lowmanjason wrote:

sluggaslugga wrote:


Good enough?

Very good. Thank you for you entry! But can you please ad a title

The rules have been posted up in an earlier post. If you have submited something before now I will allow you to make whatever changes that may need to be made but no more after tomarrow 1600CST

sluggaslugga wrote:

lowmanjason wrote:

sluggaslugga wrote:


Good enough?

Very good. Thank you for you entry! But can you please ad a title

The rules have been posted up in an earlier post. If you have submited something before now I will allow you to make whatever changes that may need to be made but no more after tomarrow 1600CST

Ok, I just added the title.

Avatar 720 wrote:I might join in. Just a few quick queries:

Does the one entry per author rule mean 1 entry for the whole thing? Or one entry per category? So could one post a story for Fantasy and another story for 40k? Or just 1 story altogether?

I will allow one per catagory

Word Limit. The lack of an official one is quite strange, it could mean smaller stories end up being the only ones read and therefore the only ones that win; conversely, it could mean that shorter ones are ignored in favour of one thought to have more detail. Having a word limit, or seperate sub-categories such as 1000-1999 words, 2000-2999 words etc. etc. would make the contest fairer.
It's probably impractical to put one in now after people have posted entries, but for future ones i'd advise it.

If you think it will be an issue then I think it is fair to go with Purplefood's 5000 word limit (I will make the corrections in the posted rules BTW)

Also for future contests, would they be themed (like horror, romance, western, comedy etc.)? Themes add a little more fairness, since everyone is writing for the same genre, it'd also test the adaptability of authors.

For now I think we will leave the themes to be 40K or Fantasy to just get things started

EDIT:

One further question - What timezone is the closing date using? Would it be midnight on July 3rd or midnight on July 4th?

July 4th 2359 CST

Brother-Captain-Rawr! wrote:I'm in.

Just finished a story based on the Blood Fists space marine chapter.

LoneLictor wrote:Decimus' Bad Day

lowmanjason wrote:

LoneLictor wrote:Decimus' Bad Day

Wow, nice twist!

Avatar 720 wrote:One last question, do you want entries posted here? Or can they be hosted through Google Docs? Only i've just previewed my 40k having copied and pasted it to test the layout, and the forum plays merry hell with my formatting.

If there's going to be a seperate voting thread (I assume there will be for poll reasons) then it shouldn't be a problem to simply e-mail you the google document as an attachment once it's completed so you can post the entry in the opening post.*

*This relies on two things:

There being a seperate voting thread.
&
All the stories being in the Opening Post, albeit hidden under labelled spoiler tags.

If I can't host it, then I can try and format it as well as possible, but it won't flow as well as intended.

CadianCommander wrote:When's the cut off to have them in? I'm really love to post something up for this but work-wise time is against me write now to sit down and write a piece.

The Path of Drayaan

”A Striking Scorpion walks his path his whole life. An Exarch of the Striking Scorpions turns back and covers his tracks.” Drayaan spent many nights contemplating the meaning of what Exarch Lieath had said all those years ago. As wise as he was powerful, Lieath was known for his sharp wit, timeless knowledge, and deadly skill.
He was long gone.
His death was still considered suspect by many, although Drayaan knew the truth. The Destroyer called him, and he reluctantly answered. His Exarch armour and weaponry, sacred to the Aspect of the Striking Scorpions, were the only things left to remember him by.

”We hunger for vengeance, and our lust for it shall be sated; one way or another.” To ignore the teachings of the Dire Avengers was a fatal mistake; Exarch Maerik was always the first to state that fact. Quick to anger, he was a foe which thousands lost their lives fighting. Rage and fury were his drugs, and his diresword was his release.
He, too, was long dead.
Like Lieath, his death is debated. Nobody saw him die on the plains of Abinissae, but then again, nobody has managed to stand alone before an Ork WAAAGH! and live to tell the tale.

”We take Arachnophobia to a whole new level.” Dark humour was a favourite of Velorne, Shoi-Vaar’s Warp Spider Exarch. Having stared death in the face and lived countless times, and leading her fellow aspect warriors into battle through short hops in the warp, it served as the only thing she had that could keep her sane. Losing so many friends to the warp did that to her.
She was also no more.
A valued and venerated warrior; she was the last of the original Exarchs of Shoi-Vaar to fall. Her countless years of wisdom and skill had saved the Craftworld more times than Drayaan had thought possible. And yet here he sat. The Autarch of Shoi-Vaar. The commander of a dead Craftworld. The hulking wraithbone craft that was once alive with activity had been reduced to a silent shell.

The Seers had also passed into history. Drayaan had held Farseer Thelora in his arms as she slipped away; he could remember her death vividly in his mind, as if it were happening again before him. The very memory never failed to bring tears to his eyes.

The plague of the Great Lord of Decay had brought the Craftworld to its knees as it ravaged its inhabitants, sparing only its leader; a testament to what happened to those who opposed the Ruinous Powers. He could’ve taken his own life to spare himself the grief of watching Shoi-Vaar buckle and fall to its knees. But he refused to taint the memory of this once noble Craftworld; they would be remembered as stalwart warriors, not as doomed fools led by a coward. That was, however, if they were remembered at all.

Drayaan stood and stretched his muscles, his turquoise aspect armour clinging to his muscled form. Through the tinted eyes of his helm, he surveyed the empty halls and corridors that stretched for miles across the craft. No hint of a plague remained, save for the cloying scent of death that lingered in the air.

He slowly stalked the pristine white walkways as he did daily. Not even he knew what it was for. Perhaps he’d happen upon a survivor, or an enemy to vent his rage upon. Disappointment was all that ever laid in wait.

Like a ghost, his steps were silent. No sound could be heard bar his steady breathing. You could hear a pin drop, if there was someone around to drop one. The Craftworld was so eerily peaceful; it could drive the most rational person to the limits of his sanity. Drayaan often wondered whether he was still sane as he patrolled the corridors, guarding the spirits of the damned against a threat that had yet to make its presence known.

It would not be long now.

As Thelora became weaker, she had uttered one last prophecy to Drayaan, ”Amongst the ghosts of the past, the leader of none will be guided to the bearers of the plague, and will bring upon them the wrath of ages, and the vengeance of his heart. The father of disease incarnate shall gaze into the jaws of the warp-stalker, and fall before the blade of spirits. His banishment shall redeem the souls of the fallen, for the exile of life fears nothing of death.”

He was leader of none walking amongst the ghosts of the past Craftworld. Maerik’s Diresword was sheathed at his waist, sparks of energy playfully leapt across the sheath, belying the deadliness of the weapon; Velorne’s Jump Generator was fixed to his aspect armour, one of her Death Spinners mounted on his free wrist. Atop his head he wore Lieath’s helm, vibrant gold plumes cascaded down his back, and a deadly pair of Mandiblasters were built into the lower jaw of the helm.

His free hand he preferred to keep liberated. Having touched upon the Path of the Seer prior to the Path of Command, he had learned how to control some elements of his innate psychic powers. Further up his free arm sat a shimmershield; a golden forcefield projector that spared him the use of heavy armour. In a glittering woven gold pouch on the opposite side of waist from the Diresword, was a single spirit stone. That of Thelora. He drew the pouch open and plucked her spirit stone from it, recognising its touch. He held it mournfully in a loose fist, lest something happen to it. He would never be able to forgive himself if something did.

Carefully he opened his hand and let the translucent stone sit in the middle of his palm, the light of the Craftworld reflecting off it and casting a crimson shadow across Drayaan’s hand. Sorrow was replaced by anger and rage as the stone brought about memories of the plague; crackling eldritch lightning coursed through the palm upon which the stone sat, and darted between his fingers as he battled to contain his fury. At last he closed it off again in his mind and the lightning receded.

Drayaan lovingly replaced the spirit stone and turned towards the armoury. Its walls were the same crisp white as the Craftworld, and it appeared that it could’ve housed at least ten Falcons on each level. Ironic that it now only served a purpose to a single member of the Craftworld. From a few shelves, he gathered some small necessities. Clusters of plasma grenades were clipped to his belt, followed by a simple laspistol; it was unlikely that he’d happen upon replacement blocks for shuriken weaponry once he’d left. A laspistol would do for now. He holstered it beside the pouch containing Thelora’s spirit stone and escaped the silent armoury.

Soon. He calmed his mind as he wondered when it would come. Soon, he told himself. Very soon. Time itself seemed to slow as Drayaan gazed out into space. The Warp Storm was almost upon Shoi-Vaar, and the Craftworld would be no more, but it would have its revenge. The craft rocked as it was struck by a tendril of warp lightning, and another, and another. Pulsing purples and radiant reds shone from the heart of the storm. Another arm of lightning struck the Craftworld, fingers of it coursed through, tainting the wraithbone.

Timing was everything. Velorne had taught him that much. Too early and he’d be caught in the storm on the ruins of the Craftworld. Too late and he’d overshoot the Space Hulk residing at the tempest’s core. He had a window of mere seconds to make the jump. He stood stoically as the Craftworld was pulled apart by the strength of the storm. Wraithbone supports buckled and splintered, or were struck by the warp lightning and simply obliterated. It was now or never.

Without a second thought, he activated the Jump Generator on his back and disappeared, leaving the Craftworld to its fate.

An overpowering stench of rot assaulted him as he materialised. He deactivated a few of his helmet’s advanced sensors and the odour was expelled. In a Space Hulk full of decay, smelling your enemy’s presence would be impractical anyway. Glancing around his landing point, he could see corridors of nothing but pestilence. Muddy green filth lined the walls, and writhing pus-filled pustules protruded from the corners where rancid liquids gathered, dripping from unseen crevices.

Drayaan advanced slowly, his stomach demanding that he vomit but his mind being too distracted to care. Several times he’d stepped on something, only for it to violently burst beneath his armour, coating his feet and legs in thick, cream-coloured gunk that often came dotted with specks of crimson blood. Still he kept going, wading through sections that had become miniature swamps—more than once he found himself staring at sudden movements beneath the toxic muck, swearing that a single, bloodshot eye once glared right back.

The Human ship was a confusing mess of halls and shafts. Several times Drayaan had to turn back, or passed something he’d sworn that he’d already gone past. Fear clawed at him like a rabid animal. Whatever it was that infested the plagued ship was yet to make its presence known. Time became meaningless. Minutes and hours passed with seemingly equal speed, sometimes dragging and sometimes speeding up.
Eventually, the ache of panic set in. Was he going to die here? A lone crusader bested by some dirty water and pus?

Every creak the ship made caused Drayaan to freeze and level his Death Spinner at nothingness. Whatever infested the ship was taunting him, waiting for him to give in to insanity before it showed itself. Panic gave way to frustration. Deathly laughs echoed through the ship, reverberating off the walls and carrying the disembodied cackles along the length of the hulk,
“Coward! Show yourself!” Drayaan growled.
Only laughter replied. Drayaan scolded himself for getting annoyed at noise. An Autarch was supposed to be a reliable commander. Drayaan was only a commander of ghosts now. He was a walking spirit, an exile of life. Why should he fear the inevitable? At least he had a chance at revenge. Death could do nothing to scare him now. It was coming to claim him, and he’d seen enough of it to know that it would come whether you fell in battle, or passed from age. One could not be more or less dead if one died a different way from another.

Looking ahead, Drayaan could see a low cloud of gas permeating the hulk. It crept along silently, approaching Drayaan as it sensed its presence. As if it was sentient. A low gurgle pierced the silence from behind the gas cloud as it rose up, shrouding the corridors that were previously clear with a thick opaque fog that was no doubt poisonous. Something clattered about from where the gas had come. Distant squelching grew louder every second until it came accompanied by heavy, rattling breaths.

Drayaan crouched into a lower position, his right hand firmly around the hilt of his diresword and his left hand already crackling with energy. Sparks flew from his wingers and tickled the gas as it surrounded the Autarch, causing it to back away somewhat before renewing its steady assault. Relying on Lieath’s helm to filter out the toxins, Drayaan waited for his prey to come to him.

Yet something was amiss. There was no more sound. No plodding. No phlegm-filled breathing. No cackles or clattering or scraping. The hulk had been plunged into a deadly silence. Drayaan waited with bated breath for the onslaught. Everything—even the poison gas—was still.

He rolled suddenly to his right as a wicked metal blade whistled through the air from behind him, expecting to crack open his helm and let the deadly gas take its hold. Drayaan was too quick for his assailant and spun to face him, his diresword coated with energy that lusted for a taste of flesh. What he saw drew a slight gasp. Before him stood a creature of pestilence. Swamp green flesh half-heartedly clung to its bony structure; organs and guts of every description oozed out of gaps and orifices caused by the decaying skin, dried blood and pus caked the creature’s naked, bloated body.

Its feet looked far too small to support the body, and sprouted long, sharp nails. Two claws acted as hands, sporting a variety of bony protrusions and spines. In one claw it carried the metal blade. The blade itself was covered in orangey-brown corrosion, even though it looked as sharp as the day it was made. Atop the body sat a fat head with a single, melon-sized bloodshot eye, a drooping mouth with lines of fierce fangs, and a menacing bone horn sprouting above it. A Plaguebearer.

Drayaan had fought daemons before, but only those that followed the cultists and Chaos Space Marines of the Ruinous Powers into battle. Those that came willingly into the service of mortals paled in comparison to those whom ruled themselves; those that had no minds bar their own; those that relied not on rituals to be sustained in the material plane. Aboard the plague hulk, they were in the warp; the home of daemons. And Drayaan had just trespassed.

The beast roared and fired phlegm and spittle in all directions, coating Drayaan’s helm. He wiped the sticky residue off with his free hand, and rolled again to avoid a lazy overhead strike from the daemon. Diseased as they were, these creatures were slow. Drayaan held back no longer, and thrust the diresword into the swollen stomach of the Plaguebearer. In a rush of gas, its stomach exploded. Decaying insides splattered across the floor and viscous green liquid dribbled from the gaping hole in the daemon’s chest.

Drayaan rolled back, ready to strike again. He knew that the daemon wouldn’t go down that easily. However, he didn’t count on the Plaguebearer seemingly ignoring the wound. It turned, snarled and raised its blade again as if nothing had happened. Drayaan flicked his blade up and separated the daemon’s claws from its arms. Its huge eye watched his claws and weapon fall to the floor and stared at the oozing stumps that were left behind.

Confused, it tried to grab the sword to return the attack, but Drayaan offered no quarter to the wounded beast, and drove the diresword through its eye, cutting up and splitting the head open. What slopped out almost forced Drayaan to his knees as his legs buckled; instead, he simply gagged and watched the liquefied contents of the daemon’s head spill out onto the floor. The wound spluttered and the daemon swayed violently, before falling back and exploding as it hit the floor, spraying what was left up the walls and across the floor and ceiling.

Grimacing beneath his helm, Drayaan wiped away yet more muck from his eyes. It was a messy kill, but relatively simple. Their frail bodies would make the Death Spinner an invaluable weapon against masses, but in the tight spaces of the plague hulk, there would be no guarantee that the monofilament wouldn’t catch on something.

As he rose, the gas was once again alive and swirling up around his ankles. Moans and groans betrayed the presence of more Plaguebearers, no doubt attracted by the first. Ghostly forms appeared in the poisonous haze, and Drayaan leapt at them without restraint. Whenever he lunged, all the diresword pierced was gas. Cuts and slashes did naught but slice through the fog, A deep, rumbling laugh filled the plague hulk as Drayaan wasted his energy chasing ghosts, but knowing that if he ignored one, it could be the one that was real.

At last, the blade met soft, diseased flesh, drawing a blasé grunt from the Plaguebearer on the end. Withdrawing the diresword, a swift cut to the neck removed the threat before it could even lift its weapon. A second later, a blade ripped through the air towards Drayaan’s shoulder. Realising he couldn’t bring the blade up fast enough; he sent a coruscating arc of energy towards his foe from his free hand. The blade stopped dead and slipped to the floor from limp hands as the charred remnants of its owner toppled forwards.

More Plaguebearers stepped up to take the place of those Drayaan felled. For each he decapitated with his diresword or destroyed with psychic energy, another handful took its place. Their attacks were slow but uncoordinated; the randomness of each strike forcing Drayaan on the defensive, as he struggled to parry and block the blows sweeping in from every angle. Slowly but surely, he was being overrun. He had but one choice.

Activating his jump generator, he disappeared from the crowd of bewildered daemons and re-appeared far down the hall. Luckily, the hall was empty, and gave Drayaan time to recollect his bearings.

Gradually, the daemons turned and refocused, staggering towards Drayaan. Artfully, he aimed and fired off his Death Spinner, the monofilament unfurling mid-flight and slicing the daemons apart as magnetic clamps were drawn to the interior of the ship. The soft flesh and decayed bones did little the halt the speed of the net; those daemons trapped under it as it came to rest wriggled and writhed against the constricting wire, until they too met the same fate as their brethren.

Drayaan watched the last Plaguebearer become rigid and explode before letting out a long sigh. One threat had been dealt with, for now at least. As he turned to move on, mysterious clusters of sound echoed from further down the hall. A sea of tiny beasts, no bigger than the eyeballs of the Plaguebearers, were dashing at Drayaan, chattering and gurgling gleefully. Before he could react, a few had bounded onto him, climbing up his legs and hugging his body. Tiny rows of teeth gnawed at his aspect armour as the plagued blobs of green, blue and red assailed him.

He picked one off and threw it against a wall, where it burst and slid back down. The horde of Nurglings stopped to watch, each of them enthralled by the oozing body of their sibling slowly slipping down the wall. One of them screamed with what Drayaan assumed was laughter, and the horde erupted in chirps and squeals as they went back to their main target. Drayaan desperately picked at them, trying to kick them off, but them swept over him like a wave.

The weight of so many pushed him to the floor, where the others were free to dash over him, leaving trails of slime. Swinging his diresword, a line of them burst, but the rest pinned his arms down as they did his legs. A gaggle of them yanked at the woven gold pouch at his waist and pulled out Thelora’s spirit stone, ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ at their new find. Drayaan fought to free himself from the army of Nurglings as he watched the group battle for possession of the spirit stone.

Fury spread like wildfire through Drayaan as he struggled. No daemon would defile Thelora. Not whilst he had a breath in his body. With a shout, he blasted himself free of Nurglings as he drew upon his psychic power. The group with the spirit stone wailed and cried as he approached. They clambered over each other to escape him, and they didn’t need to get far. Drayaan watched them run through the front legs of another one of Nurgle’s twisted creations.

Before him stood a giant beast. Its body bore a twisted resemblance to a slug, its skin pallid and slimy. Tentacles poked out of it’s head like living strands of hair, waving about wildly. The Nurglings cowered behind it. The beast stared at Drayaan with dark, piercing eyes and loosed a bloodcurdling roar as it charged at the Autarch. Drayaan dived, narrowly missing contact with the beast of Nurgle. He ducked into a crouch, diresword in hand and waited for the next charge, which came almost instantaneously. Rolling again, be brought the diresword around and carved a line through the beast.

Clear liquid gushed from the wound, dotted with bits of guts and flesh, but the beast seemed not to notice, charging again at Drayaan. This time, it clipped him on the heel, the impact alone sent Drayaan skidding across the floor. Before he could react and teleport away, the beast was upon him, striking him square in the chest, with the shimmershield on his arm bearing the brunt of the strike. Drayaan was flung into the wall behind him and clattered to the floor, dazed.

Triumphantly, the beast stood over him, ready to dismember the Autarch bit by bit. Drayaan flicked his head to face the beast and released a hail of fire from his mandiblasters that lances across the daemon’s flesh. It clawed at its eyes as it was blinded, cutting deep gashes that oozed like the other wound. It roared violently and flailed in all directions. Drayaan watched the beast as it roared again; he plucked a grenade from his belt, activated it and shoved it into the open maw.

Realisation came too late for the daemon, as it erupted in a blinding flash of plasma. Scorched flesh scattered across the hall and rained down. The Nurglings were gone, already hurrying down the hall with Thelora’s stone. Drayaan picked himself up and darted after them.

The fog had cleared, making the next wave of Plaguebearers easy to see coming. They seemed not to notice the chortling Nurglings darting between their legs; either that or they ignored them. Drayaan was beyond angry, both at himself for letting them get Thelora’s stone, and them for taking it. He was angry that he was alone without her. That he held her as she’d died in his arms. That his Craftworld had died for the sake of death.

Coils of eldritch energy lanced through the Plaguebearers. Drayaan’s rage controlled his psychic power now, focussing it and drawing upon the surrounding warp for power. Risk was nothing new to him, dying here or having his mind destroyed by other warp denizens was a difference he was not prepared to argue. Death was death in any case.

The Plaguebearers that got close enough tasted the power of the diresword. Twisting and turning, Drayaan slipped through his foes. The spirits of previous owners of his armour and weaponry joined with his own, lending their experience and skill. He was no longer an Autarch; he was the destroyer incarnate. Molten fury worthy of Khaine himself pulsed through his veins; his wrath was not to be incurred this day, for those who did so would die a brutal, agonising death.

Another Plaguebearer fell. He’d lost count of how many he’d bested. His limbs grew weaker as he battled, but gained energy whenever he spotted the darting Nurglings amidst the crowd of daemons. The end of the hall was in sight; it looked to be a control room of some description, but the equipment was long since defunct. In the middle stood a tall figure, about eight feet tall. Thick green armour coated his body, the metallic trims long rusted and weathered.

The only skin visible was the back of his head, which sported long power cables and other implants. The last Plaguebearer exploded on the ground and the armoured figure shifted. He cast two armoured arms out his sides and summoned two discs of green goo. The discs shifted and roared to life, spinning and convulsing as two dark shapes emerged. Maniacal laughter from the armoured figure rang through the room as two beasts of Nurgle rose up at his side. The Nurglings ran out from their cover and over to the figure, who bent down and picked up Thelora’s stone,

“It seems Greatfather Nurgle will have more than one prize today. Thank you for delivering this to me Drayaan.” The figure’s voice was rattling and wet with a condescending tone, “I’m afraid that I promised my pets they’d be fed today, but I’m all out of food.” He reached out and scratched the heads of the beasts as they stood stone still, “You’ll have to do.”

Both beasts sprang towards Drayaan, but his attention was focussed elsewhere. Without batting an eyelid, the rage inside him at the sight of the Chaos Space Marine handling Thelora’s stone had overflowed. He was only partially in control of his actions as he bent sideways to avoid the first beast, squatting low to carve a huge line across its length with the diresword from below. The second beast was unperturbed by the sudden death of its sibling, and jumped at Drayaan.

With alien speed, Drayaan sidestepped the beast and loosed a terrific burst of energy into it. The daemon’s howls were pained as the energies tore it apart. Drayaan was already running at the Marine, diresword in hand. The marine turned and batted it away with a glowing power sword of his own,
“Ha! I expected more cunning from an Autarch. No wonder your people died so easily.”
Drayaan didn’t hear the taunt; he was livid; furious beyond reasoning. He drew the diresword back up and down, forcing the marine into a twisting block. Running the diresword along the edge of the power weapon, Drayaan looped it beneath the opposing blade and into the abdomen of the marine.

The marine stared down at the wound and laughed. Drayaan called upon the spirit inside the blade; his opponents thus far had been mindless daemons, not so with the marine. Crackling energy, the blade shone a brilliant blue, silencing the marine. The spirit trapped inside the blade was warring with the marine’s mind. A blinding flash of white came from behind the marine’s eyes, and he went limp, his mouth still open in a soundless scream.

Drayaan removed the blade and tried to prise Thelora’s spirit stone from the marine’s limp grasp. The hand tightened. Suddenly, the marine convulsed. Buboes erupted from his armour, rending it and breaking it away. A solid mass of flesh burst forth as the marine swelled. The creature taking his place bellowed as a face formed before Drayaan. The prophecy was correct.

The Greater Daemon of Nurgle stared at Drayaan through evil yellow eyes, laughing as he was called into the body of his sacrifice,
“You look upon death, mortal. Let terror rule you as I split your body and drink from it!”
Drayaan stood motionless as the daemon bore down upon him, “I am the exile of life. I have nothing to fear from death.”
Drayaan’s mandiblasters roared to life, blazing a trail of laser across the face of the daemon. It lashed out and Drayaan activated his jump generator, reappearing to the side and continuing the onslaught of laser. Again the daemon attacked, only to be evaded.

As Drayaan disappeared once more, he came upon the daemon from behind. His mandiblasters had long lost their charge, and he’d settled for the laspistol. Calmly, he tossed the pistol aside and grasped the diresword in both hands. Psychic energy blazed through the blade like a firestorm. Beneath his helm, Drayaan’s eyes were alight with the fury of ages. Bringing the blade down, he sliced through the hulking daemon. Eldritch energies coursed through it, roaring with rage.

Howling, the Greater Daemon turn to face his attacker, leaning in close as he was called back to the warp,
“You know not of what you do, Eldar. You meddle with prophecy as if it was a toy. I will return to feast upon your corpse; the Prophecy of Ulnin demands it!”

The face of the daemon contorted as its mortal body exploded outwards, suffusing the room with a brilliant blaze of red light and hurling Drayaan across it and into the wall. He staggered up as the light drew the daemon back into the warp and flickered out. Carefully, he picked his way through the messy remnants towards the glistening crimson stone at the centre of the room.

Falling to his knees, he picked it up and caressed it as it shattered; the shards falling between his fingers. Frozen in place, he watched as time slowed. Each piece struck the floor and broke again. The very nature of the taint upon it rendering it as delicate as thin glass.

Beneath his helmet, fury was replaced by sorrow as Thelora’s spirit was lost. Tears ran freely from his eyes and collected on his chin as he wept. He had given an oath to guard her spirit stone, as he would guard her in life, and vengeance had denied him the fulfilment of that oath. He had betrayed her, betrayed their bond. For a second, he glanced at the diresword next to him and contemplated removing himself from the world.

Ulnin had given him second thought. He remembered a walk he’d taken through the gardens of Shoi-Vaar with Thelora all those years ago. Where they found their trust in each other under the timeless gaze of the crystal Farseers of old, ”Ulnin resides upon the dark moon beset by the storm. His wisdom will guide you when you are lost; truth will break deception; and through his guidance, you will see that your path is clear. Forgiveness is most sincere when you understand that you must forgive yourself.”

Reluctantly, he stood and peered through the smeared windows of the control room. Before him, the dark circle of a moon sat upon the horizon, tendrils of warp lightning swept across its surface, looking to exterminate everything it touched. He replaced his diresword inside its sheath and blew away the shattered remnants of Thelora’s spirit stone, the memory of Thelora’s prophecy emboldening him.

Ulnin—whatever Ulnin was—waited for him on that moon. For his sake, and Thelora’s, he hoped he was correct.