was he the only survivor? Or was this chapel merely an illusion, a recreation to cause his despair, to instill loneliness? He was no sword brother but he was a veteran of decades of battle against xenos, heretics and threats from beyond the veil, and his faith was not going to be broken so easily.

“I have no lies to tell you, Templar, for all the truths you need know are within,” one clawed hand motioned, taking in the chapel, while a humanoid hand ran its fingers over his forehead, a long nail pausing to teasingly circle the service studs in his brow. “I am merely here to aid your enlightenment.”

“I need no enlightenment, the light of faith outshines the prevarication of the damned. My faith in my chapter, the high marshal, my primarch and the Emperor.”

This brought more mirth to the daemon’s face and it threw its head back in laughter, its chest shaking and the sound echoed through the cold chapel.

“Such are the foundations of your faith, crusader?”

“Smite now the scions of the witch! Grant us-“

A look of sorrow fell upon the daemon’s face and it tilted its head.

“If only he had thought as you do now. Then son would not have been riven from father.”

Godebert gave the daemon a baleful stare, daring it to mutter another lie but the beast’s sorrow turned to sympathy as it saw the smallest mote of something not quite yet doubt nor questioning, but something, in his eyes.

“Perhaps had he not listened to the demagogue - to the witch - your forefather would not have been disowned.”

“What is this blasphemy you speak?” Godebert spat.

The daemon merely stepped back, its size now unthreatening, and pointed a slender finger toward the heavens. Toward the figure upon the ciborium.

“Cast out from his father’s side, from the primarch’s light, for refusing to turn his ear from the lies of a witch...”

“LIES!” Godebert roared and turned his face from the carving and from the daemon.

His eyes fell upon the tapestries on the far wall, millions of intricate stitches which had required such concentration that the artisan had been blind upon its completion. Images of the Siege and the Fists upon the walls, pouring holy fire upon the traitors. And to the left, the preparation for the Siege. The fortifying of the palace upon holy Terra. There stood in amber thread the primarch Dorn and his foremost son. Godebert focused upon the two figures, the perfection of their form, their martial glory.

“You must choose,” a female voice echoed through the chapel. Godebert did not tear his eyes from the two figures upon the tapestry.

”By the words of your duty, or by your father’s side at the end.”

“I could see it. It was real,” this time a deep, strong voice which he knew deep within his soul could only be the voice of the first high marshal. It was strained, and shivers of panic began to spread like stress-cracks through the Templar’s faith.

”What is the other path?”

“Death, Sigismund. Death and sacrifice far away, under the light of an unknown star. Alone and unremembered.”

“You have betrayed me,” this voice shook Godebert’s soul and the tapestry shifted as if disturbed by a draft. It was a voice of such power, and containing such anger and hurt that it brought tears to the battle brother’s eyes. He stole his eyes from the two embroidered figures, swearing that as he did so the larger had impossibly turned from the other as the smaller sunk to its knees.

”I sought only to serve. I am no traitor.”

“I say that your duty was to obey, not deceive. Arrogance. You serve your own pride. You have no right to kneel before me. There will be no easy end for you...I am not your father.”

The tapestry was shook by wind now and the voice boomed through the chapel, sending dust from the high arches above.

You are not my son, and no matter what your future holds, you never will be.”

The candles blew out as the Templar’s faith was shattered and darkness descended.

“Faith built upon pride. Arrogance,” the daemon’s sorrowful, sympathetic voice came again. “The lies of a witch.”

The daemon’s voice grew in strength as it began to circle the altar.

“You who strove for excellence. For purity of duty.”

It paused by his head, placing a nail upon his first service stud once more and cutting out away from it, carving an arrow, crescents and crosses into his forehead. Marking him.

“You are not to blame, and you are not the first,” it now began to carve similar symbols into the ceramite of his armour, while his wide eyes tracked the beast, his mouth open, wordless, his mind broken.

“The Stygians. They held duty above all, and my master showed them the folly of denying their nature. But you,” it paused to etch more icons into the right side of his chest plastron, disfiguring the Aquila there. “You sought perfection. Perfection based upon a false faith.”

Its work complete, it moved to lean over him, taking his head in its humanoid hands.

“We will show you perfection. You will become a vessel of its essence.”

Brother Godebert screamed as one of the neverborn tore its way through the holes in his mind and began to reshape his body and his soul...

[Zhaharek]

Hahaha, it's good to be back.

 

These are some truly glorious entries....

[Carrack]

The Path to Power

 

 

 

As the strike force reassembled in the assault bay, awaiting Lord Carrack, who would be the last to return from the world below if he made it, tensions ran high. They always did when the fate of the lord of the Black Maw was in question. The officers, Lythane the Black, Lavam the Voice of the Black Maw, Captain Garraduk One-Eye, the Warpsmith Chain Maker, and Vinno the Champion of the Chosen, all eyed one another warily, a new lord would not be selected peacefully. But Keeper, his first time experiencing this oft repeated ritual, noticed that the tensions ran high amongst every legionnaire of the warband, not just the top echelon. If a battle for succession occurred, undoubtedly vacancies would appear that each member would try to fulfill. For the sake of the Black Maw, it could prove disastrous, but each Astartes had a chance to improve his lot, except for Keeper.

 

Keeper was a thinblood, a newly made Astartes only recently made champion of a small squad of other thinbloods, and being a thinblood mattered in a warband where the leaders had all fought the Long War since its beginning. From what he had seen, he knew he was at the peak of his possible standing in the warband. The only thing left for him was to ensure his squad members didn't usurp his position, something he was all too familiar with considering the way he had taken control of his squad. But perhaps there was a way. The Black Maw respected the legacies of their ancient warriors, but they respected power more. Such was the Will of the Gods that was enforced upon any who had called the Eye of Terror home. Keeper had heard of a way to possibly gain such power without having to prove his worth over ten Millenia of war.

 

As the tense minutes dragged on, Keeper eased himself closer to the apostle Lavam. Something of a stand off was brewing between Vinno, the Chosen Champion, and the former Captain Garaduk One-Eye. Space had cleared between the two as they stared each other down. Vinno's helm was slightly inclined, presenting his horns forward in a subtly challenging gesture, not so bold as it couldn't be ignored, but obvious enough for all to know its meaning. For his part, the cyclopian captain stood in a relaxed stance that could either be a resting position, or a loose fighting stance. He had also neglected to extinguish the pilot light on his ensorcelled flamer, an omission which fooled no one. The stand off attracted enough attention to allow Keeper to slide up to Lavam unnoticed. Not truly unnoticed, everyone in the assault bay was hyper alert, but the actions of a thinblood champion were a less interesting side show to the main event that could occur at a moment's notice.

 

Lavam didn't deign to look in Keeper's direction or verbally acknowledge him, but tellingly, he opened a private vox channel between the two. Keeper made his case, "Your teachings are still fresh in my mind, Voice of the Black Maw. You taught us all, of the potential blessings of the gods for those faithful in their devotion. My squad may be young, but we are fervent in our devotion. We wish to show our allegiance to the gods by hosting their emissaries." Keeper could not see the knowing expression of Lavam behind his helm, nor the glance towards Keeper's squad that confirmed their ignorance of their champion's request. Lavam replied, "I see that I have taught you and your squad well when you were naught but aspirants just a few years ago. Perhaps if I had recognized your wisdom then, I would have taken you under my tutelage. Nevertheless, I can see that you have grown worthy of such an honor quicker than anyone else suspects, and I will guide you in your quest to be born again with the power of those who never were born....For a price. You must pledge your service to me. You must come to my aid, should I call upon it. You must be at my side, even against our brothers, should I call. But I warn you, the path you seek is not an easy one, you will be asked to make sacrifices to achieve the power I can grant you." Keeper merely nodded his assent.

 

Confusion filled the assault bay, and weapons were drawn. The main engines of Bitter Revenge had begun powering up. The ship was getting ready to move. Just at the brink of blood being shed on the deck of Assault Bay 4, the booming voice of Lord Carrack thundered over the ship's all stations vox from the teleportation chamber. Lord Carrack, the Doom of Calebra Hive, addressed his forces, "Our mission was successful, I have recovered the Wanderer. Prepare for void war, we will be fighting our way out of this system. The tension eased, as first the rank and file, than the officers of the Black Maw left the assault bay to prepare for boarding operations. The moment to seize a better position in the warband had passed. Keeper wondered if he should have rushed into his decision so quickly, and if he would have done so if the chance for advancement wasn't dangled in front of every legionnaire while they waited in the assault bay. If he knew what he was in store for, he certainly wouldn't have agreed to take this fool's route to power.

 

[MaliGn]

The sixth penance of Kor Ladron: the Moon of The Blade Sirens

 

 

Having completed the fifth of his thirteen great penances the penitent Apostle, Kor Ladron had already learned much, both of the empyrean truth and of himself and his devout coterie of Word Bearers, each voluntarily accompanying him on his fateful voyage. Their faith in him, in the legion, in the Urizen, Blessed Lorgar was fervant and unquestioning, and thus far had served them well. They had borne their penances well, although they had caused immeasurable damage to their once noble souls, the atrocities they had wrought had tarnished them, callous and bitter they pushed on, not aware of the nightmares to come.
As the Word Bearers sailed deeper into the eye of terror they were drawn by warp currents occasionally piloting between them according to the instructions of their leader, never questioning his guiding visions. As they manouvered for one such transition an unexpected toungue of emyprean energy ensnared them and whipped them into an edyying current, spiralling in a decaying orbit towards a large moon. Helplessly they were drawn ever closer; as they neared the surface a cloying musky scent assailed them, whispering voices danced breathily on the edge of hearing, their gene enhanced bodies quivered with intangible caresses. With an almighty exertion of sheer will power Kor Ladron broke free of the enthralling power, he passed from one member of his coterie to another, breaking their trances and ordering them to enter a state of suspended animation.

 

 

Alas he was too late to rescue the youngest of his acolytes; Pre'Yen, an impulsive, if pious marine, glory-hungry and more exuberant than many of his brethren within the typically solemn seventeenth legion. Unable to wake his disciple from the bewitching clutches of the trance Kor Ladron instead bound Pre'Yen to one of the bulkheads with thick cables and heavy chains. As he restrained his ensorcelled companion he muttered an incantation in a sinister sibilant dialect of the Dark tongues. Again the alluring clutches of the trance pulled at Kor Ladron; holding firm, he knelt before his unresponsive comrade. Freeing a volume of the Book Of Lorgar from a clip at his waist he opened the book and began to read the familiar passages.

As the craft neared the moon's surface Pre'Yen's condition worsened as violent spasms began to wrack his frame, Kor Ladron looked up from his reading; continuing to recite the words from memory, see saw that the restrained marine's powerful body was jerking and thrashing against the chains binding him fast. As the spasms gained power and frequency Kor Ladron saw Pre'Yen's limbs begin to distort, his armour warping under the torsion exerted from within. Bony spikes pierced the ceramite, an unearthly scream broke from the helpless marine, drowning out Kor Ladron's dolorous incantation. The agonised howl grew in intensity as Pre'Yen's helmet split asunder, tattered remnants of it's shell left dangling from the neck fastenings. The revealed face bore few similarities with the features of the once noble warrior, his skin had taken on an unnatural blue colour, spiny growths sprouted from his crown and his eyes had become reptilian. The beast fought against the restraints, its demonically enhanced physique stretching the cables and threatening to break the chains.
"Release me" the best snarled, the distended jaw and longue tongue dragging the sybillants out in a terrible rasping lisp. "I am Devosh'tka of the Blade sirens and you will release me!"

Kor Ladron seemed to ignore the daemon, his faith in the Word of Lorgar indomitable in the face of the minor Slaaneshi daemon. He continued his recitation. The Blade Siren changed tack, trying to bargain with the devout warrior, his pious stoicism was resolute and her every advance was rebuffed, slighted the daemon shrieked again, and straining with every fibre of it's been breaking free of the chains binding it, pouncing towards the kneeling Word Bearer. As the half daemon half marine leapt Kor Ladron straightened, his free hand driving hard, fast and true in a perfectly timed uppercut which sent the bestial form reeling. Pressing his advantage he grasped his opponent and slammed it back against the damaged bulkhead.
He glared into the yellow eyes and began a new passage.

"Son of Lorgar hear me now, hearken to the Word, take you holiest of vow."

Anger flashed across the daemon's eyes, but not just anger, a brief glimpse of Pre'Yen's face replaced the sickening form of Devosh'tka. Kor Ladron's grip was strong, he poured his will into his words.

"Vessel to immortal soul, two as one shall be, both together as a whole"

Writhing and struggling against it's captor Pre'Yen-Devosh'tka screeched, features shifting back and for from astartes to daemon and back.

"Dark Prince's get be at peace, enter sacred bond, not even death can release"

The possessed marine calmed, Devosh'tka was no match for the psychic pressure in Kor Ladron's words, the Penitent Apostle's faith in the Dark gods wielded as tangible power. Pre'Yen regained control of his body, the worst mutations subsided, although his skin still carried a bluish cast and many of the bony growths still pierced his armour. Kor Ladron threw him to the ground, sending him sprawling.

"Your faith was weak Pre'Yen, let your new life serve as a reminder of your failure, you are blessed and cursed today, for you are closer to chaos now than many will ever be, but you are tainted by the daemon that now shares your body, you have lost Lorgar's Grace, yet, you may still have your uses to me. Now, use the power of the daemon to our advantage and free us from this snare!"

 

 

Fairly obvious inspiration here, but there we go, I'll update the post later with pics.

P's. I don't know how I stacked it in a quote tag as well but I can't turn it off now either.

[Teetengee]

Last minute entries, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

also, Carrack, you once asked about no love for Mother's day?

Warpborn

Hidden Content

Collected Reports from Agent 19ThetaPsiAlfa, declared hereticus in M34.311

 

received M34.304

I have discovered a set of young women within the cultists following the Tide of Blood known as the Blessed Mothers. At first I would have thought them merely another gang, notable only for the uniform sex of their few recruits and their relatively good hygiene. However; I have noticed peculiar behavior and recruiting procedures regarding this group. Not only have they caused no infighting by recruiting from a wide variety of other gangs and sects, they appear to command great influence although I have never seen them in battle. Even the astartes of the traitorous legions I have witnessed kneel in reverence when shown the Blessed Mother’s gang symbol, a matrimandir overlain with an octed. I have decided to infiltrate this gang from my current position in the Clasped Monkeys tribe, since I appear to be of the appropriate age and health required for their recruitment.

 

received M34.306.

My first two years in the Blessed Mothers have been both enlightening and troubling, and I apologize for the long delay between messages, we are not allowed frequently to be alone. Our days are heavily regimented, meals at the same four times each day, interspersed with prayer, exercise, and other directed activities. It is not unlike the academy in this sense. I have kept my faith in the emperor even through the foul blasphemies I have been forced to utter and the eye-strain inducing tattoos that have been applied over the whole of my body by the members of the astartes dark clergy. In fact, most of our needs have been met by astartes, rather than their more typical human servants. For example, the accursed apothecarion of the Tide attend to our medical concerns. The training has been grueling, but I find that the excitement of my sisters on our upcoming “initiation” is infectious.

 

received M34.307

Now that I have passed the initiation rite, I have had more leeway in my activities, and should be able to resume more regular reports. The rite itself was a drug induced vision quest. My visions were mostly of the violent destruction of chaos worshippers, but for some reason this did not seem to trouble them. Whatever they were looking for I appear to have passed, although not all were so lucky. Some of the women never regained lucidity, and others had no visions at all and were not allowed to continue along with us. I am unsure of their ultimate fate. The regimen of the last 2 years is still mostly intact, although I have somewhat more free time. My martial training has re-focussed more towards close quarters fighting however. From what I can tell, I am now working towards stage two of a three stage process. I imagine that the initiation rite itself was the first of these stages.

 

received M34.307

I have completed the second stage. I was once again given hallucinogens, but this time was then instructed to wade into a still pool of blood alongside the sisters of my subsect. I am not entirely sure which events actually occurred and which were figments of my medicinal fever dream, but I will describe what I remember. The blood was warm and sticky, and chanting began as soon as we took our first steps into the pool. Our tattoos begin to glow, and although they no longer hurt to look at, the tattoos on my own flesh burned. I and others screamed, but I could not stop, it was as if I was compelled to continue. When we were at the deepest part of the vast pool, which rose to slightly above our waists, any remaining garments and jewelry we had worn burned and melted, though it did not seem to cause us any harm. Finally beings rose out of the pool, horned, with long tongues, and with skin that seemed to be made of flowing blood. Their embrace was warm and pleasantly uncomfortable, in a way I find difficult to describe. My mind filled with thoughts I did not understand, and in that spinning room I cannot remember all that I did. When I woke the blood in the chamber was gone, and the dark clergy of the Tide tended to us, providing us silken robes and heady drinks. Eventually we were lead from the chamber to medical examinations. Once again, I have passed all of their tests.

 

received M34.308. Final Transmission

After the second stage, the focus on medical testing and spiritual training has become much greater. I have very little time to myself, and do not know when next I will be able to send messages of my progress. Additionally, I am pregnant. I know not how, but for some reason this does not alarm me. My future child speaks to me even now, and I am soothed by their thoughts. I will carry this child to term and they shall become a weapon against the enemy. My faith is strong, and I shall not waver from my course.

 

 

 

Collected Reports from Agent 23ThetaOmegaPhi

 

received M34.310

I have finally located 19ThetaPsiAlfa in the Blessed Mothers. She seems to be going by the name of Adelaide now. I have yet to interact with her personally. She seems to be under no duress and my sensors indicate she is approximately 2-3 months pregnant. I suspect warp anomalies this far within the Eye of Terror have lead to the temporal confusion. I will send more information when I have it.

 

received M34.311

Adelaide has turned. When I tried to remind her of her duty, she physically assaulted me, pinning me high up against a wall. I managed to escape her, and her guard, but only at great damage to my bionics. I have been hiding amongst the maintenance regions of their ship as I cannot seek treatment without risking being found out. Regretfully, I was not able to terminate the traitorous former agent in my flight. I will continue to relay information as long as I am able, as the ship we are traveling on navigates ever further into warp-blasted territory. Commend my soul to the Emperor.

 

received m34.312

Adelaide is still pregnant, although she appears her physical appearance now resembles a woman reaching the end of pregnancy. Whatever monster she is gestating is clearly inhuman. The same is true for all of the other Blessed Mothers aboard. Furthermore, something monstrous hunts me. It wears the face of an astartes, but whatever humanity it once had has long abandoned it, even when compared to the traitors of the heresy of old. When it moves, it’s intention seems to often move separately, a shadow streaming forth and then solidifying into action and reality. Its senses are far more acute than any astartes I have interacted with in the past. On more than one occasion I have barely escaped its baleful attention, having once even been shot at without it so much as turning towards me before pulling the trigger. Whatever daemon this is should be considered a significant threat.

 

received M34.313

The hellscape we have landed on I hesitate to call a planet. The ground is stretched skin that sweats blood when stepped on

Collected Reports from Agent 23ThetaOmegaPhi

 

received M34.310

I have finally located 19ThetaPsiAlfa in the Blessed Mothers. She seems to be going by the name of Adelaide now. I have yet to interact with her personally. She seems to be under no duress and my sensors indicate she is approximately 2-3 months pregnant. I suspect warp anomalies this far within the Eye of Terror have lead to the temporal confusion. I will send more information when I have it.

 

received M34.311

Adelaide has turned. When I tried to remind her of her duty, she physically assaulted me, pinning me high up against a wall. I managed to escape her, and her guard, but only at great damage to my bionics. I have been hiding amongst the maintenance regions of their ship as I cannot seek treatment without risking being found out. Regretfully, I was not able to terminate the traitorous former agent in my flight. I will continue to relay information as long as I am able, as the ship we are traveling on navigates ever further into warp-blasted territory. Commend my soul to the Emperor.

 

received m34.312

Adelaide is still pregnant, although she appears her physical appearance now resembles a woman reaching the end of pregnancy. Whatever monster she is gestating is clearly inhuman. The same is true for all of the other Blessed Mothers aboard. Furthermore, something monstrous hunts me. It wears the face of an astartes, but whatever humanity it once had has long abandoned it, even when compared to the traitors of the heresy of old. When it moves, it’s intention seems to often move separately, a shadow streaming forth and then solidifying into action and reality. Its senses are far more acute than any astartes I have interacted with in the past. On more than one occasion I have barely escaped its baleful attention, having once even been shot at without it so much as turning towards me before pulling the trigger. Whatever daemon this is should be considered a significant threat.

 

received M34.313

The hellscape we have landed on I hesitate to call a planet. The ground is stretched skin that sweats blood when stepped on. The wind is the howling of battlecries. The sky glows a hateful red. Strange creatures consisting of a pike with horns and goat legs roam across the fleshy fields, impaling themselves and fighting for unknowable reasons. Occasionally the sky rains bones. The members of the Blessed Mothers and their attendants seem unperturbed by this. They have carved great blasphemies into the hollow of a great valley and set up several tents in the midst of this iconography. Ranks of traitor marines patrol the edges of the valley, destroying all enemies that dare encroach on whatever foul deeds are being performed below. They seem to not care about me in my injured state, although have warned me off from the valley itself. I just sit on a nearby hill and watch via telescope. My prayers are my only comfort here.

 

received M34.314

A being not unlike the daemon that hunted me before hunts me again. Only this one shares many facial traits with Adelaide herself. Only once did I see them together, the beast seemingly obeying all her slightest commands. I pray this to be its weakness, because in its own body it betrays none. It wears the baroque plate of the traitorous legions, painted with red and gold and emblazoned with the Bleeding Tear. It calls my name. It claims its mother wishes to speak to me. I fear my end has come.

[Kierdale]

Thank you very much for your entries on the topic of Possessed. We had a very large number of entries, of extremely good quality!

I hereby close that topic (for the purposes of judging. If you have more Possessed stories to tell by all means post them at any time!) and open our next one...

Welcome to the third challenge of Inspiration Friday 2016.

Chaos Steeds

From the hulking juggernauts of Khorne to the eerie yet lethal discs of Tzeentch. Bloated rot flies and palanquins of Nurgle to the steeds of Slaanesh, those bipedal, serpentine-bodied incarnations of their master’s free spirit. Including these and other beasts and monstrosities similar in form and function, daemonic steeds are mounts granted by the Chaos gods to their most prized champions.

Tell us about one of your warband’s daemonic steeds. How it was acquired, its relationship with its master and how it aids them both in and out of combat.

(I was initially going to exclude bikes, but then again a lot of us have biker lords, so by all mean tell us about your lord’s bike...but keep in mind there will be a Biker [squad] IF in the future)

Inspiration Friday: Chaos Steeds runs until Friday the 5th of February.

And who shall judge it? That decision likes in the hands of Warsmith Aznable. Warsmith, please announce the winner at your leisure and in whatever manner you deem fit!

Let us be inspired.

[Warsmith Aznable]

Inspiration Friday, Possessed will have a special guest judge:

SUCK IT, MORTALS! I'M HERE TO RUIN YOUR DAY!

I am the Forsaken. Disowned by my Warsmith, denied by my brothers, castigated by the Ruinous Powers, embraced only by blessed Malal, I have been summoned by 13 tales of pride and punishment, weal and woe, victory and submission. I stand before you to pass judgment. Know that your allegiances to the mindless butcher, the impulsive fornicator, the repulsive defecator, and the mad schemer will not grant you favour with me, the reborn child of the One True Power in the Warp.

Thirteen tale tellers have risked their lives and their reputations, now we shall see who is wanting.

1. EesiOh told the tale "Marked For Death" of Xaroth of the Bloody Harvest, who was killed by a brother. I will admit the fratricide has obvious appeal to me.

2. Son of Carnelian told an untitled tale of Yoshour of the Pyre, a scheming sorcerer who wants to use the possessed to further his own treacherous ends. This promise of future betrayal amuses me.

3. Captain Malachi also failed to title his tale, the story of Aeolus, selected to host a Slaaneshi (bleah) daemon. I liked the image of aspirational daemon hosts failing and dying. It would have been nice if they had all died, but I take what I can get.

4. Kol Saresk gave us a story of a Blood Angel trapped inside his own body and forced to prophesy. I would have enjoyed more suffering, but any amount is welcome.

5. Kierdale wrote "The Gede, Ridden by the Loa", a voodoo inspired story of ritual possession. I hate clever originality, and there was definitely not enough betrayal and suffering.

6. Dizzyeye presented "The Returned", the story of Carvus. Wouldn't it have been funny if nothing he did was good enough, and his Warsmith cast him out and lied to his brothers about him and even turned the gods against him, forcing him to embrace Malal? I think you missed an opportunity there.

7. Scourged turned in "Feed" about a greedy possessed marine. I liked that he wanted to eat his own kind; he was a character I could definitely related to.

8. Aquilanus gave us an untitled story of fallen Raven Guard falling to possession. The callback to the mutant, bestial Raven Guard of days of old and the scorned, imprisoned possessed of the Time of Ending was nice.

9. Warsmith Aznable wrote another long, indulgent story of a failed warrior struggling with his feelings. Bleah.

10. Kierdale CHEATED BY ENTERING TWICE! I like that. He tells us the story of a Black Templar broken by the truth of Sigismund's betrayal of the Emperor. HAHAHAHAHA! YES!

11. Carrack wrote "The Path To Power" a very nice story about everybody hating on, scheming against, and using everyone else. This guy understands!

12. MaliGn wrote "The Sixth Penance of OH MY GOD THIS TITLE IS TOO LONG" displaying the self-serving betrayals of the self-righteous Word Bearers.

13. Teetengee wrote "Warp Born" and I won't even go into how disturbing the subject matter was.

My first impulse is to choose no one as winner and drink your bitter tears while cherishing your despair! But I choose to name a winner, not because it is expected of me or that any of you are truly worthy, but because I like the idea of your jealous envy heaped upon a single individual, who can only hope to bear the pressure by returning your hatred tenfold! HAHAHAHAHA!

To that end I name Captain Malachi as this iteration's champion! Step forward and stand triumphant, and consider the precarious height of the glory from which you must surely someday fall...

[Captain Malachi]

Well, I am very pleasantly surprised (emphasis on surprised :P), I must admit. My thanks, Warsmith Forsaken, perhaps I will grant you a chance to pledge allegiance to great Slaanesh before killing you, should we ever meet in battle.

 

I look forward to judging all of your offerings in a weeks time.

 

 

As for my own entry, I'll hopefully get that up later. The topic gave me an idea I want to work on, but I've literally only just crawled out of bed so I'm not really in any state to be writing much of anything right now.

[Aqui]

Erm...my story was about a 21st/Cursed Founding Chapter/warband called the Bahltimyr Reavers. Their geneseed was Raven Guard.Looks like I didn't explain that very well :(

 

Congratulations to Captain Malachi in any case! :)

[Kol Saresk]

Erm...my story was about a 21st/Cursed Founding Chapter/warband called the Bahltimyr Reavers. Their geneseed was Raven Guard.Looks like I didn't explain that very well :(

 

Congratulations to Captain Malachi in any case! :)

Kind of the same reaction here since the idea was a Blood Angels Successor I left unnamed that had its Death Company being possessed by a Daemon who was slowly using the visions to twist the Chapter. Similar amount of success in that respect as well I guess lol.

 

Still, congratulations Captain Malachi. Well fought! :D

[Captain Malachi]

Thanks guys.

Anyway, like I said earlier, this topic gave me ideas, so I have three scenes this time.

A crack of lasgun fire sent Alicia Scott diving for cover among the rocks she had been climbing over. A quick glance around showed that her squad had made it in to cover with her, though Frankie had a small burn on his arm, presumably from a near miss.

"Sarge, looks like two of them have stayed behind to keep us busy while the other three go on ahead." One of her squad mates, Damian, informed her, having apparently had the foresight to look around as he took cover. Scott knew they could easily handle the two other soldiers firing at them, but the delay was unfortunate. The steeds of Slaanesh they were hunting were quick, and the other squad of traitor guard were likely to scare them off, assuming they didn't manage to capture them for themselves.

That was something she knew she couldn't allow. Her lord on the Council of Lykaes had been very clear that there were only so many steeds to go around, and that they were essentially on a first come, first serve basis. It was, in essence, a race between the various squads of traitor guardsmen to see who could reach and capture each group of steeds first. The victors would then have the honour of riding those magnificent creatures in to battle alongside their masters in the Chaos Astartes, while the losers would either perish during the hunt, or be taken as sacrifices for one ritual or another.

"Kill them, quickly, we don't have time to waste here." So saying, she jumped up and squeezed off two shots from her own lasgun at their enemies, both going wide but forcing the other guardsmen to stop shooting for a moment. A shot from Frankie took off the arm of one of them, effectively taking him out of the fight. Damian managed to shoot the other, a clean headshot that sent her headless body flying backwards.

Ignoring the screaming, armless man on the floor, Alicia ordered her squad in pursuit of the remaining three soldiers, soon seeing them already attempting to capture the steeds they were hunting. Fortunately, it appeared that they had underestimated the prowess of the steeds, one of the guardsmen already dead on the floor, huge gashes down his front spilling his innards around him, while the remaining two were barely surviving themselves. Deciding that they had little time to prepare, Scott quickly gave instructions to her squad before moving in on the steeds as the two attackers fell.

Frankie jabbed his shockstick in to one of the ones feeding on the dead bodies of their previous attackers, the current flowing through it shocking the steed in to unconsciousness. Only a second later though, the front of his head exploded as another of the steeds ran it's tongue through him. Sparing only a moment of thought to her fallen comrade, Scott rammed her own shockstick in to the beast's side, her squad doing the same to the other daemons around her. The screams as they were electrocuted washed over her, and she knew in that moment that she had won. Frankie's death was unfortunate, but she and the other three members of her squad now had beautiful steeds of Great Slaanesh, and would soon be riding them on the battlefield against the hated Imperium.

Scott started in shock as the door to her room flew open, her squad mate, Lewis, practically falling through it. "Sarge! The steeds are going nuts!"

Sighing, she stood and grabbed her shockstick from the rack on the wall, gesturing for Lewis to follow her. "What happened?"

"Frankie didn't wear enough of the calming musk when he went in to the stables, and they just went berserk. Killed 'im in an instant, they did." Another sigh escaped Alicia at his comment, Frankie was always getting in to trouble of one sort or another.

Pushing through in to the stables, she took stock of the situation. Damian and Sara were using their shocksticks to push three of the beasts back, preventing them from escaping their rooms, while behind them the remaining two were tearing chunks of bloody meat from what she assumed was what remained of Frankie. Moving over to the wall, she grabbed down the net that hang there, and one of the whistles she hated so much. "Get the musk Lewis, we'll need a lot of it."

As he moved to obey, she walked up to the door keeping the daemons penned in and blew once, very loudly, on the whistle. The steeds shared her hatred of the piercing sound, all five of them rushing the door, nearly breaking it. They may well have done so if it hadn't been for the electrified netting falling on them as they came, sending all of them crashing to the floor in agony. Lewis returned at that moment and started spraying the calming musk all over them, the beast's quickly succumbing to it's effects and falling asleep.

"I hope you all remember this in future, these are not tame animals. And clean that mess up!" She added, gesturing to the bloody meat pile in the back.

Watching the loyalist guardsmen guarding the basilisk battery from the ridge above them, Alicia noted with amusement that they were from her old regiment, the Lykaen 88th. She hadn't actually had a chance to fight anyone from that particular regiment since the day she turned her back on the corpse on the Golden Throne in favour of the Prince of Pleasure, and she was looking forward to killing them. But first, she had a job to do. One more click, and she decided she had enough images of the enemy force for Lord Timocles. Sneaking back down from the ridge and then running over, she handed him the images.

"Looks like a standard platoon of a command squad, two guardsmen squads and three heavy weapons teams, my lord. The heavy weapon teams have lascannons but the other squads only have lasguns. Also, there was an Astartes, I don't recognise his chapter, but he was injured, his left arm was missing and he seemed to have a variety of other injuries as well, I doubt he could put up too much of a fight." Timocles looked over the images and then nodded at her assessment, apparently agreeing with what she said.

"My team will handle the guardsmen, I want you and your riders to slay the marine. When the opposition is dead, kill the crews of the basilisks but leave the vehicles unharmed, we could use them." Scott couldn't help but grin, a chance to slay an Astartes, injured or not, didn't come up very often. Nodding quickly and bowing, she ran over to her squad and jumped on to her steed of Slaanesh, relaying their orders to the rest of the team and then moving over to a good starting position for their assault.

It didn't take long for Timocles and his squad to manoeuvre their heavy bolters in to position, and soon they were unloading massive amounts of firepower in to the relatively undefended and unprepared guardsmen below them. Seconds after that, Scott and her team came riding over the ridge, racing down the hill with their lances aimed squarely on the injured Astartes below them. Their steeds supernatural senses letting them jump side to side to avoid incoming fire from the guardsmen without slowing down, combined with their incredible running speed, meant that they were on the marine before he had much of a chance to react.

Damian's lance slammed through the marine's leg, while Sara's went through his gut, both letting go and switching to their lasguns. Frankie managed to ram his lance through the marine's chest, but before he could get away the marine grabbed him by the arm and pulled him from his mount, stomping on his chest and killing him near instantly. Scott's own lance struck the marine in the neck, and a second later Lewis' hit his head, the marine finally falling.

Glancing around and realising that her Timocles and his havocs had eliminated the rest of the guardsmen, Scott jumped from her steed on to the nearest basilisk, her combat knife making quick work of the two crew up top. Rushing over to the entrance hatch, she was forced to jump back as a lasgun shot came out as soon as she opened it. This was obviously not a front line fighter however, as she made no attempt to ensure Scott was dead and simply went back to cowering. Calmly, she shot the driver in the head before she could attempt any further resistance.

Damian came over then, and informed her that the other basilisk's crews were slain as well, and she nodded in satisfaction. Her lord would be pleased with their performance today, and no doubt their new artillery would come in useful in the future.

There is no canon explanation for how Frankie keeps coming back, he's just my chew toy.