470 replies to this topic

[Thedarkprincesnun]

Ooh chaos vs nids? Ive got a idea for a story not sure if it would work though. (Basically my Nurgle warband capturing those Jean thief's and forcibly binding daemons into them )

[Chaplain Gunzhard]

I noticed the deadline on the Nid story has passed, was that just a typo?

Thanks! ;-)

[Kierdale]

I corrected the deadline

And go for it, Darkprincesnun. It might not be easy but it's up to you to make it believable.

[Teetengee]

Cult

Hidden Content

Eliza Two Tongues adjusted the helm, shouting at her crew to trim the sails in order to catch the waxing Change Wind. The Great Mutator had blessed their journey so far, but in her seven years as Captain she had learned better than to depend on their mercurial patron. Better to make the most of what she had in the moment than play it safe, to die on the slashing rocks instead of sacrificing territory for being last to the Moot.

 

It took two more weeks for the Cult of the True Flesh to reach the Godswell. Three days of strong winds followed by eleven of the slaves sweating over oars and flippers. As always, some were lost, starving after their faces fused unfeadably into the ship or dying from overwork, but no more than was usual or proper. They would be second to arrive.

 

Eliza looked at the Brass Host with disgust, a long line of smoking machines clanking along the thin mountain pass, a cloud of oily black drifting behind them in the Plague Wind as the climbed up to the Godswell. They put faith in iron, and brass, and lead, abandoning the truth found in Flesh and treating their Changed as expendable fodder, useful distractions, but not blessed by the the Gods. Eliza smiled as she remembered who came with them; the Children would show the truth of the Change, that death was no certainty, and that the form of the gods was not for the Brass Host to say!

 

“Off the ships! Time to show these land lubbers what a real warrior looks like!” With that, the Cult of the True Flesh streamed from their ships, uttering prayers to the Changer and making quick time over land, scouts on long legs or many ranging far ahead to check for any traps set by jealous lesser cults. The slower and stronger kept up the rear, precious cases of stolen goods and deepwhale fat were protected in the center by ranks of pirates eager to prove their worth. Those left at the ships turned to take them up coast to a guarded cove, where the slaves could be let to wander without escape and any attacks would be well foreseen.

 

The journey to the Godswell took two more days, and Eliza could see the other cults of the world lining up below them. The Fireeaters carried a burning witch, the ash sticking in Eliza’s double throats and making her eyes water. The Pestilent Few’s scent ranged as far as the sounds of their bone chimes. The Listeners marched in silence, but could be known by the strings of ears they wore over their robes. Scarcatchers whooped and hollered, the biting wind on their tattooed naked flesh only bringing them greater joy. Dozens of the greater cults, and hundreds of lessers and offshoots all made their way to the Godswell over the following weeks. Some hoped only to trade enough to continue living, but others sought far more, hoping for victory in the contests of policy for the next year, or perhaps even to take the Bitter Crown, and gain direct communication with the Angels of their Gods.

 

When the last cult arrived, The Hunted, one of their number was divided amongst those who had arrived before them, and the Night Laughter, who received the largest bone fragment, chose to receive one hundred slaves rather than take any land. The summit fires were lit and the highest of each cult met at the summit, above the clouds, yet still below the swirling colours of the Godswell high above the sky. The moot had begun.

 

As was custom, each cult spoke first in the order they had arrived. Eliza waited however to bring up the greatest grievance, the waste of the Flesh Changed, until others had spoken their first words, instead laying claim to the Isle of Nika, a dispute with the Scarcatchers that had gone for months and lost many on both sides. She smiled when the Scarcatchers spoke out of turn, knowing such an action here would make their claim forfeit. When the Listeners turn came, Eliza also spoke for them, as the two tribes had long been allies, both being servants of the Master of Magic. Night after night the moot continued, though Eliza spent most of her days seeking personal alliances with cult leaders across the mountain top, making promises she had little intention to keep to keep in full. Each night the cult leaders spoke again, voting for punishments and trade agreements.

 

On the last day, Eliza delivered on one promise she had made for months prior to the moot. The displaying of a great wonder her tribe had been gifted with. When all those who had sworn for her were at the widest of the circle of gathered leaders, and when the fires dimmed low, she had one hundred hooded figures of the Cult of the True Flesh walk into their center. The light of the Godswell stretched and twisted their forms as Eliza spoke.

 

“Today we are gathered, not to bicker, but to witness a miracle. Long have many of you sat in fear of the Changed, calling them beasts and spawn, and decrying their existence among your ranks. You sat there in judgment, believing such beings to be cursed by the Gods for failures both public and private. Others of you understood that these were blessed warriors, laden heavily with the boons of our salvation. But even you looked upon their existence as bittersweet, fleeting, a candle burning at every end. But I am hear to show you that the Changed are so much more. They can be born from us, perfect, whole, and stable. Behold our Children!”

 

In that moment, the hundred warriors of the True Flesh tore through their robes, claws and talons spearing out into those who Eliza knew would never accept them. Screams of pain and war rent the air as the outer circle of allies fired upon the inner commanders, a thousand different weapons from a hundred different tribes. But the numbers were greatly unbalanced, and the Children began to fall, even as they took dozens with each of them. Eliza and her command drew their sabres and rushed in, the top of the mountain quickly became a bloodbath all lit by the eerie glow of the Godswell above.

 

It was not until Eliza saw her own beloved son fall, torn in two by the cannonball of a Blood Host construct, that the battle turned. All her love turned instantly to hate, and she let the energy of the gods flow through her. The Godswell dimmed as psychic energy drove her body forward, and sent screaming horrors into the minds of those around her. More a raging beast than even the fiendish clawed children, Eliza carved a path through the attendants to the downward path. The tribes scattered, most realizing a fight now would be madness.

 

Eliza hatred drove her faster than all, the Cult of the True Flesh found their way to the ships even before some tribes had heard of the betrayal. Rarely before had the sanctity of the moot been so disrupted. War unseen for generations would come now, and Eliza would have to mourn later. Now was the time for vengeance. The Angels of the Void had called to her, and she would see to it that this world was ready to receive them. The Changer had spoken through its emissary, and none could refuse the will of the Gods.

 

eh, not my best work, but whatever, I liked the concept well enough, and it's been a while

[Chaplain Gunzhard]

My wife teased me that my story was so bad it broke the forum... hah hopefully it was just coincidence. ;-)

[Carrack]

Salvage

Spoiler

"So which of these thralls can I kill, Lovo?", muttered Vannar impatiently as the squad entered the number nine conveyor aboard, Bitter Revenge. Lovo, the champion of the squad gave the oft repeated question more thought then it was worth, and replied, "Well, Vannar, definitely don't kill Lott, he's the techno-drone with the newer augmetics, and he runs this conveyor, so we could be splattered if you kill him. Those menials chanting at him are his help, so please refrain from killing too many of them for the same reasons. That old man over there smoking a stogie, don't kill him, he is the other menials' chief, and I don't feel like running his crew, when we get there. Also, that other old guy with the little manikin thing growing from his shoulder, he is the mate of the crew, so unless you feel like keeping the crew in line for the chief, don't kill him. Definitely don't kill that skinny specialist with the extra joints in his arms. He is the one that is tracking the safe zone we are going to salvage. On our way back, kill him, he discovered this zone that is free of warp anomalies in the engine decks, and he will probably demand a bigger share of the loot. Of our own squad, don't kill Curque, unless you think you will have better luck with the plasma gun, I doubt it. Other than that, kill whoever you please Vannar, except those bigger thralls with the augmetics, they look like they can carry a decent share of engine components."

Vannar waved off his champion, and feinted a bludgeoning strike with his boltgun at the creepy looking specialist's cowled head, then adroitly caught the dataslate that the bony warp dabbler dropped as he fell into a heap of increasingly wet robes. He thrust the slate into the mewling cowards hands in disgust and resumed pacing the conveyor. He hated this. Vannar, along with the rest of squad Loxo had been left behind during the boarding of the enemy ship. They were supposed to go over in the second wave, but their lighter had been shot down in the first, and their was no room aboard the returning lighters at assault bay 1, and the third wave was underway by the time they reached assault bay 4. So they were left out of the battle, with no glory to be won. They hadn't even been able to reach the engine decks in time to repel the IX legion surprise assault, and now the engines were burning and exploding, not just the void engines, but the warp engines as well, and when the warp engines of a ship, especially a ship like Bitter Revenge, which harnessed daemons to its generatorums, exploded, all matter of deadly phenomenons came to be. Normally, it wouldn't even be safe to salvage, but this specialist, along with Chief Cas and his crew, had claimed that they had found an area of the engine decks that was free of all manifestations of the warp. They had found an area that could safely be salvaged, but they needed legionaries to accompany them past the quarantine. So they said. At least it was a chance for material gain, if squad Loxo was to be denied gaining the gods favor in battle.

The conveyor came to a rest and Loxo led Vannar and the squad out the blast doors, followed by the throng of thralls. The lights were out, but Vannar's senses were more than adequate to compensate for the darkness, the mortals however, lit torches. It looked like an ordinary engine deck, other than being utterly devoid of the usual gangs of thralls working the normally busy deck. Vannar followed Loxo further into the deck, pausing for a moment at a hole in the floor that Loxo squatted at, touching the rough edges of the melted grate. Loxo stated the obvious, "Acid." There were no leaking pipes or lines above the hole, however, so Vannar looked questioningly at the specialist. The specialist stuttered out, "It's not the warp, lord, there is no presence here." Vannar cursed and started to turn back, but the skinny freak continued, "No presence lord, I can't sense anything, not even you my lord." Vannar was pretty sure he had a significant presence in the warp, not as significant as he would like, but pretty damn significant." His thoughts were interrupted by Loxo charging ahead, calling out, "Life sign, 20 meters ahead inside the left wall.", followed by the revving of his chainsword.

Vannar posted up beside Loxo as he cut a hole in the grate work wall, and dug out a child thrall, grimy and scared, like every other child aboard the flagship of the Black Maw. Vannar nodded his head at the child, and looked at Loxo. Loxo frustratingly answered, "No Vannar, you can't kill this one, she may have useful information." Vannar shrugged his shoulders dejectedly, then they both laughed. The thrall failed to see the humor in the two legionnaires' long running joke, and bravely, perhaps foolishly so, said, "We better get out of here. They mostly come at night, mostly." Vannar checked his ill used chrometer, it was spinning like a drunken dancer. No warp phenomenon, right. Time was sure affected. Something was going on here, Vannar could feel it, a few salvaged engine parts weren't worth whatever this was.

Loxo passed the child thrall back to a forklift operator in Cas's crew, telling her to interrogate the child while he advanced the group to the junction. Racks of tools hung from the walls, and several of the menials started stuffing their overalls with them while Loxo and the specialist checked the data slate. Loxo announced that they would be going left, past the medical bay, towards the number 2 warp engine access terminal, and that they would take as much of it as they could carry back to the conveyor.

Vannar followed Loxo past the medical bay, a small clinic where thralls could be patched up after the frequent accidents in the unsafe engine decks. As soon as the last legionary past the bay, a creature jumped through the window into one of the thralls following the squad. The creature was small, about the size of a rat hunting feline, but almost its whole form was taken up by its large mouth, a mouth that was chewing on the face of the thrall it had attacked. The rest of the creature was short limbs and armored plates, which resisted the efforts of Chief Cas and his mate to pull the thing off their crewmen. The other thralls began to panic, looking back towards the conveyor. Vannar quickly strode back to the thrall and the face eating creature, booming out his vox grill, "Calm down thralls, I am experienced in removing these face eaters!" Reverently, the thralls made space for Vannar. He stopped at the never-seen-before creature, fascinated momentarily by its single minded devotion to consuming the thrall's face, in spite of his threatening presence. Or was it doing something other than eating? No matter, Vannar drew his bolt pistol and blew the creature, along with the thrall's head apart, and reminded the other thralls, "There is nothing on this ship you should fear more than your lords, keep following or I will show you why!"


Something dropped from the ceiling on top of Loxo. Something arguably, more fearsome then the legionary. It looked vaguely like the face eater, related perhaps, but much bigger. An elongated head ended in an acid dripping mouth, and extended from a trunk with two sets of shoulders, one atop the other. The shoulders sprouted clawed arms, longer than Vannar's, and the back of the beast was covered in layered chiton plates. The creature did not exude an infernal aura the way a daemon would, but still gave off a sense of "wrongness" that Vannar could feel. It was unnatural. It was alien. The xenos was ripping Loxo limb from limb, and it was not alone. Vannar could hear more of the creatures scurrying towards them through the crawl spaces above and below the grated floors and ceiling.

Vannar decided this salvage mission was a bust as his champion was torn apart, and gave the order to fall back. He and the other three legionnaires overtook the already fleeing thralls on the way to the conveyor. The thralls suffered for their lack of motivation, and genetically engineered muscles assisted by servo driven power armor, and were set upon by the creatures cousins. Only two made it to the conveyor before Vannar slammed the blast doors shut, the forklift operator, and the child thrall they had found on the engine decks. Vannar told the conveyor operator, techno-drone Lott, "Get us out of here, and open the passageways between this deck and the ones affected by the warp. Let the daemons deal with those things." As the conveyor sped up to the main decks, Legionary Curque gestured towards the two thralls with the business end of his plasma gun, and said, "Vannar, which of these thralls can I kill."

[MyD4rkPassenger]

Apologies on the late judging for the Blood Angels challenge, with the forum going down and my university work ratcheting up I lost track of the forums.  Ill have a winner picked later this evening.  

[MyD4rkPassenger]

Again apologies.

 

I'll preface by saying all of these tales were fantastic this week and I enjoyed them all. 

 

For Carrack's story I really enjoyed the description of the Red Thirst taking hold of the commander and his men.  I loved how you highlighted it as his shame and a taboo amongst the marines to even speak of it.  Plus the fear of the servants and the holding of garlic was a great touch.  The battle between your Lord and the Chapter master was well written from the viewpoint of an onlooker and a potential rival, highlighting the combi melta strike as a cheap victory was a selling point in his traitorous thoughts about his lord.  Again your description of the Black Rage was wonderful, it felt like a fluid transition into madness.

 

In Chaplain Gunzhard's I felt the excitement and introspection of a neophyte in the scout squadrons.  His reactions to his brothers dying felt like an astartes should react, somber reflection on their duty being done to the best of their ability.  I really liked your description of the primary target, I created a perfect mental image of this fleshy crate that seemed alive.  I think though my favorite part was the veteran sergeant looking at the neophyte and smiling before their charge with all of the Death Company right behind them.  It gave me all the best feelings of watching Aragorn charge the black gate saying "for Frodo" in Return of the King.  

 

In Scourged's I felt the the maddened joy of the cultists in their duel with the sons of Sanguinius.  Their internal thoughts zipping around their god orchestrating the events before them felt exactly how a chaos cultist should think.  I really enjoyed their internal doubts after they had been routed from their ambush point.  When things are going good, they're really good, but when the situation reverses they go from fearful doubt back to resignation that their god truly wanted them to die.  When that daemon engine appeared though was fantastic, the cultists venerating this infernal object as their savior and the will of their god manifest felt right to me.  

 

This was a close call for me, I deliberated for a while, all of the battle scenes were amazing as well.  I pictured them all easily and with great detail.  I again want to make a point that I thought all three of these stories were fantastic, but in the end I choose Carrack's tale.  

Edited by MyD4rkPassenger, 30 September 2016 - 04:00 AM.

[Kierdale]

The Chapel of the Host

Hidden Content

“I have dispatched Brother Anansi, my lord,” Angra, dark apostle of the Psychopomps, explained with a bow to his liege lord, master Sophusar. “Rest assured that the situation on Neph VI will be swiftly resolved.”
Lord Sophusar watched from his throne as the former master of sanctity rose from his bow, the ebony armour of his former post now decorated with roseate blossoms, painted as if falling, prematurely torn from their tree by a scouring wind. The two locked eyes as the demagogue straightened. One half of his face was the stern patrician features of the marine who had always been at the chapter master’s left hand, the eye a warm brown, while the other half was that of a purple-skinned devil. A temptress with an eye of baleful green. Slain by a Templar reclusiarch as the fallen chapter had fled their homeworld, Angra had been restored by their patron in payment for his myriad sins.
Sophusar nodded and with a flourish of his cloak of skin, Angra about turned and left the throne room.
No sooner had the great doors been closed by his personal bodyguard, the doors themselves embossed with images at once brutal and lascivious, than another of his advisors slithered from the shadows, prostrating himself before the terminator-clad lord. Holusiax, the naga-sorcerer, first blessed of the Psychopomps by the Dark Prince.


Anansi was but one of his many names, for he had almost as many names as he had guises. He slipped from one to the other with great ease. He boarded a merchantman on Zeun Secundus as an apprentice enginseer and disembarked a pilgrim on Bopidu III. A convict in transit to join the penal legions as he crossed the southern continent, a regimental custodian upon his arrival at the Guard camp and a travelling entertainer as he made his way offworld to Neph VI. No shapeshifter was he, merely a man blessed with the blandest, most forgettable of faces and the most average of appearances. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. A talent for mimicry, a soft, warm voice which had talked him out of death several times, and ten light fingers aided his word.
Everywhere he went he was able to blend in and with ease sought out those who shared his allegiances. Those of the Exalted Fecund: the Imperial sect adopted and corrupted by the Psychopomps upon their return to their homeworld years before, he identified and made use of wherever he found them, no matter what name they went by, for all the branches of that cult knew the name of brother Anansi. A favour here, a favour there, and he was sped on his way.
He even made use of rival cults, feigning fealty and taking care not to delve too deeply lest his true allegiance be tested.
But it was once he arrived on Neph VI that he would face the greatest challenge of his ill-spent life.


Xestoni Hive was the greatest structure on Neph VI, an amalgam of five smaller hives millennia ago. The five had grown and grown, traffic between them causing the transit tubes which linked them through the ash wastes to thicken and thicken as more thoroughfares were added. Buildings built up along the transitways and soon enough the outskirts of each hive met - the scavvie shanty towns between burned and crushed in the construction which joined the hives. In celebration of this, and to govern the mad throng of Man which teemed in the higher and festered in the lower levels, a central hive was constructed. But like all settlements which are meticulously planned, Xestoni Central was insipid, its artwork too perfect, its culture too dry, whilst that of the five original hives thrived and, to a degree, blended. At a time the fashion of one might be in eminence, the sects of a neighbor and the cuisine of another, only for the tastes of those who could afford such distractions to change and the balance to shift. All the while Xestoni Central was used but for governance and even then only its upper layers, and those who inhabited it sought their entertainment in the surrounding hives – the Crown of Xestoni, as they became known.
But Man, like other parasites, makes use of all that is available to him whether it be planned that way or otherwise, and the lower levels of Central soon became the playground of hive gangs. Techies, Brats, Scavvies, Venators, Muties and more. Areas became live fire training grounds for Arbites, practicing on those who dared venture within the forbidden, stark, staid halls carpeted with dust. In no other hive were the lower levels so clean, so refined. Only here could one wander a cavernous boulevard without brushing shoulders with hundreds of one’s fellows.
One could see for miles.
One could run free.
One could hide their secrets.
One could forge an empire.


Used by earliest Man, and even his predecessors, likely with which he fought using tools and weapons of this very stone, flint could be as sharp as steel and there was something about its not entirely-even edge, and the lethality of something so naturally found, which made wounds caused by it to be particularly nasty. In an age of chainswords, power arms and thunder hammers, a blade of flint was most uncommon, and the knife wielded by this agent of Chaos was far from mundane despite its primitive appearance. Whilst her quarry had taken a most circuitous route to his destination, this had given her much time to prepare and with a mere cut she parted the veil and stepped onto the surface of Neph VI, and into an ash storm.


The most common icon used by the Exalted Fecund cult was that of an isosceles triangle, point down, with an ellipse stood vertical in the middle. Sometimes the triangle went under the guise of an Aquila and the ellipse as an all-seeing eye. The variation brother Anansi found upon a chapter house sign in the midlevels of Xestoni Hive replaced the ellipse with a spiral. Tightly woven, it was almost hypnotic.
Clad in pilgrim’s robes once more he pushed his way through the throng of citizenry to approach the hooded, genebulked guardians at the fane quite openly, bowed and made one of the sect’s most recognizable hand gestures, the positioning of his little fingers subtle enough to be recognized by those in the know as indicating he was no mere sheep of the flock.
As taller of the sect guardians looked him up and down he could see the habit-clad man’s face clearer. He was clean shaven, even his scalp. A slight underbite enhanced the brutish look granted by his bulk, yet his gaze was far more penetrating than one might have expected from cult muscle.
“Welcome, brother.”

Within, the fane was, to the casual observer, no different to chapels of the many sects of the Imperial Creed which could be found across the Imperium of Man. To the eyes of one initiated into the ways of the Exalted Fecund the hints of the cult’s corruption were there: the common usage of the icons of the masculine and the feminine, often intertwined or combined.
Though his circadian rhythm was not yet fully adjusted to the day/night cycle of Neph VI, he happened to arrive at a most opportune time, for the Chapel of the Host – the name which this branch of the accursed cult went by on Neph VI – was about to hold a mass. Anansi filed into the nave with the rest of the faithful. Neither small nor large, the chapel was modest in size but the artwork upon its walls and the finery hung upon them shewed the support that the sect had. Anansi nodded to himself as he looked about, taking in the faces of the many attending and from that getting an impression of the sect’s influence here. Not yet large enough to push for eminence amongst the sects of the Imperial Cult on the planet, perhaps, but in this hive alone...possible. He would have to meet with the fane’s head priest in order to check these rough, initial estimates. He was never one to rush.
He seated himself on one of the leather-cushioned, steel-studded pews, bowing his head and making the sign of the Exalted Fecund a microsecond after those about him did so. The cult fixer raised his head to find a young priest making his way toward the pulpit, clad in robes of roseate silk which gradually darkened to rich violet as they brushed the flagstones.

Anansi lingered after the sermon and the donation bowl had been passed about the sizeable congregation. Either his generous offering had been noticed or the brutish guardian at the door had actually recognized his subtle gesture and notified his superiors, but he was not herded out along with the rest of the citizenry. The sermon itself had been humdrum and caused him to set back his estimates of the Chapel of the Host’s influence. The Dark Prince’s virtues had not been spoken of openly, as he had suspected, yet neither had they been hinted at nor the virtues of the Corpse Emperor been manipulated to any great degree. Most disappointing.
He would have to see about whipping up a little more zeal in that priest.
When he found himself left within the nave, only he, the shorter but larger of the guardians and the priest left, he made his way to follow the preacher through the rear door into the sacristy in order to speak more openly...only to find his way barred once again by the guardian. He had to watch as the young priest disappeared within.
“I would speak with the head priest of this chapel,” Anansi spoke quite evenly, neither commanding nor requesting.
“He has retired within, good sir,” this guardian, different to the one he had spoken to at the door, was a few inches shorter, slightly stooped but a good few pounds larger than his comrade who had returned to the narthex.
Anansi responded with a warm smile, “That was not the head priest. I mean the young man no offence but he has not the fire, the zeal, to command such a large congregation. I fear he may lose some of them, in fact.” He realized he was pushing matters now, but also intended to show he was familiar with the ways of the cult. He reached a hand past the guardian, toward the door handle and the rooms beyond.
“Father Coultor is currently indisposed.” A hand with not fingers but rather three large claws came to rest upon the brass door handle far faster than Anansi’s human limb, and the cult fixer looked from the altered appendage to the guardian attached to it.
“Brother, I see that you are blessed by the Prince!” Anansi exclaimed and moved his already outreaching hand as if to touch the claw, but the guardian withdrew it into his voluminous sleeve.
“There is no need to hide the touch of our lord before me,” Anansi smiled. He touched his left index finger to the inside of his right wrist, activating the Octed electoo otherwise hidden deactivated in his right palm. “You are blessed, brother.”
“As you are evidently not,” came the other’s grunted reply, his beady eyes openly looking the fixer up and down.
“I bask in the jealousy and agony of my lack of favour,” Anansi explained, “though in part I believe the Dark Prince has not touched me physically for I must be the shepherd, walking unseen amongst the unbelievers.”
“Then go forth and seek thy flock,” he was told as he was herded out.

He found more Chapels of the Host throughout the other hives of the Crown and though some followed the tenants of the Exalted Fecund more, urging their congregations to jealousy, to ambition, to greed, debauchery and excess, in none was he able to penetrate beyond mass, despite displaying his electoos and knowledge of the sect’s ways – which was far deeper than those who barred his way at every turn. Never had he faced such a response. A part of him wondered if word had come down, from that one with the half face of a devil, and without his knowledge he had been excommunicated. Had he somehow broken with the faith? Had he fallen out of favour with his master? He could think of no trespass he had committed.

Days later there was a knock upon the plasteel door of his rented apartment. He had chosen a place in one of the lower civilized levels of the hives, where a new face would not cause too many questions to be asked, but not so rough a neighbourhood that he would have to defend himself. Whilst he relished the inflicting of pain, killing was not to his taste for firstly it brought an end to all – no more pain could be inflicted nor pleasure extracted – and the disposal of bodies was most tiresome. He almost missed the knock for the wails of the wastrel who writhed beneath him. Such delights as this and the male beside her, now unconscious, were easily had in these neighbourhoods.
With a curse at the interruption he put his finger to the lips of his partner and left the bed, drawing the curtains about it and wrapping himself in a robe as he crossed the chamber toward the door, sliding a ring from a pocket and onto his door as he did so. From the sideboard he took up a large combat knife – whilst on many worlds he might have had to make do with a kitchen utensil, easily purchased and unlikely to draw attention, here he had been able to procure the large knife without questions being asked. That it was highly polished chrome rather than a matte blade told him it was likely not for combat but rather for gangs: intimidation rather than actual combat. However, this suited him well enough as he held up the blade before the door’s peephole at such an angle that he could see who stood before his door. As a young cultist he had seen a senior member, decades earlier on Fulcrum, peer through a peep hole only for the Arbites on the other side to shotgun the entire door down, blasting apart both man and door.
It was the shorter of the guardians from the first Chapel of the Host, along with another, hooded man.
Irritated at the interruption, he was nevertheless curious, having been blocked and turned away at every door until now.

Aliens.
The Exalted Fecund on Neph VI – or the Chapel of the Host as they referred to themselves – had been infiltrated by aliens. All this and more was revealed to him. How the cult’s ways meshed with those of these aliens – or hybrids as they explained many of them were – and how they had forged an alliance with the corrupt priests on Neph VI. Their revealing all this to him sent icewater through his veins, for what they told him was not merely for his edification, to answer his questions, nor was it truly an offer of friendship – though that was how they presented it – it was clear to him that they meant to threaten him.
See all we have done, see how easily we have subverted your people. Bend your knee to our will or perish.


Clad in a bodysuit which gleamed blue or green depending upon how the light hit it, its face hidden behind a mask of jade, the lithe figure made its way through the crowds in their dirty and oil-stained daily wear, like some lost partygoer or festival performer. The occasional hands which snaked out to brush its thighs or grope at its flesh found their wrists broken or fingers severed.
And as soon as the figure had appeared in the crowd, it vanished.


Word filtered down from the higher levels of the hives that alerts were being raised. There was talk of conscription and orders came into manufactorums across the planet for work to turn to the production of machine parts: for ships, for flyers, for tanks and weapons. No one knew who the foe were nor even whether war was expected upon Neph VI itself or if the product of their forges would be shipped offworld. All bent their backs to their lathes, their presses, and deep in the mines beneath the ash wastes, the whips of overseers drove on their charges to greater toil.


Anansi had seen few aliens. Far fewer than one might have expected of an individual so well travelled. Various beings’ head taken as trophies and the occasional Eldar captive of those blessed enlighteners the Psychopomps, that was all. To behold this four-armed, lilac-skinned monster – for surely it was a monster, was it not? Despite all the faithful had told him as they had lead him here – was both fearsome and magnificent. Dozens upon dozens bowed their bald or shaven heads before it, splaying out their fingers and claws before them, some with two arms each, some three.
Upon the walls was the true symbol of the Chapel of the Host: that of the Exalted Fecund, though now in place of the vertical ellipse was the coiled symbol of this insidious alien cult.
It had been weeks since the cult had taken him into their confidence – a withering part of his mind kept telling him he had to learn all he could about them but the more he struggled to remember, the harder it became. He had to learn about them...to tell his masters...their weaknesses? No...to take their offering to that one with the half-devil face?
He averted his eyes as another and another of the `purestrains` - as he had heard them called – made their way into the chapel. His roaming eyes took in those about him. A mixture of humans like him and the full range of hybrids. Children of the Four-Armed Emperor. Some were familiar to him now: ones he had met in masses across the Crown, some he had socialized with in the Chapel’s gatherings in the greater communities, some he had taught the exquisite ways of the Exalted Fecund and taken his pleasure with. Yet now some of those he had come to know seemed transformed. The fingers of some had grown and hardened into claws. The mouth of another had almost closed, vestigial tentacles beginning to sprout from the limbs like the barbels of certain fishes. What was coming over them? Whilst the blessings of the Dark Prince ignited reverence and jealousy within him, there was something about these mutations which was deeply wrong. Repugnant. Alien.
The magus extolled their faith and urged them on to apotheosis in the coming apocalypse, his voice booming out over the heads of the congregation and the gathered `princes`, while Anansi’s mind both raced and spun. Words of the Exalted Fecund’s hymns came to his lips and his mind settled long enough for him to raise his head as the curtains at the far end of the nave parted and upon a palanquin was carried an obese, old, leather-skinned version of the virile princes. Their eyes met and his will was destroyed.


Jinx dumped Anansi’s limp form onto the deck before Holusiax.
“I got Angra’s man out, and barely escaped with my own life.”
“What fate befell Neph VI?”
The assassin shook her head wearily. “Between the Host’s uprising and the battle in orbit overhead, I have no idea.”
The naga sorcerer tapped a finger against the metal prosthesis which replaced his lower face.
“We must know more of these aliens. They are a threat to the cult. A threat to us.”
He looked down at the uncouscious form of the cult fixer.
“Take him to Podalir. To the Infernal Engine. I would know all that he knows.”

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday: The Primordial Annihilator versus the Bug over the last week.

I thoroughly enjoyed both Teetengee’s and Carrack’s entries.
Teetengee, yours was an excellent and most welcome return to IF. It’s good to have you back with us.
And Carrack, yours had enough homages to a certain sequel that I couldn’t help but smile as I read it.

I hereby close that topic for the purposes of rewards (though as always if you have more entries on the topic please post them at any time, with a suitable note in the post’s title).


Here begins our twenty ninth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:
Aquatic Combat
All too often we write about our renegades and traitors fighting the Long War on the ground or, occasionally, in the void of space. I’d like to see how things go when we put the protagonists into some more varied/extreme environs. Inspired by the fact that the majority of our characters are `marines`...let’s get ‘em wet.
The theme for this week’s Inspiration Friday is Aquatic Combat. In it or on it.
If popular/interesting then we’ll see about some other environments in the future.
Inspirational Friday: Aquatic Combat runs until the 7th of October.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Carrack.
To the chosen victor: step forward and claim your Octed Amulet:

[Carrack]

Here are my thoughts on last week's IF.

Teetengee. You capture what a cult is better than most do. Your writing described how cults of different gods interacted with each other, and the cults went well beyond the typical disgruntled underhivers following the lies of a manipulative cult magos, that we usually see. The customs of the Moot, and the race to get there struck me as original, and ritually significant, the way cults should be. When the Cult of the True Flesh revealed themselves, and suffered the consequences of doing so, they reacted like a cult, looking to bring on the "Angels of the Void", in essence, seeking divine intervention of a sort.

You also showed corruption and the responses to it. All the participants at the Moot were corrupted by chaos, but the Cult of the True Flesh, were further corrupted by the alien. The other cults, corrupted by chaos, would not stand for this. I think this added layers to the story.

My story. I must admit, I've never played a game against nids, read their codex, or read much of anything about them. I had seen two movies, sequels, about their inspiration a few times, maybe more than a few times. Searching the wiki sites for better knowledge on the bugs didn't appeal to me this week, so I went with the movies. I tried to do this humorously, but I think it mostly fell flat. I should have either gone full tilt fan fiction crossover CSM vs Aliens, there is a precedent, or left it out completely.

Kierdale. You added depth to the story of the Psychopomps with describing the extent of the cults they have seeded. The little details like the levels of secret hand signs, and what they signify, were excellent touches, as was the unexpected mission failure of the agent.

Both of the participants wrote good stories, and I'm unable to come to a decision at the moment, but I will make my choice for who is the winner tomorrow or the next day.

[Carrack]

Teetengee is the winner. Congratulations.

Edited by Carrack, 03 October 2016 - 04:57 AM.

[Kierdale]

Well deserved! Congratulations, Teetengee!

[Teetengee]

Thanks! I suppose this means I should catch up on things.....

[Carrack]

Feeding Katan II

Note: this takes place before any other story I've written about the Black Maw.

Spoiler

Their cursed codex didn't account for this, thought Casper as he remained motionless. The conditions were bizarre, no doctrine, no matter how extensive, could cover fighting on the seafloor of Katan II. It was night, but it usually was on this side of the world, the orbit being highly irregular. Even the feeble starlight though, could not reach the shallow seafloor through the forest of leafy kelp. There was light though, swirling all around, but concentrated at the grizzly scene of Casper's enemy's death, four dozen meters ahead. The lights were from bioluminescent appendages, dangling near the mouths of the small, toothy, fish that schooled in the kelp forest. They scattered, predictably, as a huge black shape, darker then the night sea, as dark as Casper's hearts, descended on the dead Ultramarine ahead. Casper detected blood in the water, as he was buffeted by the waves and churning sea caused by the feeding shark.

The sharks of Katan II were beauties, sleek and black, they glided silently through the kelp forest, ignoring the small glowing fish in their hunt for heartier meals. They typically hunted the larger turtles, the giants as big as an Astartes, with shells that had adapted over the eons to be almost as durable as Casper's power armor. The sharks' teeth had adapted along with the turtles' shells, and could punch through shell or power armor alike, and get to the meat inside. Casper had witnessed such a feeding as Vinno led his squad towards the demi-hive they were to destroy. The turtle had sensed the shark circling in the darkness, and gone motionless, withdrawing its appendages into its armored shell. Casper had been forced to remain still like the turtle, less he himself become the shark's meal. While remaining motionless, Casper felt a series of small nips probing his armor. Casper's armor held, the turtle's did not. A pair of little eels found their way to the retracted tail of the giant turtle, and their little bites drew blood. Within moments, the shark struck, crushing the turtle and devouring it messily, after being able to pinpoint its location by the smell of its blood. The shark tore apart the turtle, driven mad by its heightened senses and voracious appetite. In its frenzy, it almost bumped into Casper, but a subtle shift of his shoulder, carefully moved in the direction of the current, kept Casper safe. He watched the shark feed in awe, recognizing a kindred spirit. When the shark had its fill, and swam off, Casper moved out, noticing the little eels swim out of their hole to scavenge the scraps of turtle that remained. Casper took note of this, and adjusted his tactics accordingly.

Another opportunity to witness the sharks feed presented itself as Casper made his way toward the demi-hive. It literally walked into him as he rounded a clump of kelp. The darkness, water, and kelp limited his visibility to a few feet, and his hearing and his helm's molecular analyzer were severely limited by the swirling currents. He knew where he was headed though, Casper was an Astartes, and could reach an objective by dead reckoning alone. He also knew where his squad's Wrathful Standard was, he could sense the hatred pouring from it, as could the other members of squad Vinno, but other than that, he was bereft of his own heightened senses. So were his enemies.

As he rounded the clump of kelp, he bumped into one of the distant sons of the XIII Legion, a sergeant of neophyte's judging by the enemy's armor. The sergeant tried to shoot Casper in the waist joint with his pistol, but Casper dropped his own pistol, allowing it to drift on its chain, and grasped the ejection port of the sergeant's pistol before he fired it. The bolts of both of their weapons were crafted to fire underwater, but the chambers had to be flooded for the bolts to launch, much like torpedo tubes of old. The loyalist had not yet fired his weapon, and it's ejection port remained closed, sealing the chamber airtight. The bolt fired from the sergeant's pistol as if it was being fired in an atmosphere, and detonated as soon as it struck the water in the barrel of the pistol, making a loud crump, and fouling the weapon. Casper let go of the ruined pistol, and grabbed a handful of lines that went from the loyalist's abbreviated back pack to his mask, ripping them into pieces. At the same time, he upended the sergeant with a sweeping strike from his boltgun, then withdrew back around the kelp and left. The sergeant was in no immediate danger of running out of air, even the thinbloods who now wore Ultramarine colors could hold their breath for more than an hour, if need be, but the steady bubbling air escaping from the ripped tubes marked the loyalist's position for the sharks. Casper reverently watched another feeding.

Step by careful step, Casper made his way to the dome of the demi-hive. Unsurprisingly, he was the last of the squad to make it, save for Marbas, who would not be making the objective at all. Vinno, Avarg, "Saint" Tiam, young Copil, Harold, Obbo, Turq, and Paimun all could not appreciate the beauty of the feeding sharks, it was such a gory act, it was an act of worship almost to their patron god, but they didn't see it, not like Casper could. Vinno's signaling to Casper to begin with the task at hand, brought him out of his religious musings, and he carefully made his way along the side of the dome, placing krak grenades at the seams of the dome's plates and wiring them together, then connecting them to those placed by young Copil. He chided the newest member of the squad for shoddy demolitions with a wagging finger and rewired some of them. They were all done perfectly, but it amused Casper to chastise young Copil anyway. When he was done, he oversaw Homer from Squad Kharfus, as he daisy chained both squad's demolitions together. Then he drifted back slowly into the kelp forest, finding a good position to safely watch the ensuing carnage.

The dome cracked under the simultaneous pressure of every grenade, along with Kharfus's and Vinno's melta bombs, detonating at once. The waves descended on the demi-hive that had denied their efforts for so long. The small city drowned. The inhabitants served as sacrifices to the gods, which would bestow their blessings on Lord Carrack, the new lord of the Black Maw. Just like the other demi-hives already opened to the seas of Katan II. Casper knew this, and was proud, but he was most pleased with getting to witness whole schools of the black sharks feed on the victims of Katan II.

Edited by Carrack, 04 October 2016 - 08:11 PM.

[Kierdale]

From the Depths

Hidden Content

“Have you ever seen a Capitol Imperialis?”
Ethui shook his head, biting back irritation at his squad leader’s tone, but his irritation showed in how he shifted his weight, checking the chamber of his bolter yet again. He did not take waiting well, nor being corrected or questioned. Leustri however was leader by dint of arms. Strength. Heads taken. And thus Ethui knew his place.
A Capitol Imperialis was more than a superheavy tank. It was fifty meters in height with a mass rivalling that of battle titans. It was said that four Leman Russ tanks could fit in the barrel of its Behemoth cannon and two full companies of Imperial Guard could be carried within the vehicle, which was more than a mobile bunker and more a slow, crawling fortress. The firepower one carried was pause for thought.
“The Gunakadeit is bigger. And has no trouble at all diving down and traversing the ocean bed. That’s what it was built for. And it’s armed for dealing with the kind of predators you get at such depths. They,” sergeant Leustri pointed a finger at the Golberg mining clan, “screwed up and the mission is off.”
“Not entirely,” Holusiax pushed past Leustri. The chief sorcerer of the Psychopomps, he was the first of the fallen chapter to have been touched by the Dark Prince, his torn body reknit and, from the waist down, his body resembled that of a roseate-skinned serpent. He lead this small band of the chapter on this mission. “Let me speak with them.”
The assembled score of Psychopomps: havocs, raptors and death-knell noise marines amongst them, parted to allow the senior marine through.
Behind him trailed a short mortal in a bodysuit which shone like oil on water, a mask of jade upon her face. Perhaps one of the sorcerer’s thralls Leustri mused, she having been given the mask of a daemonette. He put the mortal from his mind.
“About what? Are they going all the way down there to get the squats up?!”
Holusiax did not stop slithering across toward the human group, but looked back over his shoulder.
“In a manner of speaking, Leustri. In a manner of speaking.”

When one was unable to bring one’s rival to their knees alone, it was human nature to call upon others: the enemy of one’s enemy is one’s ally. And in cases when that foe had no other foes, or none who would join your banner, you called upon mercenaries: those who would fight any fight for the right price. And at this time the Psychopomps had answered such a call. The offers of the Golberg mining guild were answered not by a band of guns for hire as they had hoped, but by a chapter of fallen astartes. And the price they would demand would be far higher than the clan was willing to pay.

Upon a pontoon platform, a mooring site for smaller watercraft just large enough for the renegades’ thunderhawk to set down upon, the Psychopomps had met their guild `customers`. Water lapped at the sides of the buoyancy tanks and there was no dry land in sight. Before them stood arrayed a band of the Golberg guild, including its head.
“We risked much coming here, lord Golberg,” Holusiax circled the clan head, the human’s black robes both rich – far more expensive than the overalls of his workers – and symbolic: that he had toiled to earn his position of power, his once white coveralls having become as black as night by dint of work. In truth that was how the clan had operated, in millennia past. But, as often occurred in human history, a dynasty had set itself up and was unwilling to lay down power again. He looked from the clan head to the rest of the mining guild members: from bodyguards and scribes to those who usually spent endless hours hewing at rockfaces. Amongst their numbers were some far shorter than mainstream Man, though not as short as their quarry: the squats who now lurked at the bottom of the ocean.
The hearthworlds of the homo sapiens rotundus had been devastated by the Great Devourer before the Stygian Guard had become the Psychopomps, so Holusiax knew that small bands of refugees had made it to Imperial worlds. One such group of runts had made it here to the archipelagos and deep oceans of Sylus V. Impressing the mechanicus-sponsored guilds they had earned their keep. He looked openly at some of the hybrids: had the guilds tried to save the genetically-doomed dwarves, or had it been an attempt to breed them out?
Either way, the Golberg guild had come to a position of power and wanted it all. Only the squats and their goliath hearth-engine Gunakadeit stood in their way.
The guild had shown their hand too early, and the squats had fled to the ocean bed.
Upon the Psychopomps’ arrival lord Golberg had soon released he had called upon forces he could not control, and hoped to get rid of them as soon as possible. There was also the fact that his mechanicus superiors would be arriving within the month and he wanted a clean house before then.
Thus the clock was ticking.
Holusiax had half a mind to abandon the guildlord, let the priests of Mars come, the squats tell their tales and Golberg get his just deserts...but greed overtook spite.
The guildlord shook under the sorcerer’s gaze despite his best efforts.
“You wish to make amends? To aid us in resolving your little problem?”
The man nodded vigorously, keeping his eyes averted.
“Then you have but to grant us fifty of your people, guildlord,” Holusiax looked about, judging the number of guild members present. Just enough.
“Wh-what do you intend to do with th-them?”
He ignored the lack of a title in addressing him. “I shall bless them with my sorceries,” he spoke as a parent to a child, “And they shall raise up that great submarine botheration for us.”
The man spluttered in disbelief but the sorcerer, a good two heads taller than he, laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder and he merely nodded.
At that Holusiax moved about the assembled guards, staff and miners, dark words flowing from his mouth, worlds first spoken eons ago by tongues which were never born. Before him his marine hands were pressed tightly together as if in prayer, whilst his lower pair of slender, daemonic hands carved out gestures in the air before him. Each human shrank back as he approached them, looks of relief appearing on their faces as he moved on once more, though each shivered as if their graves had been stepped over, their very souls had been caressed.
Finally he returned to the guildlord’s side, but looked past him to Leustri and the assembled Psychopomps.
“Slaughter them.”
Autocannon rounds designed for punching through armoured plate tore limbs from bodies, bolts punched into guild guard before exploding them from within and even those who managed to run for cover could not escape, for the sonic weapons of the Death Knell cast forth destructive waves which lapped around any form of cover that was strong enough to resist shattering as it resonated madly.
The majority of the bodies fell into the water and the Psychopomps pitched in those who had died on the deck too. The occasional shot finished off those who had made it into the water and were feebly attempting to swim away.
Holusiax watched as the last of the corpses sank beneath the surface, and smiled before opening a channel to their cruiser in orbit overhead.
“Locate Gunakadeit via deep scans. In one hour, teleport Ustach’s squad to that location.”



Fifty bodies drifted in the water, slowly sinking. Corpses generally returned to the surface once putrefaction caused a buildup of gases within the body, but the firepower unleashed upon them had perforated them so much that none would see the light again.
And the blood. Pint upon pint of it leaked from the bodies as they sank, soon attracting the kinds of carnivorous predators which were common to most oceanic worlds. Vast muscular forms cutting through the water like blades, they were drawn to the bloodshed. Whilst a lone body washed overboard would cause the predators to fight each other over the morsel, here before them was a veritable banquet.
One opened its vast, saw-toothed maw as it cruised toward the lowest of the bodies, only for the body to jerk as the predator’s jaws closed about it. The body thrashed as if waking from a bad dream. The pale pink flesh of Man fell away from the `corpse` like a reptile moulting, to reveal lilac skin beneath. The predator, incapable of processing the sudden live within its dinner of carrion, panicked. But it could not escape, and as it opened its great jaws to release its now unwanted meal, that very morsel struck out, a clawed hand punching up through the predator’s palate and into its brain.
And all about, unlife was seeping into the other corpses, the taint of the warp prayers said over them now twisting their bodies. Some sprouted claws, others tentacles, some even additional pairs of arms and legs.
Once the blood of the predator pack had been added to that of the sacrifices, fifty of the neverborn swam, their bodies undulating with a grace no living creature could match, swam deeper and deeper into the dark depths.


The squats of Gunakadeit had been away from the hearthworlds when the Great Devourer had descended upon their homes. Completing a contract for the Imperium, they had arrived home in their great longships with holds full of ore and goods only to find their homeworlds barren of life. Stripped completely bare of all biological matter. Earthless, airless. Many relics they managed to recover, for such metals were worthless to those who birthed living weapons from their own flesh. And so they had fled the graveyard of their race, the loss of their living ancestors, their culture...their very futures, heavy on their minds and hearts, for they were too few for their race to continue.
Here on Sylus V they had found work to distract themselves, but their skill had made those who took them in jealous, and it was the shrewdness of their most senior members which sniffed out the coming betrayal, allowing them to take their great mining submersible to the safety of the depths. No vehicle of the guild, nor any known vessel of the Mechanicus, could plumb such deeps.
Yet those agents dispatched by the naga sorcerer needed not they oxygen which was as a clock ticking for the fugitive squats, nor did they feel the tremendous crushing pressure of the ocean floor. Likewise they evaded the colossal weapons of the panicked defenders of Gunakadeit with great ease.
Alarum rang out through the fortress-like mining vessel as airlocks were breached and screeching, wailing monstrosities poured in. Many pranced and capered, vividly coloured locks trailing in their wake as they charged at the shaken dwarves behind their hastily erected barricades. Some scuttled on eight spindly legs, emitting wailing songs which paralysed every mortal who heard them.


Holusiax, Leustri, Ethui and the other Psychopomps observed the series of bubbles which broke upon the water’s surface, indicative of the sudden, unnatural displacement of matter so far below.


“MOVE!” Ustach roared over the comm to his squad as soon as they materialized and the great weight of their armour began pulling them toward the ocean floor. Terminator armour was vac-proof – not so different from the conditions they now found themselves in – but he wanted to be inside, in combat, and out of the firearcs of those great cannons as soon as possible.

Combi-bolters and heavy flamers swept back and forth as the terminator squad moved rapidly through the low corridors of Gunakadeit, often knocking down vents and pipes from the ceiling as the tops of their suits struck them. The squat vessel was designed for squats. Onward they advanced toward the bridge, but not a single shot was fired.
They felt no surprise, for they had been informed of the sorcerer’s plans and even had they not been, they recognized the butchery performed by the daughters of Slaanesh. The diminutive abhumans had been torn limb from limb. Heads snipped from shoulders. Some had been cocooned by the arachnid daemons, to what purpose the Psychopomp terminators did not spare a thought.
As quickly as they had swept through the great vessel the daemons had, it appeared, departed, perhaps having soon bored of toying with the short corpses which carpeted the chambers and gangways.
Ustach’s squad did feel disappointment, that they had been denied even a single kill, but put this aside as they found the heads of the bridge crew. Some were not so near to the bodies to which they had been attached, but were eventually located. Only now removing their helmets, squad Ustach gorged themselves on the grey matter of this dying race.


Some hours later a gargantuan monster of iron and giltwork breached the surface of the ocean sending waves radiating outward for kilometers.
Gunakadeit slowly eased itself alongside the pontoon platform once the undulating water’s surface had settled, and the doors of its great upper holds cranked open.
Ustach stood upon the threshold, half a dozen leathery heads tied to his gunbelt by their beards.
“Vessel secured,” he bowed to the naga sorcerer.

Hidden Content

While Alien Resurrection was, I'm my opinion, a turd of a film, the image of Aliens swimming stuck with me and inspired this. With more time I'd like to have written a scene with Daemonettes and my spider fiends swimming through flooded areas of the sub, but...we'll see if I can edit it in tomorrow, time permitting.

[Thedarkprincesnun]

Into the dark depths
It had been 7 weeks. 7 weeks of journeying through the warp to reach the world of Atlyantia. It had once been a beautiful world ripe with life but a sudden change in the worlds atmosphere combined with tetonic shifts in the planets crust, had seem the world go from a jewel of the imperium to a under water world. Zai sighed, it annoyed him that the Plague Lord had picked his squad of plague marines for this campaign. They weren't going in alone of course they were one of seven squads of plague marines chosen alongside 7 squads of terminators chosen to lead the assault. What they were looking for however was unknown, and he didn't like it he might be a son of mortarion and champion of Nurgle but he wasn't stupid.

"Sir" came a voice over the vox. It belonged to the squads plasma gunner Jimmy. "Report" said Zai. "It seems that this world will test us to our limit" said Jimmy. "Ha good its been a while since we had a challenge" said Zai. "Aye it has sir however im curious why is the lord chucking so many of his veteran company terminators alongside us the warriors of the 7th company" said Jimmy rather sheepishly. "Because the commander wishes for this attack to be quick, we are only here to retrieve a artefact that's all" said Zai clearly irritated. With that no more was said.

4 hours later they finally landed in the ocean and the battle began. Rhinos were not suitable in this environment so the warriors of the chapter were being deployed on foot, something which made the warriors of the 7th company un nervous for they were used to mechanised warfare. As the battle began the first wave of defenders swam out lasguns and other weapons raised to fire on the plague marines. "For the plague lord and for the grandfather" shouted the Plague marines raising their bolters and plasma weapons firing shot after shot into the defenders bolters exploding bodies while plasma burnt holes through the defenders.

Forced to fall back the defenders withdrew to the underwater citadel they had come out of. Raising both bolt pistol and plague knifes the plague marines charged slamming melta bombs onto the citadel doors allowing them to break in and it was here were the plague marines slaughtered the defenders plague knifes rotting the flesh of their victims while the plague marines were themselves immune to the toxins. Within 90 minutes the cities outer wall had fallen and it would only take another 3 hours for the rest to fall.

[Scourged]

None for me this week, folks. Being let go from work and prepping for an impeding hurricane has left me quite busy. But I shall enjoy your aquatic endeavors once life calms down!

[Kierdale]

I'm very sorry to hear that, Scourged. Good luck against the hurricane and in finding a new job!

[Kierdale]

I thank you for your entries in Inspirational Friday: Aquatic Warfare over the last week.

Carrack - Feeding Katan II. This was just the kind of thing I was hoping for when I thought up the idea of last week’s IF challenge. How marines would adapt their combat tactics to underwater environments and conditions.
The bit about the bolter rounds specifically made for underwater combat was excellent (and Casper’s causing the enemy’s bolt to detonate within the barrel).

The Darkprincesnun - Into the dark depths. I liked the build-up, and the explanation of how the planet had become oceanic, but in my opinion a little more time taken in describing events would have helped a lot. I couldn’t be sure if the combat took place under the water or above it... The idea of a plasma gun being fired under water immediately makes one wonder what kind of trouble that might be for the gunner (even if it doesn’t overheat)! How the water effects plague marines...as soon as they enter the water a cloud of filth/mire spreads out about them? You could have a summoned legion of plaguebearers or zombies traipsing across the ocean floor...


I hereby close that topic for the purposes of rewards (though as always if you have more entries on the topic please post them at any time, with a suitable note in the post’s title).


Here begins our thirtieth challenge of Inspirational Friday 2016:
Campaign III – Tables Turn / The Crucible
In Part One part one we wrote about the preparation and opening moves of a Chaos force against their chosen foe. In Part Two we detailed the initial assault, and now we come to all out warfare! The 30th challenge of IF2016 has a double title as you can choose to focus simply on the battle: `Crucible`, or have the battle take an unexpected twist: `Tables Turn`.
Either way, things should set up the campaign for the fourth and final part: Campaign IV: Climax. Coming before the end of 2016...

To those who did not enter part one and two: by all means submit three entries ...or at the other end of the scale just submit part three...or give us a summary of what happened in the buildup to this battle and cover the battle itself in detail.

Inspirational Friday: Campaign III – Tables Turn / The Crucible runs until the 21st of October.

Let us be inspired.

And who shall judge this new challenge? That decision lies with our current judge: Teetengee.
To the chosen victor: step forward and claim your Octed Amulet:



And I’ll finish with a call for suggestions.
I still have lots of IF themes on my list (I did start writing out the list to post here, then thought better of it. If I show you the themes now some of you might start writing now and the poor judge would end up with several novella to read that week ) but more are always welcome.

[Carrack]

The Shield
Aspis, Subsector Seat

Spoiler

Lorella looked over the audience of the Bestowment Parade, most were children and old men and women. Was the war going to be this bad? She hoped not, but the signs pointed to upcoming hardships. Lorella was getting her fair share of stares, and not the kind she use to get when she was younger, before she had given birth to 11 children. They were questioning stares, stares that asked, "Why are you not in a manufactorum or at a founding of the Imperial Guard?" Lorella tried to answer the questioning stares by fiddling with her Matron Medal, a gold plated icon of a nursing mother, but too few knew what it meant, yet. The medal was awarded to Lorella for having raised more than five men and women who were serving in the Guard. She had eight, the youngest, her daughter Janne, was just 16 years of age, and even now, was drilling on the founding fields of her Triple R. The Rapid Response Regiments. Lorella considered herself fortunate that only two of her children were in the Triple Rs. The rest were getting the full course of Guard training. The Triple Rs were getting two weeks on the fields, and whatever they could manage on the troop ships. The Matron's Medal got Lorella exemptions from service, even though she was still of age, as well as preferential treatment at the manufactorum, like the ability to take time off to watch the Bestowment Parade.

The crowd began to cheer. The parade was passing through. Lorella had a good view of the procession, the old ladies in front of her were seated, and short enough to see over when they stood. First came an armored regiment, proud tanks slowly riding down the thoroughfare with pendents hanging from their elevated barrels. The tanks and Infantry vehicles were pristine, with barely dried paint yet unmarred by weather or battle. Lorella barely glanced at the regiment, craning her neck to see what followed.

What followed was a sight Lorella would never forget. Dozens of red and orange clad Angels. Angels of Death. They were huge, their armor was thick and bright, and their guns were so large, that Lorella thought they might be cannons if they were not so easily carried by the Angels of Immolation. In spite of the hulking size of the angels, they marched as one, each angel in perfect step with the others, and swinging their arms the precise distance as every other. Lorella began to ponder how a group could ever be so uniform in their movements. It spoke of a level of precision that was beyond human ability.

Following the precession of Angels was the largest tank Lorella had ever seen. Like the Angels before it, it too was bright and defiant in orange and red armor. Cannons were mounted on either side, and the front hull, above a drop ramp large enough for the giant Angels of Immolation to walk down with heads held high. Standing atop the tank as it idled along the thoroughfare, were the two participants of the Bestowment Ceremony. The receiver was another Angel, in armor like his brothers, but embellished to the point of being a work of art. A martial art, for despite the gold filigree, the armor was obviously functional, even showing signs of repair. It wasn't a suit strictly regulated to the parade ground, it was armor that protected its sacred bearer from humanity's enemies while the Angel of Death who wore it delivered His wrath. Beside the fearsome Angel, was a mortal man, the bestower. Under normal circumstances, the bestower was the center of attention wherever he went. The bestower was Lord Aspis the Pious, Sub-Sector Commander, ruler of worlds in the name of the Emperor. He was resplendent in his flowing robes of state, but Lorella's eyes were drawn away from her world's and the vassal worlds of the sub-sector's ruler. Lorella's eyes were drawn to the object that would be bestowed in the Sacred Cathedral of His Holy Shield, at the culmination of the parade. Her eyes were drawn to the Aspis Eternal, the shield from which the sub-sector and its commander took their names. The shield shined with not just the light of the sun off its polished boss, but with a brilliance more than what the bright day would allow. Memories of lessons in sermons about the relic stirred in Lorella's mind. The Aspis Eternal, the unyielding bulwark of humanity, lived up to everyone of them. Lorella caught herself after the shield passed, she had forgotten to breath in sight of the relic, and her knees had weakened. She was dazed in awe, as were all around her. Absentmindedly, she stumbled off back to the manufactorum as if drunk. The Shield would be bestowed. Her children would be protected.

Aspis Eternal

Spoiler

Lorella gasped with a hiss as a sharp pain stabbed into her heart. Something was wrong. She winced again as the acid from the bath she was etching circuits with, found its way to her flesh through that old nick in her protective glove above her thumb. She had etched so many circuits with the gloves that she had grown accustomed to their flaws. The pain in her heart had distracted her. Lorella quickly removed the glove and began applying balm to her hand, as she recited the Penance of Laxity, and looked to the small shrine she had made on the shelf above the bath. Trepidatiously, she looked at the pics of eight of her eleven children, all proud in their Imperial Guard uniforms. She had felt the same stabbing pain in her heart three times before, and the pain had been echoed, ever so slightly, when she looked at one of her children's pics in the shrine. Jane, Bosco, Alfred, each had caused her a pain that was a mother's worse fear. She hoped, she prayed, she was wrong, but intuitively, she knew what had caused the pains in her heart. She breathed easy, only for a moment, when her eyes passed her other five babies without an echo in her heart. Then she felt it. An echo of the pain, this time almost as strong as the original, pierced her breast as her eyes caught the larger picture that was the backdrop of her shrine. It was a motivational picture of the Bestowment Parade she had been blessed to attend, where the Shield had been bestowed upon the mighty Angel of Death. Something was wrong.

*************
The Great Spinal Corridor of Ember , Battle Barge and flagship of the Angels of Immolation

Chapter Master Barcar stared at the shield still strapped to his forearm as nerve blockers, stimulants, and coagulants flooded his system. The wound from the melta beam was horrific, his armor had melted into his right side, ruining a lung, and searing shut arteries close to his primary heart. The shield on his arm reflected back an image of his face that betrayed the agony of the wound. Barcar could not let that be the last image he saw. He could not die with a vision of his own failure in his eyes. The shield was more than a shield, it was the Aspis Eternal, it was a symbol of the Emperor's protection of the worlds of the subsector that shared its name. Barcar, and his chapter, The Angels of Immolation, were that protection. It was why the shield had been bestowed upon him. He would not fail his chapter. He would not fail the multitudes of souls crying out for his protection. He would not fail the Emperor. Chapter Master Barcar used the Aspis Eternal to hoist himself to his feet, and unsteadily advanced on the enemy.

The enemy was the worst of enemies, an old enemy, a familiar enemy, an enemy that was once a brother. The enemy was a betrayer. The enemy had betrayed the Emperor, and in doing so, had betrayed all of humanity. It was obvious by the way the enemy charged, more like a beast than a man, hunched over, loping, with a profanely mutated third arm clawing at the mosaicked deck like an animal that was unused to walking upright. The bestial gait of the enemy was not where Barcar's once again steeled eyes focused. Nor did they look for weaknesses in the enemy's once-proud terminator plate. His gaze glared on the enemy's axe, a massive and cruel weapon that glowed with red, daemonic light. Barcar held the Aspis Eternal high, readied to block the blow of the enemy's infernal axe.

The enemy, Lord Carrack, was more than just a simple beast though, his charge was not the straightforward attack of a predator used to taking down prey whose speed was their only defense. Lord Carrack was a warrior, used to fighting other warriors, and his charge ended with not just a simple overhead strike. Lord Carrack dipped his shoulder in the opposite direction of his strike, nodding his head in the other, and jabbed out with his third arm below the belt. Chapter Master Barcar never took his eyes off the axe. He absorbed the punch to his groin with his Martian forged armor, and was not fooled by Lord Carrack's feints. He blocked the heavy strike of the axe with the shield he bore for the subsector, and a shower of sparks rained down on the two warriors. The sparks were not ordinary sparks, they were blood red, and changed their trajectories as they fell, seeking the eyes of both warriors with inhuman intelligence, both warriors, for they cared not for which would fall.

As the unholy shower of living sparks rained down, Barcar swung his hammer overhead, alarmed by the weakened state of his right shoulder. Weaknened, but not weak, the thunder hammer still carried enough force to crush the enemy when it reached its terminus. However, the swing would never reach its bloody conclusion. The massive size of the enemy's axe belied its speed. Lord Carrack swung it as quick as a man would swing a hatchet cutting kindling for a fire. The first cut after the initial parry came low as the axe deflected wide, cutting across Barcar's left knee, an instant before he could pivot back his leg. The wound would have bled, and tore clean through his lateral knee ligament, but it was inconsequential compared to the next two cuts. The next strike came in at the melted point of his armor at his wounded right side, below the armpit, and cut all the way to his primary heart. The blow was a mortal one, but not the last. The last cut stopped Baracar's own strike at the wrist, cutting clean through vambrace, flesh, and bone. The hammer tumbled awkwardly, his hand still grasping its hilt, to bounce its shaft off of Lord Carrack's helm. Chapter Master Barcar fell to the deck of his flagship's most hallowed corridor, along with the Aspis Eternal, and the hopes of the subsector.

Edited by Carrack, 29 October 2016 - 05:14 AM.

[Teetengee]

Carrack, seemed a bit short, though I liked the kinship concept.

Darkprincesnum: I feel it could be expanded upon, this felt more like an overview at times.

Kierdale: I felt that some parts of it could have used some more revision, it seemed scattered. However, the ideas of the ritual, the water daemons, and the Gunakadeit I found quite interesting. You win this round.

[MyD4rkPassenger]

Preparations

Spoiler

The shadows encircled everything with an inky blackness that no human eye could pierce.  A holo map of the Halaphontis system was the only source of light in the void for the servants of the eighth legion.  A massive terminator armed horror stepped out of the gloom and slammed a fist down onto the table with a deafening crash.  "We must attack now! We give the dogs of the corpse time to prepare, we do not have the resources to take this planet let alone the sector Kardos!"  Kuzbek Altansor had served under Talvor Kardos since the early days of his command during the heresy, and was the only reason he still lived for that outburst.  Sliding noiselessly out of the darkness the Lord of the Abyss Walkers appeared before his retinue.  He gestured towards the leader of his Atrementar, "Our brother raises an alternate option, if we make planetfall now we would have a near one-hundred percent chance of annihilating the imperial forces below, yet we would leave ourselves open to counter attack by the vastly superior fleet stationed at the planet just over here." He slid an armored hand through the holomap, enlarging it to reveal the entirety of the system.  "If we wait-" "We've waited long enough brother."  The room fell silent as Lord Kardos' true blood brother from Nostromo came from behind him and rested a hand on his brother's pauldron.  

     The dynamic between these two was well known throughout the ship.  Talvor held true command, ruling with an iron fist.  Azrahal however, was the the right hand of his brother, his premonitions and psychic presence allowing the pirates to effortlessly remain un impeded by the forces of the imperium.  Nothing was decided until the brothers had held council in isolation when it came to battle and deployment.  It was highly unlike Azrahal to challenge his brother directly in the war council, and the other members took note and waited.  

     Talvor shook his brother's hand from his shoulder and quickly rounded on him.  "Tell me then brother how do you intend to counter the Imperium's fleet not one planet over?  Would you bring destruction to our ship just to ensure a quick kill and half of the supplies we would normally raid? That is what I see from the foolish suggestions by you and Kuzbek!"  The lord's temper was flaring, and all but Azrahal were wary of what their lord would do next.  Azrahal held up a placating hand to his brother, "I have acquired help in our endeavor, help even you would be unable to acquire."  Talvor looked towards the map and fiddled with the bone necklace resting on his breatplate.  He nodded slowly and turned back towards his brother, "Do tell us Azrahal, if you recruited more chaff from the eye it will be of little use to us, they know nothing of subtlety."  From the helmet of the psyker a seal like bark coughed out, Azrahal laughed at his brother, enraging Talvor even more, "Subtlety and deception is their speciality brother."  He waved a hand forwards.  From the hallway leading to the council room 3 astartes walked forwards and into view.  Kuzbek, along with many of the council, immediately drew his combi bolter and aimed it at the newcomers.  The blue armored astartes stopped next to Azrahal, the leader's gold helmet adorned with an ornate crest and his lenses glowing with an ethereal green light.  The two on either side of him stood like sentinels, also having crest adorned helms, and staring forwards with bolters held close to their chests.  Azrahal looked around the room, "I introduce Nebamun of the fifteenth legion."  Talvor straightened and stared at the sorcerer, "Well Thousand Son, tell us your grand plan."

 

 

I'm going to update this with parts 2 and three as they come, I'm also not done with part one so take it as a wip if you read it

Edited by MyD4rkPassenger, 17 October 2016 - 04:49 PM.

[Kierdale]

Campaign III – Trapped in the Web

Hidden Content

Void combat was alien and incomprehensible to the citizenry of the Imperium of Man. The distances at which fighting took place were unimaginable. Lances reaching out across thousands of kilometers, torpedoes the size of early Terran spacecraft rocketing through space and solid munitions shot forth from cannons and mass drivers taking minutes to impact, their trajectories guided by cogni-servitors programmed to predict the enemy’s vector and future position. Even the guardsmen of the Astra Militarum rarely saw the enemy when the vessels they were aboard were engaged in war amongst the stars. The closest a vessel might ever approach to a still-active enemy might be an orbital bombardment of hostile ground positions. Even boarding actions were usually only carried out once the enemy ship had been disabled and drawing alongside was deemed safe.
Thus the situation those aboard Rudra’s Trident, and Naga’s Bite behind it, now faced was highly unusual. The broadside gunners aboard the Psychopomps frigates were exchanging fire with enemy no more than two kilometers distant: upon the surface of the craftworld they now flew alongside within the mist-walled tunnel of the Eldar webway. As the cannons of the frigates pounded the huge Eldar craft’s starboard flank, those of the their sister ship Silenus hammered its port side. Great explosions blossomed upon the surface of Carth-Lar as shells and ordnance was fired upon it, the crews screaming madly, savouring the opportunity to see the destruction they wrought at such close distance. Though targets were designated and fed down from the bridge crews, the sensation drove the gunnery crews mad and who knew how many of their allies perished upon the surface to friendly fire?
The Eldar batteries fired up at the destroyers keeping pace with the craftworld, lances, lasers and rockets hitting the Chaos vessels’ shields and quickly wearing them down. Between the vast bulk of the craftworld and the membrane wall of the webway there was little room to maneuver. Whoever was piloting Carth-Lar – was it mortal Eldar or was it controlled by a gestalt of Eldar spirits via the craftworld’s infinity circuit? – realized this, the ponderous behemoth’s drives flared and it began to drift to port. Tocsin immediately sounded throughout Silenus and its laser batteries ceased as power was shunted to its engines. But too late, for even as the frigate tried to climb away from the approaching flank of the craftworld it could not move fast enough. In a panic the ship’s captain ordered the helmsman to direct them at the wall of the tunnel itself. None of the attackers truly knew the nature of the Eldar webway, though they knew that the warp lay beyond. Who knew? Perhaps a ship might be able to breach it and escape into the sea of souls?
Those aboard the Trident and Bite saw only a great explosion from the other side of the craftworld, signaling the demise of their sister vessel, either destroyed in their panicked collision or crushed between the membrane and the Eldar craft itself.
The gunners of these two destroyers noticed their range-to-target was decreasing and word was rapidly passed to the bridge: the craftworld was veering back in their direction, hoping to crush them as it had Silenus. Both shunted all available power to their drives, even going so far as to drop their shields.
The vast wall of the crafworld’s flank loomed large once again as the destroyers’ engines wailed and deckplates shook. Crew braced themselves against the acceleration, watched the elephantine mass approaching, and prayed to the Dark Prince that they might live through the coming minutes, swearing to reap a grand tally of Eldar souls should their patron look favourably upon them, or failing that for him to grant them glorious deaths.
Realising that the renegade vessels had dropped their shields, the Eldar gunners recommenced firing upon the destroyers as they grew larger and larger overhead, the overseers of each battery then entrusting their weapon’s continued operation to the spirit stones embedded within their bunkers and ordering the mortal crews to abandon their positions lest they be crushed in the coming collisions.
Explosions bloomed across the flank of Naga’s Bite as Rudra’s Trident pulled ahead and clear of the craftworld. Bite’s captain Isavel called her second in command, her closest confidant and most favoured slave, close as if for a last embrace upon the cusp of oblivion, only to plunge her dagger into his loins savouring the look of horror at this betrayal upon his face and even as she slid his body to the deck she beseeched Slaaneshi to take her sacrifice and spare her ship.
The ship continued to shake as its engines squealed and more fire from the craftworld shook it. Out the port windows the cityscape of Carth-Lar could be seen in frightening detail.
Alarum began to sound and Isavel kept her eyes on the bright drives of Rudra’s Trident out ahead. How she wished it were her ship.
It was then that inspiration struck her.
“Isavel to all forward batteries. Lock onto my target and fire everything you’ve got.”

Trident had made it. Its engines had carried it forward, out into the warp tunnel beyond the craftworld, saving it from being crushed against the walls. Thus the blare of sirens took the captain by great surprise, cold dread and shock taking his heart as Bite’s torpedoes struck his destroyer’s unshielded aft quarter. The engines, pushed beyond redlining, detonated and the suddenly hobbled craft dropped back rapidly. The front of the craftworld was a nest of vanes and towers, some containing navigational arrays, others observatories and remote towers where seers might sequester themselves to consider the mysteries of the cosmos. It was upon these spires, this cluster of speartips, that Rudra’s Trident was spitted. At such speeds were the vessels moving that the destroyer slid down a pair of great spars which gutted it, explosions rocking it within, smaller structures breaking off the spires as it was driven deeper onto the skewers until it came to rest. Only then did the internal explosions tear the ship in half, sending each severed section cartwheeling back across the surface of the craftworld. The fore section of the destroyer, a good eight hundred meters in length, flattened buildings as it rolled and spun its way aftwards across the back of Carth-Lar. Eldar, Psychopomps, their cult thralls and daemons alike were crushed as ants under its tumbling mass. Likewise was the destruction across the craftworld’s ventral side as the Trident’s rear half slide backwards, uprooting batteries, smashing towers and crushing those who fought there before they could even see their ends coming.

The celebration within the saved Naga’s Bite was raucous as they looked back upon the fruits of their betrayal, their sister vessel disemboweled and wreaking unimaginable destruction as it fell back across the Eldar craftworld, the batteries which had been pounding them now silenced.


From the footholds they quickly established upon the surface of the craftworld the Psychopomps, their cults and beastmen forces quickly spread out in seemingly random manner. The majority sought out the Eldar defenders, seized by the thrill of combat they sought glory, and the voices of the neverborn calling out in their minds for Eldar souls to be sacrificed to their patron deity. Those possessed of stronger will held to their mission objectives. Contingency plans in fact, for had the assault gone as initially planned the craftworld’s engines would have been disabled before it had been able to make it into the webway. Now forces raced aftward to destroy both the craftworld’s sublight engines and whatever arcane machinery enabled it to enter the Eldar nexus.

Though the craftworld’s many aspect temples had been made to bleed in the battle of Viarphia, those who had survived had a burning desire for vengeance aflame within their chests. Some fought in squads alongside their comrades, pitifully few in numbers but determined to die together if die they must. The warriors of some temples decided instead to grant their expertise to the craftworld’s guardian forces, for these had not sallied forth to Viarphia, having been forbidden to follow autarch Quarasion by the seer council. Oh how they needed Qarasion the Exile now!

A bas-relief of the chaining of Vaul, psychically shaped over decades by Carth-Lar craftsmen of old, was pulverised as a squad of Havoc Banshees played their sonic weapons over the wraithbone buildings before them. Their weapons sent out short-ranged sonics in such rapidly scaling frequencies that cover was as nothing to them. Guardian armour was no proof against these weapons, the flesh within turned to jelly and the ambushers became the ambushed, the survivors fleeing out the rear of the building, shuriken catapults held tightly, a lone Scorpion – their provisional leader – at their head. The scent of souls exciting the Banshees, the fallen marines raced inside only for a signal from the Scorpion to bring down a rain of Reaper’s missiles, toppling the shaken structure and completing their ambush.
So things went in countless battles across the surface and within the innards of the craftworld with ambushes and counter ambushes, feints, gambits and mad charges. Parks and forests which had once been oases of peace were now aflame, their once verdant turf now pockmarked with blast craters and the vegetation withered and wilted at the approach of the Dark Prince’s daemons. This blight spread out before their advance, forming accursed symbols.
Boulevards were filled with bodies and debris while the banners of the craftworld, which had hung so proudly above the heads of its denizens as they went about their lives, were now tarnished, scorched and torn. A number of the finest had been pulled down and taken as trophies by the invaders.
Not even halls and houses, nor even bedchambers, had been spared as desperate battles were fought back and forth through their crampt confines. Sculptures, paintings, toys and memorabilia of millennia-long lives were trampled and splattered with gore.

Deep within the wrathbone skeleton of the craftworld, where the sounds of the war outside could not be heard but only tremors felt, a chorus of robed figures stood, their heads bowed before those who had given their lives protecting Carth-Lar over the millennia since the fall of their race.
A silent army, towering over the chanting bonesingers and spiritseers, rank upon rank upon rank of wraithbone bodies. Long and sinuous of limb, these were no crude robots of the Mechanicus nor hellish tombs for the remains of fallen Astartes, they were things of fearsome, sorrowful beauty.
While the seer council had forbidden the craftworld’s guardian forces from accompanying Qarasion on her fateful mission to Viarphia, she had known that the aspect warriors would swear loyalty to her. She had stolen the avatar of Khaine from its resting place but even she had not been blasphemous enough to have attempted to call upon these warriors.
Ghost warriors.
An army of the dead.


Fire billowed into the sky, not borne aloft by an explosion but vomited forth from the muzzle of a flamethrower. The speed at which it was moving caused it to create a literal wall of fire in the air above the bike, as if the cultist chained to the spar on the front wielded some great diabolic standard. The bike rocked once, twice, as it rode down guardians not fast enough to throw themselves clear. A second biker pulled alongside, a marine stood on the rear, playing a flamer of his own onto the ground behind them, igniting their trail and the bodies of those they struck down. These were not the Black Stallion riders – the preeminent bikers of the renegade chapter, but rather the Pale Riders: their rival sect.
The first biker pushed his throttle wide open with one hand, throwing a disparaging gesture to his squadmate with the other hand. The cultist chained to the spar which protruded upward and outward from the front faring, hissed and spat, unable to scream as he had long ago chewed his own tongue off. He swung from the chains anchored into his flesh, the amputated stumps of his legs kicking as he played his flamer back and forth, its fuel pipe snaking over his shoulders and directly into the bike’s own tank.
It was this cultist who first bore witness to the dead, but in his mauled, crazed state he was incapable of drawing the attention of the equally maddened Riders, and the first blast of distortion scythes stripped their souls, astartes and cultists alike, leaving their bikes to skid, tumble and crash, tearing the lifeless bodies atop them into bloody chunks.
Without word, the dead marched on.

An Eldar warlock was both a formidable psyker, and akin to an officer in the armies of Man. Possessed of both precognitive and destructive powers they were able to lend great aid to the warriors they fought alongside, foretelling ambushes before they were triggered, ordering attacks with awe-inspiring accuracy and even directly rending the minds of their foes. Many were seers who had walked the path of the warrior.
But for warlock Aislin, sent to assist Carth-Lar’s guardian hosts by farseer Emrana, the tide of daemons and mad thralls that bore down upon their position, there was no premonition but one of doom, no witch-given insight that would stem the tide, she possessed not the power to strip so many hundreds of their wills or their souls, and never in her warrior experience had she faced such inevitable doom.
Dozens upon dozens of daemonettes danced toward the line of guardians behind their shield wall. Purple-skinned and barely clad in twisted armour and roseate loincloths, they were neither entirely male nor female, but were undoubtedly the spawn of She Who Must Not Be Named. It had been the Eldar’s folly which had brought about the fourth Chaos god’s birth, and now Carth-Lar reaped the fruits of their decadence. The daemonic horde capered and cavorted across the battlefield as if performing in some macabre circus, teasing the Eldar as much as charging at them. All too eager to feast upon the elfin xenos’ souls yet aware that once the slaughter commenced the ecstasy of it would be over all too quickly.
An old quote, a human quote of all things, came to warlock Aislin’s mind and she could not help but give it voice, “Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music.”
Aislin drove the fear from her mind with mantras she had learned as a warrior under Qarasion and, her mind stilled, directed the fire of her kin to take down as many of the monsters as possible before they engaged.
Lilac ichor sprayed as blasts of shurikens sawed limbs off and tore into heads topped with gaudy locks.
The dance ended as too many of their number laid spasming amid bodies of Slaangor and cultists upon the gore-slicked ground and, ululating furiously, the daemonettes charged.
“When the music changes, so does the dance.”
She slid her witchblade from its sheath across her back and looked to her left and right along the lines of craftsmen, tradesmen, gardeners, healers and entertainers all turned warriors. Some wore their high helmets but a great deal had chosen to face their fates unhelmed. All met her gaze and none flinched from it.
She took a step toward the wall, the ground now shaking not only with the footfalls of the hundrds of hellspawn bearing down upon them but also the bigger mechanical monstrosities which lurched and lumbered behind the daemons. Summoning the power of the warp to her she let it flow through her limbs and into her mind. It would guide her arm, and with it she hoped if not to save as many of her kin as possible, to at least slay as many of the enemy as she could before she too fell.
Aislin stepped up to the wall, standing almost atop it and screamed at the top of her lungs, over the wailing of the daemons, the hiss of the shuriken fusillades and the boom of heavier weapons.
“For Carth-Lar! For the children of Isha!”
Great voids appeared in the rampaging mass of daemons and thralls, the very fabric of reality being carelessly and most destructively unraveled. Mortals struck by the wraith weapons found their souls torn from their physical forms and even the daemons: beings of the warp itself given flesh form, could not survive being rent asunder. Blast upon blast upon blast tore across the enemy lines as one after another wraithguard, and even taller wraithlords, stepped from the ruins behind the guardian line.
While the momentum of the hellspawn foot troops was soon broken, such could not be said of the daemon engines toward the rear. Great loping fiends barged their way through their own troops, trampling both mortals and lesser daemons under their great iron-shod tread, batting them aside with horned and bladed heads and shrugging off all but the most hideous of wounds.
One, a huge fiend of iron and daemonic flesh possessed of no head but a great maw of tentacles, made it to the Eldar line, razor-like blades and spikes whipping out to skewer and disembowel those about it, snaking tentacles feeding the chopped remains and maimed victims screaming in terror, into the beast’s mouth.
The screams were silenced as a great blade the length of a starfighter stabbed down and pinned the bastard creation to the ground, the blast of a suncannon finishing off what the ghostglaive had begun.
A rousing cheer went up as the wraithknight stepped into view.
“The spawn of She Who Must Not Be Named now face the warriors of Carth-Lar, past and present!” Aislin shouted, watching as the enemy fled across the cratered field before her.

And a quick question. Would you like a third week to get entries in? I’m judging the current IF and I’d don’t mind having a fair few entries to read. If a third week will give more members the opportunity to enter, I’m fine with it.

[Carrack]

I'm fine with another week