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

[Tenebris]

Daemon Forge

 

 

Zaron 77 watched as another processional of menials scattered before his advance. Most of these menials were servitors and indentured workers yet some of them were already blessed by the Great Changer. Zaron 77 computed that since the arrival of the Thousand Sons the forge complex of Magnus Opus has increased its productivity by 66.2% and the death rate among the menials declined to a manageable 47%, all thanks to the gifts that the XVth legion brought with them.

For centuries the small forge nestled in the asteroid K-16 Theta was a minor facility but now with the patronage of the XVth it had its first Gamma-Level Daemonic Entity, Zabrax, to fuel its infernal fires.

Zaron 77 was pleased that his refuge has become a proper Daemon Forge but he was not ignorant of the Thousand Sons and their terms. Ceaseless toil and sounds of industry echoed from Complex Utica 9, countless inferno bolts were being manufactured and their powerful mutagenic cores were wreaking havoc with the machinery and the tech-thralls.

Zaron cared not for the blood spilled, nor for the sorcery involved, all he cared is that Magnus Opus was his to command and he had a cohort of Rubic marines to enforce his will. The Thousand Sons brought knowledge, industry and protection, all they demand in return is fealty and the results of Zaron 77 labor. Everything else was the domain of sorcery. The Magos Arcanist smiled.

 

[Tenebris]

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

 

Greetings and welcome to Inspirational Friday. This week we have two winners, Zhaharek and Beachymike123, you can read their posts linked under their names. I am sure many of you would agree with my choice. A honorable mention goes to Carrack. 

 

Step forth Zhaharek and Beachymike123 and claim your reward!

 

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

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 08/05/2015 - Battles of the Space Marines

 

This week I have prepared something special for you my frater, special because I will open this Inspirational Friday to the rest of the board for a challenge. The topic of the week is a Battle of the Space Marines. The theme is a battle between Space Marines and Chaos Space Marines, the outcome is your choice, the setting and the armies too. In order to make it a real challenge I will set the word limit to 500 words and you are invited to post accompanying art too. 

 

This Inspirational Friday is special for I invite our loyalist brethren to post their own Battle of the Space Marines from the loyalist point of view. A few considerations though. Be mindful of the epic scale of 40k battles, make it cinematic and try to include a plot twist. The word limit is no requisite but it is there to present a challenge. If you feel that your topic should be more extensive you are certainly allowed to write as many words as you wish. The deadline is Thursday 14/05/2015. For any additional information PM me or ask directly in the topic.  

 

Let us be inspired!

 

Tenebris

[Tipper]

*Tipper looks around and notes that he is first to arrive. He pulls up a chair and waits.* To the first person to walk in he says, "So you want to hear a story, ehhh? Well, to bad, I'm telling you anyway! My entry for this week: Soon

 

 

"Soon," they said "reinforcements are on the way. The Emperor protects!" Is it true, or simply a hallow platitude used to give this group of dead men some semblance of peace? Half of Fendal squad has fallen already, how long have we been in this river bed? Hours? Days? It feels as though an eternity. I had never imagined that I would fall like this, hunched in a dried out gully waiting for one of these crazy cult fanatics to get a lucky shot off. They seem innumerable, my yellow armour is so stained by their blood that one might mistake me for a Blood Angel. "Here they come again!" Haskel yells, he thinks he is in charge since Sargent Fendal expired. He's not and I'd like to tell him so, but there are more pressing issues at hand. No one is going to stick their head out and lose it like Destren did, so why don't they sneak up? All this yelling and chanting to the "Dark gods" simply gives them away. Come to think of it, they must know that they are literally running, screaming, to their deaths, why do it at all? We use the auto guns of the previous wave of mad men to mow down the new one. Having run out of ammo Bolter long ago.

 

"Soon," Haskel says, "it must be soon." Only he and I are left now. "Why won't they just blow us up and be done with it?" he asks, turning to me. These are his final words as a bolt round enters his chest, we have been flanked. I don't have time to tell him that they want our gene seeds, I don't have time for anything, except it fight for a few more moments of precious life. I hold my trigger till it clicks, but there is nothing this piece can do against the armour of my Terminator foe. I fend off the first swing of his chain sword with my arm, which is flayed open as a result. The second blow will kill me, but it never comes. I have been saved by... a Warlord? His hand is simply raised, but my aggressor bows and backs away. The man kneels beside me and removes my helmet with a gentle care that I am unaccustomed to. He pulls me into sitting position, my back again the wall of the ditch that will surely be my grave. "My name is Nox and I have a simple question for you, Space Marine. Do you fear death?"

 

I must, my bowels quake, my heart pounds so that it will burst from my armour. Indeed, my very soul quakes against the idea of knowing life no more, bit I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing this. "I... If I give my life... my life in service to the Emperor, then." Several of my teeth are dislodged from the force of the blow, the back of his gauntleted hand meeting my face. "Only a fool does not fear death! I myself find only one thing that fills me with more dread. The idea of not being the master of my own destiny. You have been taught that we are Evil itself, yes? This is simply untrue, we are merely men who have chosen to live free from the lies of the False Emperor. I offer you the chance to live your life, as your own man. And if you die, to die for your own edification, chasing the favor of true gods, ones who reward richly those who prove worthy! What say you?" I...I... what?

 

"Soon, more will be here soon." I mean it as a parting quip but it comes out more as a warning. Freedom, how must he see me? As a slave, to my Emperor, bound in the chains that are my faith. As... well, as a mad man who seeks to go running to his death, screamingly praise to my god. My absent god. My eyes must betray the torment of my soul, for Nox simply nods. A burst of color and pain, and my eyes see no more. When next I wake I feel a tickle inside my arm and hear the familiar whirl of servoarm actuators... Inside my arm! I look down to find an apothecary caring for my splayed arm. I can feel him inside it yet I know no pain. Another apothecary approaches holding several teeth. One of his servoarms sprays me in the face and I feel warm sleep take me again.

 

"Soon, Lord Nox. When you paid for the The Iron Hounds you paid for quality, quality takes time. This one will be ready when he is ready, and not before."

"Of course, Apothecary Hrami, but when exactly will that..."

"If I am to be free then the decision is mine, and I choose now." I say and stand pull myself out of the bed. Going to kneel before my savior, I continue. "Lord Nox, my name is Astron and, as long as our goals align, I am yours to command. I wish to free more of my brothers from there slavery to the god... the Corpse Emperor. When can we begin?"

Nox smiles, "Soon."

 

 

 

 

 

I understand that we are supposed to encompass the epic scale of 40K but, to me, war is fought by men and so the scale of any war is each individual man, so this is mostly internal dialogue. As for the twist, it is, unfortunately, something that I understand no one else will get. Astron is now Nox's right hand man, and the leader of his Terminator honor guard. This is his origin story. I understand that it doesn't have much wow factor but I loved it to much to write anything else.

 

 

 

Thanks to @Warsmith Aznable for use of his Iron Hounds.

[Warsmith Aznable]

This is an idea I've been kicking around for a while, and Tipper's story inspired me to go ahead and write it. I'm not sure it fits exactly into this week's theme, but it does involve a battle between chaos space marines and space marines (and chaos space marines versus chaos space marines.)

 

 

++We only want the manufactorum++

Mercutio couldn’t decide which was more absurd: the Traitors’ apparently earnest attempt to reason with Captain Laertes, or Laertes’ insistence on thwarting their desires no matter how practical a strategic a withdrawal to another AO would be.

Dug in as they were, the few dozen remaining members of their dying Chapter stubbornly entrenched among the data-stacks, industrial machines, and assembly lines of the manufactorum in question, they were at a frustrating stalemate. They could mount no effective break-out or counter attack against the enemy’s superior numbers, and the enemy would not risk the destruction of the object of their desire by bringing to bear their massive firepower. A hopeless stalemate, but the Traitors had time on their side.

++Abandon the manufactorum and we will allow you to pass through our lines unharmed++

“I have to ask this, Captain.” Mercutio spoke to Captain Laertes without taking his eyes of the hastily assembled laud hailer pole across the rubble and waste of No Man’s Land.

“Say whatever you want to, Mercutio. I will not be moved.”

“Every hour that passes our allies in the spires lose more ground.” Mercutio realized he sounded pleading, and tried to inflect an air of reason into his trembling voice. “If this is to be our Chapter’s last stand, should we not stand with our people and fall trading our lives for theirs?”

“There is a force of Traitors before us!” Laertes voice broke, but his conviction remained firm. “Legionnaires! Arch-Heretics! We will deny them as long as a single one of us draws breath!”

“Is it more important that our Chapter is destroyed by prestigious enemies?” Mercutio did not hide the contempt he felt. “We should be remembered for guarding lives, not for guarding our reputation!”

“Enough, Mercutio!”

“Real, human lives!” Mercutio finally turned, screaming into the face of his Captain, the last officer alive, the last officer who would ever wear the colours of their Chapter.

++ Leave us the Manufactorum and there will be no more bloodshed here++

“Captain?” he pleaded.

++Just walk away++

“Laertes!”

*****************************

Mercutio slogged down the rubble strewn boulevard in a daze. His power armour no longer proudly bore the colours of a Chapter. Blood, soot, dust... these were his colours now. He could not remember when he had lost his helmet. He had no memory of how he acquired the bolt pistol that swayed loosely in his numb fingers. He knew it had no magazine, and it had been days since he had even seen a bolter round.

A mass of ragged humanity swarmed around him. They all streamed in the direction of the former warehouse district. They were beckoned by the laud hailer calls promising safety in that direction, and fueled by the rumours of slaughter and pain originating in the other.

Some reached out bony, bleeding hands in supplication to even this lowliest of the Emperor’s Angels. Others turned their faces away and cursed the name of those who had failed to protect them. Many others clawed and pushed at one another in their maddened, desperate hopes to live. Mercutio ignored both the abuse and supplication directed at himself, focusing momentarily on the wide-eyed, frightened face of a thin man with wildly unkempt hair. The man struggled to keep his arms around an equally frightened woman carrying a small child as they were all carried along with the momentum of the crowd.

Mercutio was alone. There was no officer or sergeant to contradict his decision. There was no battle-brother to argue with. There was no Chaplain to condemn him. There was no champion or hero to inspire him. There was only the call of the laud hailer.

++...only what you can carry. Move in an orderly fashion. Do not rush the barricades or you will be fired upon. Survivors assemble in the square at 127th and Warehouse Avenue. Bring only what you can carry...++

*****************************

“Left. Left. Keep to the left. No pushing. You lot, don’t do that. Keep to the left. Move along. Left. Left....”

Mercutio recognized the scarlet and grey uniforms of the mortal soldiers who stood in staggered ranks with fixed bayonets, directing the flow of wretched and frightened humanity. How many days ago was it that he was running among them like a cornered beast, ripping out throats with his bare hands and crushing skulls with pieces of broken masonry as he shrugged off the slugs and las-bolts of his pursuers? Now he was broken, and they seemed bored. Everyone was tired.

“You there.” A sergeant waved in Mercutio’s direction. “Keep to the right. To the right.”

********************************

Traitors. Legionnaires. Arch-Heretics.

“Lift your arms.”

Mercutio lifted his arms and the rubber clad servitors directed the high pressure water hoses at his sides and arm pits. The enemy space marines stood a metre off the ground on the perforated steel plates of hasty catwalks. They held their bolters in his general direction, but faced one another, apparently conversing on their squad’s vox net.

From their relaxed and indifferent posture, Mercutio did not believe they were discussing him.

“Turn around, please.”

Mercutio turned around and felt the steamy spray wash over his back, causing the large cardboard identification tag affixed to his neck by a rubber cord to flap awkwardly and splash hot water into his face. When he was deemed clean he was allowed to mount the catwalk and move freely among the military transports of the enemy. He recognized a clutch of soldiers wearing the uniform of the local PDF, each with their own in-processing tag hanging around their necks. They seemed equal parts confused, relieved, and guilty.

Mercutio turned his face away. He did not want to be seen by them the way he saw them.

***********************************

“Any specialties or preferences?” The Traitor Legionnaire pulled at the large cardboard tag and read the cryptic marks that had been dashed in several colours of grease pencil by half as many enemy space marine agents over the previous two days. The Techmarine looked over those marks and added a couple of his own while waiting for Mercutio’s reply.

“No.” Mercutio was tired. He did not look the Arch-Heretic in the eyes.

“Are you sure?” The severe looking enemy Techmarine demanded, a critical eye cast down a superior nose. Mercutio felt a spark of angry pride he did not know he still had left in him.

“Predator gunner.” Mercutio raised his chin, looking straight at the Techmarine. “I enjoyed that assignment the most, and I was a very good at it.”

“Good.” The Techmarine tore the tag from his neck and handed him the piece of parchment that a servitor-scribe belched forth from its augmented mouth. “Follow the yellow line, go all the way to the rear assembly area and ask to show this to the Staff Officer of the Forge. And don’t take any detours or let yourself be led off by anyone else.”

**************************************

The Predator battle tank jerked a couple of times as its engine warmed up and synced with the transmission. Mercutio considered the targeting array, then ran through a series of function checks as his memory called them forth unbidden. He moved mechanically, lost in the process, his face a blank, expressionless mask.

“Are you still in there?” The Predator’s TC, a Traitor, a Legionnaire, an Arch-Heretic, asked after him while rapping his knuckles on Mercutio's helmet. His name was Sergeant Farmatyr. That they had names was something Mercutio never considered before.

“Yes.” Mercutio ran through the collimation procedure again, then pulled the lever that racked a round into the autocannon. “Gun up.”

 

"Concentrate on our Word Bearers allies," Sergeant Farmatyr reminded him. "I'll take their cultist rabble with the combi-bolters."

 

The Predator rumbled forward, just one of a long column sent to bear the displeasure of the Warsmith to the Dark Apostle. Mercutio didn't know why the two enemy commanders were fighting over the bones of the planet, but it was no longer what mattered to him. The Warsmith, his Warsmith now, took slaves. The Dark Apostle gathered sacrifices.

*************************************

Contrary to popular misconception, it actually looked worse from altitude.

The atmosphere was a yellow haze of soot and fire, the night terminator glowed a hellish orange, and long, thin lines of blazing fire separated patches of blackened, scorched dirt from the hopeless and doomed greenery of still resisting areas. Great plumes of oily black smoke ejected into the stratosphere from sites that used to be heavily populated cities.

As Mercutio watched, his attention was drawn to a brilliant flash just his side of the horizon, and he paused to memorize the peculiar shape of the atomic mushroom cloud.

“Useless and insane.” Sergeant Farmatyr tapped absently at the window of the mass conveyor.

“The war?” Mercutio asked.

“What?” Farmatyr looked offended. “I meant the Word Bearers Legion.”

As they watched, bright lights streaked down from high orbit. The ship climbed higher, slowly gaining the Void, providing a perfect view of the end result of the war.

“This is what Exterminatus looks like...”

“I’ll bet those fanatic bastards didn’t see this coming!” Sergeant Farmatyr chuckled, and Mercutio could not help but share his smile.

****************************************

“Please, I will get that for you, my lord.” A disheveled looking slave fumbled with the kit bag Mercutio had just set down, struggling to haul it down the busy passageway. The space marines and soldiers streaming from the transport hangars were surrounded by desperate slaves trying to avoid the task masters herding them into the bowels of the cruiser toward brutal, thankless drudgery.

“It is fine.” Mercutio moved to take up the straps of his new issue himself and was surprised when the ragged slave cowered with his arms upraised, frightened by his sudden move. Curious, Mercutio believed he recognized that wild eyed look.

“You were from Gefeoght Prime?” Mercutio asked. Somewhere in the madness following the fall of the manufactorum he had seen this man.

“Yes, lord.” And still he cowered.

Mercutio understood.

His power armour was not painted. The steam cleanings had removed the blood, soot, grime, and dirt along with the old colours of his doomed to be forgotten Chapter. He now looked just like the Traitors, the Legionnaires, the Arch-Heretics who had come and drowned his Chapter in the blood of its last few members in the bitter wreckage of that manufactorum.

“You made it out with your family?”

“Y--Yes, my lord.”

Mercutio nodded, shouldering his kit bag.

“Come with me.” Mercutio told the man. “I claim you. I have been told I can do that.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“So long as you serve me, you and your family are under my protection.” Mercutio handed the slave his smaller personal effects bag. It was empty except for the general purpose dataslate he had been given and a loose sheaf of parchments.

“Bless you, my lord!”

It was a small victory, but one that Mercutio felt he had to hold on to.

 

 

Sorry for the length. I actually tried this time to keep it at the word count, but it just couldn't fit the entire arc of what I wanted to describe into 500 words.

 

EDIT: added some clarifying details.

[Carrack]

When the Gods make war, the world will tremble.

 

 

Five small shooting stars fell from the night sky, proceeding a single, brighter and larger one. The hunting party had been told to watch the horizon for just such an event and immediately hitched their teams to their sleds and began speeding their way back to the camp of the Greater White Bear Tribe. The gods would soon be at war, and the world will tremble at their wrath.

 

Champion Vinno stood in the control room of the Mark XII Orbital Lance Array, and asked Black Legionaire Copil, "Is Harold on the lascannon?" Copil replied, "No sir, one of the thinbloods from Barro's squad is manning it, Harold is fueling a flamer with his special blend, and waiting at the sally gate with the rest of the squad." Vinno acknowledged his youngest squad member with a dismissive gesture and they left the control room for the sally gate, a gate at the end of a tunnel concealed with the snow and ice that is so prevalent at the Northern Polar Regions of Hell's Holdfast.

 

The internal vox at the orbital Lance chimed on with the sibilant sounds of Barro's voice calling out, "Enemy contact 2k, Southwest valley, land raider, 2 razorbacks, dreadnought, 2 large infantry squads, repeat land raider." Vinno quickly grabbed a horn from Copil's helm, twisting his head towards him and commanded, "Up-channel this report to Howler's Charn at once."

 

On the battlements of the orbital lance, Champion Barro gazed at the incoming assault force. A wedge formation of a land raider variant at the head, and two razorbacks at the flanks and well to the rear of the dangerous assault tank. Immediately behind the land raider was an Imperial dreadnought fitted with siege drills and heavy flamers. The enemy infantry in the back middle, screening themselves partially with the armored formation. The enemy, tanks, dreadnought and men, wore black armor adorned with large white crosses. Black Templars, zealously rushing the Black Legion position. "Fire at will." was Barro's command, before his squads lascannon seared a beam of energy into the center mass of the oncoming land raider, to negligible effect. The heavy tank rocked back a moment from the strike and continued forwards. At long range one of the razorbacks slammed to a halt and disgorged its 6 man team, a lascannon of their own shooting high into the air as they hastily took firing positions. The lascannon mounted in the halted razorback blasted into the gate of the compound, twisting the metal at the hinges and punching a dinner plate size hole through the left side, one more hit like that and it would be breached. The other razorback halted briefly as its crusaders bailed out and scurried up the west side of the valley and assumed a supporting fire position, well covered by the glacier scree.

 

As the Black Templar armored advance drew closer to the Black Legion position, the defenders opened up with another blast from the lascannon and a pair of blasts from the squads plasma gunners. As retinas rapidly adjusted to the incandescent energy attack, the great Templar land raider was struck down with a mobility kill. It's left tracks were dislodged and mostly melted into the hull. Undeterred by its broken legs, the land raider's turret gun began cutting a line across the battlements, killing one Black Legionnaire and suppressing a section of their defensive fires. More concerning was the assault tank dropping the assault ramp with a clang heard across the battlefield. In a measured march, out came 7 terminators armed with crackling storm shields and heavy thunder hammers. They were accompanied by a black power armored figure with a skull faced mask and a power mace secured to his gauntlet with a golden chain. Joining these deadly crusaders was the ironclad dreadnought who strode through the wreckage of the land raiders tracks and raised both seismic hammers in challenge.

 

The Black Legion counter attack launched out of the concealed sally gate. Vinno's squad charged out of the tunnel into the flank of the lascannon razorback tossing krak grenades into hatches and turrets, and leaving the carrier a smoking wreck. It's dismounted infantry attempted to fall back to an alternate firing position and fire into the Black Legionaries, but their lascannon, fired from the hip went wide again, and the bolters of their initiates and the shotgun of their neophyte bounced harmlessly off the powered armor of the ancient enemy. The Templar plasma gunner misfired, burning his arm of in a blast of bright plasma. Vinno ignored the dismounted squad and instead lead a charge into the leftmost crusader foot squad with a roar of "Blood for the Blood God!" They announced their charge with shots from their bolt pistols and gouts of flame from their two flamers. This did damage, but when the squad hit the crusader's rear, carnage ensued. Although outnumbered, the fury of the Blood God lent strength to the heretic's charge, a half a dozen Templars fell to the furious chainswords. In the midst of this melee, Vinno took the head from the Crusader's Sword Brethren and was granted unholy vigor by his patron, vigor enough to survive the thrust of the Sword Brethren's own power sword. Another hero fallen on the bloodstained snow. The remains of the crusader squad were forced to fall back.

 

Adding to the confusion of the battle, a hoard of tribesman swarmed down the western side of the valley. Armed with harpoons and war clubs, this war party did little more than tie up the remaining razorback, it's dismounts, and the remaining crusader squad. The died by the droves, but they halted the Black Templar advance for their remaining strike force, save for the enemy terminators and dreadnought.

 

Barro ordered his squad, those not suppressed, to concentrate fire on the Ironclad, who had just hammered open the gate. Traversing the lascannon straight down from the tops of the battlement and fired into the head of the Templar dreadnought. The ancient warrior fell there at the gates of the lance array compound. But the assault terminators made it into the compound and began butchering the defenders. Barro, and his entire squad were smashed to paste one by one as the Templar terminators finally reached the battlements, but they got one last volley off against the remaining razorback which had powered clear of the rabble surrounding it. This volley blew the razorback and several tribesmen off the side of the valley, causing an avalanche that took the lives of more tribesmen and a few of the Templars from the remaining Crusader Squad.

 

Legionnaire Copil connected his armor's vox system with the relay boost of the lance array compound as he reloaded his bolt pistol, the rest of his squad began peppering the regrouping crusaders with their own pistols and spraying them with their two flamers. Champion Vinno nodded to Copil and gave another shout, "Skulls for the skull throne!" As his squad rushed the crusaders a second time. Copil hung to the rear of the squad as he finished his transmission. The charge was going to have to cover a lot of open ground, but Khorne favored risk takers when it came to getting into hand to hand combat, and in spite of the Templars defensive fire, the two squads were again, stuck in. Legionnaire Madras was sent back to the warp yet again by a neophyte's lucky bolt. This time, however, their would be no escape for the righteous Templars and they were cut down to the man by the Black Legion. But as the last Templar fell, swirling, multi hued lights surrounded Squad Vinno and with a thunderous clap caused by a rapid pressure change, the Black Legionaries simply vanished from the battlefield.

 

In an instant, Squad Vinno stood vomiting and disoriented in the hall of Lord Carrack. Lord Carrack was seated at his throne viewing his battle data feeds from orbit and across Hell's Holdfast. Abaddon's pet wizard, Lythane the Black was staggering next to a silver inscribed circle with a throat-slit slave at its apex, obviously responsible for the teleportation of Vinno's squad. Before the throne stood a Magos of the Dark Mechanicus, Vinno believed this one was called Lukis the Technomancer. As Vinno regained his composure, he heard his lord speaking with the Technomancer. "So what will this Barghast the Painbringer do when they release him?" Lukis responded, "Undoubtably the Imperials will attempt to consecrate the lance array, and when they do they will destroy the talismans and charms that hold him in the energy core. Their rites of consecration will only further madden the daemon, and he will most likely pollute the core and cause it to catastrophically reach critical mass." Lord Carrack, the Slayer of Multitudes, leaned back in his throne and asked, "Then what?" Lukis paused to keep the irritation at having to state the obvious from his vocal unit, and stated, "Anything in 22.4 kilometers will be destroyed."

Some semblance of composure regained, Vinno asked his lord, why did you have us target the Templar vehicles my lord?" Lord Carrack chuckled a few minutes, a sound without mirth, and devoid of any compassion, and said, "Without any mobility, the Black Templars will have to establish their beachhead under the protection of the lance array. Even now they are landing regiments of guard for their crusade to prepare for their assault on Howler's Charn. Lukis's vox thieves report that as we speak, Inquisitor Ignacio's teams are reconsecrating the lance array to maintain their orbital dominance over the North Pole. Their crusade will die as dead as their Emperor.

 

What was left of the beaten and defeated war party returned to the camp of the Greater White Bear Tribe. Lamentations and wailing greeted so few returning Braves. But as the fires for the dead were lit, a great earthquake rocked the tundra.

 

When the Gods make war, the world will tremble.

 

 

If you would like to know more of the setting of Hell's Holdfast I will repost one of my favorite entries to this contest here

A collation of reports of the investigations conducted by Throne sanctioned agents of his most holy inquisitor Markus Ignacio, the scourge of heretics and annihilator of the Warp-spawn. This summary focuses on the reconnoiter of the former imperial world Frederic III, the so called Hell Holdfast of the infamous Lord Carrack, Scion of the accursed Black Legion. This collation is done at my hand, interrogator Sevolp at the demands of my master Inquisitor Markus Ignacio, may the Emperor guide his hand and purify his purpose.

 

Preface: a small lighter was able to infil the outskirts of the Frederic system and approach the northern hemisphere of Frederic III using advanced stealth systems and a fortuitous astronomical aligning of the system defenses. This alignment will next occur in 466 standard years, barring unforeseen rearrangement of the systems defenses. Six Throne agents were inserted via low orbital / low engagement grav chute drop. One of these, agent Gamma, was confirmed dead on landing due to striking a cliff face at near terminal velocity, may he rest with Him on Terra. Another agent, Epsilon, likely failed the drop, with unforeseen wind currents carrying her past her designated LZ and auspex range. Her estimated actual LZ is deep into the western sea. The Emperor protects. Agent Delta landed on target and confirmed his landing, but no further contact has been made. The Emperor protects.

1. Agent Rho- noviate grade agent our master recruited from a penal legion. Skilled in hand to hand fighting and quick witted.

Agent Rho was tasked with infiltrating the tribal societies that inhabited the fringes of the northern polar regions and conduct a survey of the orbital defense guns and lances to ascertain if this would be a suitable approach for ground invasion.

Agent Rho successfully infiltrated the Ursgatch ( greater white bear) tribe and soon learned that foul Chaos Astartes were using the tribe, along with the neighboring, warring tribes as stock for aspirants. To this end, they stunted technological innovation and embargoed trade with the rest of the world. He heard tales of great tournaments of single hand combat held in the past in order to take larger numbers of aspirants but at present they only took youths who were particularly successful at their rites of passage. The rites of this tribe involved retrieving an object from the den of a White Greater Bear.

In regards to orbital defense of the northern polar approach he was able to survey a fully operational lance array which he believed most closely matched a Mars XII pattern. He said it appeared well defended from the ground and in good order. He was limited in surveying the other site due to the slow mode of travel. (Dog sled?). He was believed captured in transit to a macro cannon battery by a tribe hostile to the Ursgatch. Unconfirmed reports state he was consumed after extensive torture. His psycho indoctrination and and hypnotic failsafes, along with the faith and loyalty of a true agent of the Throne undoubtably protected the operation from such crude measures. Armpit Ave Imperitor.

2. Agent Xi- Acolyte grade Throne agent. Recruited from Scholam St Cashis (endowed and founded by our master)

Agent Xi was commanded to infiltrate the villages that support the citadel hive known as Howler's Charn, believed to be the principal base of operations for the infamous Slayer of Multitudes, Lord Carrack. She was to survey the loyalty and readiness of these villages, believed to be a bellwether of the majority of the world's population. Once complete she was tasked with finding the most suitable approach to Howler's Charn and assay the exterior defenses of the citadel from ground level.

Agent Xi was, as usual, extraordinary successful in infiltrating the Tancorey Township. Embarrassingly so, she even was placed on some city council within her third week. She reports that the township and indeed most of the world exist as a feudal possession of Lord Carrack. His vassal in charge of the township, and other assorted domains was a Black Legionnaire named Vander. Vander is an absentee landlord who leaves day to day operations to local authority and only makes annual visits to collect the towns tribute of coal and wool. A tribute that leaves the residents destitute and famished but the town has not failed to meet in living memory. Orthodoxy to the dark gods is maintained by wandering preachers who call themselves Disciples of Lavam. (Believed to be Dark Apostle of Lord Carrack's warband in charge of his mortal cultists.). Sometimes these false disciples are accompanied by youth gangs from Howler's Charn who prey on those deemed unfaithful.

As to readiness she claims that the town is a miners town and it's people are miners but a rudimentary armory exist and during infrequent holidays and protracted maintenance of mining equipment the able bodied men conduct rudimentary militia training. The pastoral elements of the township are more apt to hunt on the side and engage in rustling that occasionally erupted into almost low level warfare.

The defenses of Howler's Charn are formidable. Agent Xi reports extensive wire and tank traps impede the approaches along with draw bridges, minefields, and something she reported as Daemotraps. These are covered by bunkers, patrols and aerial surveillance. The city itself is protected by a curtain wall of composited metals containing adamantine, as well as obvious void shield generators. Gun emplacements provide enfilading and plunging fire across every approach. Agent Xi observed ship to orbit traffic made with launches propelled by engines only capable of reaching a nearby orbital station. Her reports conclude that there is not any one approach that would prove more easy on an invading ground force.

3. Agent Delta- Inquisitor -redacted- recently promoted by - redacted-.

Agent Delta volunteered to infiltrate the citadel hive of Howler's Carn and survey the defenses. If possible he was to gather information on the strengths, movements, and goals of the vile Doom of Kasr Woolten, Lord Carrack. He was also equipped with a frequency emitter, that when activated would interfere with a void shield emitter and allow a brief moment of safe teleportation.

Agent Delta, posing as an envoy of a notorious rogue trader entered the city on the pretense of dealing with a xenotech process to dispose of dangerous radiation. He reported finding great difficulty in getting close to any corrupted Astartes or even any mortals of any significance within Lord Carrack's organization. He did make extensive contacts with the Zanazar Network who openly trade with Lord Carrack. ( reference z-delta II-XXI) After a week of shuffling from minor functionalities and being repeatedly steered to dealing with other third party traders who had a more established relationship with Lord Carrack, the true vetting of Agent Delta began. This was several days of interviewing by mortal servants of the Black Legion conducted in chief by a mutant who held the title of "chief inquisitor", Emperor damn these blasphemers. This week concluded with an interview by Legionnaire Copil. This Copil was irritated with having to conduct this interview and reportedly slapped Agent Delta across the mouth breaking his jaw and shattering his front teeth. Agent Delta, unwilling to put his health under the attentions of the heretics of Howler's Carn, self reports starting an intensive obscura addiction to deal with the injury. The following week Agent Delta is mind scanned by a hunched mutant chained to a psi amp. He reports the sorcery used by the mutant to be the most intense experience he ever experienced but survived with his cover intact largely due to the fuddled, fogged state he was in from excessive obscura.

I, however, doubt his passing of this examination because no further reports were received from Agent Delta other than a scrambled fragment with the name and designation of a Black Legionnaire

Paimun. Agent Delta's incomplete defensive overlay of Howler's Carn is included with this report, what is there is very detailed and will certainly be of use for operation - redacted- the location of the frequency emitter is noted under Delta Prime.

Addendum: The passage of bio signs consistent with Agent Delta were reported on - redacted- shortly before the incident occurred there.

 

Ps please consider this weeks entry "out of competition".

[Tenebris]

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

 

Greetings and welcome to Inspirational Friday. I hoped for more attendance with such a topic as a battle among space marines yet it was not the case. I have promised three rewards and three rewards will be given. 

 

Step forth Tipper, Warsmith Aznable and Carrack and claim your reward!

 

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

 

 

Inspirational Friday - 15/05/2015 - Cult Leader

 

Like many other Chaos organizations, most of the Chaos cults are based around a powerful and charismatic leader, the Cult Leader. 

 

This week I want you to write about your Cult Leader, how he created the Cult, how he gathered followers and how he ended in the employ of a powerful Chaos Lord. What are the motivations of his fall to Chaos, what is the nature of his Cult and how your Cult Leader plans to use his host of believers for his own agenda. 

 

Let us be inspired!

 

Tenebris

[Tipper]

I must respectfully decline the award, m'lord, I refuse to win by default. I would however encourage the others to take theirs', as they are richly deserved. I wish everyone luck in this next competition. Oya!

[Lord Pariah]

If that is the case, I call a vote in this court to extend the deadline for late entries for the IF battles prize, as i know that many schedules are filling on the run up to summer.

I also vote to have the new if run in tangent but has aspirants make it known to what prize they wish to gain... or even both.

[Carrack]

If that is the case, I call a vote in this court to extend the deadline for late entries for the IF battles prize, as i know that many schedules are filling on the run up to summer.

I also vote to have the new if run in tangent but has aspirants make it known to what prize they wish to gain... or even both.

I second this, with the caveat that we can further edit and refine our original submissions.

[Kierdale]

As we have had 'Interview with a Chaos Lord' and 'Interview with a Chaos Sorcerer' can we assume there will someday be '...with a Warpsmith' and '...with a Dark Apostle'? I ask as if the latter will be a future IF then I'll do another story for this week's Cult Leader.

[Tenebris]

I understand the predicament. Point is that I think that even if I extend the deadline there is little to no interest by the loyalist brethren. What I would do in the future would be a cross-challenge with the Liber for Chaos, be it a battle, a warband DIY or other things. In truth I am seeing that IF is loosing steam and what confuses me most is that I have put some really big topics in the past weeks which should generate interest, but they did not. Sincerely I know not how to proceed. 

[Kierdale]

You have a devotee in me. I've been abroad for three weeks and extremely busy back at work last week but I'll submit entries for the top a I missed in good time. :)

 

Could it be that members are busy at this time of year?

 

As for the loyalists, perhaps not many of them are familiar with IF and perhaps one week is too short for them to get to grips with the challenge? That's just me thinking aloud.

Change IF to a 2-week event?

[Tipper]

I understand the predicament. Point is that I think that even if I extend the deadline there is little to no interest by the loyalist brethren. What I would do in the future would be a cross-challenge with the Liber for Chaos, be it a battle, a warband DIY or other things. In truth I am seeing that IF is loosing steam and what confuses me most is that I have put some really big topics in the past weeks which should generate interest, but they did not. Sincerely I know not how to proceed.

 

We're here, and I find myself amongst truly great writers, who's level I aspire to attain someday. Who needs the loyalist scum anyway? What I assume happened is they read through the previous topic entrys and got scared off! You say the topics don't generate interest but the few entrys that are put up, I find to be incredible!

 

Honestly the handful of writers that IF draws, put out such tremendous work, that stopping would be a crime. Sometimes a topic does not speak to everyone, but the truely inspired work that I have found here rival many published authors that I have read. Which in turn inspires me, and isn't that the point? To inspire and be inspired?!

 

I am all for a dead line extension, and perhaps the awards being dropped to the original 1. I also like the idea of it being a 2 week event. Truth is Tenebris, if you proceed by simply continuing to run IF just as you have been, we'll keep showing up and writing our hearts out, and even if we are the only ones that do or even see it, isn't that enough?

 

Edit: I took the liberty of pulling a little treadromancy over on the other side, and issuing a challenge at the same time. If they don't show up now, we get permina "better writers then you" brag rights. ;)

[Warsmith Aznable]

Were the loyalists challenged directly in their own threads or just in the events subforum? Maybe the challenge didn't get seen by enough of them?

 

I like this ongoing thing here. It gives me both motivation and an "assignment." I will try to enter more in support of it (a lot of times I come up with a story idea but get too busy to write before the dead line.)

[MaliGn]

Perhaps in an analogue to gw itself the topics have become too big? I have certainly abstained from a few largely because my knowledge of the subject matter has been insufficient (knights, mechanics etc) I've preferred some of the more specific, but still open-ended challenges, both in terms of participating, but also in reading the results.

[Carrack]

If anyone is interested, I have managed to loosely tie several of my last submissions into a single story arc, and posted it in the fan fiction forum.

[Carrack]

The Beast of Boones

 

Disciple Ahm paused a moment to catch his breath as he crested the ridge overlooking the village of Boones. A squalid little hamlet of thatched huts and shag pens, but it would do. The village was unlit, save for a two story house and what must pass for a tavern, the only wooden buildings in the village. Ahm tucked his Howler 10 auto into his shag vest and made for the tavern. His sword hung from his hip for all to see.

 

When he opened the door, Ahm was greeted with surly stares and the smell of cheap wine. The last village had drunk hallucinogenic tea made from mushrooms that grew in shag dung, this village would be harder to convert. He took a place at the bar. After a while of being ignored by the barkeep, a burly man came and poked him in the shoulder with a heavy thud, his other hand resting on his shearing knife. He pointed to Ahm's sword and said, "We don't want trouble, or strangers here."

 

Ahm had grown up on the streets of Howler's Charn, a Black Legion port, it would take more than a curved knife and a big herder with shag dung on his boots to intimidate him. As he turned off his barstool, Ahm poked the herder in the Adam's apple with a light stiff-fingered jab, simultaneously drawing his sword. The big herder gasped for a moment, stunned, and by the time he had recovered he was looking down an arms length of sharp steel. Ahm announced to the tavern, "I come to Boones hunting the Beast of Dag, the beast that curdles your shags' milk, the beast that causes your ewes to stillborn, that has been making your children and grandparents sickly. I come to slay the source of the black magic killing your village!" Ahm used all of the oratory skills he learned under the tutelage of Lavam, the Dark Apostle of the Black Maw Warband, he started out quietly and slowly built to a crescendo, same with his gestures, he made eye contact with as many as he could, the effect was positive. The surly crowd was listening and intrigued. No doubt due to the hardships their village faced after Ahm secretly dropped a radioactive spent fuel rod upriver of Boones a few months early as he made his midnight landing on the agri-planet of Woolmark. Now that he had their attention Ahm asked, "What has the Baron-Supervisor done about the curse on your village?" There was mutterings and hoarse curses, but none in the tavern were at the point of speaking out against their ruler yet. "Well, I will have to ask him myself." Ahm said and confidently strode out the tavern toward the other wooden building, pausing to grab a brand to light the dark muddy streets. The villagers followed him at a discreet distance, curious to see the exchange, yet fearful of being associated with the stranger, if things went sour.

 

Ahm stopped at the hedge surrounding the two story building, and shouted out, "I have come to slay the Beast of Dag! Will you join me in my hunt Baron-Supervisor!" On cue, Ahm's mutant accomplice, Goden, leaned out a second story window baying like a lunatic and waving the tentacle that should have been his left arm. The villagers recoiled in horror. Ahm allowed the villagers a moment of shock, than with a cry of outrage, threw his burning brand into the house. It took little encouragement to get the villagers to throw their torches, and burn out their ruler. Meanwhile Goden slipped out the back door and ran for cover, leaving the baron-supervisor tied up in his bedroom. Ahm had made an important first step, he had gotten the villagers to act on his command, rebel against their authority, and commit an act of violence together. Ahm had created a bond with the villagers that would be important for the next, more difficult step.

 

The villagers quietly watched their ruler's house burn down to the coals, fearful of what repercussions would follow such an act. After a while a young boy holding a sickly shag lamb asked Ahm, "When will the curse on our town be lifted, we slew the beast, right?" Ahm quietly replied, knowing his voice would carry to the listening villagers, "No my child, the beast is slain and it will do no more evil, but the curse it has cast on this village can only be if the magic ritual is done in reverse." "Can you do that?" The boy asked. Ahm replied, "Yes, but I won't, the cost is too great." He then purposely strode to the bar and began seriously drinking the horrible wine, only after sticking himself with a antitoxin to counter the flood of alcohol he was guzzling. The villagers followed and watched the stranger. A debate started with the villagers, some were for trying to convince the stranger, others were for taking their plight up to the local parish, who might be lenient on a mob that had burnt their baron-supervisor as a mutant. Ahm took note of the leader of the latter faction, and discreetly called Goden on the vox wired into his jaw beneath his scraggly beard. Goden waited in the back alley until this figure went to relieve himself of the cheap wine, and strangled him, and concealed the body under some broken wine casks.

 

BFinally, the villagers came to Ahm in mass, and pleaded with him to reverse the curse. Ahm stayed reluctant at first, but eventually said he would do it. He said, " I will lead this ritual, but I am no black witch, I will need all of you to assist me or it will fail." Unhappily, the villagers agreed. Ahm stood up, faking a drunken stagger, and said, "That is not all, magic this black will require power in the form of a sacrifice, a human sacrifice. This is why I do not wish to do this." The villagers were distraught. If the "curse" continued their village would die, they required healthy shag to feed and clothe their families, and they were too ignorant to know any other way of life. Eventually a volunteer stepped up to Ahm, a sickly old woman whose hair and teeth were falling out. No doubt suffering from radiation poisoning. She would suffice.

 

Ahm made the ritual circle with salt mixed with small amounts of each of the villagers blood, bisected with ash from the burnt house. To the left he scratched out the Eight Pointed Chaos Star, and as he did nausea took hold of some of the villagers, but they kept following his chanting. Chanting made in Cthonian. Chanting renouncing the Emperor. Chanting calling on the Changer of Ways. Chanting binding their souls to Tzentch, and his disciples. When Ahm was sure that all present had said the required words, he drew his sword and slashed the sacrifice across the chest and abdomen 9 times. The villagers fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Screaming as their flesh warped, as faces migrated to bellies, as eyes sprouted from hands, as feet fused into talons and skin sprouted feathers. The burly one with the shearing knife resisted the most, crying out, "What have you done to us!" Ahm coldly replied, "I have freed you of your humanity, yet I have enslaved you to my coven. Never again will you see your reflection without cringing in fear, and never again will you lift a hand against me, your knew master." Then Ahm told his new coven, "Take up arms, we go to wage war with your neighbors," And it was so.

 

[Teetengee]

I have been pretty busy, and the battle seems like it would take much more to write well. However, I am still very much interested in this topic.

[Beachymike123]

I don't feel the IF is in trouble. I think as we head towards the summer months people will tend to be going out more or be busier with work. I can understand your frustration when you give your life and soul to a project and it seems to lose steam, but keep dark hope Tenebris. All great things experience down times but come back better and with a new lease of life. 

As an idea, why not have a monthly event that ties several IFs together? 

[Tenebris]

Inspirational Friday: Challenge the Traitors

 

I would not say that IF is in trouble but alas it seems that I have trouble keeping it interesting, or so it seems. The Liber Challenge is very popular and should I go for a similar monthly event I would be crushing the party down there, which is not my intention for I like and participate in the Liber events. 

 

To move it to a two week event achieves nothing that could not be done in one week. The interest is around the same with four posts max and here is the problem I am foreseeing. I wonder why a Liber challenge has all the forum writing and a much smaller event like Inspirational Friday does not. The topics are as good as those down there, plus I keep an open forum/feedback policy which truly allows for a greater interaction and participation for the frater.

 

In truth I know not what I am doing wrong save for not being a pro-imperial topic. In truth sometimes I think "why bother" but then I somehow pull it together. I simply wish more posts and activities and a greater participation. As it seems is that people can write about imperials and the Horus Heresy for days on end yet no one is interested in Chaos fanfiction save the few of us. It is getting ... strange, especially due to the time, free time, I invest in Inspirational Friday to keep it regular, interesting and a fixture of the Chaos community. 

[Kierdale]

As much a fixer as an Exalted Fecund cult leader, I present to you...

 

Brother Anansi

Clad in a voluminous robe of a deep purple streaked with silver thread in patterns like the web of an arachnid, Anansi -the most common of his myriad appellations- has ensnared a great many souls, each under the guise of aid. Businesses protected from the extortion of gangs, the hooligans mysteriously disappearing from the streets...donations given to keep shelters open for veterans, waifs and strays...a life saved by the timely delivery of a perfectly-matching organ...a spouse's lover eliminated...the most debauched fantasies fulfilled...nothing is beyond the power of brother Anansi. And often the needy needn't even seek him out, for Anansi -clad in that gargoylesque jade mask of his- appears upon their door as if in answer to their demands.

Yet never is his aid given freely. Never at the time of salvation but one day down the road a price must be paid.

That business might be called upon to store crates marked with fell symbols for a term...

The shelter give access to its charges, many leaving with Anansi and the people of his cult in the dark hours, never to be seen again...

A different organ demanded in payment...

Services requested lest past adultery and murder become uncovered...

And a great deal more favours stretching the very power and influence of those who once made their deals with brother Anansi.

All knew that they would eventually be called upon...but needs must...

And when the Arbites, the Imperial Judges, come calling for him he has already faded into the shadows, all that remains being strands and fragments of tattered lives.

[TDF]

Hidden Content

The suns were bright and the air was pleasantly cool as Luc Graelsen brought his horse into the inn's stableyard. He dismounted and stretched contentedly; the ride from the city had not been nearly as arduous as he had feared.

Luc tossed a coin to the stable boy and wandered over to the inn’s extensive veranda. He ordered a pint of the region’s famous pear cider – he had spent the last hour of his journey riding through the vast orchards – and took a table. Seven men were already there enjoying the evening air. Luc made eight, an auspicious circumstance indeed.

Halfway through his drink some of the other men invited him over to their table and Luc happily transferred. They discussed news from the city, the state of the main road and other meaningless topics. After a while Luc brought out his card deck and suggest a friendly game or two. He rifled through the pack to extract the only Major Arcana he possessed – the Star – and laid it one side. One of Luc’s companions stared at the card for a short time and then looked back to him. Luc smiled cheerfully and started dealing.

Two hours later the suns had set and the men began to drift away home. The man who had stared was the last to leave.

“Will you be staying at the inn?” he asked.

“I expect so,” Luc replied. “I won’t be turning in just yet though. I want to have a wander around the village. It’s a very clear night; I should have an excellent view of the stars. The problem with living in the city is there’s too much light. I never see half as many stars as this.”

The man nodded slowly. He brought his hands up to his chest to make the sign of the Aquila and then seemed to change his mind, tearing the two wings apart. He turned to leave.

Luc waited a minute or so and then left the inn himself. He could clearly see the man dawdling on his journey home. Keeping to the shadows, Luc followed the man as he wandered not into a house, but out of the village and into a barn. Luc crept in afterwards. The man was standing just inside. He nodded and silently left.

Over the next half hour two dozen men and women gathered in the barn. When the man returned and nodded to Luc, who was sitting on a bench at the far end of the room, Luc stood and drew out a dirty, leather bound pocket book from his breast pocket.

“Servants of the Eight-Pointed Star,” he said. “I bring you a new Word.”

[Tipper]

Lies

 

He lied, but that was alright. After all it gave them hope, a reason for their sad, dreary lives to continue. Right up until the end they would think that they we're moving up in the universe, that they would finally have made something out of themselves! It was time for his speech.

 

"People of Casadel, hear me! We... are but moments in time, our lives begun and ended as a gust of wind. Our live draining by, as an hourglass which is fixed to a table. Unworthy of the notice of the infinite! For what are we in the face of eternity? Our only hope is to affect the world in an indelible and far reaching way. To make them repeat our names for the rest of time! Even as our bodies return to dust. "What can I do?" you say. You may join me for this final ritual, to summon the emissaries of the dark ones! I can not do it alone, for our loudest screams are but whispers at the Chaos gods' feet. So we gather together that the dread lords might hear the faintest whisper of our praises. We who are, likened to them, less than an ant, might gather together to be a spot of dirt. Possibly worthy of their attention! However, our goal is not for the faint of heart. I have been spoken to! Have been shown such signs and wonders that my mind cried out for mercy! Indeed, I did go mad for a time, but now I am more than I once was, far more, and you can be too."

 

He had them now. It was so simple, like leading a pack animal around with a carrot on a stick. He had already drawn the runes that would open the portal, so he gathered Hus followers into concentric circles out from the Chaos star in the middle. He had them begin their chants. It was beautiful in its own sort of way, musical and yet discordant, like two songs being played over each other. At his signal everyone consumed the small cup that they held, draining its crimson contents in one quaff. Believing for all the world that it was the Blood god's blood. "If only they knew how silly that is," he thought to himself, "blood god's blood! Ha."

 

The portal opened and his heart leapt! He knew that theirs must also, this would push the poison even faster. As the first Marine stepped from the warp, the cultist died, seemingly in unison, to the great amusement of the Marine. Several more marines followed, including the long awaited Warlord, Nox, followed the first.

 

Nox came to stand before the cult leader, who knelt in the presence of his master. "As instructed, Lord. 499 corpses, without bodily harm. If I may be so bold, why the odd number?"

"I intend to add one more, of course." replied the Warlord.

Terrible realization, hit the man like a truck, "But, but I was to be spared! You said, I was to stand by your side during to coming apocalypse!"

As Astron slit the man's throat from behind he whispered in his ear, "He lied."

 

Tried to keep it shorter this week.

Oya!

[Carrack]

I liked my first story, but I don't think it quite captured the role of cultist on the battlefield, so I finished up a false start I had on this challenge. Please consider my first entry the official submission.

 

Battle of Ramhorn Valley, Woolmark Siliquastrum Sub-Sector

 

 

Kasaja leaned back against the cliff face, staring out over the sheer drop off that marked the opposite edge of the mountain path. He could still hear the screams of the shepherd falling to his death in the valley below. The screams would alert the enemy, but the echoes in the odd shaped valley would make it difficult to pinpoint Kasaja and his clan. Better an alarm than a witness. They continued up the path, pausing to shelter under an overhang as the slaves of the corpse god responded to the screams with some indiscriminate mortar fire. In between explosions, Sephri whispered to Kasaja, "I count one battery of three tubes, they're just going through the motions though." Kasaja nodded in agreement and thought to himself that Sephri has the wisdom to lead the clan, but they will never follow her until she kills a nonbeliever in hand to hand and offers up a trophy to the Lord of Skulls. Maybe there would be more idiot shepherds for her.

 

8 more hours of climbing up the mountain path and the whole clan was using their rebreathers, some had to chew Bo leaves as well to keep going. One had chewed too much and slipped off the edge, luckily his rebreather kept his cries muffled. The clan was down to 19. They weren't cut out for this, a street battle yes, infiltrating an underhive gang definitely, but lugging a pair of heavy stubbers up a mountain? Certainly not. However, when the Black Legion made port on the Daemon World of Vaaska and called out for the clans to raid the Domain of Lies, Kasaja and his ilk responded. As bad as the pain in his thighs and feet, not to mention his back, was, it beat life on Vaaska any day. Their was the prospect of booty too. But most importantly, the Gods gifted the slayers of the most hated foes, before all others. Even if they all slipped to their deaths down this cursed mountain, they would die taking the fight to the Corpse God, and earn a place in the halls of the gods. Or so they believed.

 

As they reached the peak of the mountain, the clan paused and sent Sephri to scout the reverse slope. She crawled like a snake up to the crest and slithered back to report that their were 11 imperials, including 3 more mortar teams, an autocannon team, a voxman, a sniper and an officer. They were all facing down the mountain, and Kasaja could hear them firing into the battle taking place in the valley below. The whole clan was chewing Bo leaves now. They checked their pistols and unsheathed their blades and truncheons.

 

With a cry to the gods they charged. They outnumbered the Imperials, but the Imperials were better equipped, with good helmets and armored vests. Kasaja and the Imperial officer squared off, the officer's helm turning Kasaja's saber, but not the backswing slash below the belt, nor the auto pistol fired point blank into the Imperial's face. In return, the officer landed a glancing cut with his chainsword that took meat off of Kasaja's shoulder. Miraculously the officer's return shot with his laspistol struck Kasaja's heavy 8 pointed star medallion, and didn't hole his chest. The Imperials were dead to a man, many thrown down the mountain with their weapons, and Kasaja's clan was down to 11. The clan mounted their stubbers and began firing into the Imperial lines below. Sephri, still without a personal kill, picked up the enemy vox unit and began speaking over every transmission that came over the net, disrupting their communications.

 

Before they got into the second belts of their stubbers, artillery rounds began bracketing their position. The 8th round was a direct hit. Kasaja and his clan were blown to pieces.

 

[Zhaharek]

(My entry this week is rather long, detailing a Slaaneshi blade cult. Enjoy.)

 

 

27 Silver Edges

 

Lighting flashed as High Priest Valentin De Rouchelle stood, at the altar, within the White Cathedral. Halthan VII’s low moon shone through the stained glass windows, silver light filtered through as blue by the murals upon those windows. Long slits of that blue slid across Valentin, illuminating him. The rain that slurred onto the windows distorted these ribbons of light. The light felt... good again this flesh. The altar before him was vast, and it was dominated by The Emperor himself, cast in white marble, flanked by two Space Marines, of the same marble manufacture. Their eyes were rubies. Not only that, but they were life size. Valentin always felt small when nearby, and oh, did it bother him. He knew he couldn’t focus on that now though. He turned, his cloak drifting about him. The cathedral was ventilated, and chill whispers of air punched in at moments. He pushed back a tendril of flawlessly black hair, slicking it all back with one hand. Rich green eyes, set below a high brow, in a porcelain pale face, surveyed the congregation. At least a few thousand, perhaps even half a million men and women sat, in the endless sprawl of pews. The horror of The Silver Edge, the cult, had driven them here. Yet, this place of worship could house so many more. Such was the grandeur of The White Cathedral.

 

All 26 of his Disciples stood in attendance at the edges of the pews, shrouded in black, all of their bodies hidden. There was no hiding the masculinity or femininity of some though. Not that the shrouds were immodest, they were all-enclosing, yet the proportions of the wearers simply denied modesty innately. They were still, aside from the slight movement of their heads, as they watched those in the pews. Valentin breathed deep, and looked up. The White Cathedral was as tall as it was wide, which meant that it was truly enormous. Filling the domed, far, far, far above ceiling was the Pale Crusade. An entire Imperial Fleet formed of white marble, set sail across stained glass stars. The pride of Halthan VII, a white fleet.

 

Valentin gestured, only slightly, a deft and polite turn of his wrist, a slow pan of his arm at waist level. It was enough to bow the heads of the thousands. They began to pray, enough of them whispering to form one voice, a hushed giant. Valentin and his Disciples joined them, bowing their heads and intoning. In the gestalt tones of the worshippers, one could hear the prayer:

“Love the Emperor

For He is the salvation of mankind

Obey His words

For He will lead you into the light of the future

Heed his wisdom ​

For He will protect you from evil

Whisper his prayers with devotion,

For they will save your soul

Honour His servants,

For they speak in His voice

Tremble before His majesty,

For we all walk in His immortal shadow.”

When it was done, the people began to dissipate, leaving in small groups, through the towering doors that the Disciples had thrown open. They left, shielding themselves against the brutal rain, as the elements battered them. The wind howled into the cathedral, driving Valentin’s cloak into madness, rippling about his body in utter abandon. The gale had much the same effect on his Disciples, their shrouds exploding around them. As each of the worshippers left, the space within the cathedral became emptier, and emptier, until all that remained were Valentin and his Disciples, clad in wind-blown black.

The Disciples at the doors began to close the yawning aperture, and then stopped. Valentin had heard it too.

“High Priest! High Priest!” The tinny voice of the Planetary Governor was carried in on the wind. The Disciples at the door swung the doors open once more. His tone was of high import, and a degree of fear, but the sound of Governor Noisson’s voice was not what interested Valentin. What interested him was the sound of immense footsteps, on the wet, cobbled stairs outside.

Valentin noticed, after the titanic footsteps, the low, tooth aching hum that accompanied them. Then the stink of weapon oil, blood and sweat that, somehow, the iron tang of rain could not mask. Finally, the silhouette stood in the door way, so much taller than any mortal man. Lightning struck, throwing its long shadow across the entire span of the cathedral, till the shade of a helmed head met the ever-shifting brim of his cloak.

 

The Astartes began to stride into the cathedral. His armour was as white as the marble floor upon which it walked, and that pristine white was trimmed in deep, tarnished gold. The tarnish bothered Valentin. The armour gave little in the way of ornamentation, bedecked not with scrolls of devotion to the giant’s god, or trophies of victories past. This also bothered Valentin. The Astartes strode through the pew aisle until he stood directly before Valentin, looking past the priest, at the marble statues that resembled him, and his grand-sire. Valentin heard him whisper, almost inaudibly, “We never asked for this,” and stared at the Marine.

 

Governor Noisson called out from across the other side of the cathedral, almost drowned out by the storm, “This is Sergeant Archturous, the leader of the squad that has promised to help, to help,” the Governor fumbled over the simplest of words, “to help rid us of this... Silver Edge Cult”.

Valentin looked at Archturous, this Angel of Death sent to ‘help’. Valentin almost shrugged. Instead, he stepped slightly closer to the living tower, and introduced himself, full title and name. Sergeant Archturous failed to notice him, merely continued staring at his marble likeness. Valentin pursed his lips and internally sighed, then tried a different tactic: “I heard that one of your noble squad was lost in the lower habs recently. I give you my condolences... my lord.” The Sergeant was still unresponsive. Valentin raised his voice, “I heard-

“Yes, I’m sure you did.” The boom of the Marine’s voice echoed through the huge space, clear as a bell. “Hear, that is.” The titan slowly turned, and looked at Valentin. As loud as any other Astartes, he thought. Archturous spoke again, “Have you ever met an Astartes before, High Priest Rouchelle?” “No I can’t say I have,” lied Valentin. The Astartes inhaled deeply, causing a stutter of feedback from his helm. “I would like to ask you to... lessen the public awareness of the Silver Edge. Cult’s such as these, they feed on the peoples fear, weakening the populace like a vile cancer, from the inside out,” he said in a very matter of fact way. Valentin nodded slowly, as if contemplating it. “I can do that.” Archturous turned, and left, striding beneath the shadow of the Pale Crusade, and back into the storm. Governor Noisson looked at Valentin as if to say something, met a piercing gaze, and followed the Space Marine. The doors slammed shut. The Astartes hadn’t seemed to of noticed the fact that the Disciples had all been slowly walking forward, to surround him while he spoke to the High Priest.

Valentin looked as his Disciples for a few moments, before turning on his heel, cloak fanning behind him.

 

****************

 

Valentin ran through his passageway into the bowels of the cathedral, desperate and fast. He struggled out of his robes like a drowning man for air, limbs pulling, flying everywhere. Kicked open the door at the end of the passage, panting, chest heaving. The priest tumbled into his private quarters, a decadent place. He scrambled, hand over clawed hand, to the mirror by his bed. Stood, tying a charm around his throat. It was tipped with a silver circle, one that was split by a sickle ended line. He snapped the chord tight. He looked up, and saw a pale, lean man. Whipcord muscles over sharp bones. The man was unhealthy pale, as if he were made from the same marble as the cathedral. There was livid cut on his lower stomach. His eyes were green, and human, but if one looked they’d notice the size of his pupils. The herald of mutation. The man stepped forward, and put his hand up to meet Valentin’s. Valentin returned the gesture, stepping forward, until their hands touched, and he was face to face with his reflection. He left, to don his armour.

His reflection didn’t. It smiled, and its gums were black.

 

Minutes later, Valentin walked through another passageway, black armour fitted snugly around him. He sighed, happy to be out of the church of The False Emperor. He was a false priest too, an irony that wasn’t lost on him. His ears pricked up, someone behind him. He swivelled. Valentin was confronted by Aliavia Lechair, his 5th Disciple, and his favourite, among other things. She was out of her shroud, and in her armour, grey, and of a geometric design. The hard lines of the all encompassing armour accentuated her curves, somehow. Valentin put it down to the gifts of the Dark Prince. She strode up to him, and he turned and carried on walking, he was in a hurry. She caught up easily. “Still got that cut from last night?” she asked, voice echoing in the passage. Valentin grinned, “Well, I haven’t been gifted with regeneration just yet, so yes.” She chuckled from beside him. With a short spur of speed, she overtook him, standing in his path. He proceeded until he was obscenely close to her, the more outward plates of their armour scraping slightly against each other. “I have a separate tunnel for a reason,” he said, lifting an eyebrow. Aliavia ignored him, drawing even closer, until he could actually taste the warp-dust on her breath, she’d probably taken it the moment she had reached her quarters. “These... Angels of Death.” She said, in the most hushed tones, “tell me, you’ve fought one before: What’s it like to kill one?” Valentin smiled, kissed her, and pointed to the door at the end of the passage. “Let’s go find out.”

 

The sounds of sword against sword were already ringing as Valentin stepped through the door, onto his balcony. This was his true church, in which he was a god, second only to Slaanesh. This hall, meagre by comparison to the cathedral, where the Silver Edge drew over closer and closer to mastering the sword, was where he ruled. The hall was adorned, on every wall, with jewels and murals of demons. In the centre of the floor, surrounded by duelling Disciples, was a chained adamantium cylinder. Valentin De Rouchelle, the Bleeding Edge, was his name. Not... High Priest. An imperial priest, who lives a double life as the master of a decadent blade cult, how am I pulling this off, thought Valentin.

 

Aliavia peeled away from him, vaulted the balcony, and landed, with a thud below. Valentin came forward, and retrieved his sword. It was sheathed in the throat of a kneeling corpse, which had once been Valentin’s 27th Disciple. The fool had allowed himself to be wounded, imperfectly, a ragged unclean cut. So, as not to hold the rest of his Disciples back, Valentin had found a new sword holder. After all, was it not Fulgrim himself who had once discovered that perfection was not achieved when there was nothing left to add, but nothing left to remove?

Valentin cleaned the blood off of his sword and held the needle slender blade aloft. His Disciples paused their duels and did the same, all mimicking his act, leering in anticipation. He began his speech: “So, you all bore witness to what I was just forced to endure. The False Emperor sends his crass angels, to stomp us out like insects.” Valentin spoke, there was an unholy racket form the chained cylinder, yet, heedless, he continued, stepping up on the edge of the balcony: “They claim we are a cancer. A plague, like all the other cults. Of course they do.” The Disciples smiled, as Valentin said, “The unwashed have always thought such of their betters.”

 

He jumped, landing before the cylinder, which was becoming noisier by the second. “Open it,” he commanded the Disciples on either side. As it began to creak open, the Silver Edge, for the first time in years activated the power fields of their blades, and lighting struck overhead. “The gods are watching,” muttered Aliavia.

 

“Your gods are false,” a wounded, booming voice echoed form the cylinder, clear as a bell. Valentin sighed, saluting with his sword, “I could say the same to you”, returned the leader of The Silver Edge.

The Astartes roared, and managed to make it five steps, on already wounded legs, before 27 silver edges flashed.