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Armageddon fell, and Fulgrim was forced to hand Angron the warp's equivalent of a one dollar bill.

That was amazing. I am 100% confident you could sell sunscreen in the North Pole with your describing powers. I was so into that last description.

I mean Sunscreen is pretty important at the north pole because snow and ice mean lots of sunburn. But I jest.

Just doing another bit of upkeep on the thread: changed the name of this part of the story to Blood Storm, feel it fits a bit better - and also added the cover to Part Eight.

blimey, thats the best one yet!

my jaw is officially in another dimension.

We shall build you a tower of black stone atop a mountain of iron, at its peak it a hand and pen wreathed in flames of blue and black forever writing!

He ran through the driving, red rain, his footfalls leaving miniature eruptions in the puddles beneath him, panic forcing his lungs and muscles into a state of over-use, and this shamed him. Where his platoon where he could not say, and at this moment he did not care. He had abandoned his comrades out of fear: fear for himself, fear for his home and fear for his young family, a cloying, utterly remorseless fear born of the chaos around him. His tears and sweat mingled with the crimson deluge that soaked him, blinding his eyes and stinging his throat. He ducked below low hanging wires, losing his footing on the slippery, gore-streaked ground causing him to slip and slam bodily into the sodden tarmac. Gritting his teeth and slamming his fist in terrified frustration, Gheron rose shakily to his feet and continued his dash through his home hive, all thoughts of defence gone in the face of losing his wife and daughter.

Everything now was secondary to their safety.

When the daemon-child had attacked Theresa, Gheron had fought her off. He had battered and punched the small creature, throwing it off his friend with a brutal twist of strength, the small body cracking back-first into the bloody ground. He was sickened by his response, but that soon turned into gross terror when the small body began to move once more. In a sickly, quadrupedal motion the thing had dislocated its limbs to rise like a spider, its central mass bursting open to reveal a deep cancerous maw and dozens of bloodshot, hungry eyes. Fungal fronds waved in the air around its dripping mouth and the creatures head, still so small and childlike, shook and gibbered as its body changed. It pounced again, smashing Gheron aside violently and savaging Theresa despite Gheron’s efforts, his colleague wailing in abject horror and pain. The crowd lost all cohesion as similar horrors burst from within, savaging the people and PDF who had been drawn to protect them.

Red devils armed with wicked blades of black rose from the puddles of blood pooling on the ground, hacking into the populace with wild abandon, their keening wails and battle cries driving men and women to the ground in panic. Mutilated and bloody monsters formed of fused bone and stretched tendon burst from the guts and chests of the terrified, lunging at any and all they could reach. Serpentine beasts forced their way from the mouths of the slain, wrapping their sinewy lengths around the legs of those who tried to flee. The sound of gristly, gnashing teeth and tearing meat filled the air alongside gunfire, blades clashing and the screams of human panic.

Gheron’s will finally broke when a huge shadow descended upon the crowd from the tortured sky, a giant, muscled humanoid on leathery bat-like pinions. In its fists it wielded a whip of bloody muscle and an axe that hazed with incandescent rage. The things face was a slab of reddened skin covered in eyes, brittle horns and insect antennae, split horizontally by a fang-filled slit of black. With a spiteful, malicious roar it landed amongst them and smote the crowds, its wide sweeps cutting the populace down like wheat to the farmer. Blood sprayed, limbs snapped and chaos reigned.

Gheron broke.

Gheron ran.

Gheron wept at his own cowardice.

The chaos around him seemed unending, a myriad array of new horrors and blasphemies revealing themselves as he ran through the city. He saw soldiers just like him fall upon each other, fury in their eyes and murder in their hearts, tearing gory chunks from each other in a haze of delusional brutality. He witnessed packs of blackened, burning hounds, fur alight with wicked blue flames chase down women and children in the streets, tearing them into pieces even as gore continued to rain from the skies. Colossal, multi-limbed beasts stalked the rain-hazed streets, mouths brimming with prehensile tentacles and eye stalks snapping at any movement below them, consuming thousands in an orgy of bloody consumption. And all under the driving blood rain, which grew heavier with each passing atrocity. Aircraft screeched from the sky into buildings, showering the wet streets below in burning shrapnel. If there was indeed a Hell, then it had found itself here on Armageddon.

It was too much for any man to endure.

Gheron turned the corner toward his home with a clumsy skid. It was a heavy-set tenement resting beneath the shadow of an upper hive spire, built of plasteel and white mortar. Its walls however were thick with blood and meat which ran like waterfalls from its roof to the sticky ground. Its gutters had clogged, and small spiteful creatures the colour of rotten meat and gristle bickered and fought over the viscera gathering within. Fire and smoked billowed from several windows and men and women he had lived alongside for years fled from the front entrance or hurled themselves from the windows in panicked fear. Gheron steeled himself and ran for the entrance, pushing aside the shaken evacuees in his bid to get to his home.

The interior of the building was more horrific than the outside: gore and gobbets of meat coated everything, and skin seemed to grow messily from the very walls in a cancerous invasion. A warm, dull light pulsated from the lumen strips in the ceiling, discoloured and jaundice, giving the halls a claustrophobic diseased air. Red vapour clouded the air and caused Gheron to gag. Bodies were strewn all around, each in various states of dismemberment and disrepair, all with looks of blind fury or abstract horror on their cold dead faces.

Gheron fought the urge to vomit as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, trickles of blood and viscera running down like water across a hilltop. The air was heavy with the smell of death and a deep, oppressive hum, as if the building was some titanic creature that had swallowed Gheron whole. He was Jonah, moving into the guts of the whale, his future unclear and his life in peril.

He climbed the steps.

He heard a sound: meat being torn and teeth gnashing in wild hunger.

He steeled himself for the worst.

On the landing of the second floor, the one beneath his home, he saw an old woman, her back to him bent over the corpse of an arbites officer. At first it seemed that she was praying or mourning over the body but the sounds of cannibal tearing and the blood pooling around her knees told a different, bloodier story. Gheron raised his rifle, the barrel-hung torch brining the scene into stark light. The woman’s hair was grey, curled and quite short and she wore a heavy, careworn jumper and an ankle length heavy skirt. Her feet were bare and covered in gore. As the light hit her, she turned with animal speed, her face twisted and covered in gore.

Gheron recognised her face immediately, despite its furious twisted mien: Mrs Mustovich, his next door neighbour. A kindly old women who had babysat Myrtle more times than Gheron could remember, who had helped Anne-Marie with cooking and special occasions, who Gheron himself had happily aided with numerous heavy chores and household tasks. This woman had been a part of their family, as if she had their blood in her veins. And now here she was, kneeling in a puddle of crimson gore feasting on the corpse of another human being. Her hands were wild arthritic claws, wet blobs of meat under her cracked fingernails and a staccato, palsied tremor running through her body, lending her a lunatic air. Her eyes were pools of solid crimson, no pupil or white in her eyes, just solid, ruby hate. She snarled, her teeth blood-streaked and cracked and crouched into a lupine hunch, her previous victim forgotten in the wake of new, fresh prey.

Gheron’s hands shook at the lunacy crouched before him, his aim faltering at the sight of a former friends and loved one warped into something bestial. He tightened his grip and bellowed for Mrs Mustovich to stay where she was, appealing for her to recognise him. She looked straight into him with a maddened hunger, her mouth working wetly and his weapon apparently ignored in the face of monstrous starvation. Her jaw clicked and cracked, and her mouth was pushed open violently with a wretched gag and bloody drool. Gheron staggered in surprise as a snout of something hairy and canine pushed its way violently from between her stretching lips and cracked teeth, its length lined with wire-like whiskers and pale, needle fangs. It snuffed the air and growled, a deep, old and hungry sound that filled Gheron’s very soul with terror.

Mrs Mustovich’s eyes remained fixed hungrily on him as this second mouth loosened and snapped from her throat, spraying spittle and phlegm onto the floor in a greasy, pus-lined puddle. She let out a keening howl, almost human but not quite before her old muscles tensed and she hurled herself bodily at Gheron, claws outstretched and both mouths ravenously open. Gheron closed his eyes tearfully and roared as he depressed the trigger of his lasrifle, white light erupting in a fully automatic torrent into the old woman’s head. He did not stop firing until all that remained of the bestial face was a crater of steaming and fused muscle and her body lay unmoving, her own blood pooling alongside her victims. Gheron could not contain the wracked sob that shuddered from his ribs and with finality dropped his now empty but still warm weapon onto the damp floor, stepping shakily over the old woman’s corpse and approaching his front door on the next landing.

He needed to see his family. He needed to see his daughter.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door hung ajar, and a stuttering light could be seen inside. Gheron gingerly moved into the darkened portal, his eyes refusing to adjust to the darkness due to the constant flashing of the overhead light. He slowly and silently closed the door behind him, and pressed the lumen switch bringing darkness to the hall. He waited, breath held, as his eyes adjusted to the shadowed scene before him. The floor was tiled but not wet and he could see no dark shadows or pools that suggested the chaos of outside had found its way into his domicile, all the doors were closed and everything seemed at peace despite the muffled sounds of violence outside. He sighed in relief and called out into the dark.

“Anne-Marie? Myrtle? It’s me! It’s daddy! Anyone there?”

At first there was only silence, but then the door at the farthest end of the hall, Myrtle’s bedroom, slowly and silently swung open. A faint light pooled around it, not enough to illuminate the hall but enough to act as a point of reference. Gheron crept quietly to the door, cursing every creak and crack from the floor as he approached. Opening the bedroom door, he slid in quietly.

Before him stood Myrtle, his young daughter, her small form in her nightgown and her face down turned. Her eyes were closed and she looked like she had been crying. She held a toy or a teddy that Gheron did not recognise in her small right hand and water stained the carpet beneath her, as if she had wet herself. Gheron’s instincts as a parent kicked in and he went to his knees before his little girl, wrapping his strong arms around her shoulders and holding her close. He fought back tears as he held her, beyond relieved that she was safe. She seemed to shiver under his arms and Gheron tightened his fatherly hold.

He heard a growl. A low, wet animal purr in the room.

He rose immediately, shielding Myrtle with his body and fists held threateningly before him, ready for anything that might try to hurt his daughter. The room remained empty, but the lights in the hall had started to stutter again. A strange pressure hung in the air, stealing Gheron’s breath from him. The growl returned, this time behind him. He turned, very slowly to look at his daughter. His voice shook as realisation dawned on him.

“Myrtle…sweetheart…where is your Mother? Why isn’t she here watching you?”

The object suddenly fell from Myrtle’s hand and thumped heavily on the floor. It rolled to Gheron’s feet, and he gasped in horror. It was no teddy, no toy, but a head. A human head. The head of his wife, her face frozen in a silent scream. Her neck was a messy stump, some massive force tearing it from her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and wild and her mouth was locked in mortis, her final feelings etched on her face for eternity. Her hair, usually brown and supple was matted with viscera. The head lay there, fixed on Gheron with an accusing stare.

Where were you? Why didn’t you protect us?

Gheron sobbed, his body shaking and his heart aching. So much madness. So much death, no heart could endure this. He looked at Myrtle through tear-stained eyes and she returned his gaze. Her eyes were white, with thin pinpricks of black at their centre. They considered Gheron with a hunger that no mortal creature could ever know, and no mind could ever comprehend. Her breathing became heavier and almost lupine, like a wolf panting in anticipation. Gheron gritted his teeth and yelled as he lunged for his own daughter, fury at this violation overwhelming his will as a Father.

Myrtle’s mouth snapped open, her throat undulated obscenely and a long, lank and hair-covered arm vomited from her throat in a violent, juddering grasp and seized Gheron by the throat. Its hands were outrageously strong and taloned, and the arm smelled of old earth and spoiled meat. It gripped his throat, squeezing, forcing the air from him and the strength from his muscles.

Gheron’s vision faded, blackness overtaking him. He struggled, but to no avail, the warp-fuelled strength of the limb draining him of all fight. His vision swam lazily and the last thing he saw was the arm retracting slowly and deliberately, pulling him toward his daughters waiting mouth, which cracked and distended like a serpents, and as his head and shoulders were swallowed into the deep abyss beyond Gheron fell into unconsciousness.

The lights in the small home died along with Gheron, the only trace of his passing the grotesque gnashing and chewing of his daughter on his remains.

This keeps on getting better. That last scene is incredible, at least we all know who that girl was at the start!

Amazing stuff, I really like that he found the strength to lunge at what was his daughter and fight to the last in defiance of the deamonic incursion.

I am loving this, it just keeps getting better. I didn't think that was possible.

Better and better, most excellent

Noo! That was so creepy! I'm about to pee myself.

That... Was a terrible thing for me to read right before sleep. Great writing, I'm just gonna leave the lights on for a while...

It's creepy to think of my 3 year old sister killing my mum.

As the pale moon rose over the chaos and mayhem of the slaughter below, the being that was once Angron crested the summit of Armageddon’s highest peak, a trail of gore and sinew left in its terrible wake. Mount Odysseus had always been a key component of the world’s folklore and history, its link to the celestial heavens above secured thanks to centuries of myth and legend fermented by a superstitious populace. Angron knows this.

The greatest legend of the world was that two great mountains had once existed on the plains of Armageddon, sitting side by side and supporting the heavens above. Their names were Odysseus and Ralyssis, and they were proud children of the world that bore them, standing against the tides of the darkness above. Deep in the history of the world, the two great behemoths of earth and metal had come to blows over some matter of honour and a great war had erupted between the inhabitants of both mountains. The world had quaked and the skies had wept and the lives of millions were lost.

Eventually, a truce was reached when the planet’s soul itself had decreed that one of her sons should sit upon the earth and guard the world below, and the other she would raise to the skies and they would guard the world above. Ralyssis was raised from the mundane plain and installed upon the heavens, watching the skies of Armageddon for all eternity. The orbit of the moon and the angle upon which the world below turned meant that the mountain and the moon met in direct symmetry, giving further strength to the myth.

Time passed and the Emperor’s Great Crusade would find Armageddon, casting aside the old ways and the old myths, and granting the moon and the mountain new identities with the light of science and reason. The names remained, but now they were simply part of Armageddon’s celestial clockwork, not born of battles or world-spirits but through physics and the whims of space-time. However, whilst the old beliefs are dead and buried, the importance of the relationship between Odysseus and Ralyssis is still known by a few.

And one of them is the beast Angron.

Finally reaching the freezing summit, amidst a storm of snow and sleet the favoured child of the War-God turned its twisted eyes upon the pale moon, which glowed a pure crystal white despite the horrors unleashed below it. It seemed to fill the void above, a shining island of diamond in the deep blue of the endless ocean of stars. From this vantage, the land below was drowning in a sea of blood and murder, and seemed a twisted reflection of the calm in the skies. Such imagery was wasted on Angron, who opened his clawed fists in reverence and summoned powers older than the mountain he stood upon, or any mountain in any part of the universe.

A vortex appeared between the gnarled fingers of the daemon-primarch, a bloody, black stain on the fabric of reality. It whirled and split in a random, chaotic spin, sparks of power and corpse light flaring as it grew. A heady drone filled the air: the sound of power being released from a plain far beyond that of reality. Angron pulled his hands farther apart and the chaotic mass swelled in sympathy, gaining form and clarity as the gap widened. It split form one liquid mass to two, and the danced around each other like serpents in water, never touching but always in harmony. Forcing his dark will upon the gory lengths, Angron straightened the whirling blobs into a coiled shaft and a twin-pronged head, almost as if it had been torn from the skull of some great Taurus. With a deep, reverberating boom the mass stopped spinning and solidified into a great black spear with two wickedly pointed heads.

This damned thing which the Blood Prince now beheld was a blessed weapon of his Father. It was known by many names and had seen the ruin of many empires and species. It’s most common name, or the one that mankind had granted it, was Longinus. That the name carries great weight and foreboding is only natural for it has slain men, beasts and gods in its brutal lifetime.

And today, it would slay a world.

Taking hold of the weapon caused the grip of Angron to bubble and steam, the sheer damned heat of the shaft warring with the writhing body of the daemon-primarch. Its power was indescribable, and Angron had already expended much of what he was simply standing upon the world within the recently born Eye of Reality that stained his Father's realm. He felt it pull upon him, draining him, lessening him, as if reality itself wished to devour the former Emperor's son himself. The pain and sacrifice however would be worth it.

He raised the blackened, steaming spear to the heavens above, intoning the name of his Father and all who he had slain to reach this moment. The stars in the sky began to falter and wink out, a black tapestry drawn around the heavens, leaving only the pale moon to bear witness to the ritual below.

The list of the slain ceased, and time stood still upon Armageddon, the blood rain slowing to a halt, the battles below ceasing as all eyes, both mortal daemonic turned skyward. A charged aura filled the air, like the breath of the world held against the coming of the storm. No sound was heard across the world, no screams and no cries. Everything was focussed on the damned prince upon the mountain.

With a sharp bellow, Angron hurled Longinus into the sky. It shot forward like a comet, burning brilliantly through the atmosphere, leaving a red vapour in its trail. Blood spat and leaked from its tip and burst alight as the weapon cracked through the barrier of sound and sight and with a thunder crack heard across the planet below it left Armageddon’s atmosphere for the close orbiting moon.

The emptiness of the void seemed to only speed the spears passing, and only those gifted with the second sight would see it carve its bloody path across the featureless void. It sailed sightlessly through the frozen wreckage of the planet’s defence fleet, past the dilapidated and wrecked expanses of the Near-Defence platforms. It shot past bloated frozen corpses of man and daemon alike, causing a wave of energy to burn and crisp them in its relentless flight. It approached the moon with cruel precision, and soon it entered what little atmosphere the white moon held.
Soundlessly and with little impact, the spear shot toward the pale, sandy ground of Ralyssis, its twin points bleeding all the way. It smacked into the ivory plain, burying itself deep and without sound. A wall of pressure cratered around the impact point, casting the sand around it back for several miles. The spear shuddered and bled onto the white moon, the ground below becoming a thick, red mortar around the spear wound. IT had tasted the blood of martyrs and messiahs and now its power was slicing into the heart of the moon itself.

The moon turned black, all of a sudden and without preamble.

The sun vanished in the sky, casting Armageddon into complete darkness.




It began slowly.

A thin crack of glowing red appeared across the surface of the black moon. A spindly, thin, vertical line cracked across the entire surface like some gargantuan door being prised open slowly, casting a deep red glow upon the world below. The crack grew wider and wider, encompassing the entirety of the moon facing Armageddon. Within was hellish red light and a seemingly endless torrent of blackened, infected blood. Wider and wider the wound opened, until a perfect circle of crimson stood in place of Ralyssis. It hung in the heavens, a red portal to another damned realm, its corona radiating hateful flame and bile. A cry of lament went up from the hordes below as the bloody wound shifted and writhed, and something colossal came into focus within its depths.

As one, the world screamed.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mortal creatures of every stripe are woefully ill-equipped to understand the true nature of the Warp and its denizens. Our language and concepts, even at their most outlandish, are tied to our physical understanding of our own place in the universe. Ask a child to imagine something, and they will cobble together a thought built of all the experiences they have gathered in their short lives. It is an impossibility for a mortal to truly perceive or understand that which it could never and has never beheld or experienced. To this end, we craft clumsy and contradictory accounts of the things from beyond. We give them our human words and names to try and make sense of the insensible. We feel safe when we can name something, when we can understand it. And not just ourselves, but every mortal creature that has ever trod upon earth or sky in the known universe. Even the Eldar, a seemingly wise and self-satisfied species, is like a termite trying to comprehend the workings of the sun when trying to conceptualise the Warp and its Gods.

Gods…

Even this term is loaded with mortal misunderstanding. The universe calls them the Gods of Chaos, the Damned Pantheon or the Primordial Truth, each name loaded with grandiose stature and divine resonance. But they are woefully pitiful in comparison to what they attempt to describe. We name them: Khorne, Tzeentch, Nurgle and Slaanesh, in the hopes that in the act of naming them we can own them, serve them, understand them. The thing that gazed through the cracked ruin of Armageddon’s moon many would describe as The Blood God, the Father of War. But in this they would be wrong.

Khorne is not the God of blood, battle and murder.

Khorne IS Blood. Khorne IS battle. Khorne IS murder. It is every death, every gunshot, every hateful tear that has ever been or ever will be. It is death in its most base and pure form.

And at the behest of its favoured progeny, it now turns a fraction of its endless mind toward the human world of Armageddon. And under that infinite gaze the world broke.

In those last moments, the populace of Armageddon witnessed the slayer of their world differently. The mortal mind, being made of meat and synapse, cannot process the true form of what lay beyond and so could only grasp snippets of what was to slay them. Some saw a great beast with the head of a carrion-bird and the jaws of a diseased wolf. Others saw eight bleeding suns orbiting an expanse of hateful geometry. Others witness an ageless king bathed in blood and war. Whatever they saw, they all died the same. Their bodies imploded, their insides suddenly bursting and spraying around them. Daemons, men and beasts liquefied under the passing gaze of a God, the ground rupturing under their corpses.

The great gaze had already moved on, boring of the fractional glimpse it had taken into the mortal realm, but the death of Armageddon continued. Blood gushed from fault lines in the world, oceans boiled and grass land melted. Steam rose into the heavens from boiling viscera before with a crack less heard and more felt across the stars, Armageddon ruptured, its molten insides spraying across space. Twinkling gobbets of gore and landmass rushed outward leaving a nebula of reddened insides across the emptiness where the world formerly lay. In the space of a day and a night, Angron had slain the world that had been the site of his greatest shameful defeat. Not only had he been victorious this day, he had made certain that no one could ever claim that victory again.



But something was amiss.

Amidst the crystal shards of red and cracked strata of the dead world a body floats in the cold dark. The body of a warrior, regally clad in bronze and armour, floats in the airless vacuum. Its face is slack as if sleeping, and no breath escapes its frozen lungs. Its face is scarred, as is its soul. The warrior drifts, silent and deathly in the grand, bloody tapestry of its own creation, abandoned and alone in the face of an uncaring universe.

Woah, a twist, and well what can I say, amazing.

Hmmm... This is certainly very shaking!

**slow clap**
To use your analogy on describing gods, I describe your writing. This is beyond everything I've seen in all of 40k fluff so far, and I really hope you go far with this!

Is the figure at the end Angron or someone else? I'm inclined to say Angron, but the "But something was amiss..." line makes me think otherwise.

ERMHAGERD, he does it again!

Is he the best writer on Dakka, I'd air on the side of yes :-)

Long ago, before all was lost...

The scholar looked out across his students, an ocean of bowed heads and furrowed brows spreading out in orderly rows and tiered seats. Pens and mnemo-quills scratched quietly across paper and glowing stylus-screen, the sound almost like gentle waves washing against the sand in a sleepy, dreamlike tide. He smiled indulgently at the sound, pleased with the effort his young charges were pouring into their learning. Myths and Legends of Proto-Humanity and Pre-Unity Civilisation was the official name of his subject, a lengthy and clumsy title if ever there had been one, and interest in the subject had dwindled over the decades with the rise of the Emperor and his message of Unity and Reason, but the gathered young minds arrayed before the scholar gave him quiet hope. Mankind may try to forget, but that which is most important always finds a way to cling to us, like a child afraid to lose its parent. Lessons could still be learned from the ancient times.
There would always be a place for the knowledge the Scholar carried, even if that place was a dusty old lecture theatre in the shadows of the Imperial Palace.

Soon his students placed their apparatus down, and brought their combined attention to their teacher. He waited patiently until all attention was upon him, then clearing his voice he began to speak. His voice was deep and perfectly toned, like a softly flowing river his wife had once commented. It was the kind of voice that held the attention of the listener regardless of the subject. He rose from his heavy, wooden desk covered in books and manuscripts as he began, all eyes following him, hungry for the next slice of wisdom he would impart.

“So, to recap on the paper you have just transcribed, we have been studying ancient weapons and their integral place in the societies and beliefs of ancient, pre-Imperial societies. We have identified that regardless of the apparent lack of actual power held by such objects, they have been granted near-wondrous or divine status through sheer human belief. From the texts I have given you, who can give me an example of one of these items? Anyone?”

Hands shot up, like wheat swaying in a sun-basked field, young minds keen to how what they have learned. The Scholar scanned the room once and chose a young girl at the back of the lecture theatre.

“Yes, Abigail?”

“The Spear of Destiny, sir!”

The Scholar nodded approvingly, smiling warmly at the young ladies answer.

“Indeed Abigail, the Spear of Destiny, or to give it its less vulgar, official name: The Lance of Longinus. A truly terrifying and terrible weapon if ancient beliefs are to be considered. A truly monstrous and barbaric thing, very impressive for a pole carved of wood”

The class laughed politely, the Scholar smiling at his own witticism. He continued on, gesturing to the grand screen behind him. A concealed MIU at the back of his neck summoned slides and picts of ancient manuscripts and tapestries referring to the subject matter.

“The Lance was apparently named after the first man to wield it in anger, a proto-barbarian conclave that dominated most of the Sub-Eurasian Bloc as we know it today. Apparently the sheer power of the Lance allowed him to lay low any foe, including a God”

The screen flickered and a dusty stone tablet appeared. Clearly ancient and treated with less respect than it deserved, figures could just be defined within its dusty illustration. One held the spear, pushing it into the side of another standing cuneiform. Who they were could not be identified, time wearing such things away. The Scholar continued.

“The Lance appeared several times through the course of ancient history, or at least facsimiles clever enough to fool our slow-witted ancestors. Armies marched behind warlords who bore the spear, certain that their God watched over them as they razed and burned and slaughtered. Nuremburgia, The Holy Siege of the Antioch, the collapse of Constantinoplios, the Rise of the Nazociallis: all these events, great and terrible to our ancient ancestors were attributed to the power of the Lance. You’ll find reference to these in Workbook XII, under Wars of the Proto-Eurasian Barbarians and their effects on Ancient Europa”

Several students noted the pages on their textbooks, many more opening the books to read along whilst listening to their teacher. He continued, summoning another slide, this one a painting of an olive-skinned, bearded man. He held one hand aloft in a gesture of peace, a halo of gold and ancient green about his head. The estimated date of the painting was beyond any Imperial dating method, but it appeared incredibly old.

“But what made the spear terrible? What made it worth warring over and slaying your brother man for? It was the original act that cemented its power in ancient mythology. This Longinus, a simple soldier, punctured the side of an ancient king, a God-Emperor of his time. This act, this resistance to the divine order turned the weapon from a simple object of wood and metal into one of blood and destiny. This singular legend spawned a timeline of barbarity and cruelty, and millions died under the dreadful shadow it cast.”

The students looked fully upon the Scholar, locked entirely into his words. Now was the time to impart the real wisdom of the lesson. The Scholar cleared his throat once more and spoke with a tone of reverence and also of warning.

“This is why we must be careful as we encroach upon the stars. To lend objects, people and especially weapons such gross importance is to court disaster. As the Emperor’s crusade spreads from here to the limits of the galaxy, we must understand that there are no Gods, no Divine Order that grants special powers of destruction and Destiny to the common. We ourselves do that. And we must ensure that the right precautions are used when dealing with such sensitive information as we spread across the stars. We must take our myths with us, but we must ensure they remain what they are: myths!”

The class applauded, the Scholar bowed, safe in the knowledge his message had sunk in. He lifted a glass of water from his desk and sipped softly, waiting for the applause to die down. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another student raising his hand, a young gentleman named Barnabus. He nodded toward him, giving the student the floor to voice his question. Barnabus stammered as he spoke, unused to the centre stage he suddenly found himself in.

“Sir...You said there were facsimiles of the spear? Copies...did anyone every find the original? Is it still in existence?”

The Scholar shook his head with a patient smile, and gestured openly.

“No Barnabus. Such an item is lost long ago to the sands of time. The ancient barbarians who wielded it never realised the importance it would one day possess and likely disposed of it. Maybe lost in some ancient battle or calamity. Who is to know such things? And I for one am quite glad that such a thing is now lost. Although it holds no true power, I would shudder at the kind of barbarity it could summon in those that still have such knowledge”

The class dismissed and the Scholar took his place behind his desk once more, running his old, gnarled hands over his scrolls and books, knowing that his certainty in such things was impregnable. There were no Gods, or Monsters, or Destiny in this Universe. The Emperor had shown this.

Gathering his things, the Scholar left the lecture theatre turning the lights off behind him, casting the past into the darkness.

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Light-years away, on the cusp of the Emperor's great golden Crusade, on a vessel carved of Iron and conquest and daubed the colour of stars dying and worlds collapsing, a figure marches down a grand promenade of artefacts from a lifetime of war and discovery. A museum of battle, both manmade and xenos spreads in all directions. The figure marches on, his interest resting on none of the artefacts until he reaches the very end of the chamber.

A single light shines down upon a stone plinth the colour of sun-washed desert, barely illuminating the black steel of a vast and monolithic spear. It is twin-headed like a bull or great goat, barbarically forged in black steel and iron and its lengthy shaft seeming to entwine and ripple before the eyes. The figure stands before the weapon, almost in fond memory. Its scarred and beaten face, like an angry fist clenching bloody chains, looks with reverence upon the spear it has wielded many times and will no doubt wield many times more. Grasping the weapon under gauntleted fists, the immense figure pulls the weapon from the stone with a sharp, glassy ping. It moves it slowly in the light, catching the angles and craftsmanship in its gentle haze. Smiling horrifically, the figure takes the spear back through the concourse, knowing full well it will wield the weapon in its next battle.

As the primacrh Angron leaves the grand museum aboard The Conqueror, the spear hums gently in his fists, lending its own song to one that beats constantly in his abused skull. The hum is almost like a homecoming, a fragile hint of music to commemorate the passing of a long and tiring journey.

The Crescendo is yet unseen, but cannot be stopped.

Longinus had returned home...

Boom, early empire atheism. 'Cause that survived.

I felt I should point out: This part is set during The Great Crusade, but will return to the current timeline in the next section.

Just really got into the Longinus mythos and wanted to flesh it out a tiny bit more

It seemed pretty evident.

Wow! So, it seems pretty fitting that Angron wields a flaming spear of death.

It descended from the clouds like a great sea-creature forced into the unfamiliar realm of the sky, its colossal wing-span casting a monstrous shadow on the grass plains below. It coasted above the battlefield, advanced thrusters and turbines spinning up to slow its descent, wrestling with gravity to keep its sleek body airborne. Its pilots, bathed in faint blue, crystalline light from their consoles and viewports traded clipped and brief reports with one another, feeding back the data on their screens to the rest of the crew. From the command deck further to the back of the graceful hull came tactical readouts and commands for the fields below, presenting firing solutions and deployment suggestions as the vast craft approached the war below.

The dizzying array of weaponry lining the wings of the craft lit up suddenly, discharging blue crackling pulses of destructive energy upon the trench lines in the distance. Great pillars of debris exploded from where the pulses struck, casting the constructions of the enemy high into the air. The barrage continued, ceaseless in its fury, the constant discharge of firepower forming heat haze in the air around the vessel like a cowl of blurred misdirection. To the rear of the monstrous craft, a colossal drop-bay opened slowly, a flashing yellow light within lighting the occupants preparing to the drop from the great height. Multiple forms clad in advanced armour of mechanical precision and technological mastery stood ready, weapons primed, legs braced in readiness.

Behind them sat rows of squatting, sleek vehicles hunched like a pack of patient hunters, all armed and armoured for battle. Across their camouflaged hulls lay identifiers and kill-markings, each one a veteran of countless wars in their empire’s name. The grand portal boomed open, the acrid war-tinted wind feeding into the dim bay. Viewfinders and digital optics whirred and changed, adapting to the sudden influx of natural light, keeping the warriors visions as optimal as possible.

The light in the bay went from yellow to monochrome white, signalling the order to drop. The bipedal goliaths went first, gracefully leaping from the open bay doors, free-falling for several hundred feet before powerful engines mounted upon their back ignited with a screaming hiss. They drifted toward the battlefield like leaves upon a gentle breeze, hidden motors and gravitational-dampeners built into their armour slowing and controlling their descent. Fire and flack vomited upward from the enemy lines, exploding in the air with black, greasy clouds and shrapnel bursts, hoping to slay the interlopers before they even touched the ground. However not a single warrior fell to the clumsy assault, their jetpacks allowing them to circle out of harm’s way, jinking and hovering out of range of the killing storm.

Behind them came the monstrous forms of the fighting vehicles, a cadre of specialised tank-killers and anti-infantry armour, coloured a deep ocean green and sunlit yellow, striped and splashed to provide camouflage against the surrounding grasslands. The weapons on the descending vehicles swivelled and turned, pelting the anti-air emplacements with tracers of starlight and ion pulses, shattering the enemy defence before it could claim any of their number. The vehicles touched down like graceful ocean birds, anti-gravitic motors and repulsar fields igniting on their bellies, allowing them to hover gracefully and silently over the ground, small clouds of dust and grass kicked up in the wake of their advance.

Their armoured brethren landed in their midst, all locked together in a network of information and defence. Assault ramps descended from the bellies of the attack craft, allowing quick marching lines of green-armoured warriors to flow from them, like rows of ants speeding toward fallen prey. They formed defensive lines, dozens of hard-trained warriors, their advanced weapons and suit-systems sharing information between themselves, their vehicles and their commanders upon high.

In the centre of the armoured convoy landed their commander, clad in white and crystal green, imposing and majestic in his advanced armour. Weapons bristled from shoulder mounted pods and blisters, a graceful, bladed rudder-wing rose from the centre of his back and his armours head was a threatening collection of sensor orbs and communication spikes. He landed silently, like a jungle feline and immediately assayed the forces arrayed around him. Once he was content that all his forces were as they should be, he turned to the trenches of the enemy, surveying their strength and already forming a plan of assault. Blue and white identifiers and targeting calculations scrolled along his vision, revealing the enemy to be of a lesser strength than previously indicated by High Command.

Inside his armour, Shas’O A’Halbiim grimaced at the meagre forces drawn against them.

So, he thought, this is Hul’shadaam…

With a gesture of his right hand his forces spread out in an overlapping fan of cover and defence. Like a well-oiled and maintained machine they moved, driving toward the enemy trenches, forcing them back with a withering hail of energy weapons.

A’Halbiim launched himself over his forces, his crisis-suit clad comrades enthusiastically following. He opened fire with his own weapons, shining orbs of ion disruption flying form his glorious fists to the lines of Gue’la below.

This should have been over weeks ago, thought A’Halbiim as he sailed through the air.

Nice! I was waiting for the tau to show up after you first mentioned them, and here they are at last, though I have to say the wait was very much worth it as it meant other chapters of the same high quality you write with could be made.

Smoke and blue-tinted flames rose from the battlefield, the recent hostilities still fresh upon the face of the planet. Wreckage of lumbering, Gue’la armour sat smoking upon the grasslands like a series of artificial volcanoes, greasy, thick smoke rising into the air in great torrents of ash. Hul’shadaam was by no means an ugly world, being a temperate planet of green fields, lush forests and deep green oceans, but the recent conflict scarred the local area harshly, and ravaged the land in the relentless hunger of war. Several troops of Shas’la and Fio’la worked diligently between the wreckage and rubble, clearing the area and burying the slain Gue’la with more care than the pink-skins had ever shown the children of T’au. Sleek aircraft drifted overhead surveying the scenes below, tracking the progress of the terrestrial kin and searching for any further resistance. Teams of Crisis-Suits jumped across the fields, ensuring the security of theTau efforts and mercy-slaying any injured Gue’la who remained.

Through the smog and the detritus marched the victorious cadre’s commander, clad in his advanced Crisis-suit like ceremonial armour. A’Halbiim marched swiftly across the burning fields, stopping now and then to offer words of encouragement to his labouring forces as he approached the temporary command structure that had been lowered from the fleet above. A sloping, domed building the colour of clear skies, it appeared as a diamond among coal in this place, graceful and stately, typical of the Fio Castes fine craftsmanship and ingenuity. Surrounded by slaved Drone Defence towers and a thick, partially ionised wall, the structure lent no ambiguity to who had won the battle this day.

A’Halbiim passed the outer bulwark, a pair of Shas’la on guard saluting smartly as he passed. He returned the gesture slightly, his armoured suit making the gesture feel obvious and ungainly, although neither of the guards reacted. The shouldered their rifles and awaited his passing before resuming their watchful duties. He continued on into the main courtyard, several Devilfish and Hammerhead skimmers in camouflage patterns sitting silently along the outer wall, small groups of Fio’la maintaining the grass stained vehicles in quiet concentration. Several of the skimmers bore marks of laser burn and gunfire, and the fastidious workers plied their trade expertly. Their overalls and robes were stained in oil and plasma offshoot, as were their hands and tools. None of them acknowledged the Crisis-suit as it stalked by, too caught up in the good work they were doing.

He paid them no mind and mounted the raised dais into the command structure.

Inside the air was cool and clean, his suits sensors running multiple scans and checks almost immediately. He passed through a pair of automated checkpoints and through a curved corridor into the main hub of the structure. A hive of activity filled the tall room, and the sound of organised chaos made A’Halbiim smile ruefully. This was the legwork of the Tau’va. The noisy, somewhat hectic legwork...

A group of soldiers and dignitaries stood clustered at the centre of the room, beneath a holographic projection of the world they were currently stationed on. Around them several Fio’Ui and Fio’la worked diligently on consoles around the walls, feeding data to the main readout above their heads. Glittering lines and sensor blips covered the artificial globe, painting the forces of the Tau upon the planet and the know locations of enemies. Numerous wraith-like projections of orbital cruisers hung over the crystalline tableau, smaller vessels coming and going from their immense forms. Other command centres were highlighted in bright green across the globe, a network of nerve centres and intelligence agencies coordinating the work of the Greater Good on Hul’shadaam.

Ignoring the gathered commanders in the chamber for the moment, A’Halbiim approached an alcove recess built into the main chamber, slotting his armoured feet into power points built into the floor and deactivated his suit’s seals and locking mechanisms with a mechanised hiss. A gentle, feminine voice confirmed the suits disengagement, and natural light filtered into the commanders view as his suit opened.

Like an ocean-bound bivalve, the armour’s chest section rose on graceful pistons and suspensor fields, small traces of ion hazing and static flowing from the casket into the air. The actual cockpit was contained within the crisis-suit’s torso, and A’Halbiim loosened his shoulders and spine as the suit unfolded, several small aches and pains building up over extended periods of time in such a small space. The arm segments and lower abdominal armour unfurled like petals, and the frontal control strut descended to give the commander room to exit the pod. He rose from the control cradle, his back sweating slightly from the suit’s internal humidity and took a grateful breath of fresh air.

A’Halbiim was thirty-one cycles in age, old by Tau standards, especially the standards of the Shas. Most members of his caste met their end in gloriuous battle in defence of the Empire, but he had been blessed both in his will to survive and also to better his standing. He had risen gradually to the rank of Shas’O through hard work and what he liked to call “old fashioned feet in the dirt”. The Tau’va may be a pure and clean ideal, but the wars that got you there certainly were not. He was beloved by his followers and admired in several of the outer spheres for his hard-working attitude and slew of stalwart victories, particularly those his cadre, The Mua’d Heriim (The Strike from Above) had help liberate in the later expansions. It was even suggested that his name and the name of his warriors were known to the highly esteemed Aun’Va and his kin. Such lofty praise may go to the heads of some, but not A’Halbiim who still considered himself a warrior first, a commander second.

He approached the collected group of leaders and experts, receiving several respectful nods and salutes from most, including genuine smiles of warmth and friendship from some. Only one of their number failed to offer any kind of respect, and A’Halbiim was wily enough to expect none.

Two of their number were Shas’vre Emiit and Shas’El Dwimelin, two of his closest confidants and subordinates. Emiit was chief amongst his scouting formations and Dwimelin was a hardened Crisis-Suit pilot, older than even A’Halbiim. They led the Mua’d Heriim at his side, and both had saved his life several times over. They were also loyal friends, who had come from the same Trials of Fire as A’halbiim and he considered them his closest kin. The had arrived before their commander, paving the way for his arrival.

To their right, dressed in crystalline white and blue flowing robes and silks, stood the tall and stately figure of Por’El Ui’Aa’Mai, her regal bearing partly excellent training, partly excellent genes. She nodded politely at the commander, her large brown eyes quite beguiling, he luminous, pale hair dressed back in a style that was apparently very fashionable upon the homeworld. A’halbiim made a mental note to approach her after the meeting and discuss the coming diplomacy on the world, and perhaps diplomacy over a quiet drink later on…

Beside her was the curmudgeonly faced master of the Fio Caste on Hul’shadaam, Fio’O Hoosh’ull osh’trii. He was a squat tank of a Tau, all muscle and time-worn skin, his bulging form squeezed into a red work suit and oil-stained breeches. His stained demeanour and uncouth appearance seemed to annoy the carefully poised Ui’Aa’Mai, which entertained the old builder immensely. His eyes were shining coins on his dark, almost purple face, and he chewed on Hem’ma leaves almost constantly. Hem’ma was greatly dissuaded in the central spheres for their addictive qualities and possible health issues, but out here in the new territories there were greater concerns than low-grade narcotics. He nodded briskly to A’Halbiim, respect evident between the two masters.

At the head of the group stood the almost fragile figure of Aun’Ui Ene’wii, the overall leader of the expansion into Hul’shadaam. He stood hunched as if ancient and worldly, but his eyes spoke of a fire and thirst quite at odds with his geriatric disposition. He smiled at the approaching commander, raising a gnarled hand from his pale, smooth staff in greeting. The commander and the old Ethereal had crossed paths on many occasions, and A’halbiim happily considered the old leader as both a teacher and friend.

The only Tau who did not offer A’Halbiim any greeting or respect was the glowering lump of muscle and scar-tissue that was Shas’O Gru’shu, former sole Cadre Commander of the Hul’shadaam offensive. His cadre, the Relentless Wind, had battered the planets defenders for almost a full cycle, with very little headway being made against the Gue’la hordes. He was a brutal and cynical commander, happy to spend the lives of his troops if it mean victory for the Tau. The Greater Good at any cost was the motto he lived by, so long as at any cost did not involve his own sacrifice. A’Halbiim loathed Gru’shu, and the feeling was evidently mutual. The lack of progress on Hul’shadaam had spurred Ene’wii to request support from his old friend A’Halbiim and the implied slight from this act sat very badly with Gru’shu. He offered no greeting, simply glowering at his fellow commander as he approached.

Hul’shadaam offered his peers greeting, tracing the icon of the T’au in the air with both hands, and spoke with the greatest of respect in a traditional (and highly formal) greeting.

“Greetings to you all. May the light of the Tau’va shine ever upon you and yours. Shas’O A’Halbiim Al’Huul Tau’Reash answering summons to offer aid.”

Before anyone else could offer greeting, Gru’shu spat at the feet of his fellow commander, and fixed him with his malicious, beady eyes. When he spoke, his voice was loaded with spite and dishonour.

“Not that your aid was need A’Halbiim…are you here to relieve me, eh? You here to explain why your horde of glory-hogs are a better fit to crack this nut? You here to point out my mistakes like some damned Shas’Shaal?”

The others raised angry voices at the scarred general’s outburst, both in defence and denial, the subject of reinforcement being a painful one to all gathered.

Hul’shadaam was not an expansion colony, nether was it in the Empire’s immediate sphere of influence. It was a backwater planet, claimed by the barbaric Imperium of Man as a garrison world, a bulwark against the encroaching Tau Empire. The great military minds of the Tau would have ignored the world entirely had disaster not struck the outer sphere closest to the world. A blight had taken hold of several farming colonies on the edge of the most recent expansion, a withering due to an alien migration. The aliens themselves passed by quickly, unwilling to be stopped or held accountable by the Tau, but their corruptive influence remained on the worlds they passed. Decades worth of farm infrastructure collapsed and died in a few short weeks, forcing the inner worlds of the Empire to support the new colonies. This was a terrible dilemma for the colonists, who bent all their resources into both fixing the damage done and also locating a stop-gap world that could feed the hungry colonies. Whilst Hul’shadaam was out with their territory, it was close and fertile enough to be a viable option, and also a potential colony in future expansions. A military and diplomatic endeavour was put in motion, the Tau forces confident that they could pacify this unruly world quickly and efficiently.

That had been a full cycle ago, the Gue’la obstinately refusing to surrender their hold on the planet. Gru’shu fed his forces into a meat grinder where the only victory would be one tainted by time and needless bloodshed. Tau High Command felt new leadership was in order, a fresh outlook to an old problem. And had sent in the Mua’d Heriim to aid the beleaguered forces. A’Halbiim knew he would face resistance from Gru’shu, and he would be lying if he said he didn't relish the chance to put the commander in his place.

With decorum and a wry smile, A’Halbiim gave the grim-faced Gru’shu an equally withering stare and stated matter-of-factly:

“No Gru’shu, I am not here to point out your mistakes…I am here to fix them”

So DLS...if Mua'd Heriim is the Strike from Above, would that make Mua'd Diib the Strike from the Sands?

Liked the two most recent installments. Good to see somebody giving a little bit of life to the T'au. Too often they come across as one-note, barely machines subservient to the greater good with no individual drives beyond the Aun'va.

That said while I like the nuance, it's a hard balance to make alien characters relateable as well as alien. I think this past passage was slightly too far on the "human" side of things than being a truly outside perspective looking in. You did a great job of communicating the utter wrongness of Chaos and psykers in the previous installments, so perhaps a similar but different approach might work for the Tau.

Tau do share some human aspects, there not entirely alien like chaos, Eldar definitely but Tau I see as sharing some human characteristic's.