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Unless he wants to try and take over the impirium itself?

 jhe90 wrote:
Unless he wants to try and take over the impirium itself?

Most likely.

Just caught up, great stuff as ever!

Is the Fabricator's General's dialogue pattern an homage to the HK droids in Knights of the Old Republic, or is that just coincidence?

 Paradigm wrote:
Just caught up, great stuff as ever!

Is the Fabricator's General's dialogue pattern an homage to the HK droids in Knights of the Old Republic, or is that just coincidence?

I was thinking more of the Juggernauts during the droid wars, controlled by the HK, but sure. This actually is a very good comparison. However, I thought that the HK was the one behind the (failed) Droid Revolution!

A splash of pain and panic shot through the noospheric cloud that surrounded the great golden forge, staining the crystalline blues and pale greens of the unseen thought-form an angry, buzzing red. It billowed like heavy blood through clear waters, edging the information within with a heady bloodlust, data-packets and slivers of informational geometry twisting and blurring in the red glaze and preying upon one another in a frenzy of digital corruption. Jermiah winced at the sudden gash in the forge’s great informational cloud, and knew that the worst had occurred, the terrible eventuality he had prepared for was here. He steeled himself, drawing two elegant ebony-coloured tesla pistols from the folds of his robes. With a spurt of binaric cant to the figures gathered behind him, he pointed both pistols toward the grand golden portal. One of the figures stepped forward raising the blocky firearm gripped in his metallic grasp, and a sharp whine filled the chamber. The smell of ozone and the feel of static strings pulling on the air around them overwhelmed the artificial senses of the gathered figures before a light capable of blinding the unwary enveloped the golden portal with a staggering release of sound and pressure.

The Chamber Door exploded inward with a resounding, dull thump and the Fabricator released his bleeding victim as he turned to face whatever enemy approached. His talons were stained with human viscera and gold-tinted unguents and lubricants, and his maddened skeletal visage stared down the intruders into his schemes. Through the smouldering wreckage of the grand portal came a maniple of Skitarii Guard, dressed in regal blues and hints of gold. They fanned into the room, seven in number, led by the now armed figure of the Huscarl of Ultima. The Huscarl hesitated at the sight of his mistress lying upon the floor, her right arm torn from her and cast across the room, precious liquids fountaining from her wounds upon the black floor, glistening beetle black in the golden light. Her head moved slowly to face Jermiah, and in a pained roar of surprising strength shouted one command:

“Stop him! Stop him now!”

The blue-robed Skitarii Guard of Ultima Forge needed no further impetus, raising their arcane and techno-sorcerous weapons at the hulking figure of the Master of Mars. Although most Skitarii served their Martian Overlords via a series of impeding-firewalls and commanding protocols, much of Ultima’s warrior legions served through loyalty, their love for the Forge and its masters trumping any artificial beliefs. Their weapons cracked and whined, blue and yellow tracers filling the air like maddened insects, streaming from their weapons into the monstrous red figure standing over their mistress. Jermiah was jolted from his reverie, and with a shout most unbecoming of a Huscarl of the Mechanicum opened fire alongside his fellows. His pistols spat like furious vipers, bolts of blue energy crackling with lethal potential ripping the air around them as they bore down upon the Fabricator-General.

A bright green haze flared as the fusillade struck the robed monster, the energy of the combined firepower detonating against heavy, magnetic shielding. Energy of the type usually harnessed by titans and starships burned furiously into life around the huge figure of the Fabricator, and he screamed a shrill cackle as the Skitarii’s firepower bled outward leaving him unharmed. Contrails of steaming static laced his form as he took a leaden step forward, his faceplate resealing with a steam-driven clank in the face of a new enemy. He croaked in static-laden hysteria at the armed guard around him, his every movement and gesture dripping with binary fury.

[QUERY] You insects attack us? You dare stand against the will of Mars?
[THREAT] WE ARE MARS! YOU CANNOT STAND AGAINST US!

He marched forward, his stuttering claws gripped into rictus, spiteful weapons. His robes shifted and tore as his body changed and realigned beneath, and with a whine of strained metal two new pairs of limbs spasmed from within him. The first set rose above his broadened shoulders like skeletal wings, their metallic crooked length terminating in a pair of gruesome, charged scythes. They shimmered in a heat haze, the stink of ozone and mechanical precision surrounding them as they activated. The lower arms slid forward from underneath his claws like slithering reptiles clothed in synthetic scale, each sinuous limb ending in a deadly and baroque laser weapon, pointed and inscribed with bitter calculations and circuitry. A ghastly, yellow light surrounded the tips of the weapons and they vomited great beams of kinetic energy, physically rending two Skitarii guard into molecular gore. The remaining Skitarii identified the danger immediately, and began to fan out across the chamber, trading withering fire with the Fabricator. Each shot from the Skitarii flared against the Master of Mars’ shield, casting lunatic light and colour across the hallowed chamber, filling the air with sparks and the crack of unbridled electric energy. The vicious yellow streaks roaring from the Fabricators weapons pitched targets off their feet, severing the molecular bonds that held them together in a pyroclasmic display of technological horror. Where he missed his mark, the sickening beams of jaundice yellow left sizzling craters and scars in the Forge’s golden walls, and liquefied metal and matter ran from them in imitation of the gory wounds suffered by its defenders.

Jermiah circled the chaotic battle, his pistols glowing red from the constant discharge. He saw the House Guard, individuals he had served alongside for decades buckle and fall before the colossal fury of the Fabricator-General. Many lay in dissected heaps, their bodies rent apart in a random and unlovely manner, wounds cauterised and bodies utterly broken. Gorhor-Mal, the bearer of the maniples Breaching Laser fired his heavy weapon, its distinctive shriek and white light enveloping the massive form bearing down upon him. Again the Fabricator’s shields took the punishment, kaleidoscope light and fury surrounding him like an ungodly aura, and he slashed his mantis arms down onto the embattled Skitarii. Both blades pierced through Gorhor-Mal’s head and speared roughly through his neck into the meat and metal of his body. The warrior’s hand spasmed and his weapon fired again involuntarily, casting smoke and fire into the ground, blinding and deafening all around him in his death throes. From the smoking crater stalked the shadowy Fabricator, looking akin to a spectre of ancient death come from the terrible void to swallow the light. His visor drank in the debilitated Guard around him and squawked electronically in victory.

Jermiah slid across the floor, partly falling, partly running and crouched over his Mistress. Young Lakshmi had suffered terribly at the hands of Mars’ Master, her right arm torn messily from her body. Sparks, wires and gore filled the ugly wound, and her body’s internal mechanisms worked furiously to repair such grievous hurt. Jermiah reached for her, wrapping his arms protectively around her, almost maternal in his care. She sucked in a sharp breath, and Jermiah was astonished that she had not lost consciousness yet. She looked at him with furious, tear-stained eyes and through gritted teeth spoke in agony:

“We are betrayed Jermiah. Such rank betrayal. We must live! We must live to bring word of this betrayal…he cannot win…”

Jermiah nodded as he laced her left arm over his shoulders, lifting her alongside him. His weapons lay on the floor, no use in this battle anymore. Lakshmi’s blood pooled around the weapons and ran freely down her robes, the sheer volume astonishing in its immensity. Jermiah clamped one of his hands onto the wound, trying to stem the bleeding as best he could. He saw the last of the Skitarii stand before the cloaked behemoth. It was the Alpha of the Maniple, a noble and dedicated warrior by the name of Sig-Ro, his weapon spent and discarded. Yet he faced the Fabricator head on, swathed in glorious blue and silver, and armed with a long, heavy gravity-maul and a sparking energy-buckler. He bellowed a challenge to the Fabricator and brought his weapon down in a staggering assault. Any other creature would have died immediately upon impact, the monstrous power of inverse-gravitation motors exerting the power of a stars gravitational field onto a single point. The blow would have caved in the armour and bodies of the universes hardiest and toughest foes. The fury that fuelled it could have felled Gods and Daemons if need be, a righteous comet of the Emperor’s glorious light.

The Fabricator-General, skilled beyond all others in the ways of the darkest technologies, screeched a binaric roar of the darkest equations and fallacies, his vast, darkened mind accessing the bodily controls of his opponent on a systematic level. And with no more than the flick of an internal switch, Sig-Ro detonated coating the Fabricator in steaming gore and shrapnel. Gobbets of wet meat and burning metal pattered across the room as rain, and a monstrous starburst of red streaked the floor from where the former Alpha had stood. Satisfied with his gory work, the Fabricator turned to the cowering form of Jermiah and his mistress, and spoke gratingly in mockery.

[QUERY] Is that truly the best you can do?
[STATEMENT] Your wretched house should have been neutered and culled long ago. This truly a glorious day in the annals of Mars
[SUB-STATEMENT] The stain of your Father’s Heresy will finally be expunged from my world

Lakshmi hissed in agonised anger, and gripped Jermiah’s shoulder painfully. She tried to speak, to give voice to the rage within her, but her body sapped her energy from her, furiously attempting to mend the damage she had suffered. Blood ran softly from the corner of her mouth, mimicking the wounds on her side. She let out a shuddering breath and closed her eyes tight, not allowing the Fabricator to see her fury and fear. Jermiah nodded to himself, seemingly in defeat. He closed his eyes, and once again opened his mind to the surrounding noosphere. His thoughts formed concepts and queries in the ethereal soup of information, and he once again found the mind he had sought before.

Have you seen enough?

The noosphere crackled and flowed for nanoseconds that seemed like millennia, before a root-form coalesced in his mind, a reassuring baritone that reached into his thoughts and soothed his soul.

We have seen enough Jermiah Sol Miah. Stand by.

A shadow enveloped the room, the sunlight pouring through the grand stained glass windows suddenly blotted out by a monstrous shape outside. The Fabricator halted in his predatory advance, and turned slowly on the spot, his visor rising sharply. Time seemed to stand still as the colossal shadow stood motionless for several seconds.

Jermiah gripped Lakshmi and covered her eyes.

The Fabricators optics whined in focus at the form outside.

With the sounds of collapsing stars the grand stained glass windows exploded inward as a furious beam of chained plasma bellowed into the room and enveloped the Fabricator. He stood with his hands raised defensively for several seconds before his shielding collapsed with an audible crack. His robes smouldered and burned from the massive discharge and before he could react a second beam smashed into his form, its white fury smothering him completely. With a resounding scream of melting metal and polymers the burning body of the Fabricator smashed into the ground, his lower body and side completely melted and rent asunder. A crackling static escaped his throat as his body struggled to cope with the heinous injuries.

With a sharp groan of bending steel and glass, the windows completely caved as the bearer of the weapon entered the vast room. Armoured in glorious blue and silver ceramite, and trailing banners of noble countenance came a Knight Esquire of the House of Auron, allies and vassals of Ultima Forge. It towered above the inhabitants of the room, its thick insect hull coated in sparking energy, and its smoking right fist housing the plasma-annihilator that it had smote the Fabricator with. In its left it wielded a monstrous sabre, easily the height of the Knight itself, its length scratched and marked by decades of war. An ivory filigree of the Golden Throne wrapped in blessed thorns and roses trailed across the blade, and it hummed with barely contained power.

Legs like mighty pistons bore aloft an iron body wrought for war, curved armour plating covering every inch in ocean blue and twinkling silver. Its mighty treads resounded on the grand floors, leaving fractures were it walked, and tapered oath papers drifted lightly with its motion, each one inscribed with a list of noble deeds undertaken by the engine and its rider. The head of the knight had been fashioned into a silvered horse head, the eyes a twinkling emerald and its musculature carved with delicate care. The open mouth contained a heavy grill, giving the impression that the horse was gritting its teeth in rage.

It was a truly mighty steed.

Raising its arms and head, the Knight boomed a warhorn of victory, causing Jermiah and Lakshmi to wince. Beyond the window two of its kin could be seen, standing guard at the forge, and the sounds of gunfire and warhorns could be heard in the distance. The Knights of House Auron had ridden out at the request of Jermiah, and were now putting the Fabricator’s bodyguard and envoys to the flame. Jermiah smiled wearily as the knight stood before him, its external vox-ports crackling into life. The voice was deep and learned.

“We recognise you Jermiah, in the eyes of the Emperor. You did not lie”

Jermiah nodded wearily as he responded, his voice sounding decades older than it had before.

“Indeed I did not, Sir Roderick. I am grateful for your aid. Any later and myself and my mistress would have gone into the great night”

The great, equine head of the Knight nodded in response, and then turned as a rattling cough escaped the charred body of the Fabricator-General. Lakshmi gestured for Jeremiah to approach, and acting as a crutch he led Lakshmi to the smoking ruin of Mars’ Master. Sir Roderick hovered menacingly behind, his great weapons aimed low and ready.

The body of the Fabricator was blackened and charred, and stank of cooked, rancid meat and blistered ozone. His frame was twisted and shattered, his legs completely severed and his myriad limbs broken beyond use. Pools of boiling liquid seeped from his wounds and pooled beneath him, forming a portal of viscera to bear him to the next world. His faceplate had melted and warped completely, leaving his madly staring skull bare. It was cracked and brittle, and only his monstrous eyes were recognisable amongst the ruin that was his head. They bore madly into the approaching form of Lakshmi and Jermiah, and a rattling hiss escaped his voice box. Lakshmi’s brow furrowed in anger as she realised once again that he was laughing at them. Her voice trembled in fury.

“You have failed Shaiaal. Our house still stands strong in the light of the Throne. Your machinations are at an end”

A runnel of phlegmy gore dribbled from the gaping maw of the Fabricator’s skull, and in a croak that was as much static as voice, his words crawled from his body like a diseased rat.

“There…is…no…throne, Lakshmi of House Istavael…not any…anymore”

Lakshmi lowered herself with the aid of Jermiah into a crouch, the anger in her heart chasing away any pain her body might be experiencing. She drew her face close to Shaiaal’s skull and hissed through her teeth.

“You are wrong, Fabricator-General” the title was thick with sarcasm and disgust as she spoke it, “As long as Mars stands strong in the light, the throne will never diminish”

Another wracked cough of laughter, and more seeping corruption slid from the ruin of the Fabricator’s face.

“You mewling wretch…do you not realise…”

With a scrape of steel and slow, painful effort, the Fabricator-General brought his bloodied, broken skull upward to face his enemy.

“I…AM…MARS!”

With a sudden wrenching of metal and muscle that caused both Lakshmi and Jermiah to fall backward onto the floor, the neck and upper body of the broken Fabricator tore open like a blood-drenched clam. His skull and spine, slick with gore and dank lubricants burst like a juddering new-born from his wasted body upon a host of thin, mechanical insect limbs. The maddened skull jittered in the bloody ruin of its own discarded body as it became attuned to its new form, and with a screech that was part animal-cry and human hatred, scuttled toward the broken windows with a speed beyond any natural creature, its trailing spine sliding across the floor, leaving a crimson path of viscera and wires in its wake. Before anyone could react or stop it, the skull had vanished out the window and into the dusty desert of Mars, a keening wail fading in its wake.

The strain was too much for Lakshmi, and darkness threatened to overwhelm her. Jermiah was immediately by her side, holding her hand in his and a look of fatherly concern on his brow. Tears came to her eyes as she told him of what transpired on Terra with the Emperor and her Father, and how the Fabricator had turned on the Throne. Before Jermiah could allow the news to overwhelm him, Lakshmi spoke with strength and authority despite her wounds.

“We must get the word out Jermiah, people must know. Transmit what has happened through every server, every connection, and every link on Mars. We must tell the people of the Fabricator’s perfidy. We must let people know there is still hope”

Jermiah looked at his mistress, now his sole leader, and in a shuddering voice responded.

“My Lady, the Fabricator will expect that. He will lock us down as soon as he can.”

“I know, but he cannot be everywhere. He cannot stop everything. We must let the people know. We must tell them to spread the word. He cannot stop us, he cannot stop Mars”

Jermiah nodded his understanding, and as his Lady slipped into unconsciousness he asked one more question.

“And what of Terra my Lady? Should we warn them?”

As blackness took her, Lakshmi uttered one last thing before her body finally surrounded to healing darkness
.
“Terra cannot be our concern right now. From herein, Mars is at war with itself. Terra is alone, as are we..."

Oh my god... Oh my god... Oh my god!!! This is easily the best chapter in the series. Wow! This is truly amazing!

lliu wrote:
Oh my god... Oh my god... Oh my god!!! This is easily the best chapter in the series. Wow! This is truly amazing!

Glad you're enjoying it dude

Excuse me whilst I find which galexy my jaw dropped into :-)

Most excellent as always, worth the wait!

That... was one the most disturbing methods of escape I have ever read.

Creative way, I've never seen a escape plan like that.

Awesome! Just awesome!

The light in the chamber was low, a dim haze of pale yellow that barely illuminated the cluttered surroundings, a single lumen globe struggling to bring light to the heavy, sodden darkness. The sole occupant of the chamber sat at a heavy, book laden desk, his hands steepled before his face in contemplation. His hair was long and unkempt, dark but going increasingly grey in the last weeks and hung messily to his broad shoulders. His face was unshaven, a usually sharp and groomed goatee appearing wild and bristled, giving the occupant the image of some homeless vagrant. His eyes were red and dark-rimmed from too many sleepless nights and the pressures that maintaining a lie as gross the Emperor’s continued survival. His rosette sat discarded across the table, and his robes of office lay crumpled on the corner of the chamber. Wearing a simple grey tabard and body glove, the Inquisitorial Representative of the High Lords of Terra hardly cut his usually imposing figure. He appeared tired and worn.

He lowered his hands and sighed deeply, reaching across the dimly-lit desk. The leather of the opulent chair creaked as he lent gently forward and keyed several buttons upon a keypad built into the elegant wood. A gentle hum filled the chamber as internal mechanics activated and brought subtle hidden systems into effect.

The High Lord rested back in his chair and closed his eyes as delicate beams of crystal light shone from the ceiling of the chamber onto his face. Every line and wrinkle of his face was scanned and saved, and in several locations millions of miles away his visage was being constructed in hard light and holograms before his colleagues. At the same time, a similar process was playing out back into his chamber, and several large projectors built into the walls casted crystal blue constructs before him. Three figures stood before him, hazing and blurring slightly as they moved, and each bowed at the figure in the room. It was rare these days for the full panalopy of The High Lords to meet, and these small gatherings were more common in the busy days.

He returned the gesture with a shallow nod and greeted his guests with a weary smile:

“Greetings my Lords, is it that time again? We must stop meeting under these circumstances”

There was indulgent, quiet laughter from two of the figures, whilst one shuffled uncomfortably under the forced levity, and it spoke in a rasping gasp to refocus the groups attention.

[STATEMENT] We bring news from the Red Sands, and it is not good.

The High Lord gazed wearily at the image of the Fabricator-General, or the creature claiming to be the Fabricator. It was thin and wasted, not like the hulking robed figure that the shrill voice usually emanated from. It's body was rank with welts, and several surgical lines crisscrosses the body. The head was an enclosed iron cage through which the slightest hint of wild staring eyes behind the grilled visor, and filthy cables and lubricant spurting piping covered it from head to toe. The High Lord of the Inquisition acknowledged the Fabricator.

“Is that you Shaiaal? I hardly recognised you…have you lost weight? Done something with your hair?”

There was sly sniggering from the gathered lords, and the Fabricator again spoke with total seriousness.

[RESPONSE] No, we do not have hair.
[EXPLANATION] events have conspired against us, and we were forced to abandon our old form. We were betrayed by House Istavael.

The holographic form to the right of the Fabricator stiffened, and clicked her thin, metallic talons in annoyance.

“Istavael? The priest who fled Terra? I thought you were silencing her? Is she still alive?”

The Fabricator turned to the High Mistress of the Assassanorium, and nodded in response.

[CONFIRMATION] she yet lives. The power of her house was greater than expected. She and her servants almost killed us.

The Inquisitor-Lord frowned, and his tone changed to one of annoyance.

“She lives? You assured us that she would die. The knowledge she holds could unmake everything we have struggled to maintain here?”

The Fabricator bristled at his colleagues tone.

[REBUKE] do not use that tone with us, Inquisitor Sandor. Events were beyond our control. Her list of allies was wider and stronger than we had known.

Inquisitor Sandor sighed deeply and rubbed the ridge of his nose between his fingers in frustration. Through the great plan, HIS great plan, the silence of the emperor’s demise had been almost total. The unexpected silencing of the warp around the segmentum had also slowed communication to a crawl, making the task of maintaining control that much easier. The only loose end had been the Magos’ daughter and the Fabricator’s failure to bring her to heel added another task to the long list of keeping the so-called New Peace. He looked to the Mistress of Assassins and nodded.

“Mistress Kheena, I bid you aid our Mechanicum brother with his loose end. Have your contacts on Mars aid his forces. The loose ends must be severed. Understand”

The High Lord of Assassins nodded, her impassive silver mask reeking of malice. Her voice could not hide her grim smile.

“With pleasure Sandor, I will leave upon the morn”

The projection of the High Mistress faded into nothingness with a electronic hiss, leaving only three in the room. The Inquisitor redirected his attention to the Fabricator.

“Shaiaal, I will be blocking all communication from the Red Planet until you get your affairs in order…get out my sight”

With a sharp gesture he cancelled out the Fabricator’s image before it could draw any more argument. Rubbing his temples, Sandor sat in aggravated silence for several minutes. The one remaining projection stood in respectful silence until the Inquisitor looked up once more. When he spoke again, the wiriness was at its most obvious.

“Father Ba’lon, please bring me some good news. Any more grim tiding and I swear I may drown in them”

Father Ba’lon, High Priest of the Ministorum and High Lord of the Emperor’s Church, bowed low and spoke in a hushed, aged whisper. Sandor could swear that he heard the old priests bones creaking as he moved although he was not physically present.

“I bring…interesting tidings, my Lord. There has been a development, one we could use to our advantage.”

Sandor raised his eyebrows at nodded for the old man to continue. With a cough, he spoke again.

“In the outer reach, just outside Light’s Gain, you know of the protests against the Government? Usual vagrants and sinners, we would usually have the Sororitas put them down with fire. But a substantial amount of them is led by a minister from beyond the Segmentum. He is speaking of a grand conspiracy in our ranks.”

Sandor raised his voice sharply at the mention of conspiracy.

“Does he know? How does he know?”

Father Ba’lon shook his aged head, his long white hair and straggled beard waving in sympathy.

“No, I am certain he does not. However he is claiming to speak with the voice of the Emperor himself. This is not uncommon, many claim such things, however he has the ear of the people and with the right coercion we could too. I was hoping to request the aid of the Inquisition in ‘acquiring’ him.”

Sandor saw where the Old Priest’s thoughts were heading, and nodded in approval. With a wry grin, he spoke with relish.

“You shall have it Father, and what is the name of this target?”

“His name, my Lord, is Uriah Jole…”

Very good, things are heating up on Terra!

This can only lead to trouble.

So will the grey knights open the terminus decree

Things are looking grim, your interpretation could be pretty interesting :-)

First off awesome, secondly, am I the only person to pick up on the fabricator general referring to itself as we, and then at the end of his fight when he loses control he yells I AM MARS instead of WE ARE MARS like he did before? I suspect possession. Once again, amazing work.

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:
First off awesome, secondly, am I the only person to pick up on the fabricator general referring to itself as we, and then at the end of his fight when he loses control he yells I AM MARS instead of WE ARE MARS like he did before? I suspect possession. Once again, amazing work.

I think that the Fab-Gen is really just a hoot. I suspect he is crazy.

lliu wrote:

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:
First off awesome, secondly, am I the only person to pick up on the fabricator general referring to itself as we, and then at the end of his fight when he loses control he yells I AM MARS instead of WE ARE MARS like he did before? I suspect possession. Once again, amazing work.

I think that the Fab-Gen is really just a hoot. I suspect he is crazy.

Yeah, I'm probably just reading to far into it.

The "we" could have been referring not only to himself but the other high lords whose interest he was representing. Just an idea.

 King Pariah wrote:
The "we" could have been referring not only to himself but the other high lords whose interest he was representing. Just an idea.

The I AM MARS?

That would be just himself then. No reference to the agenda of the High Lords, just a blatant reminder that practically all of Mars and the Mechanicum are his to command and so are an extension of his will and power. Also, it's probably serving as an alert to those of the Ultima Forge and its ally(ies) that they might have just gone ahead and declared war on the Mechanicum

as lord of Mars and mechanics top forgeworld, maybe as said, "I am Mars" in the respect of his power is Mars is his own, and those are the forces they face?

My name is Ulgvig Stonecrow. I am packmate, oarsman and swordarm of Juln Thrice-Called and bannerman of Engir Krakendoom. I am a trueborn son of the Vlka Fenryka, twice sired in the name of the All-Father. I am the bearer of Fire from Ash and the Great Shield Illgammon. My saga is long of writ and heavy of deed. I have rode amongst the sea of stars for six grand seasons, and stood in the Halls of the Home Hearth in victory more times than any skjald could count. The Rout is my pack and my pack is The Rout. I am proud without recourse to arrogance, for my deeds speak for themselves. I am all of these things.

But most of all, I am lost. We all are.

As to when I became lost I cannot say. I was abroad among the stars with the men of Thrice-Called, pulled to war and glorious deed by the needs of the Rout. Jarl Krakendoom had beseeched us to cast open our sails and bring our spears to aid the little men of Arbrath against the Green Vermin. Our purpose was true and our path clear. We cut through the stars with victory in our fists.

Then something changed.

We would later say it was Andrzej the Auld who felt it first, his wyrd being that of the weirding ways, but in truth we all knew. Something changed, in our hearts, in our souls. Something was broken. Even great Borksh the Merry, hearty of laugh and idiot tricks cast a sullen mien. Snow and ice had fallen upon us and stolen the light. We knew not what to do. Juln, ever wise and mighty, rubbed his hoary beard and decreed we return to Mother Fenris. Something was wrong, the Hearth needed us.

We abandoned the war on Arbrath. As to the ultimate victor I cannot say. And at this moment I am ashamed to say that I care little.

We sailed back to Fenris, and were shocked to find we were not alone. Hosts and Packs of every stripe had returned home. Brothers I had not seen in many a moon had come home to Fenris, their longships and vessels clustered around the ashen clouds of Asaheim’s crown. The Rout had come back to the mountain in numbers I had not seen since my days as a fiery whelp.

Each told the same story: something was wrong, in our hearts and minds, but none could say as to what. Our wisest and longest of tooth met in the great hall, the tables bare and the fires dim. No song or saga spoke in these times. We gathered in quite bands, listening to the words of our ancients. Dressed in ashen pelts and blackened wode, we mourned something intangible.

Something was wrong. We just did not know what.

Great Olaf Clawborn, sky-writer of the Overpass, claimed that the Wolf-Time may be upon us, the time when the gates of Hel open themselves and all man passes from the pages of time. Mordekai the Sleekit, ever watchful and sly, countered that such times were a cause for celebration, and this malaise was something else. He posited some external force, some great evil working its will on the sons of the Rout.

Balof the Bearbreaker cast such thoughts aside: the Vlka Fenryka were above coercion and manipulation. We are an honourable people with honourable, simple goals. There was no grey to the black and white of our desires. Many a tale was cast into the scribing bowls, many a How, a what and a when.

But there was no Why.

Then Ivor Greymantle spoke, his hoary whisper catching the attentions of the gathered packs. He spoke of knowing in his bones what ailed us, of the quiet doom that had descended upon us. He told us that he needed to be sure before he spoke further. He implored the Kings of the Asaheim, wake the ancients, open their knowledge to the Rout and he would know why we wept in the dark.

The Priests of Iron toiled in the depths, their hammers ringing in the great darks of the Mountain. They beseeched the wintery tempers of the old and wounded, and asked them to attend their brothers in the great halls. Like krakens of old, they strode from the dark into the hearth hall, statues of iron and glyph. They spoke of a malaise, of troubled dreams and dark thoughts. They were simply as lost as we were.

It was the Blackmane who noticed what was missing. He rose from his bone-wrought throne and howled the name of the chief of ancients. Where was Trueclaw, where was the keeper of the keys of Russ? Where was Bjorn of the Fell-Hand?

The Iron Priests, their faces masked in wyrded leather, spoke as one: The Fell-handed was dead. They attempted to coax him from his dreaming, but all attempts and ministrations had failed. Sorrow had claimed the heart of the oldest of the Rout. The last Packmate of Russ was dead. The sorrow that held sway upon us had claimed him outright.

Ivor Greymantle looked to the skies and spoke once more. This was it, he said, this was the enduring moment of our time and the Vlka Fenryka would be found wanting. Such claims would usually arouse the ire and animal violence of my fellows, but none could dispute him. We had failed, on some level beyond sight we had failed. We would fail. We knew it to be true. Greymantle told us, in a voice like sorrow and sleet how we had failed.

The All-Father was dead upon his throne on the homeworld, he died under our watch.

Since that time we have remained in Asaheim, alone in wretchedness, seeking any way to verify what Greymantle has said. We war against the fact, even though in our hearts we know it to be true. In our misery we have turned on ourselves, our hate finding no outlet save our own kith and kin.

More and more, my brothers leave Asaheim never to return. Some go into the great depths below, to the waterlogged caverns of the Mountains Roots. I found our spearbearer Olag there, face down in the black waters, his body drowned and sodden. No struggle had taken place there, he had cast himself into the quiet pool of his own will.

We sometimes hunt on the slopes of the Mountain, seeking beasts to vent our fury. More and more we find brothers of the Rout, naked in the snow, blue-skinned and empty. Their arms and backs are black with frostbite and their breath is stilled forever more. Staring forward in depthless despair, their eyes are locked open by frost. They leave to die in the cold that not even our vaunted bloodline can endure.

Our Kings and Jarls know that we are our own greatest enemy in these dark times. Whilst our longbeards seek the truth and the cure to our malaise, the lords of the Vlka Fenryka have called to every skjald on Fenris to hear our woes and troubles, to share the burdens of our secrets and blackened sagas. To share these woes is to lighten them at least that is our betters thinking. But there are not enough skjalds in all eternity to hear the troubles of the Rout, and so many of us must speak to dead meat and electric scribes. This is how I find myself here now, speaking to this dead thing that buzzes of lightning and metal. It is not fit to know the glories and failures of the Rout, but if my Jarl wills it then I shall see it done.

We are home upon Fenris, our home that birthed us and bore us in the dark night. We knew power and glory once but they seem as distant memories to the endless mourning in our souls. We do not know if our kin abroad feel as we do, and many of us do not care, too lost in our own self-loathing to mind the troubles of others. We are not ourselves.

Our kin would always say in these times of doubt that we are Astartes, and we know no fear. I am Astartes, Ulgvig Stonecrow: packmate, oarsman and swordarm of Juln Thrice-Called and bannerman of Engir Krakendoom.

And I am more afraid now than I have ever been in my life.

That's sad... Really sad...

You killed the veteran, the one who walked with Russ, sad, truely grim times.

Could at least let him die in glorious battle soaked in chaotic blood and guts.

 jhe90 wrote:
You killed the veteran, the one who walked with Russ, sad, truely grim times.

Could at least let him die in glorious battle soaked in chaotic blood and guts.

These are grim times and no one gets what they deserve

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

 jhe90 wrote:
You killed the veteran, the one who walked with Russ, sad, truely grim times.

Could at least let him die in glorious battle soaked in chaotic blood and guts.

These are grim times and no one gets what they deserve

Just wondering, what caused Bjorn to die? Chaos? failing Dreadnought? Or worse...

lliu wrote:

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

 jhe90 wrote:
You killed the veteran, the one who walked with Russ, sad, truely grim times.

Could at least let him die in glorious battle soaked in chaotic blood and guts.

These are grim times and no one gets what they deserve

Just wondering, what caused Bjorn to die? Chaos? failing Dreadnought? Or worse...

The sheer sorrow of the death of the Emperor/All father:

They attempted to coax him from his dreaming, but all attempts and ministrations had failed. Sorrow had claimed the heart of the oldest of the Rout. The last Packmate of Russ was dead. The sorrow that held sway upon us had claimed him outright.

@DLS: fantastic stuff, that last chapter is quite possibly the best single piece of fiction I've seen here on Dakka! The whole weight and feel of it is just perfect!

 Paradigm wrote:

lliu wrote:

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

 jhe90 wrote:
You killed the veteran, the one who walked with Russ, sad, truely grim times.

Could at least let him die in glorious battle soaked in chaotic blood and guts.

These are grim times and no one gets what they deserve

Just wondering, what caused Bjorn to die? Chaos? failing Dreadnought? Or worse...

The sheer sorrow of the death of the Emperor/All father:

They attempted to coax him from his dreaming, but all attempts and ministrations had failed. Sorrow had claimed the heart of the oldest of the Rout. The last Packmate of Russ was dead. The sorrow that held sway upon us had claimed him outright.

@DLS: fantastic stuff, that last chapter is quite possibly the best single piece of fiction I've seen here on Dakka! The whole weight and feel of it is just perfect!

Surprise... No, not really. We all know Dark Lord Seanron here is the best writer here on Dakka.

Sad feels! I was not expecting that depth of sorrow, beautiful writing.