Jump to content

Bruce Malcom

+ FRATER DOMUS +
  • Posts

    276
  • Joined

  • Last visited

3 Followers

About Bruce Malcom

  • Birthday October 5

Profile Information

  • Faction
    Astartes Of Both Loyalties

Recent Profile Visitors

184 profile views

Bruce Malcom's Achievements

  1. Part Two - The Chapters The phithalo forests of Valeidlectus were an expanse that stretched for as far as one could see, broken only by gleaming ponds of crystal blue waters and villages of marble and charcoal black wood. It was without peer in all of the Deidactor Skerry for its pristine and hardly blemished beauty - its wildlife docile enough to not require endless armies of planetary defense, its woodland replenishing faster than normal trees, its population dedicated to its preservation. There were few major settlements, most of them built in the archaic form of a castle or fort, and their population hardly went over a million souls. Yet the one exception to these standards was Pratctallia, a city constructed around the overgrown fortress-monastery of the Pterarchos Liberalis. Turquoise clashed with worn bronze plating across its width and length, while harmless vines and shrubbery overtook the structure. Pratcallia was the first settlement established on the planet, thus its size and seeming disregard for the rules emplaced afterwards by the Pterarchos Liberalis on its preservation. Across it, squads of scout marines patrolled the marble and wood city alongside the typical law enforcement, and chapter serfs competed for roles and status within the city inside the dedicated political halls of the fortress-monastery. While the Imperial Shields had their wardenhood over Lysbonus and the wider Deidactor Skerry, the Pterarchos Liberalis had their own personal realm, an echo of their progenitors, the Ultramarines’ wider empire from ages prior. Control of the planet was officially shared between Drakul Leskunmo, the planetary governor, and Hadrian Respervus, the chapter-master, but all who took residence on the world knew who really handled the planet. —--------------- Drakul’s plain cloth and cotton robe clashed with his garment of fine silks and fur. It was both prideful and reserved, glamorous but secretive, but there was a sigil emblazoned on his back that was unmistakable. The wings of a bird, like the tool of chaplains, sat bold and wide on a central circle. It was the chapter marking of the Pterarchos Liberalis. His leathery skin was contorted and bent around mechanical tubing and ruined body structure, held together by hidden technology and surgery. His body had received the worst of a geneseed’s rejection, and every cell in his body suffered for the folly of Apothecaries prior. Yet he had endured, his mind far from inoperable. On a throne he sat, his mechanical right eye connected to cogitators and data-slates. If one did not know better, they may have even mistaken him for a scion of the Mechanicus. But his blue and teal robes paired with bronze and gold regalia spoke to his true allegiances. So far deep into the cogitator’s provided systems that he was not even surprised when the door to his chamber opened abruptly. It was an Astartes, from the chapter he served. Fresh scrapes and holes dotted his armor plating, pieces of ceramite and adamantium torn off crudely and with abandon. “Governor,” the Astartes’ booming voice began. “The sixth company returns from its crusade!” His power sword was jutted towards the tall ceiling, its blade crackling with invisible power and held by a warrior of renown. Yet Drakul’s face remained unchanged, uninterested, even annoyed. “Glory to the sixth,” he said, his tone as static as the mountains. There was an awkward silence that followed, where the Space Marine continued to stare as if prepared to receive further praise, and the governor gave none. “Is that all, governor? My deeds will be recognized, my ten dead shall be mourned, mortal,” the captain demanded. “Write down in your scrolls their names, and then I shall leave. I want their titles engraved on the wall of the fallen!” “Your men shall be mourned when I find the time, sixth captain Artrellus. You should demand the honors for your men from the Master of the Marches, not I. Now leave me, I have a civilization to run.” The captain continued to glare, his sword angrily emplaced in his scabbard. His free hand clenched, the slow grinding of finger plating against the palm dully audible. “You disrespect me, mortal? My troops?” “You embarrass yourself, captain Artrellus. Do not lose your rank over problems of your own fabrication. Now go, Astartes.” Artrellus burned with a terrible rage, unwanted desires creeping into his consciousness from the recesses of the id - but he did not give in, and merely stormed off, each footstep threatening to dent the durable synthetic marble beneath his heels. Drakul did not give the man another thought, choosing to keep his mind on the tasks of the planet and its problems. Every day he ended alone. He had forsaken any chance at a normal life, with normal prides and connection, when he attempted to join the Pterarchos Liberalis over a century ago. He was but a child then, no older than thirteen, when the call across the planet was made for potential aspirants to partake in the trials. He had gone with friends - none were still alive to share his shame - and while he was tested capable of accepting the geneseed of Guilliman, he had failed physically in the tests. They had all said he would make for a subpar, weak Astartes, not worthy of the bolter and chainsword he would’ve been given. But they did not say anything ill of his mind. They had never planned to send him back to his family in shame, or pass around ammunition in the fortress-monastary. He was destined for something, even if Astarteshood was out of the question. But they never warned him how dull that destiny would be. For a century he has drunk wine, succled the life of underlings and crafted a political phalanx stronger than any construction of the Imperial Shields. Yet he could claim no dead Ork, no dead clawbug to his name and honor. He had a few children sired, a horde of gold and aquillagelt, but none of these things compared to the glory he felt he lacked. If only they had uplifted him anyway, if they gave him a chance to train his body and strengthen his physical power… Such times had passed, and he was an old man now. Try as he did, however, there was no being content. —------------------- “A toast!” a loud, charismatic voice resonated throughout the feasting hall, its walls adorned with banners and sigils of the chapter it was claimed by. Fine wood and turquoise duracrete mingled into a truly unique design, decorated with gold and milky pearls. Large Astartes in full plate sat around the table, gorging on the fruits and meat offered by the countless lesser kingdoms scattered across Valeidlectus, though a few wore silk robes and cream togas. The champion at the head of the table had ceramite-adamanitum plates covered in deep blue and red stripes, colors clashing with the turquoise-bronze aesthetic of the Pterarchos Liberalis. It was a piece of relic armor dating back to the Great Crusade, a plume of red atop his Mark IV power armor. A leather battle skirt sat around his waist, with a full scabbard emplaced aside his waist. mirroring the master-crafted bolt pistol on the other. His name, often spoken with total reverence for his ability in leadership and combat, was Hadrian Respervus. “To the sixth company, who valiantly strode against the Clawbug Hive on Strevolok - and to the seventh, which still returns from its mission against the Ruinous Powers and their heretical agents. Finally, our campaign against the cursed warband, the Disciples of Grulgor, will be at an end, and the Deidactor Skerry will be safe from such taint spreading,” the champion finished as he rose his glass of perfect red wine. He could not be intoxicated by the liquid, but he could not deny its particular taste. “Aye, to the fifth and the seventh!” Another embellished Astartes stated in joyful agreement, and all around the table were glasses hit against one another, and within moments their contents disappeared down the gullet of the scions of Guilliman. The feasting and comradery was disrupted, however, when the twin doors to the vast hall were opened with an unmistakable, attention-demanding creek. Stepping through the doors was Zahart Prosiel, his blonde yellow armor far more damaged than the Pterarchos commanders’ sets combined. Hadrian watched as Prosiel progressed past the auxilla guard, the gathered Pterarchos who turned to watch the First Captain of the Imperial Shields interrupt their beloved, traditional feast of victory. “Zahart Prosiel,” Hadrian managed, after collecting himself after surprise. “What brings you to our home, Zahart? Is there trouble, or are these political matters?” “I need to speak with you,” Prosiel replied. “It is…vital.” Hadrian’s face bore a pout. “Truly, there is no time to finish?” Zahart contained his judgment at the gluttony on display, releasing his words through a single sigh, and nodded. “Finish your meal,” Prosiel conceded and Hadrian’s face brightened. He waved over a serf, and quickly a new chair was brought. “Then, perhaps, you can join us in the interim? There are enough turkeys to spare congratulating the Imperial Shields’ consistent defense of the Skerry, along with your destruction of the Tyranids’ splinter hive, Zahart.” Prosiel wasn’t sure what to do in the situation. He was proud that they held such an important place in protecting the Deidactor Skerry, but was he proud of the methods they took to do so? His old friend, attached to a machine of wires and data-nodes. His brothers, butting heads with Imperial admirals and regiment commanders. His available troops lost their edge, dying in numbers not easily replaced. At least, not before. “Of course, I will join you,” Prosiel replied simply, gathering newfound warmth in his voice. He was simply eating an evening meal with a friend, nothing more. No honor, no ritual. He pushed away the darker thoughts of stealing this reward from those who better earned it, and bit down into the roasted, well-prepared animal presented to him. “So, shield-master,” one of the Pterarchos began, referring to him by a title he had earned many moons prior, “how goes the patrols and such on Lysbonus? Any surprises?” Surprises. Third Captain Aeterus Cavallo knew what he was doing when he asked that question. He knew full well Prosiel had not gone into a true battle in just over twenty years. It had been so terribly long since he had been entrapped with the responsibilities of protecting the Deidactor Skerry. With every passing day, he felt like he was less its protector, and more its ruler. Some hidden, treacherous aspect of his soul yearned for a menace which could breach the Skerry’s outer defenses and survive its preemptive strikes, so he could have a reason to engage in battle once more. “No, no surprises. You?” “Oh, do not get him started,” Fifth Captain Nepellus Poterion commented in a friendly jab. “He will talk until your skin falls off your bones about conquests new and old.” “Jealousy is unbecoming of you,” Aeterus replied in mock disappointment, before shifting his ignited attention back to the Imperial Shield. “I had quite the surprise just a few months ago. Nepellus had lent me one of his pursuit frigates to chase down a pirate force of cutters and corvettes, leading into the winding fields of asteroids behind the backdrop of the Ganhaw’s Gleem.” The Ganhaw’s Gleem. A beautiful ocean of bright purple and turquoise light which made for a den of piracy and secessionist asteroid colonies. Battlefleet Fortuna was considering a campaign to take the Gleem, but was distracted by deflecting an attack by the Disciples of Grulgor. “We delved into the violet depths of the Gleem, void shields raised in case something appeared from the Gleem that our sensors did not detect. “Our vigilance was justified, for when a small horde of needle fighters peered out of the pink-blue miasma, our flak cannons came alive. Over the beautiful backdrop of the Gleem, a new wall of orange flame appeared, burning away the needle ships by the dozen. When their numbers were made zero, we were able to trace the servitor command vox-signal back to their stolen escort carrier. Though it attempted to flee, the engines of the Konor-fashioned Longbow were not to be denied, and their vessel erupted in a great wave of flame and debris!” Prosiel was unimpressed. The fact that this small pirate hunt was lauded so much by the captain betrayed his years and experience. Defeating a stolen, worn escort carrier with an Astartes frigate, built by one of the greatest forge worlds of Ultramar was as easy and natural as a farmer reaping wheat - hardly worth the honor roll for the ship’s service history. “Did you catch the rest of them?” Prosiel asked simply, little interest in his tone, deep and unfluctuating. Aeterus tilted his head in confusion. “We destroyed the carrier,” Aeterus commented, most of the humor gone from his voice. “What more was there to capture? There was no flotilla, only a single ship of traitors.” “That you know of,” Prosiel responded, darkening the mood of the feast. “Did you bother checking its navigation cogitators? Interrogating the crew?” “Brother, I do not think the dining table is the place for this,” Hadrian gently cautioned, trying to save the celebratory mood from the void of humor that was Prosiel often called. “The traitors are dead, their vessel of terror asunder, the Imperium aided. That is enough for me.” The Imperial Shields captain held his tongue, despite the churning waves of criticism brewing behind his sealed lips. What if they were part of a greater force, an alliance of traitors and freebooters? Who would clean the mess of such a party of raids against the Deidactor Skerry? Of course, it would be the Shields, and at best the Pterarchos Liberalis would assist lightly and defend its own territory, and proceed to feast on meat, pastries and vegetables over it like slobs. “Aye,” Prosiel said. “My apologies, third captain. I am still trying to remove myself from the pale yellow walls of the Reviere, and I forget I am not the first captain in all places.” “No worries, Prosiel. I am not blind to the stresses the Shields suffer through. Though I must ask,” Aeterus started, and Prosiel flinched. He had come here to gain Hadrian’s support in the Shields’ plan to expand, and to ensure no friction may arise from their decision, but ruining relations with the chapter’s leaders before even beginning that risky process would bring that plan to a halt before it could even begin. “Are you going to eat that ham?” Prosiel’s internal tension held for nearly another minute, before he let it slip away as a rush of relief traveled up his body. He laughed weakly after the air escaped his lungs, and smiled cordially. “Of course. My thanks to the serfs who prepared this fine dining, it tastes better than any nutrient packets the tech-priests offer.” This, gained the laughter of the gathered captains, and humor returned to the dinner feast. —----------------- “You wished to meet me in person, Zahart?” Hadrian asked, entering with the Imperial Shields first captain into an exceptionally large chamber. The seal of the Ultramarines sat on the archaic round table at its center, and relics of old Ultramar were scattered about, as if the fortress-monastery was a museum of distant worlds as much as it was the capital of the planet. The meeting room glimmered with gold, silvers and platinum. Such material boons, not fit for a chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. Chapters should care about ceramite, adamanitum, rockcrete and lithius-silica, not currency and wealth. What madness, what glory captures these sons of Guilliman… “Yes, I did,” Prosiel answered, his voice echoing slightly through the massive meeting room. “You have quite a collection of relics and items from days past…I don’t believe I’ve ever been in this chamber in all my visits.” “Ah, we moved most of them from the internal holds a few levels down. The rest were gathered from campaigns in the border worlds of Ultramar, when we were called to serve. The Battle for Macragge bled the Ultramarines and Macragge dry for a time. All Astartes available were needed to defend its worlds,” Hadrian explained, taking a seat at the old, weathered table. “We even acquired a bolt pistol from the Dark Angels Legion, though we have yet to meet a descendant chapter to give it to. Nothing from the Fists though, I’m afraid.” “It is alright, Hadrian.” Prosiel reconsidered his stance. If they were truly pieces of the Imperium’s past and not some attempt to flout greatness, perhaps it did have a purpose for the chapter after all. “The Imperium should do well to remember its history, and I am sure the chaplains enjoy this room most. It is best to keep those in the skull and black pleased, in my experience.” Hadrian chuckled lightly. “Indeed, indeed. An angry chaplain is bad for one’s health, in more ways than one.” Prosiel sighed. “I suppose we should get to why I asked to meet you, Hadrian. Unfortunately, it was not to share food, it was to discuss the Codex and its tenants.” “The Codex?” Hadrian let out a fit of booming laughter. “Have you run out of copies to share among your chapter?” “No, brother. I have come to the decision to amend it, in our chapter’s case.” Hadrian’s joyful face went cold, and his hands twitched, spine rigid. “What?” was all he said. Already, Prosiel could tell this was not going to be an easy discussion. “The Skerry is a large place, Hadrian. Even between two Astartes chapters, the administratum of Fortuna demands more from us, more from the Skerry. Even in the vastness of the Imperium of Man, every drop of blood, every gram of material is needed, and what better way to make that count than creating more Astartes to defend it?” “You speak of legion-building,” Hadrian said in hushed, angered tones. “You speak of betraying the founding principles of the Codex Astartes, defying the endless wisdom of Roboute Guilliman! The Skerry is safe, brother, it is safer than it ever has been before. Once the Conviction of Lysbonus is repaired, even a full fledged attack from xenos or the Ruinous Powers could not break our fortress. There is no need to found new companies in the Imperial Shields, this is a play for power, nothing more!” “Can you say this for certain?” Prosiel replied, maintaining his calm against the building rage inside him. “We are the jewel of Fortuna, and that draws eyes. Whispers from the Gleem, the sabotage of the Conviction, the Disciples of Grulgor’s last stand…it all means something. We are surrounded, Hadrian, on all sides. The Imperium is fraying, and we are already so distant from Terra. You said it yourself, even the Realm of Ultramar is shuttering under the weight. We are in a time of waning, and if we do not reverse that tide soon, we may need every Astartes we can get.” “You are paranoid beyond reason,” Hadrian stated, as if feeling regret. “You have lost your mind behind the Reviere’s walls, sitting in the shadow of your thronebound master. Inactivity is poison for the Astartes’ soul, and so is jealousy. Declare yourself a chapter-master, crusade out, see the effectiveness of your current soldiers. You’ll see there is no need for this betrayal. Please, Zahart, do not make me choose between loyalty to the codex and the Imperium or my friendship with you.” Though he disagreed, he had no easy counter to the points Hadrian had raised. Perhaps he had gone a fraction mad, jealousy getting the best of him. Even so, it was the path the rest of his chapter demanded. With even fifty more Astartes, he could shore up more defenses, free forces to patrol wider ranges of land. But how to tell him? How to convince Hadrian of this? “Hadrian, I could not expect you to understand the logistics of defending four worlds, three of them with a population nearing a trillion souls, with a thousand warriors. That madness is mine to bear, yes. The Codex was built to have us be a speartip, a thousand-strong sword to shove into the enemies of mankind, but it was not intended as the foundations of making fortresses out of hive worlds, as the lord administrators planned for us here. We have the resources, the geneseed, the recruitment pool, indeed, little stops me from commissioning more Astartes right now. I just came to discuss this with you first. I do not need you to do the same. I merely need more Astartes, and I would be a fool not to get them when I could with a single vox-message.” “The Inquisition would not see it that way,” Hadrian said plainly, and Zahart felt a twinge of betrayal in his heart. If he did not choose his words carefully, the alliance which protected the Skerry could completely crumble. “But it will not be me who tells them. This is so much risk, for so little payoff, Zahart. But I will not stop you.” Surprise struck Zahart. The man who had been championing the codex and its mythical author a moment before had flipped his decision, and he was suspicious of the authenticity of Hadrian’s concession. But he wasn’t going to press on Hadrian, not after he gave him what he wanted, despite the odds. “Thank you, Hadrian. Know that the Shields owe you and the Pterarchos Liberalis a large favor.” “Be careful.” Hadrian’s humor had not returned, and his voice was stern and cold. “The Deidactor Skerry is already concerned about your degree of control. Do not give them reason to remove you for good.” “I don’t intend to,” Zahart faintly smiled.
  2. —-------------------- Part One - The Warden Lysbonus’s Spire Primus was a spectacle of engineering and achievement in the Deidactor Skerry. Its population outnumbered any other planet in the region in total, and entire colonies elsewhere had been built from excess people spawned in Spire Primus. In the core of the impossibly large city was a shimmering tower of brass, ferrocrete and dull yellow alloy. This was the Fortress-Monastary of the Imperial Shields, where an entire chapter of the Adeptus Astartes resided. The Reviere, it was named by its inhabitants, was guardian and warden of Spire Primus and even the rest of the Skerry. At the heart of such a structure was the Observator Grandis, the throne room of the Chapter-Master, Donolin Praetus. Surrounded by screens, monitors, servo-skulls and trusted aides, Praetus was statue-esc. His servos remained still, and had for over two hundred years. Enginseers, Magi and Techmarines operated on the encasing armor, as serfs monitored the food and water flow into his suit. He was pristine, an untouchable, mythic figure to his chapter-bretheren. His internment unto the Observator Grandis was an event shrouded in eternal mystery, the younger Astartes all questioning the events leading to such a decision. He was not wounded too harshly, he was not stuck here – beyond the consequences of a choice made long ago. Yet the chapter-master was not lost from them, his words and orders still arriving in the cogitators of warships and vox-receivers of fireteams across the Skerry. Yet often, true command fell to the first captain, Zahart Prostiel. Zahart was a man once filled with endless will and drive. Yet boredom, attrition and stagnation had robbed him of such conviction. His armor was as tired as he was, repairs refused in the face of a chapter’s duties. It was not that the Mark IV plate he wore was without blemishes – many gashes and cuts adorned his dull yellow power armor, but he always figured the armories and forges of the Imperial Shields were better spent on those lesser in command than he. Thus, his armor, much like the skin underneath, had become a collage of pain, scars reading like poetry. Claw marks and acidic burns, gunshot wounds and psychically-mangled flesh. As he strode into the great Observator Grandis, those serfs who operated on the connections between the Chapter-Master and the great auspex arrays felt a shiver sneak down their spine and legs. Zahart was tall, a being who stood out even among his brothers. His armor, though damaged, spoke to a thousand battles, a hundred worlds fought upon. And yet, the first captain knelt before his inanimate lord. “Chapter-Master,” he began, a tired, nearly bored tone about his voice and movement. “The men are all in good health, the apothecaries and chaplains have assured me. Our latest requisitions, the Dictator-type cruiser Refused Despondency and the twin Venial-type frigates Saint Garro and Cardinal have arrived over Hive Primus, in the chapter Ramilies station. Already, serfs and crew are being mustered – I will be interviewing potential captains in a few hours’ time. Scout squads Nonus and Octavo have earned their power armor, their heroism in the blistering sands of Begorax VI haven’t gone unnoticed, a glorious day for the chapter and the company they shall be assigned to,” he said with hints of bravado and pride. Zahart’s head slowly upturned to see the unchanged, unmoved Chapter-Master. To the serfs, for a moment, it looked like prayer, deification of the old Astartes. A mirror of the Emperor himself, a hero entered upon a throne, a seat of power and a prison unescapable. The heart of bureaucracy, a chapter grinding to a halt as its dynamic structure is frozen in time. “You know this, don’t you?” Zahart asked. “You and this…tomb. You promised to lead us into glory, into combat and conquest! And here you are, entrenched in all this ferrocrete and all these layers of cables, wires…” The first captain wanted to scream, holler, demand he get off his cowardly throne. But there would be no use. There was no place for outrage, when such emotion would only harm oneself and the chapter. But, by the Emperor, how he wished… Zahart stood, his gaze not leaving the elevated Chapter-Master, and the first captain parted silently. He strode past the walls lined with chapter slaves and tech-priests, with almost an air of defeatedness. Of loss. Of failure, old and new. —------------------------ The elegant bower of Aspeno Frash XVII was scarcely visited, even by its wealthy and powerful owner. Occasionally, a handful of servitors would enter the room, with walls lined in royal blue silks and adorned with endless rows of portraits of rulers’ past – paintings detailing his closest relatives at the end of the entrance walkway, a reminder of the Frash legacy Aspeno upheld every day. Though the very room itself was caked in a glory bought and purchased, it barely withheld against the earned honor of an Astartes in full power armor. “Zahart Prosiel,” the gun-servitor spoke his name, standing down outside the chamber door. “Authority recognized. Access granted.” Though the room protected by the door was not made for it, the security gate door itself was made of layered ceramite and thrice-folded adamantium – able to withstand even the splitting of an atom. The door unlocked, gigantic mechanisms sliding within as the door’s sides parted, allowing entrance to the first captain. He walked with a casual stride, the dirtied pride of his war-plate a strange anomaly in the stainless, peerless sanctum where the planetary-governor resided. Much like his estate, Frash was a man who was adorned so heavily, one could not tell where the royal blue suit ended and the gold, purple and otherwise colorful rolls of cloth, silk and alloy began. His face was perfect, artificial – a suave yet entirely fake aura around him. Yet despite his wealth and grandeur, Prosiel knew the governor was familiar with the pain and stress of ruling Hive Primus, as his forefathers had before him. “First captain,” Frash began. It was not the typical casual ‘Zahart’ or even the serious ‘Prosiel’. Frash’s choice of words placed a degree of concern on Zahart’s face underneath his pale yellow helm. “There is a serious matter at hand,” the governor continued. “The Conviction of Lysbonus, the pride and joy of our subsector defense force, has suffered from some sort of engine failure – our sole battleship. We are defenseless if anything legitimately dangerous comes for us, captain. Are the forces of the Imperial Shields willing to postpone any extra-sector activities so that we may remain prepared?” Zahart sighed. “The Conviction is not the only ship of its size and stature on call if Lysbonus is besieged. The Bastion and the Pride of Purgariphum remain over Spire Primus. Battle-barges, crewed by the finest of chapter aides and even some Astartes themselves, can be far more efficient in defense than your famed Emperor-class.” Frash grimaced. “I mean no offense with my words, first captain, but the local Navy elements are increasingly perturbed by the Observator Grandis. I have heard many accusations from travelling Mechanicus priests that we practice the ways of the Heretek – it has cost me many an aquillagelt from trade and barter.” “If you believe I support Praetus’s decision to sit atop his throne of sensors and cables you would be very mistaken,” Zahart told Frash, menace dripping from his words; the governor had taken a step too far. “Do not blame me for his folly, and we would both be foolish to ignore the many times his macabre vigilance has saved the Skerry from collapsing under assault.” Frash’s demeanor shifted to a defensive innocence. “Of course, Zahart, I didn't mean to offend you, as I stated. I merely wished to say that the sector fleet admirality is growing…unappreciative of the increasing control the local chapters of the Adeptus Astartes are displaying over the affairs of the Deidactor Skerry. The union of worlds we represent feeds and supplies the rest of the sector – we are the jewel of the Perpetua sector, they are merely protective of it. I for one support Astartes involvement, who better to protect us than sons of Dorn?” “Not just the sons of Dorn,” Zahart mused. “The Pterarchos Liberalis do their part in ensuring the Deidactor Skerry's safety. The legacy of Guilliman’s legion is important in keeping our stability.” “Well yes,” Frash agreed with hesitancy, “but the Ultramarine successors are far less interested in our total safety as they are Valeidlectus’s safety. By the Emperor, their governor is a Chapter scribe! I have long maintained that if given the chance, Hadrian and Leskuno would have us annexed into the five hundred worlds of Ultramar – then again, it wouldn’t be a clean five hundred then, now would it?” A smile accompanied his words, and Zahart smiled in turn. “We are all part of the Imperium,” Zahart reminded Frash with a humorous grounding. “And I do not fear soft annexation by Ultramar, the Perpetua administratum would never stand for it, and the adminstratum could never be satiated with bribes – else we would’ve never had to pay our tithe again.” Frash laughed at the jab, and Zahart did as well. For a moment, concerns of Astartes and interplanetary politics faded away, and two good friends were left. “Well, Zahart, I am glad you stopped by. Perhaps, when the wars are won and the Emperor can breathe stress-free, we could share a drink and go over our stories and experiences,” Frash asked Zahart with a grin, and the Astartes nodded. “Of course, Frash…when the day comes.” —-------------------------------- The Espethica Spaceport was a widely used location for the entirety of Lysbonus – an endless web of cargo freight-trains sometimes more massive than the ships used to ferry their loads expanded from the hub of travel and commerce. Over a billion merchants, civilians and servitors walked its halls and vast expanses of metal and grime every hour, its renown spread across the Skerry by the retinues and crew of Rogue Trader cargo ships, and every month Imperial Shields were cyclied in and out of the duty of its protection. It was no secret that the Shields assisted in its construction, or that they broke the confines of the Codex Astartes to do it. Over a thousand Imperial Shields patrolled the inky expanses and the dour, grim tunnels of mankind alike, and they had done this so that they could further control the flow of power within the Deidactor Skerry. Their chapter had been founded under full strength by the High Lords of Terra three millennia prior, a distant council for a distant throneworld, and sent to defend the frontiers of the Skerry. They hadn’t expected the influence the chapter came to have. But they didn’t care, either. They hadn’t since its founding, and the Imperial Shields were largely to thank for such overlooking, for the eyes of the High Lords were not drawn lightly - it took the cataclysmic invading of aliens and traitors and whatever else to stop the flow of tithes, and tithes were the only things High Lords cared about, besides personal power. At least, that’s how Barabbel Duutar saw the situation of the Skerry. Duutar was rarely outseen of his deep blue naval officers coat, or seen without the large and powerful stub-pistol holstered at his side. He was not a frail man, his bulk and muscle entirely unrequired for his job but required for his ego and, as he saw it, ‘command presence.’ The silver placed on his handcuffs and puffed collar, engraved with the sigil of the Armada Imperialis, denoted his allegiance while the various medals saluting in parade stance along his right breast denoted his rank. “Lord Admiral,” the characteristically deep voice of an Astartes rumbled through the air, and Duutar’s neck crained back to see the large and imposing figures of First Captain Prosiel and Fourth Captain Gauhl. Duutar knew Prosiel, as everyone on the Hive World did. His very name carried a wave of morale-restoring loyalty, his coming to a battle the death knell for any opposition. Why they did not call him Chapter-Master, and chose to deem the corpse on the mock-throne such a title, he would never understand. But he knew Gauhl, and much fewer men did. Fourth Captain Gauhl, master of the Imperial Shields fleet. With each lock of their eyes, a sense of rivalry passed. They were forced to cooperate, forced to accept one another in their affairs – long had he maintained the Astartes chapter keep to their fortress and use their chapter on offensive missions only, but to expect any degree of stillness on the matter of defense from a son of Dorn was, itself, foolishness, and Duutar admitted this. But it did not make him like Gauhl more. “Why is the fourth captain here? This is a matter of the Navy, the Refused Despondency does not belong to the Adeptus Astartes, and neither do the two frigates,” Duutar informed them with barely concealed bile, long suppressed anger lacing every syllable as he struggled to keep himself formal. “The cruiser and the frigates may not, but the Skerry’s protection is our charge as much as it is yours. The governor has requested that we interview the captains chosen as well,” Gauhl responded. “Will that be an issue?” “Not if Frash has demanded it,” the Lord Admiral replied with struggling acceptance, before the three were met by the yell of transport thrusters. The Valkyrie-class gunship was a versatile sort of craft, able to carry Astartes and humans alike. The one that came to carry them was itself painted blue with outlines and hints of maroon, denoting its belonging to the Navy, along with the Armada Imperialis sigil emblazoned proudly on its two side doors. The Espethica Starport was abuzz with life and civilian craft, other Valkyries painted gunmetal grey and olive green flew past, while freighters, copter-planes and Arvus Lighters sprinkled the sky with machines. The clouds fought low-hanging ships for presence in the sky, and squadrons of Aeronautica Imperialis fighters made their typical runs across Hive Primus’ length and width, stopping to refuel at their designated hangars in the starport. It was one of these hangars where the Navy transport settled down, its passengers off-loading with purpose. Many enginseers and minor artisans stopped in awe of the Astartes commanders, and even some of the pilots grinned as they recognized the defenders they worked with, remembering old campaigns and long-defeated enemies. Yet in the mess of pilots and repairmen, three notable figures stood out as they approached the three commanders. Two were unflinching and highly prestigious Tempestus Scions, their hellguns withdrawn but not aimed, and the center figure was a Navy officer in a longer blue coat and cream pants. Her right eye was replaced with a typical Navy prosthetic, a glowing red circle in the center of machinery and wires replacing the majority of her cheek and face. “Captain Calhoun,” Lord Admiral Duurtar began, and the captain bowed to the Lord Admiral. The two scions simply raised their fist to their chests and hit themselves once, the colliding of ceramite and duraweave causing a suitably loud clunk to be paired with the gesture of respect. “I hear you have been recently promoted from a position on a heavy frigate. Congratulations on this accomplishment.” “The Imperial Shields look forward to working with you, to better protect the Skerry,” Captain Gauhl added, making Duutar’s teeth ground together. “I am honored, Astartes captain,” she replied, looking back to Duutar. “And thank you, lord admiral. But I suspect I was not brought here to celebrate my arrival here. Am I to get acclimated to my ship?” “Yes, but not yet,” Duutar responded. “We must first confirm you are…right for the position you are about to receive.” “I see. There is no harm in security, I suppose.” From there, the Scions led them deeper into the facility. As they got away from the shine of Lysbonus’ sun, the number of gun-servitors and Navy armsmen increased. This portion of the starport was dedicated firmly to the service of the Armada Imperialis, with supplies being shipped to and from the great vessels above. Yet all of those in the group were used to facilities dripping with pride and militarization - a Lord Admiral, aspiring Captain, two Astartes commanders and a squad of alumni from the Schola Progenia itself were no stranger to such sights. The chamber they sought was a stark, deep grey. It was illuminated by candles and long-faded lanterns, and occupied by a single man. He was old, wrinkled and adorned in naught but a tired and thick brown robe. A staff of sorts, ornate and full of encarvings, stood upright in his boney fingered grip. “You are the new captain…” he grumbled, a voice long strained by a lifetime of shouting and physical damage. “I am,” Calhoun replied. “Many have passed through here before you. The Imperial Navy is an institution far older than my weathered face…or even the Astartes themselves. I know you have a record for captaining if you are being considered for something of this tonnage, but mere frigates and corvettes pale in comparison to the weight of controlling and leading an entire cruiser. Five times the size, five times the responsibilities, the resources to manage, the crew to feed…it is a demanding task.” “I understand the responsibility I am to uphold.” “Let us hope so.” The old man’s eyes suddenly turned a brilliant white, and the smell of ozone was laid thick in the air. Duutar put his hand into one of the pouches placed on his hip-belt, and retreived a large cigar. “I imagine you don’t smoke,” he said to Zahart, but before the Astartes commander could respond, the captain was screaming in pain. It was a sound terribly common to Zahart. He heard it more than any man or woman should, during the trials of becoming an Astartes; decades of hellish training and surgeries, punishment and combat. He knew the process made good warriors - each Astartes was worth a hundred, two hundred guardsmen in a straight fight - but Zahart knew he would be lying if he said it did not leave its mark. The old man was a psyker, but one who served the Emperor at the least. Zahart knew many psykers, mostly Astartes Librarians and Chapter Navy Navigators, but the presence of psychic arcana never failed to make his muscles tense and his senses sharpen. There was little ryhme or reason to the function of psychic ability - the most a common psyker could ask for was that his attack did not kill himself along with his opponent - but a properly trained and well-skilled psyker was beyond a worthy foe. He trusted the man’s age to allow him to perform his job, but he did not trust that the psyker would not affect him in the process. The screaming died down, and the psyker’s eyes returned to its original brown, though severely bloodshot. Calhoun herself collapsed after the intense psychic trauma, but remained awake enough to stand up. “The captain is pure, untouched by Chaos. She has a steel mind and will, and possesses little connection to the Warp beyond the usual levels provided by a soul. Good material for a captain. You have picked well, Lord Admiral, if I may say so myself.” “Thank you, Guharel,” Duutar replied, and Zahart was surprised by the genuine tone the Lord Admiral possessed. Suddenly, his past experiences and Gauhl’s verbal jabs at the man’s honor suddenly bled away as he saw a man who truly cared for those under his command, even if he had little respect to give for those outside his operation. “Calhoun, are you present in mind?” The captain nodded. “Yes, Lord Admiral. What would you have me do?” “Go to your vessel, the Refused Despondency. If you’ve passed Guharel’s test, then you have passed mine.” Calhoun gained a smile, and gave Duutar the hand gesture of the Aquilla. Duutar half-heartedly responded with the same, and the eager captain passed by him and the Astartes on her way to a transport. —-------------------------------- Zahart’s Thunderhawk gunship returned to the Fortress-Monastary of the Imperial Shields without much haste. The Thunderhawk pilot had been instructed to open the side hatch and fly slower than typical speeds; for today, the First Captain had no rush to get home. The void of space was calm, the hive below was under no threat, and the matter of the day had been settled. Hive Primus was glowing with endless streams of lights, a hundred billion candles and lamps illuminated the entire superstructure like a great plume of warming flame. Transport ships made their final departures or conducted their final landings. Within the underhive, there was no difference between day and night, but above the endless ceramite-plasteel floors and roofs, there was a magesty to the mess of steel and humans. It was the culmination of millions of years of advancement in engineering, populated by uncountable residents, and protected by his chapter and several dozen regiments of Planetary Defense Forces. And for all that, it bored him. Even his builder’s soul, the blood of Dorn running through his organs and veins, was unstimulated by the same sights, for decades on end. The same defensive emplacements, the same gleaming neon signs, the same choking plumes of smog. He longed for the foreign lands of hostile worlds, the reclamation of besieged Imperial planets, the destruction of the enemies of mankind. But he was here. Stuck. With no escape in sight and seemingly doomed to another decade of waiting among the worn dull yellow of his familiar fortress. The Thunderhawk prepared to land in the maw of the hangar bay. It was not dissimilar to the starport’s Navy compartment, filled with Astartes craft and servitors bearing the mark of the Imperial Shields instead of human pilots and typical Aeronautica fighters. There was also a squad of Space Marines in waiting, their bolters kept at their backs, led by an Astartes in artificed Mark III armor plate. The man was another Astartes captain, Partellian Velenos. He walked with a staff hitting the ground with every step, a company standard covered in seals of purity and scripture regarding the duties of the Adeptus Astartes. An Iron Halo generator sat utop his power pack, and the heavy march of his Mark III plate, along with the clang of his staff, gave his approach a sense of gravitas. “With as much presence as you can bear, Velenos, I should have made you Lord Executioner,” Zahart jested, and the Master of the Marches gave back a hearty chuckle. “Alas, the job is too boring - the reports on murdering people are far too short for my tastes.” Velenos extended his hand and Zahart took it, and the pair collapsed into a short embrace before breaking the hug. They began to walk towards the mess hall, while the tactical squad dispersed. “How did the burning skies of Baccalus III do for you, Partellian?” Zahart asked idly, and unexpectedly Velenos sighed. “The expenditure of ammunition, the damaging of armor up to that of Terminator plate, and the destroyed vehicles of the Fifth Company will strain the chapter armory’s production abilities for months to come. We lost twenty of our hundred to the menace of the Tyranids, however our fleet was more than a match for a withering splinter hive, especially so as we were supported by elements of Battlefleet Perpetua. The planet was largely saved, the horde was exterminated, and the Deidactor Skerry will remain unblemished by the tendrils of the Tyranid species.” Zahart shook his head. “Twenty Astartes? In one engagement? We are losing our edge, Partellan. The Master of Recruits will not enjoy this news…” “Petracus will have to bear the burden of reinforcing the Fifth Company. He has more than enough neophytes in the Tenth. Chief Apothecary Deccitel reports our geneseed stock has five hundred remaining. Just what has Petracus been doing? I understand we have more neophytes in the ranks of the Tenth than ever in our history - one of the boons of being so entrenched in the matters of a Hive World, I suppose. But if he is implanting all of them with geneseed, we will be drastically bloated. Our armories will not be able to equip them all with power armor and bolters…” “To say nothing of how badly and how extensively we will be breaking the mandates of the Codex Astartes. Yet I cannot help but feel this is the best course. I do not seek for this chapter to be hunted by the members of the Holy Inquisition, but I see no wrong in reinforcing all of the Skerry. We will be the most well-defended segments of the Imperium.” “Zahart, you know how closely the Pterarchos Liberalis follow the Codex. If they catch wind of this, there may be no Deidactor Skerry to protect.” “We have the support of Fleet Deidactor, and the governors all fear the spread of Ultramar’s influence. They would not dare to make a move against us.” “They could report us to the Inquisition, and then they will have more resources than anything the Skerry can muster on its own.” The two captains halted their walk at the edge of the wider mess hall’s entrance. Zahart’s head tilted up to meet the eyes of Partellan. “We will be fine, my friend. The Deidactor Skerry will welcome our reinforcements, and I will deal with the politics of the Pterachos Liberalis.”
  3. Dramatis Personae —--------------------- Hadrian Respervus - Chapter-Master of the Pterarchos Liberalis Dainen Artellus - Sixth Captain of the Pterarchos Liberalis Donolin Praetus - Chapter-Master of the Imperial Shields Zahart Prosiel - First Captain of the Imperial Shields Dometrius Gauhl - Fourth Captain of the Imperial Shields Partellian Velenos - Fifth Captain of the Imperial Shields Aurelius Petracus - Tenth Captain of the Imperial Shields Hantel Ingeun - Master of the Forge; Imperial Shields Deccitel Holimus - Chief Apothecary; Imperial Shields Aspeno Frash XVII - Planetary-Governor of Lysbonus Mank Gertugo - Planetary-Governor of Shibul Stephanus Brettunol - Planetary-Governor of Nazacan Drakul Leskunmo - Planetary-Governor of Valeidlectus Machivia - Fabricator-General of Purgariphum Barabbel Duutar - Lord Admiral of Fleet Deidactor Venezia Calhoun - Captain of the Refused Despondency Worlds of the Deidactor Skerry: Lysbonus, Hive World Shibul, Production World Nazacan, Agri-World Valeidlectus, Civilized World Purgariphum, Forge World —------------------------ Under the span of the Imperial Aquillia sat over a million worlds colonized by the human species, and protected by endless regiments and vast interstellar fleets of ships which reserve the majority of a planet’s entire industrial capacity to construct. Every world in the Imperium of Man is as independent as they are ruled by the High Lords on Terra, who’s reach can wax and wane in the endless shaking tides of politics and campaigns. Those in the segmentums away from the Sol System find their own ways to live in the face of xenos, heretics and whatever else the inky depths could muster. Many do not make it; falling to ruin against teeming hordes of monsters where reasoning is no solution. Others establish unions of safety, creating patrols of warships and regiments of Imperial Guardsmen cycling about these miniature federations, so that food and material may follow in their wake. Some fall from grace, creating pacts with dark gods or falling under the thumb of xeno rulers, such as the Tau, certain Eldar craftworlds, or one of the other myriad species lurking the galaxy. These inevitably come to conflict with neighboring worlds, and the Imperium of Man at large. One could look upon a standard stellar map of the Imperium and see clean, defined borders between itself, its endless enemies, and its sparse, tense allies. In truth, this is a lie, for entire sectors are gained, lost and regained every month. There are endless factors which may determine the fate of a world under the Emperor’s eternal vigilance. Positioning, available resources, previously unseen or entirely known bordering enemies, or the fracturing of interplanetary unions which causes all to fall into chaos and ruin. Yet such worlds are not defenseless, and certain worlds could weather storms unimaginable. In the final moments of the forty-first millennium, in the Perpetua sector within the wider Segmentum Ultima, the worlds within the Deidactor Skerry would be pushed to such a brink.
  4. Sorry, what should I do now to provide ideas and such for this?
  5. I thought we’d include them later, as the situation worsened and a Chapter was needed.
  6. If I may... The Aquillian Mariners ---------------------------------- Recruited from the Hiver population of [Planet], the Aquillian Mariners are regiments dedicated to operating in support of both the Imperial Navy and sea-based campaigns. Both of these roles are achieved through the surprising amount of overlapping practices throughout the infantry equipment of the Mariners. Their armoured capability is split between typical ground-based vehicles and water-focused vessels. Through the modification of pre-existing vehicles like the Valkyrie and the Arvus Lander hastily approved by the local Forge Worlds in light of the Great Rift, the Aquillian Mariner regiments have defended the ocean worlds of the sector with the zeal and ability expected of an amassing of soldiers under the Imperium's banner. Due to the nature of their equipment and the nature of their warzones, the Aquillian Mariner regiments are typically smaller than normal Guard regiments, yet they are usually better trained. Their element of tech-priests, once restrained to the dogma of the Cult Mechanicus, have begun to develop more modifications for Imperial armour to allow for the Aquillian Mariners to have better undersea support, ranging from fully functioning las-weaponry to submerging gunships, though the latter is rare and few in number. Assembly: Freeguild Guard/Palatine Enforcer bodies, Palatine Enforcer helms, Imperial Guard lasguns, Van Saar Archeoteks & Grav-cutters with enclosed helms for a bit of battle-surfer action. Perhaps the Arkanaut ships without their hot air balloons? Color scheme: Leviadon Blue, Blue Horror for weapons and gear, Grey Knights Steel for weapons and plate armor, and Aggaros Dunes for soft material. I am trying to think of a proper Company Commander but I just cannot find a model with the right coat. Does it fit?
  7. The residential hab-module K-74b, or as the residents and locals called it, the Haven of Hammermen, wasn't traversed often by men of the Enforcer type. It was known to have many gang outposts, houses if one wanted to aggrandize the criminal organizations that permeated throughout Armacedia Hive. Beyond the walls of the city the blasted wastes were home to mutants, heretics, xenos and worse, but it was the role of the Enforcers to ensure that didn't spill over into the internal city. The Haven's administrators didn't argue with sergeant Palate when he used the vox to contact them. In all truth, they seemed pleased to hear from the Enforcer patrol. It didn't sit well with patrolman Ferdus D. Verho, one of Palate's patrol. He didn't know what his fellow patrolmen and women thought, he wasn't a psyker, but he could note the eagerness in the administrator's voice. Maybe the person was on lho-sticks, maybe they had a little too much cheap amasec -- maybe they were in league with the Grindstartes. The Grindstartes, the new powerful local gang -- they used combat armor, usually made out of reforged scrap metal, not in short supply in a hive, and made them to look similar to the lord Astartes who held their fortress-monastery in the upper spires. They used heavy weapons to mimic the holy boltgun like heavy stubbers or modified construction equipment; nothing to fear like the real thing. The door to the Haven of Hammermen opened with a loud shriek, as ancient servitors were stirred from their lobotomized sleep and forced to interact with similarly ancient machinery. "And I expect full cooperation throughout the investigation and subsequent detainment and execution of all perpetrators," Palate demanded, before retrieving his stubpistol and shock baton and entering the hab-module. It was peaceful, for a few dozen minutes. The some eighty Enforcers scattered throughout the hab, pushing past hundreds upon hundreds of hivers. Citizens, unaware. Innocent, no. Still, the Enforcers weren't here to kill or arrest everyone in the Haven, just the gang they were after. It took quite the crime to pull in an entire prescient of Enforcers, and while they weren't told exactly what they had done, Ferdus was sure it was a good reason. After the few dozen minutes passed was when things took their expected turn. He and five of his fellow lawmen were searching the home of a hiver family for any hint of gang activity when their voxes rang out. "Grindstartes, eighty-eighth floor, room 398-88!" Ferdus never ran faster in his life, and his squadmates struggled to keep up. The elevator ride was agony, and as the gunshots got louder and louder Ferdus checked again his stub pistol. His shock baton was ready in its sheathe, and his pistol was fully prepped. The doors of the elevator opened and revealed a horrific sight; a well-built ganger in their signature metal armor was pressing a chain-tool, modified to be a weapon like the infamous chainswords of the Astartes, into the armor of his sergeant. Palate howled in pain as blood jetted out from the wound and cutting teeth of the weapon, and he shoved his shock baton into his attacker's protected stomach, and the ganger leapt back in pain before his brethren perpetrators killed the sergeant with a trio of heavy stubbers. Palate was rendered a hulking, damaged mass of flesh -- his blue and black armor rendered crimson with the exposed and burst gore -- and he slumped over, dead. Ferdus didn't say a word, merely raising his stubpistol and firing. The shot hit the neck of the ganger, bypassing the defenses of the haphazard armor. The ganger clumsily clawed at his neck, blood pouring from the wound and the ganger's mouth. Finally, the person fell over dead as well, and the true gunfight began. The other three Grindstartes gangers opened fire, and all but one of the Enforcers dove for cover in the form of the hab-units' alleyways. The shots hit the remaining Enforcer, his cheaper flak armor yielding to the horde of bullets. Ferdus dove between hab-units, and reached a corner. Peaking around, he spotted the three gangers clad in the mimicking of holy Astartes battleplate, and he charged them, swinging his shock baton against one of their heads. The powered weapon struck the man, the energy jolting throughout the metal armor and the body within, and with one well-placed strike did the man die. The other two swung around and kept firing their guns, but one of his squadmates pulled Ferdus back before he could be shot. Ferdus glanced back at his savior, to see the woman readying her shotgun. Ferdus gave an approving nod as the pair stood up and opened fire with their respective weapons, hitting the two gangers. Though the pistol didn't do much, the shotgun did plenty; disorientating its target before the lucky buckshot pellet struck a less protected area. Both gangers died, and the remaining four Enforcers were greeted by the sound of the elevator array all opening their doors. The marching sound of Enforcer boots was a reassuring sound, and Ferdus grinned underneath his lawman's helm. Whatever crime they committed before didn't matter. He was going to enjoy giving them all the Emperor's justice.
  8. If I may, how about the planet’s PDF have a degree of representation? Them having an in-between of Enforcer and Guardsmen gear being completely out of their depth sounds fun, plausible as they’d get involved before any regiment or chapter, and a good way to establish a sense of terror and seriousness about the Necrons. Perhaps local Rogue Traders investigating where their clients went as well? Could provide fun model diversity — the PDF given true baseline Imperial gear, Necrons using their faction’s powerful relics, and the Rogue Trader private armsmen using exotic or books-only Imperial tech and even the odd xenotech weapon.
  9. Part Fourteen - Twilight of Silence, Part One After the battle of Desterro II and its implications, the scattered remnants of the Imperium, Chaos and all other factions were left with a choice -- how to react to the return of the Warp's dominant beings? Which to support? Which to propose as a god for the new pantheon, if any? The kingdoms of fallen Chaos were the most sporadic. These empires were not exactly cohesive already, but when the promise of a new deity to rally upon came to them, even places like the Phoenix Imperialis shuttered with internal fighting. The Cthonian Kingdom struggled to find a being to support spiritually just as they failed to choose a mortal commander in life. There was indeed a spattering of candidates, and there was ample worship. Many prayed the soul of Horus Lupercal or Ezekyle Abbadon, but both souls had been lost during the first and second sieges of the Throneworld respectively. It seemed they were doomed to worship whatever gods rose in succession to the Four, like the Black Legion before them. ------------------------ The Guard Kingdom venerated their champion, the Warden of Death himself, the man which the empire was built around. The manipulation of the Warp was a far easier task now, without the Four to stop him. Indeed, the amassing of prayer and adoration around the singular, seemingly unkillable being had given the Warp, distraught and seeking something to fill the gap of a pantheon, enough reason to begin imbuing the Warden with power. Instead of inheriting the legacy of the Plague God, however, the Warden had become something akin to the necromancers of ancient myth, able to raise minor armies of the dead with newfound psychic power. He has begun a quest for Mortarion's scythe, sending his most faithful servants to fetch him such a relic so that it may push forward his ascension to godhood... ------------------------ Onboard the Yahshua did Magnus the Red and Syliel Allean command. Most everyone in the Conclave could feel the stirring of the Warp, and it was Magnus who was especially worried. For many years did the Red Primarch do his best to calm the Warp, to keep the Empyrean tides from flowing over and causing great disaster, but it seemed the Age of Silence and Quiet that he had managed to draw out this long was coming to an end, and a new age of war would begin. Of course, Magnus and his Conclave would not be found wanting for firepower, but he more than most knew the danger of deities. If he was to be found wanting for wisdom again, he would end up a servant of a Dark God once more. Such a fate was undesirable to say the least, and he dispatched Syliel to find two objectives of extreme importance -- the Sword of the Emperor, a famous weapon and the tool of his father, who was quite keen on the subject of ending gods, and the lost son of Magnus the Red -- Ahriman. Another being lurks about the Conclave's subrealm within the Warp, one far more ancient than Magnus. Scouts patrolling the entryways into the subrealm report an odd interference within their vox units, some sort of music... ------------------------ The Phoenix Imperialis has shattered after the battle for Desterro II, their fragments still very potent threats to all around them. Huron Blackheart, who was finally unrivaled after the death of Abbadon, has been imbued with massive amounts of psychic power, and those around him feel as if the Gods had returned. To the eyes of many, he is the true inheritor of Chaos' legacy, and the now Huron the Inheritor's fleets strike out with renewed fervor, determined to show others this truth. The smallest faction to be born of the Phoenix Imperialis was Lucius', a small warband of the Emperor's Children who had come to the Phoenix Imperialis, determined to atone for their sins. Lucius, now renewed with a purpose he had lacked for many thousands of years, has become one of the greater threats to Huron, and though he has gained no special power from the Warp, Lucius the Phoenician has become an unlikely hero in the Segmentum Obscurus. ------------------------ The War in Ultramar rages on, with Sicarius, the false Guilliman, and Titus reaching a deadlock. Yet on a fateful night a few weeks after the battle for Desterro II, Sicarius and Titus reached an accord with Uziel Icarar, Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels to work together to defeat the Nova Legion. Yet on the eve of battle, twin miracles occurred; Sicarius was empowered by the Warp during its seeking for new champions to begin their rise to godhood. With a level of power to rival a Primarch Sicarius strode, his efforts to get his empire to worship him suddenly giving him a more tangible power than loyalty. The trio of champions marched on as they struck out in an effort to execute the false Guilliman aboard his own modified and upgraded Battle-Barge over the world of Forlone. Yet when they arrived there, they met hordes of Fallen and Nova Legionnaire alike. The boarding action was fierce, with the ferocity between Dark Angel and Fallen becoming a war in of itself. The Nova Legion flagship, the Inexorable Fury, had begun to fall apart in its orbit of the planet, with the internal fighting nearly scuttling the ship with traditional munitions alone. Finally, Sicarius had reached the false Guilliman aboard his command bridge, who was protected by a squad of ten Terminators, an Alpha Legionnaire, and Sapphon. The Grand Captain engaged his recent mortal foe and his guards, while Titus charged the son of Alpharius. Sapphon and Uziel first traded words, an uncommon practice by the time of the duel, but soon realized the folly of diplomacy between one another and began to fight as well. The bout sealed the fate of the Inexorable Fury, as the ship was left without its controllers. It began to plunge towards the surface of Forlone, met by the remaining Sicarian defending fleet and whatever orbital defense weapons remained. Despite the chaos outside the hull of the ship, the champions of both sides continued to brutalize one another until it had come to a point where unless they fled, they would die along with the ship. In a cry of rage Sicarius killed the Nova Legion's commander, and began his retreat without sparing an effort to help his allies. This proved to be the death of Uziel, as Sapphon murdered the Grand Master with a degree of closure, his vengeance against what had become of his brothers concluding in his mind. Titus, barely killing his surprisingly strong opponent, fled the scene himself. He was some five minutes behind Cato, and in that span of time the ship's integrity had deteriorated ever further. Escaping the ship had a variety of complications and challenges, with the ship still complimented with full companies of Nova Legionnaires willing to die to kill Titus and the perils of a dying vessel, but ultimately he escaped narrowly before the Inexorable Fury's burning mass struck the planet's crust, ending the lives of millions and forever breaking the Nova Legion. It was a few months more after the battle over Forlone concluded that the war was officially declared over, with the Sicarian Empire bathed in glory and the blood of its enemies. Though Grand Lieutenant Calgus continued his campaign against Nova Legion holdouts for the next few years, the Realm of Sicarian had earned their peace for now. ------------------------------ The Lord Genestealers' tumor upon the galaxy had grown in recent years. The Bladed Cog, through raiding and attacking scattered Forge Worlds, have evolved into something new, something even more sinister. Utilizing the technology of the carrion Imperium and the reshaping of flesh of the Tyranids they had mastered a plague that infected machines, with tanks and other vehicles susceptible to the collection of spores which would enter non-sealed machines and begin to collect and grow into biological cancers which took control over the machines they infested. Hordes of converted Skitarii, tanks and more march with the Bladed Cog's growing network of corruption. The Angels of the Hive have expanded their heavenly fleet with endless boarding actions and the finding and repurposing of dead Tyranid ship skeletons. Through the old invasion practices the Angels harvested enough biomass to rebuild these creatures around the hulks of crippled enemy ships, creating a sort of biomechanical warfleet. Once more, the galaxy can hear the roaring of Tyranid battlefleets and it shutters with no unified empire to defend it from the horde again. The Tendrils of God have their roots dug deep. Infested within the Bile Trade Empire and spread through compromised goods, entire worlds within their trade lanes have had massive outbreaks of hybrid rebels, akin to the Genestealer Cult uprisings of old. Yet few others could counter such a virus than the Clonelord himself, Fabius Bile. As his mercenaries work for double the time and double the pay to distribute Fabius' cure, they have been spread thin, leading the Tendrils of God to move with more ferocity and more prominence. Yet as his forces grow thin, so does Fabius' patience and he has begun a new project in an effort to finally rid himself of their blight. Yet it is the New Man which was arguably grown the most. Their Genestealer Emperor has been chosen by the Warp in its search for new potential gods, and thus its own devouring crusades have been launched from its borders. Finally untethered from the Flesh-Terra, the Hive-Emperor is a fearsome opponent that no mortal, Space Marine or any other hero has yet to stop... -------------------------------- The Realm of Metallicus was struggling to maintain its control over its territory, as it was besieged by all sides. Its armies struggled to repel the Bladed Cog's constant assaults, with many Skitarii Legions either being forced to kill one another to keep the Silicaplagus under control, or even completely fell to their control. Its navies fought fiercely with the Ryzan Fortress, a rare act of excursion to secure resources for the depleting forge world. Yet at the heart of it all, the old Forge World Metalica has had an odd series of miracles occur. Their production lines had hastened, their commander-cogitators ran for extended periods without need of maintenance, and machine spirits across the planet had some measure of newfound motivation. It was a few months after this had begun that the Fabricator-General of Forge World Metalica awakened from the slumber of endless processes and information to the fact that he was ascending by the power of the Warp and the endless prayer he got from his soldiers and 'citizens.' ---------------------------------- The High Mechanicum has finally begun to fulfill its promise to the Iron Lords, to attack the Barghesi. Though while the xenos' holdings have grown in size, they have not been immune to the damaging limiters that the Age of Silence and Quiet seemed to emplace. Before their assault, the High Mechanicum began talks with the Vostro Republika and the crusading forces of Roganz Amardeas, a recently made hero of the battle for Desterro II. After convincing both the High Marshall and even the notoriously mismanaged Presideka Stademesa to lend their support, their war began in truth. The conflict raged for months before anything truly concrete occurred. This stall threatened the already unstable alliance of the three powers, before a discovery was made that would hold them together until war's end. The planet of Caldera was claimed by the Barghesi Dominion, and its surface already swarmed with their forces. The local human population was very ill-equipped to fight back, their stubguns and sparse vehicles severely outclassed by the violent armies of xenos. How the planet had already not fallen remained a mystery to Roganz and his men, before arriving at a truly incredible sight. It was a great and dark goliath, clad in power armor like a work of art. The being moved faster than even the Templars could follow, and though their army waited behind the hill waiting to charge the High Marshal was unable to give a single order. It was like a reward for his faith and perseverance, that the Emperor Ascended would offer such a being. The goliath noticed Roganz, standing atop the hill motionless. "Join me, son of Dorn!" he bellowed out with a voice that was undeniable, like the order of the Praetorian of Terra himself. He had no choice but to raise his Judgement of the Damned and roar, signaling his battle-brothers to move ahead. The conflict that came next was a true moment of greatness, harkening back to the golden ages of an Imperium none besides the goliath had ever saw. The gore of xenos spilled like waves against the unbreakable line of the Black Templars, their allies in the Vostro Republika's regiments of troopers, and the goliath in olive green. Once the Barghesi had run out of soldiers to throw against their lines did the High Marshal speak to the goliath. "Who are you?" he asked with nothing but awe and wonder in his voice. "I am Vulkan, of the Imperium of Man. For too long have I waited, for too long have I ignored my greater oaths to the Imperium and father and defended this planet. Today I join you in your Eternal Crusade, son of Sigismund, in the hopes that father's dream be finally realized, despite it all."
  10. I feel like the Kill Team campaign is something we could feasibly do. One world, teams, probably a lot of Cold War-esc atmosphere of paranoia (especially the civilian governors with squishy heads lol). But the excitement I feel for all of us coming together and making a Warzone book makes me vote for it. The Flashpoints may be doable as well, and memorable; but we’d always pride ourselves on accomplishing the larger feat. TL;DR we have the manpower to do longer stuff like the Warzone book, thus Warzone has my vote
  11. Perturabo's sons will have as much fun beating up the Grim Knights, as they do headbutting bottles of nitroglycerin, i.e., none at all. Not at all expecting this ping lol Nice work though.
  12. Part Thirteen - The New Gods And The True Hope The Blood Angels' campaign to exterminate the Blood Cults had taken them to near the planet of Krieg, and in the lands of the Holy Clergy and Bile Trade Empire. Their cold war was none of the Blood Angels' concern, as usual, but the Chapter was not unacquainted with either. The Blood Angels had often clashed with the Bile Trade Empire, ending corrupt nobles who sought to profit off the suffering of the common man, which was unwanted for the Blood Angels as they had tried to expand their trade routes to the Blood Angels' recruiting worlds. Though many chapters fractured and fell from grace, the Angels of Remembered Baal were pure and united, and remembered the Long War well enough to know where the righteous fallen Imperium stood on Fabius Bile. Likewise, the Clergy were too...traditional for the Angels' taste. The Sons of Sangiunius were no stranger to traditions, of course -- they were still a Chapter of Space Marines after all, but the remnants of the Ecclesiarchy were scarcely better than the traitors condemned. It was no surprise that men and women chose Fabius Bile, Huron Blackheart and many more to lead them over the pieces of the Imperium left over if this was the salvation offered. Below was a mess of churches built from wreckage and stolen goods, with ancient spires of religious iconography granting haven from the squalor of below to those with power and clout. When the Baal's Fury first arrived over the Shrine-World of Autumnspring V, once nearly damned to the Warp but saved by heroes forgotten to time, Chapter-Master Antonello Hashmata and his Space Marines were offered guest rooms in the great towering spires, but the Astartes politely refused and stayed in their ship. Hashmata and a small group of Astartes including Foltor Ambrogio even departed to the world's inner grimy depths, finding an inn dug into the side of an abandoned temple. They gave food and water to all those staying in its rooms, and told them hearty stories of the wars they had fought in, but took care to not mention the Noble House they hunted. Yet despite this, a few of the people staying at the inn took note of Foltor's family name and brought up the Planetary-Governor, who shared it. A feeling of horror washed over the Astartes before a team of twenty mercenaries marked with the sigil of the Blood Cult burst into the room. Easily dispatching such meager assassins, the Chapter-Master and his retinue returned to the ship, drawing a plan of attack. Hashmata would contact the local contingent of Black Templars, telling them of their plights and transferring information about the Blood Cults. With a zealous fury rarely seen since the sacrifice of the Emperor, the Templars were engulfed in hatred and immediately moved to more than arrest Planetary-Governor Ambrogio. But the ten Astartes were met only by laughter and a number of Sororitas guards three times their number. The battle was swift but brutal, leaving no Templar standing and only a few Sisters, but the Governor was untouched. For a century he had sat in power of this world, waiting for the Blood Angels to find him. Using his connections and power he, by the order of the man who's legacy he wished to replace with the Elder Lord's, he declared the Blood Angels corrupted by the hardships of the Age After and traitors to the Emperor for hunting and burning his loyal across the galaxy. Using the myraid of disowned and cut off portions of the Angels of Remembered Baal's terrible actions as proof against the primary chapter, the sector's holy rulers and powerful officers agreed. It was a flimsy excuse, easy to see through with any true scrutiny, but the Blood Cultist's money was plentiful and good enough. They all sought to twist the war for their own profit regardless, and the psyker powers of the Planetary-Governor weaving their thoughts didn't hurt his chances either. Indeed, the warding ways of the old guard, one of the few benefits of the Imperial Creed, was lost to time and thus their minds were his to manipulate. The Blood Angels were ambushed by a new breed of traitors, and the terror of the ramifications froze the Astartes' blood. Their battle-barge and escort fleet held back the tide of traitors long enough to flee, to begin a new plan. Yet one had already sprung for them, one that would help them in their war against rising Chaos... Despite the Blood Cult's preparation and power gained through a century of work and millennia of preparation, most of the Holy Clergy remained faithful to the Emperor Ascended. Namely, the High Marshall of the Black Templars, Roganz Amardeas and Sepherais Kane, Canoness of the Order of the Blooming Rose. During the time of strife the Bishop-Lords of the Holy Clergy quickly dispatched their forces to deal with the threat of subverted faith before it grew out of their control. The Holy Clergy had control of multiple sectors of space, but the one judged fallen was the Amerikon Sector, within Segmentum Tempestus. This was the final act of the Bishop-Lords, for days after Roganz and Sepherais were sent off they turned on each with inquisitive intent and soon old grudges and bickering turned into internal strife until there was one Bishop-Lord left. His name was Kanusten von Ripoll. He had begun his life as a simple man of the church, a menial in its grand halls some eight hundred years prior. And for all that time, he never felt as close to his lord as the day he was gifted an ornament and rather draconic sword from a distant priest. Though it would've no substitution for tithe, something about the relic screamed a layer of holiness, and Kanusten accepted the gift as the truest tithe to pay, a connection to his lord. The sword had sat on his hip as he gave the order to have the second-to-last Bishop-Lord executed for treason against the Holy Clergy, and as he had fulfilled his task he felt a breeze of pleasant air rush over him, like the briefest touch from his lord. It made the blood run. ----------------------- "Our thoughts light the Darkness that others may cross space. We are one with the Emperor, our souls are joined in his will. Praise the Emperor whose sacrifice is life as ours is death. Hail his name the Master of Humanity." The Black Templars and the Order of the Blooming Rose were death itself. Though the Holy Clergy was in a war with itself, with all the losses and terror involved, neither the Templars nor the Order were to be stopped. World after world were aflame to the handle of their sword, their lance batteries and the gaze of their God-Emperor. Those judged faithful sent a portion of their men to rally with the militant force and thus the Amerikon Crusade truly began. A thousand Templars, five thousand Sisters, and some twenty million men aboard dozens of powerful warships sailed the stars, reclaiming each world for the God-Emperor. It was like a glimpse into the olden days, with the hatred of the Old Imperium led by its most zealous against the traitors and heretics. The first sign of greater danger came on the world of Desterro II. It was a world entrenched in heresy, its peoples entirely converted to the old faiths of Chaos. With Bile Trade Empire assets in-system as well as those of the Phoenix Imperialis, the old bands of blasphemers had come together it seemed. It was here that the Amerikon Crusade stalled, with traitor forces being too heavy to stomp over like the majority of worlds. But the centralization of enemy forces pointed to one point in particular, a defiled Imperial palace used by the local planetary-governor, who had been overthrown and executed a week before the Templars' assault. Roganz Amardeas himself was deployed to the surface of the world, clad in ancient Cataprachii, thought to be the last of its kind. In his other hand was a Thunder Hammer dubbed the Judgement of the Damned. He was beyond even the Long War veterans' capability to kill, moving with the swiftness of thunder and the strength of mountains. Yet he was halted when he saw the imposing, famed figure of Lucius, Captain of the Emperor's Children. He seemed cold, non-present and he did little to toy with his opponent. The promised bravado of Lucius was lacking and his leadership was compromised, basic. Yet the torch-bearer of Sigmisund's legacy was focused, angry and like a spirit of vengeance. "I will bring your head back to the Bishop-Lords of the Clergy, and the Emperor Ascended shall grant me a pathway to His sanctum for slaying an arch-traitor like you!" Roganz growled through gritted teeth as he brought his relic hammer down, but Lucius was faster than the Terminator-clad High Marshall. The weapon broke the ground before him, shattering chiseled stone with enough force to crack a tank of the Adeptus Astartes. Yet the High Marshall kept pushing forward, his footsteps leaving the sign of the Aquila smashed into the ground. He kept swinging, and swinging, and Lucius' sword bounced meagerly off the plate, Lucius' uninterested and lackluster performance confusing even Roganz. Finally a blow from Judgement fractured Lucius' pristine and perfect Mark IV plate from the right, sending bone and ceramite out the left. Lucius crumpled to the ground, coughing and wheezing like an ancient man who's years were long spent. Roganz raised his hammer to strike again, to finish the blow, but he spoke first. "Ahh...well, the Bishop-Lords will make due with a torso, I think!" he laughed in triumph, before a burst of Warp energy came from the center of the palace. Like an eruption of forgotten evils and ancient power, a portal to the defunct Realm of Chaos opened. Out of it came squad after squad of Word Bearers, a thought-destroyed Traitor Legion, and another, far larger beast. It was the Daemon Lord, the Eldest of House Ambrogio. "These cretins, foolish mongrels who hold onto dead gods in the vain hope of salvation..." it spoke with an eldritch, inhuman tone. "What I offer is true! It is power, distilled into malleable form. I have warred against the dead Imperium's remnants, and in my expulsion I have forged new warriors to reinforce and empower our campaigns for the Primordial Truth. They are my Crimson Champions, and they shall know no defeat..." the thing chuckled madly to itself as further portals ripped open. Great and large beings with terrible daemon swords, they resembled the Adeptus Astartes to a vague degree yet were utterly opposite, crude and disturbed daemon flesh. Incomplete. Roganz turned and held his hammer menacingly, in defiance of the beast. He looked it directly in the eye and grimaced. "There is no truth but the truth of the God-Emperor's word, filth. And if you will not accept it on your own accord, then I shall enforce it in his name!" ---------------------- There was a secondary goal of the Amerikon Crusade, one Sepherais Kane had been sent off to accomplish while Roganz waged war groundside. During the first hours of the conflict, the first victims of the traitors were the Blood Angels. They were an ancient Space Marine Chapter, well respected and well equipped, and their loyalties were nothing if not concrete. Yet travel to the center of heresy where the Angels of Remembered Baal would be next to waging another war, for the heretics' pre-planning was on full display. Planetary Defense Stations with macrobatteries and lance batteries attached made going near the world like devastation already, to say nothing of traitor warships. The return to form for this section of the galaxy was startling, and it was the knowledge that failure meant further cataclysm that drove Kane and her forces arguably more than her faith. Like a hero of yore, the Canoness sailed through the Warp with her fleet into the space between stars near Autumnspring, where the Angels were presumed to be. After two days of searching, the Blood Angels were found. Though nearly a quarter of their fleet was damaged beyond combat-readiness, a large portion of their fleet including the Baal's Fury was prepared to strike back at the traitors. With reinforcements acquired and with the mission accomplished, Sepherais Kane's forces departed back to Desterro II. Upon their arrival, the Blood Angels and the Order of the Blooming Rose were more than enough to turn the tides of battle for void supremacy. Though the Crusade's forces there were weary and thin, so were the traitors, and such an influx of Clergy forces sealed the traitors' fate in space. Yet when the Templars on the ground reported the dire situation to Sepherais, the Canoness and Antonello Hashmata deployed to the surface with their most trusted of warriors as escort and nearly all the rest of their ground forces in tow. ----------------------- Roganz was losing, that much was true. He was swatted away by the Eldest Lord in a streak of Warpflame, sprawling him upon the ritualistic marble floor. The ancient Cataprachii plate kept him intact, but the foe in front of him was like a dark demi-god, reminiscent of the lords of evil from the Age of the Imperium and the Heresy. Yet Roganz still drew breath and he rose to his feet, Judgement in one hand and a Storm Bolter in the other. One of its vile mockeries of the Astartes charged him, and with a burst of boltfire it fell to the ground, melting away back into the immaterium. He charged the Eldest Lord again, screaming oaths of piety to the God-Emperor as he swung, the hammerhead striking the jaw of the terrible Greater Daemon. It stumbled back, and it shimmered, blinking in and out of the materium. Roganz tried again, but his hammer was deflected by the Eldest Lord's daemonic claw. The High Marshall was tossed back, before the Eldest Charge dashed forth, harshly finishing its own foe. The protective power of the ancient Terminator Armor was holding against the forbidden powers of the Eldest, but it would not hold forever. Taking the opportunity presented, he slammed Judgement into its core, pushing the beast off him, and he spared a thought to wonder if the warp-beasts of yore were harder or easier to kill. More Crimson Champions and Word Bearers came from the tear into the Warp, and they were more than rested, while the High Marshall's breath was labored and his eyes drooped. He retrieved the Storm Bolter at his side and gunned down another of the lesser daemons, before a chainsword struck his helm. Its teeth could not hope to cut through Cataprachii plate, but the force of the blow caught the High Marshall off-guard. Another Word Bearer unloaded its boltgun, forged during the distant days of the Great Crusade, into his head and right shoulder, doing nothing but scarring his armor a dusty black. Yet it was the Eldest that did the most damage, letting forth a plume of warpflame onto the Templar, nearly throwing him out of the palace. Roganz struggled to stand and for once failed. How could this be? Has the Immaterium recovered from the Emperor Ascendant? Have the Ruinous Powers regrouped and reformed to wage war on us once more? We are not the Imperium, we are not a unified people, we could not survive such an attack... His dreadful thoughts were quenched by his allies finally arriving, the Canoness Kane and the Master of the Blood Angels entering the room to do what he could not. The Eldest snarled at the Chapter-Master, remembering their last meeting. "There shall be no battle-brother entrenched in ancient curses to save you now, Blood Angel...I shall indulge greatly drinking the spirit-ichor from your bleeding soul!" The Eldest howled, wings of bone and inky shadow bursting from its back as the blood spilt across the world fueled his nearing ascension. The Canoness struck first, letting loose the power of an Inferno Pistol as she closed the distance. The purifying ray of flame stung the Eldest Lord, moving its deflecting claw back as she cut his infernal hide with her thrice-blessed relic blade, spilling deep crimson ichor as her swipe's arc concluded. Before the Eldest could return a strike, Antonello of the Blood Angels leapt forth with his own sword, the blade which helped to banish the beast once before. Though it was master-crafted and wielded by a master of the blade, the effect of the weapon was unexpected. Where it struck, flame spewed and the Eldest recoiled in pain, and it seemed as if the weapon and the daemon had forever been tied as bane and victim by the pain it had inflicted in the daemon's formation. With the intervention of a Blood Angels Techmarine, the High Marshall's damaged armor was returned to functionality and Roganz stood again. Yet Crimson Champions were rushing to aide their infernal master, and the Black Templar would not allow such minions to save their dark ruler from the damnation he so rightfully deserved. With faith and fury the lesser daemons were reduced to immaterial ichor and irreparably mangled hell flesh. The clouds above thundered and spewed lightning as the fighting outside only intensified, and victory only seemed to grow more vital to both sides as the battle went on. After nearly a dozen minutes of combat, Antonello was exhausted and heavily wounded, and Kane was no better. Roganz could barely stem the tide of traitors from breaching into the palace to save the Eldest, and it seemed the battle was to be lost. Yet through all the carnage, one Space Marine had cleaved a path through the hate and doom of the forces of Chaos rising, an Angel of Remembered Baal with a powerful lascannon on his back. Covered by Baal Predators and Exorcist Battle Tanks and flanked by his valiant Tactical Squad, the Astartes made it to the palace. With the rest of the squad dispatched to help Roganz secure the entrance, the Space Marine approached the Greater Daemon. "Ah...my youngest descendant. You have grown gluttonous off the power foolishly given to you by the Sons of dead Sangunius. Shall you join in me in ascension, as my champion of my forces and son of the new God of Blood and War?" the Eldest Lord asked, magic and strength echoing through his voice. "I am Foltor Ambrogio, Blood Angel of Remembered Baal and Son of Sangunius. If I am to die today, I am to die in service of the Emperor's will," the Astartes told the Eldest Lord as he let rip his lascannon. A red beam of death struck the Eldest Lord with enough force to shatter Imperial tanks and melt Power Armor, and with another six seconds, he was struck again with the same force. Upon the third shot, the Eldest Lord screamed in pain as the immaterium grabbed hold of his crumbling body and dragged it back into the Realm of Chaos. ------------------------- After a slow week of campaigning, the world of Desterro II had been officially cleansed, the surface burnt to ash and its inhabitants slaughtered down to nothing. The Blood Angels decided to stay with the Crusade, opting to continue to fight those who wished to see the return of Chaos. It was obvious that whatever dark powers still remained in the once grand Realm of Chaos still brewed and stirred, searching for a new leader. The fact it had not been dried up by the burning presence of the Emperor Ascendant was a heavy weight on the mind of Roganz, but such thoughts were kept to himself. It would be another month of crusading until a standstill was met. The Holy Clergy's manpower was spent, and the forceful removal of the last Bishop-Lord only drove more discord and strife into the populace. Dark winter befell the capital world of Lectern III, as if an omen of times to come. The Holy Clergy as an organization was all but dead, but the worlds where they operated were far from it. The evils of the Sanguine Imperium, the culmination of the Blood Cult's work around Autumnspring, had nearly shattered the alliance and faith of many of those worlds, but they held fast in the face of the Great Enemy's return. Through a quick and decisive operation, an elite force from the Sanguine Imperium had retrieved the sword from Kanusten's grave. The Permalum Talon, a powerful relic of Khorne co-opted for a new Warp Entity, it was given to Planetary-Governor Ambrogio and he felt a connection to his grandfather, so sweet and powerful...it made the blood run.
  13. Gaius Tibon looked around his wounded lying body and saw dead tanks and their crew, smeared into the rockcrete and once-glistening pearl pillars. Beside him, his Squad Sergeant was sprawled out, a large portion of his head torn apart by a well-placed bolt shell. The stepping sounds of ceramite boots grew louder and louder, until one collided with his helm, sending him from his belly to his back, still thrown onto the floor. He was a soldier of the Ultramarines' 7th Great Company, under the command of Great Lieutenant Maximon Calgus. His boltgun was beside him, but his arms stored no power and his twin hearts struggled to beat. His lungs were punctured, each breath one of his last. He tried to push himself up, to stand for the Lord Sicarius, but he was pushed back to the rockcrete and strewn ceramite of broken power armor by his foe's goliath leg. He was colored in the pattern of the Nova Legion, once trusted battle-brothers heralded as one of the sorely missed among the halls of Holy Macragge, now fought against in a war of survival. It was a tragedy, that if peace could be brokered they could reclaim the galaxy together. "How does it feel, traitor?" the Nova Legionnaire asked. "To desecrate the ideals of our Primogenitor and live in the squalor of your actions?" Gaius looked into the sky and saw Nova Legion interceptors fly overhead, with their reinforcements raining from the sky in drop pods. He heard cheering, and the chants of their damned Legion. The rolling of tank treads and the marching of guardsmen platoons echoed through the canyons of steel and industry. Through his near-broken helm Gaius stared the Legionnaire in the face as his fingers found the edge of a chainsword hilt. "Like victory," he replied simply, driving the chainsword into his brother's stomach, between the metal plates which would've saved his life. He revved its motors, and the adamantium teeth at at his intestines, ripping them out in a violent fashion as a fountain of blood and bile flowed from the corpse onto Gaius' scarred and half-ruined blue power armor. With a shout of anger and a scream of pain mixed in a single terrible two seconds, the other Astartes raised their bolters and fired, turning Gaius into yet another corpse, but not before he drove his chain weapon upwards, tearing apart the Nova Legionnaire's ribcage, lungs and hearts. The Legionnaire was dead, and Gaius died euphoric. ------------------------- They had survived, for so long. A little colony, glimmering on the edge of nothingness. The greenskins were bogeymen now, and they thought that the God-Emperor ascended into heaven after his earthly duties were done, slaying the Four Devils and all their evils. They had reached so many heights, and even this one planet had amassed a history and a list of successes. They had four ships in orbit of their world, a Lunar Cruiser and three escort ships. They thought with their PDF and their small fleet that no horrors from the stilled galaxy would come for them. Oh no, the God-Emperor watched them, as he always had and always will. Then came the great ship. It was far larger than even their entire fleet combined, and it had unleashed unholy fire on them. In but a single minute, their hopes of survival was crushed as the wreckage of two hundred years' work came crashing down into the planet below. After the catastrophic sea of dust and ash flooded the world, then came the void-devils. Dropships settled onto the world, and outstepped mechanical horrors and benign, inhuman terrors weaved of human flesh and metal. Their leaders, terrible messes of mechandentrites and the machine gone too far. Their mere presence corrupted the voxes of PDF soldiers and civilian vox-boxes. Interrupting the foreboding emergency broadcasts was a mockery of Low Gothic, ran through a dozen synthetic vocalizers. [LET GO OF YOUR UNWIEDLY FLESH, SHED YOUR EMOTIONS AND BONES AND JOIN US IN THE HEAVEN OF SYNETHIC IMMORTALITY.] For ten days this hell descended upon the human colony. By the time the devils of metal and mechanization left, there were few humans left, a scattered dozen thousand out of the wreckage of ten million. Yet those left alive to fight, rebuild and build their numbers back up were luckier than those taken. For grueling months they would wait in their cells, kept alive by tubes of pure white paste and just enough water to keep their hearts beating and lungs moving. Measured to be so, like an emotionless machine planning the bare minimum diet for a human creature. They would wait their turn as bipedal machines walked by their cells, taking steps underneath their dirty and worn white cloaks, with an odd texture about them. For antagonizing hours, days and weeks they wondered what xenos monsters they faced. How to escape their draconian cells. But no answers came. The people in the cells started as citizens, workers, administrators, soldiers. Now, by the turn of the second month, all were merely human shells. And then that was when they were taken from their cold grey boxes and dragged without resistance through the bleak hallways. Vague religious murals and sigils were stamped onto the industrial walls and were bumps against their feet and knees as they were dragged across grated flooring, their legs no longer wanting to walk. Such depictions of faith to the machine rekindled one man's faith. "God-Emperor..." he rasped. "Protect me..." but the mechanized drones ignored their cries. Either they were too machine to care, or they had heard it so many times before. When the inmate had reached his destination, his looked in awe and horror at their surroundings. The room was great and large, the size of a large village. A swath of land was layers of skin growing white hair, there was a massive plasmatic generator with work servitors tied to the walls of it, the edges of their flesh burning and crisping with the heat, the heatsinks streamlined to accommodate steel but no flesh. Yet the true terror was that of the large machinery directly ahead. It seemed to be a sort of house, with a clear entryway, but everything beside it looked morbid and gothic, both slathered with the words of holy men and over-mechanized, like a shrine more than a piece of technology. If one looked far enough, they could see repetitions of the place, exact replicas in a massive grid of ritualistic engineering. He did, and shuttered. The occasional scream echoed throughout the grid-structure, and the ever-present hum of industry whirred in the background. Suddenly, a being appeared from the shrine-machine, clad in the same odd white cloak as the guards. "[HUMAN]," it vocalized, none of its form truly human. It was a dark orgy of augmentations and cybernetic limbs, like a haphazard collage of robotic arms and claws. Yet it had a face, made from glass and steel. Half looked aesthetically female, and the other was skull and augmented eye. A halo of inert steel and small half-circle lights decorated its cloaked head. "[WELCOME TO FORGE WORLD METALICA. WELCOME TO HEAVEN.]" The guards pushed him forward, their guns to his back. He resisted, of course, as another scream ripped through the world. But he failed. Into the chamber he went, and the machines went to work. Unit 0759-003-4850-X stepped out of the Biomechanization Chamber in Gridpoint 21. The unit turned its head without emote or shiver, and scanned its surroundings. It was once something else. It was once weak flesh. It was once human. Yet it was now immortal. It was now an angel in heaven. It thanked its god, the Machine God, and the Omnissiah, the Fabricator-General, for such blessings. Clad in its newly given cloak and armed with galvanic rifle, the unit left to report to its designated marshal for the next planet raid.
  14. Part Twelve - Descent of Secrets The five hundred worlds of Ultramar saw brutal war. Captain Titus' resistance against the darkness of the Sicarian Empire had risen to a proper power, fifty worlds in number. Tens of thousands of ships stood in its defense, with the allegiance of a dozen shattered chapters behind him and hundreds of millions of guardsmen to liberate worlds from the prevention of their Primarch's wishes. As the Harbinger of Guilliman he is known, but even this heroic defiance was dwarfed by the tide of another tyranny. The Nova Legion had gained ground in Ultramar, a hundred and twenty worlds had fallen to the fifty thousand under the control of a madman Legion Master who claimed the name of the Lord Guilliman as his own. For a century this conflict has raged, and Ultramar crumbled beneath the weight of war after only scraping by the Cataclysm. Yet the decider of the fate of Ultramar was no son of Guilliman, for it was the Realm of Angels who controlled even less of Ultramar than the Guillimanites. They kept to themselves, ruling their subjects like unenthused lords, uninterested in the politics of man and empire until word of the traitorkin had arisen again. Yet despite its size it was a slumbering superpower, a quarter of a Legion in strength and with the Rock still under their command. Their Supreme Grand Master, Uziel Icarar, had been reportedly in talks with that of the false Roboute of the Nova Legion, as both sides had been petitioning the Angels to assist in their war. The Realm of Angels was quiet for a reason; their prey was rarely in Ultramar, opting to stay away from their core realms. They had no interest in outside politics beyond their hunt unless attacked. But with the war racing quickly to a climax and an opportunity to secure more resources for the Hunt, even staunch Icarar was forced to accept that the war had to be joined, one way or another. Despite their constant patrols, half their number -- a nigh-unheard of feat outside of Ultramar -- still remained within the Realm of Angels, and any losses attributed to the war would be made up for in territory, population and captured Sicarian assets. With the unflinching backing of the Nova Legion, who's secretive origins implied a vast storehouse of geneseed, production facilities and other such things, The Supreme Grand Master foresaw a final end to the Hunt with damned Caliban's frayed husk of a world erased by energy lances and macrobatteries from a joint legion fleet. From the overbearing shadows of the Void slipped an ancient starship, unmarked with transponders and not emblazoned with any sigil, before or after the Cataclysm. From within its hull came a black and grey Thunderhawk, darting to a world nearby at speeds only allowed by Astartes craft. It was a world under the reign of the Nova Legion, and it was in poor shape. Its name was Forlone, a half-dead world revived by Sicarian rebuilding efforts and then subsequently shelled back to disrepair by Nova Legion forces. Its citizenry knew this well, and upon the Thunderhawk's secretive arrival a riot was being violently suppressed. The team deployed by the Thunderhawk were similarly unmarked, but they wore ancient armors like that of the Maximus and Crusade Patterns. Sneaking through the ruined capital of Forlone was a difficult process, leaving many dead civilians and Nova Legion personnel in its wake. Yet the five Astartes were masters of their craft, their lives being spent honing their craft. With a small trail of bodies covered up by the troubles of imperialism, the team of five entered the Nova Legion's resident temple-fortress, a smaller variation of the standard Fortress-Monastery, proving a more economic option for a Legion-sized campaign of conquest. Even if the Nova Legion knew of their plans beforehand, it wouldn't have helped any. In and out like a gust of midnight chill, ten suits of Mark IV Power Armor and ten boltguns to match were snatched from Forlone's temple-fortress, along with a Rhino to carry to the loot to boot. The frigate, still not detected by the Nova Legion forces, flew into the planet's atmosphere. Though days later such an anomaly would be noticed, the thought of cloaked ships was considered foolish by the Nova Legion's standards. They suspected all such devices to have been lost to the fires of the Cataclysm, and whatever remained of the Raven Guard and their Reflex Drives were certainly not anywhere near Ultramar. Yet this action had not gone unnoticed, for during the mysterious group's incursion they had accidentally come across and assisted the job of a Sicarian spy. She was named Chrisma Wox, trained by the ancient orders of the once Ordo Hereticus who survived in the Sicarian Empire after the Cataclysm. She reported back to Cato's Grand Lieutenant, Maximon Calgus, who was in command of the war in the section of space where Forlone laid. Grand Lieutenant Calgus was a trusted aide to Emperor Sicarius, but his counterpart among the Nova Legion, Marcellius Agon, was causing him much grief in his campaigns. Maximon, unsure of this spy Astartes group's intentions, sent her back out with a frigate dubbed the Far Traveler and a dispatchment of ten Space Marines of the Iron Snakes, Pythas Squad. The race was on, find and interrogate -- or kill, if options are exhausted -- the mystery Astartes squad before they could kick off plans. Through a series of spy rings, Chrisma had discovered that the mysterious unmarked Astartes had slipped, and had revealed themselves to be at Gerthronis II, a planet still within Grand Lieutenant Calgus' purview to attack, though she kept the information between herself and her squad. The frigate appeared from the Warp in the midst of a bloody battle. Cursing herself for not telling Calgus her plan, the frigate's stressed but capable Captain Hathers flew the Far Traveler through the battle far beyond their paygrade. With nothing beyond a failed Nova Legion bomber's parting gift and a few lucky lance shots, the frigate was relatively unscathed and arrived to the surface. Working their way through the battle, the Sicarian intelligence officer and her Iron Snakes retinue went to the mystery marines' reported location. At that moment, they had appeared, using excessive disruptive grenades and light scrapcode to disrupt their helmets. With only one per squad dying, the mysterious Astartes disappeared, and to Pythas Squad's dismay, so too did Chrisma Wox. She awoke some time later, revealed to a deep and unassuming underground base. Though the Astartes who greeted her wore the stark grey and unknown black, the rest of his squad wore Dark Angels armor sets. The two discussed for some time, asking her to stay there while they left, as if they were friends or superior officers. As they did, she did not cooperate and exited the base shortly after with ease. ------------------ Marcellius Agon oversaw his forces' movements with his own eyes atop his Land Raider, surrounded by a Rhino and Chimera convoy. The smoldering wrecks of Sicarian Predator Tanks, Hydra Mobile AA, and more gave him great pleasure. It was a good sight to see the foes he so desperately despised dead. As the Land Raider's treads crunched an Ultramarine underneath, it halted its advance as four Dark Angels approached from behind. "Ah!" he shouted with an air of friendship. "Its good to see Uziel came to his senses and joined the side destined for victory. Under the joint leadership of Roboute and your Supreme Grand Master, Cato Sicarius will be crushed like the heretic bastard he is." Then a bolt shell, and then another, and then another. Marcellius looked to his torso, mangled and pouring blood and tarnished innards. He looked up at the Dark Angel in lead, his bolter still smoldering as other Astartes and Nova Legion guardsmen came to return fire. Marcellius was put down by another quick boltshell before three Thunderhawks passed overhead, letting loose a hail of krak missiles onto its foes. Only the Land Raider emerged undefeated, and by the time it was prepared to return fire, the squad of Dark Angels and their air support were long gone. ------------------- With the assassination of Marcellius Agon complete, Maximon Calgus swiftly reversed the tide of war, pushing the Legion out of four whole worlds in five years, the citizens pleased to have their true rulers back. Chrisma Wox explained the situation to Calgus, the truth or lie that the Astartes had told her, and both opted to keep the situation secret. Upon leaving the room, Wox retrieved a trinket that she had been given, a metallic reptile scale... Across the galaxy, the squad leader of the odd Space Marines knelt before a massive monitor. The monitor flashed to life, displaying the face of Sapphon of the old Dark Angels, a Night Lord, and a Word Bearer. "We have slain Marcellius Agon under the guise of the Lion's sons. Their forced joining with the Sicarian Empire is inevitable. With the old Ultramarine's empire on the backfoot and projected looser of the war, the Dark Angels will follow them to the grave."
×
×
  • Create New...

Important Information

By using this site, you agree to our Terms of Use.