Very good, nice to see my favourite aliens appear in this thread. I take it the craft was a manta.

Now waiting on the eldar, there missing as I think, grey knights, terminus decree, how the astronium is still running?

Lots to cover :-)

Having decided it was unseemly and beyond reproach for Tau to see their betters squabble and snipe like gutter-pikes, Aun’Ui Ene’wii had firmly requested the gathered dignitaries retire to the upper command-levels of the bunker to save further embarrassment and dishonour. An icy atmosphere had settled over the group as they shuffled like scolded children into the upper level, a wide open-domed space dominated by a circular briefing table. Another grand holographic display shimmered above them, outlining the encroachment of the Empire upon the world, mimicking the information from the level below. They gathered around the table, seating themselves below the holographic globe. Gru’shu sat noticeably separate from A’Halbiim and his commanders, glowering darkly. A’Halbiim kept his focus off his fellow Shas’O and looked to Ene’wii whom was the last to be seated, shuffling sorely, gripping his high staff for support. He lowered his ancient frame into his seat, and leaning back audibly began to speak.

“My friends, whilst you all have my highest esteem and I would say are the prime examples of what it is to serve the Tau’va, the behaviour you just displayed in front of your subordinates was unacceptable. Such bickering is the province of the small-species, not subjects of the Empire. I expect better from all of you!”

Looking from Tau to Tau, the gathered commanders sat silently like scolded whelps. Even the reprehensible Gru’shu looked away, suitably chastised. Such is the power of the ethereal caste over their fellows. They were the voice of parental calm over their unruly charges, and upon the worlds of the Empire their words while gentle were iron-clad and law. Nodding to himself, Ene’wii continued.
“Regardless of individual pride, the Greater Good has failed to take root on this world. Whether this is a failing on a military or diplomatic level is yet to be decided, however a change is required if we are to successfully bring Hul’shadaam into the fold. I have invited two guest speakers here today, two that have been in this campaign from the beginning to provide their thoughts on the matter, and see if we can garner a suitable route forward…my friends, please enter”

The entrance to the chamber opened with a hushed sigh of advanced hydraulics and two new figures entered, one marching briskly, the other loping like a predatory animal. They approached the round table, standing either side of Ene’wii. They bowed to the ancient ethereal and took their seats next to him as he introduced them to the group.

“Friends, may I introduce Pketh, Shaper and Kin-Commander of our Kroot auxiliaries here on Hul’shadaam, and Shas’vre Asha. She is primary commander of our Scout & Intelligence forces on-world.”

A’Halbiim sized up the new arrivals as the old Tau spoke, instantly recognising that both were hardened veterans of the campaign, and a million parsecs removed from the arrogance of Gru’shu.

Pketh was a tall and wiry slab of muscle and quills, his near-lupine body clothed in heavy desert robes of leather and chainmail, his belts and bandoliers heavily hung with ammunition and tribal adornments. His skin was a deep, tropical green and boasted dozens of scars and wounds, physical testimonies to his prowess in battle. His head was clothed with a semi-hood of blackened animal hide stitched with thick wire which covered most of his head, leaving his eyes and beak open to the world. As with most of his kind, Pketh’s beak was bone-ash and scarred, and looked razor-sharp. It clicked reflexively and unbidden, and Pketh scanned the room with pale, sharp eyes. His head and upper back were covered in quills, a dizzying field of thin spikes and spines and in his gnarled claws he held a long rifle, doubling as a ceremonial staff, its length adorned with fetishes and trinkets. Pketh was a shamanistic warlord from a different time and A’Halbiim was immensely grateful that such warriors were with the Empire and not against.

The second figure could not be any more far removed from her colleague. She was clothed in dark fatigues and darkened plates of armour, their shape and stamping marking them as advanced stealth suit plating. She carried her helmet, a black XV15 prototype, under the crook of her arm leaving her head unadorned. She wore a braid, tightly bound at the side of her head, and her skin was a tanned, deep blue, her life under numerous suns evident upon her skin. A thin, messy scar ran down the side of her right cheek, a blade wound that had healed long ago. Her eyes were bright and intelligent, and considered the room with hardened stare.

A’Halbiim had heard stories about the elusive Scout & Intelligence forces, a shadowy, highly trained group that orbited outside the usual Fire Caste hierarchy. Such arrangements usually galled the deeply hierarchal Tau, but these deep cover agents reported straight to the Ethereals on all matters, secretive and stealthy, not only on the enemies of the Empire but also on the Empire itself. He knew that their formation came soon after the Farsight debacle, and knew that any failing in any campaign would be noted down and passed to the betters of the Tau. They were the cloaked dagger at the backs of the enemies of the Empire, both without and within. A’Halbiim knew it was unbecoming of someone of his rank, but he instantly distrusted this shadowy agent. His focus returned to Ene’wii as he explained their inclusion in this briefing.

“Both of our comrades here have made great strides upon this world which our military forces have utterly failed to emulate.”

The Ethereal gestured to the holographic dome, which highlight in green and azure the operations both commanders had prosecuted. From the images, A’Halbiim could see their success rate was in the high tiers, almost perfect in fact. Ene’wii continued.

“Asha has several sleeper agents inserted deep within the Gue’la command structure, and her information has led to many of our more successful operations, many times completed by her own Stealth-Teams. She and her cadre should be lauded. Likewise, my learned friend Pketh and his kindred have led a successful guerrilla campaign across the jungle and arboreal regions of the planet. Our Kroot allies have successfully held them for the Greater Good, and they go unchallenged in these theatres…why we cannot seem to emulate these successes eludes me, so I have asked them to come and speak, hopefully they can shed some light on our lack of luck in this venture…”

Gru’shu rankled at the implied insult, but held his tongue. The first to speak was Pketh, who spoke T’au exceedingly well except for it was laden with involuntary clicks and a peculiar flanging of the vocals common to all Kroot. His voice was deep and gruff, and his words were steady and deliberate.

“We have been here for several cycles, enough for the seasons to come and go. We have faced the pale-ones in the towers and spires of the green places, and we have turned them away each time with fire, tooth and claw. We have fed well and often. The prey are strong, but we are stronger. Without open plains and fields, they cannot bring their strength to bear.”

Whilst he spoke, Pketh gestured wide with his claws, the fetishes attached to his rifle clinking softly with his movements. The symbols representing his kindred upon the dome moved across the green plains like snakes, forming complex trails and overlapping walls. It was brilliant planning in motion.

“To strike and move and strike again, this is how we have hunted them. They have tried to pull us out of the woods, into the open, but we see through their ruse and fade again. We see you have strength too, but not of the same kind. You are drawn to their battlefields like an insect to flame. They overwhelm you with numbers and armour that you cannot match. We see this. We know this”

Gru’shu puffed his chest like an alpha animal, clearly about to explode into another tirade when A’Halbiim cut him off.

“Your campaign has been successful as you have maintained a position that denies the Gue’la access to their armour and numbers?”

Pketh nodded, his manner confident without arrogance.

“This is the way of it. The machines of the Gue’la are their strength. The masters of the Gue’la are their strength. We deny them this, we take their strength from them. This is why we have victory but honoured Gru’shu lacks it…”

Pketh looked to Gru’shu, a look of challenge in his eyes, daring the commander to correct him. A stony silence settled on the delegation, which was quickly filled by Asha. She placed her helm on the table before speaking, and her accent was light and fluid, common among members of the southern tips of the Empire.

“We have seen similar to Pketh in our operations also. We are not equipped to take on the Imperial’s war-machines head on, or their overwhelming numbers, but we’ve found other forces have much improved odds of victory when we are inserted to eliminate the commanders of the Gue’la. We have advised Gru’shu of such things before, however our advice has fallen on deaf ears many times. You wish to face them in massed, honourable combat as our ancestors did. This is madness, and has led to the defeat and embarrassment of the Empire on this world.”

Gru’shu rose sharply to his feet, slamming his fists upon the table and pushing his seat back with a harsh scrape. This was seemingly more than he could take. He bellowed, spittle leaving his mouth in a harsh tirade. He blushed a deep blue in anger, and his eyes hardened to the point of fury.

“I will not sit here and be lectured by cowards and savages! You both would slink in the shadows, hiding like whelps and beasts in the mud! You dare question my authority! We are the Empire, there is no foe we cannot face down! You would have me creep like an assassin across this world? Or daub myself in filth and howl at the moon like a best?? I am a warrior! I am a commander! I am…”

Ene’wii raised his hand sharply, and immediately there was silence in the chamber, galling in its immediacy. The Ethereal looked from each leader to the next, before settling on Gru’shu, his eyes like ice. The old master usually exuded the air of a patient teacher or parent, but now he was like stone, dominating strength radiating from him like heat. When he spoke, it was with cold calm and power.

“We are more than aware of who and what you are Gru’shu: a failure, long passed his prime. You have tried to meet the Imperium of Man in open battle, and when that has failed you have then drip-fed your forces into hopeless engagements hoping to buy yourself time from judgement. This is why I have call A’Halbiim and his cadre here” he gestured directly to A’Halbiim and his lieutenants, “to replace you and remove this stain on the Empire’s honour. I strip you of your title and rank. You are an embarrassment to the ideals of the Tau’va. Take him away…”

Where there had been nothing two armoured warriors suddenly appeared, flanking Gru’shu. Their armour hazed and shifted, before snapping into a deep black and crimson. The suits were top-heavy, contoured and fully sealed, glittering beady optics set into their emotionless facemasks. XV25 Stealth suits, they had evidently been in the chamber the whole time, out of sight, waiting for the signal from the Ethereal. More members of Scout & Intelligence, thought A’Halbiim, under the direct command of Ene’wii. This was exceptionally well planned and deliberate: making an example of Gru’shu to all in attendance. How much like a teacher Ene’wii was, even in these harsher moments. Always a lesson to impart. Always a veiled threat behind it. The two warriors trained their heavy, underslung weapons at Gru’shu and gestured wordlessly for him to accompany them.

Gru’shu stood motionless for what seemed like an age, his face grim and his eyes furious. Then in a fluid movement he withdrew his Bonding Knife from its scabbard across his chest. Both the XV25 warriors immediately readied their weapons, and even Pketh raised his rifle in a snap-movement. Gru’shu ignored them and brought his blade down flat against his knee sharply, snapping the blade in two. The symbolism was clear. Silently he tossed the blades two halves across the table to lie in front of Ene’wii with a noisy clatter and marched silently from the chamber, flanked by the dark-armoured agents. A calm descended on the room, and Ene’wii began again, his voice returning to that of a thoughtful parent.

“Thus is the fate of all who consider themselves above others...now that that minor bit of unpleasantness is over, we can return to the matter at hand. Shas’O A’Halbiim as you all know has been successfully persecuting the Outer-Sphere campaigns these past cycles, and I feel he is best equipped to solve our little issue here. Shas’O, please, enlighten us as to how we should proceed. What would you do to fix your forebears mistakes?”

All eyes turned to A’Halbiim, and a shiver ran down his spine to be the centre of such attention. Clearing his throat, and opening his hands wide, A’Halbiim outlined an audacious plan to bring Hul’shadaam into the fold of the greater Good.

OH, wow, if you ever thought of it, in my subscribed threads, there is another story called Thunderhawk Down. You could mix the two stories, as it's about the last surviving Space Marine on a Tau world.

The plan outlined by A’Halbiim was indeed audacious, his detractors would say overly bold and foolhardy, but it is also brilliant in its design and intent. He lays his plan out in detail to his colleagues, with embellishments provided by his lieutenants, and by the end of the briefing the commanders leave with a new sense of purpose. The operation is set to begin within the next three cycles, and wheels are set in motion within the myriad military forces of the Tau on Hul’shadaam. The recently leaderless forces of Gru’shu are adopted by A’Halbiim and his Mau’d Heriim with little friction, the Fire Caste being a fluid and professional caste and surprisingly open to change. Information is passed between the Mau’d Heriim, the stealth forces of Shas’vre Asha and the orbital network of the Tau Fleets, and support from Pketh and his auxiliaries across the span of the arboreal zones.

The sun rose on the third day in the southern hemisphere of Hul’shadaam and Operation Ahsudagu’Wah launched. The operation was a multi-tiered assault, designed to confuse and pick apart the bloated Imperial war machine, denying them their overwhelming strength and forcing them into battles that the Tau Forces could both control and dominate.

It began as many battle had before on the world, suggesting to the Imperials that nothing awry was afoot. A strong host of Tau forces deployed outside one of the major Imperial-held zones, composed of a strong grav-tank contingent boasting seven Sky Ray Missile Carriers. They approached the Imperial trench line just as dawn was piercing the horizon, casting the filed into stark monochrome and blinding much of the Imperial armour temporarily. Energy pulse and missiles rained from the tau forces upon the Gue’la lines, pillars of debris and broken bodies fountaining in all directions. Fire Warriors formed a thin gun line before their vehicles, lending a withering covering fire to delay the Imperial response. To the second, data was fed from the orbiting fleet to the warriors below, the Tau punishing the entrenched enemy, dozens of the Imperium’s warriors dying every second.

Such losses are naught to the monolithic Empire of mankind, and with slow and deliberate purpose, they reacted to their alien enemy. Commands came thick and fast from far behind the front line, fire patterns and assault vectors filtering down into the companies of the Imperial war machine. Stocky, smoke belching tanks revved from behind the entrenchments, firing shells and heavy flack at their distant foe. Monstrous artillery raised their heavy heads to the sky and vomited explosives and shrapnel at the alien invaders. Under the deluge of hot flak and steel came the hordes of Gue’la infantry, laser weapons buzzing and snapping like angry insects, super heating the air between the two warring forces. A handful of Fire Warriors met their end with smoking laser holes burned in their armour, and many more died under the barrage of Imperial fire. The Imperials pressed forward, hammering the enemy with overwhelming firepower.

But before the Imperials could truly begin the battle, the Tau broke. Moving with fluid efficiency, the xenos host pulled back, overlapping lines of retreat and covering fire providing safety for the fleeing elements of the Mau’d Heriim. Fire Warriors retreated smartly under covering fire of grav-tanks and sniper drone teams, then the vehicles themselves crested gently backwards, firing even as they drifted from danger, further ruining the enemy battle lines before them.

The initial engagement lasted less than twelve minutes.

The Imperials, well known for their ‘salt the earth’ and 'leave none alive' approach to warfare, gunned forward after the fleeing Tau, confident that they could annihilate them in the field. Leman Russ and Malcador pattern tanks ground forward speedily on heavy tracks, their turrets and sponsons firing relentlessly after their fleeing foe, stitching the ground with bullet holes and muddy wounds. Infantry rushed forward after their heavily armoured comrades, keen to whet their weapons on the blood of the cowardly aliens.

The pursuit ticked over into the fifteen minute mark.

From high above, in the atmosphere, a grand and elegant Manta flew at sub-sonic speed to its targets below. Bypassing the advancing Imperial army and the battle unfolding beneath it, the Manta dove toward an Imperial Base, one of many command hubs squatting on the surface of Hul’shadaam. It descended like a colossal bird of prey, its great bay doors lowering like talons ready to pounce. From within descended several teams of elite Crisis Suits, leaping into the rushing air as the Manta banked and flew back toward the atmosphere once more. The final suit to descend was the colossal form of A’Halbiim piloting the pride of the Mau’d Heriim, The Strong Right Arm, a monstrous XV104 Riptide Armoured Suit.

Even amongst the advanced technologies of the Tau, the XV104 is a miracle of mechanised warfare. Standing near five times the height of Fire Warrior, the immense machine utilised all the advanced craft and theory that the Fio Caste could bend into a single machine. It strode like demi-god clothed in metals and advanced shielding, and each of its monstrous fists carried energy weapons of staggering potency. Engines powerful enough to hurl craft into orbit adorned its broad shoulders and curved back, and every plate, every joint and every seam was craft to perfection. Complex countermeasures, AI-shielding, Viral Warfare Suites and defence pods filled its armour and made it impregnable to all but the most hardened assaults. Compared to the lumbering machines of the Gue’la, the XV104 was almost biological in its movements and will.

The immense war-suit shadowed its smaller kin, colossal engines on its back roaring to slow its descent. The smaller members of its cadre zipped to and fro like birds circling a parent, all descending at blistering speed toward the enemy encampment. Alarms and sirens rose from the human positions below, keen-eyed lookouts spotting the descending assault as it dropped below the cloud line. Hydra batteries chattered into life, attempting to smite the foe from the skies in a blaze of bullets and hellfire. The descending Tau however were veterans of the descending assault, named the Heriim’vas in the Fire Caste academies, and they jinked and boosted around the rising fire. The XV104 simply shrugged the abuse off, its powerful armour and energy-shields making a mockery of the Imperial fury. It was like a god descending from upon high with its vengeful children, coloured scarlet and gold and armed with the full panoply of advanced warfare.

The Crisis Suits touched down on the sixteenth minute, with direct engagement following thirty seconds after.

The Imperials reacted as had been expected: with overwhelming firepower and infantry assault. Much of their armour had given chase to the initial ground assault by the Tau and only a small percentage of their infantry remained behind with static defences. These proved near laughably inept at the descent of the Crisis Teams, blue and green energy pulses sizzling through the air leaving ruined, steaming holes in bodies and buildings. Lasers and high-frequency heat beams linked the Tau Weapons to their targets, causing outrageous destruction in a dazzlingly short amount of time. Explosions rocked the earth and the air above shimmered with intense heat haze. The Imperials threw themselves at the advanced armour of the Empire, and they were found wanting.

But they were not the true target.

Once the Crisis Teams had begun their descent, the commanders based there had ordered a full-repulsion and requested immediate reinforcement from the frontline. However, much of the Imperial Force was chasing the mobile Tau retreat across the plains and could not aid their erstwhile commanders. The Imperials hunger for battle and brutality had effectively split their host in twain. The commanders, seeing this, responded exactly how Scout & Intelligence had predicted: they retreated in armoured transports away from the battle, leaving their men to cover them. A cowardly tactic, but one that had proven effective against Gru’shu and his static tactics.

Not so with this new plan. On the seventeenth minute of the assault, the Empire struck its concealed blow.

Once the clumsy, armoured carriers had distanced themselves enough from the Crisis Teams and the warring Gue’la, far enough to be beyond any further human intervention, the final strike occurred. Stealth teams linked to Asha’s Scout & Intelligence deactivated their cloaking fields before and within the vehicles, their placement the result of meticulous planning and intelligence. The faded into view like wraiths unleashing a shockingly close firefight upon the fleeing commanders, rending and melting any form of coherent response in seconds. Caught off-guard and unaware, the humans were slain brutally and efficiently, the smoking hulks of the vehicles left as testament to the Tau assault.

Leaving the wreckage and fading away back into the smoke, the Scout & Intelligence vanished as ghosts out of sight. The Crisis teams slew their remaining targets and jetted far into the sky once more, swallowing the land below in great leaps and bounds. The grand Manta returned below, lending its fire in a colossal bombing run between the pursuing Imperials and the retreating Tau.

The firestorm that remained halted the pursuit, and the Gue’la fund themselves without targets once more. When they returned to their forward positions, they were shocked at what they had found. Anarchy erupted, power struggles for who was in command after the slaughtering of the local commanders leading to violence and bitter feeling between the human forces. The Tau slipped away into the growing morning forgotten now by the anarchic humans, having slit the throat of their enemy and now waited patiently for the body to die.

The full assault had lasted no more than twenty three terran minutes. The Empire had suffered minimal casualties. The Imperials had lost the battle, their commanders and the desire to fight on.

The Victory on Hul’shadaam had begun.

sneaky Tau, don't know how to fight a proper meat grinder war, they insist on tactics and not sacrificing millions of lives and thousands of tanks to gain victory, how heretical.

very nice, great bit of writing, and the Tau's unconventional warfare vs the Imperial Goliath of steel, tubes and men.

Nice! I really appreciate how you wrote this, although from a tactical standpoint, wouldn't there be static guns to shoot the Manta, a contingent to protect the commanders, and a reserve force? Also, if either the first assault or the manta had been destroyed, the plan would have crumpled.

Either way, this is a fantastic piece. It's strategy is genuine, though risky. This, I believe, is how Tau really fight. Great job!

It was a daring gamble, and very good contrast to impiriral guards massive bulk and firepower it relies upon to win.

It makes them stand out and is quite fitting. A huge force was beaten by a much smaller force, with far less firepower.

A persistent, staccato beeping dragged A’Halbiim from the warmth of sleep, and dreams of older times and gentler places were replaced by the aches and responsibilities of the waking world. His eyes opened groggily, and immediately a myriad array of small miseries and pains crept across his body: the outcome of many weeks spent in unceasing, mobile war. When his eyes finally came into focus and adjusted to the darkness around him, A’Halbiim sat slowly upward on his cot, rubbing his eyes to chase away the last dregs of sleep. His bunk was as he had left it the night before, his fatigues cast on the floor and neural vestments hung on a rack in the corner. His personal armour hung locked away in an arming crate. A small, yellow light was blinking above the door to his room and the beeping was issuing from it.

Someone was wanting to speak with him, urgently by the sounds of it. Rising from his low bunk, A’Halbiim rubbed an ache at the base of his spine, his arms protesting at the forced movement. The lights in the bunk registered his movement and a gentle, pale glow filled the small chamber causing the commander to squint.

He felt old, very, very old.

The war on Hul’shadaam had been a great success since he and his cadre had taken over from the woefully inept Gru’shu. The first strike of his plan had been a monumental success and the following seven cycles had been equally victorious. Utilizing the advanced speed and flexibility of the Tau Military, the cadres of the Empire had struck numerous points around the globe in quick succession. The armies of the Gue’la were powerful, worthy adversaries, but achingly slow to respond and the superior momentum and speed of the Empire’s forces had seen the enemy washed away in a tide of flame and victory.

A’Halbiim, as was his want, had lead a prong of each assault personally from his Crisis Suit. He believed fundamentally that you could not give an order unless you were willing to enact it yourself, and this had garnered him the trust and love of his warriors and his people. He had led his elite crisis suits into six full battles now, and had been present on dozens of small screening and recon missions, waylaying and delaying the human military on all fronts. He had personally scored twelve direct armour kills, and he had lost count of the number of infantry he had slain in the short bloody conflict. He had thankfully not been wounded in the conflict, however the constant needs of battle and the strain of battle suit piloting left him tense and aching, and the only respite was the cool mattress of his cot. His cadre had known better than to wake him before, unless in the direst circumstance, and the repeated beeping from his door could only bode ill.

Pulling on his fatigues, still crumpled and sweat-stained from the previous days conflict, he keyed open his door with a gentle gasp of released air. A member of his Cadre, U’hull, stood at the door still in his reddened armour. It was muddy and soot stained, but all intact. U’hull immediately went to his knees in respect, his head touching the floor and spoke in a hurried, polite tone.

“Greatest pardons commander, I am sorry I had to interrupt your sleep. You have a communique from Shas’vre Emiit of an urgent nature. Addressed to you and all the upper command staff. There has been a…development. His scout squadrons are already on scene. Glass-Shark Carriers have been mobilized to carry you. Your presence is urgently requested…”

A’Halbiim nodded at his subordinate, taking the communications wafer from him. Scanning the small document, he thanked the warrior for the message and bid him to return to his duties. A Glass-Shark was waiting to carry him to one of the Gue’la fronts, and several battle groups had been rerouted to the area. Further information could not be provided at this time, but A’Halbiim’s presence was urgently requested. His and the presence of much of the Command Staff. A’Halbiim didn’t like it. His plan had been progressing smoothly, and he didn’t like sudden changes or unexplained events.

Closing the door, A’Halbiim moved to put on his armour.

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The world sped by below in a swirl of greens, blues and browns, the voracious speed of the Glass-Shark carrier consuming the distance at a breath-taking pace. The open-sided craft blitzed across the open plains and river deltas of Hul’shadaam, the glorious sunlight above gleaming of the crafts short wings and hull. A’Halbiim stood at the open side panel, his feet planted firmly on the metallic floor. One hand was raised above him, holding onto chain-linked support handle, the other hand resting on his belt. He wore a standard suit of Fire Warrior armour, painted a deep brown, its markings subtly revealing his rank. He chose to not wear the wide, domed helm that was the norm of his caste, instead it hung from the rear of his belt on a tough, fabric loop. He carried no weapons barring his Bonding Blade, but he still radiated easy and natural authority and power. Several warriors of his caste had been drawn as a bodyguard, and sat in the two bonded benches at the centre of the craft. On the opposite door of the Glass-shark, a gun-pod had been attached with jointed mechanical arms, a single warrior in the same coloured armour as the ship manning a long heavy rail-gun. The commander could hear intercom chatter between the gunner and the Air Caste pilot, but chose to ignore it.

In the distance A’Halbiim could make out other craft similar to his, some with Sun-shark squadron cover and some alone. Below as well, he could see the dusty cloud of speeding vehicles heading to the same destination. Every so often a Gue’la vehicle, seemingly abandoned, shot by. On several occasions they passed Cadre battlegroups surrounding Gue’la positions, but he could not make out the familiar whine and crack of massed gunfire he expected. A’Halbiim tried to shake the disquiet from his mind and focussed on their destination: a Gue’la military complex dubbed E’She’hain by Empire Command.


The craft landed at E’She’hain several minutes later, the Glass-Shark descending on a gentle repulsor field and coming to rest amid a verdant grassland. The Gue’la buildings and walls stood as an ugly blotch upon the green plains, angular and clumsy compared to the flowing lines and gentle winds of the world. Trench lines several miles wide scarred the surrounding terrain, crowning the complex like a halo of earth works. Several thousand troops of the empire stood around and within the complex, Crisis Suits and heavier vehicles manning several higher positions. Farther back sat the majestic form of a Manta Carrier, steam and heat haze clouding beneath it. It was a rarity to see the great craft on the ground so colossal were they in size and scale, and A’Halbiim found his disquiet increasing. He approached several Fire Warriors guarding an entrance to the human Trench Systems dug in around the complex, nodding a greeting as he passed them.

Rounding a corner formed of dirt-filled sacks, A’Halbiim halted in surprise.

Gue’la warriors lined the trenches, all unarmed, some curled into balls, most weeping. Some simply stood and stared, their expressions one of intense loss or confusion. One was pulling at his own hair in frustration, whilst another threw up violently into his helm which he held in trembling hands. Warriors of the Empire stood amongst them forming a guard, most were the subordinates of Gru'shu, but none of the humans raised arms against their gaolers. Some clutched at the armour of the Tau, weeping and begging in their guttural tongue, with the Fire Warriors looking about themselves uneasily at the peculiar turn of events.

Moving through the peculiar crowds, A’Halbiim and his guard frequently had to sidestep crying men and women. Some implored at him in their foreign languages, most simply ignored him, their eyes weary, red and haggard. Many times, they passed a Gue’la corpse, its still-smoking weapon in its hand, a single round disintegrating their head.

What could have caused such a sudden outpouring of sorrow? What malady had befallen these aliens? Was it a sickness? An illness? A’Halbiim knew that the human race dabbled in mind-trickery that they Empire had deemed unwholesome and unintelligible. Was this the price they paid as a species for such thing?

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Coming out of the trench network, the commander and his warriors finally entered E’She’hain proper, and the same scenes of disarray and despair met them. Marching through the weeping Gue’la and their Tau guards, A’Halbiim entered the central square of the complex. Before him was a concreted expanse, manned by squads of Crisis Suits (again, noticeably pulled from Gru'shu's forces) and a whole host of Kroot Carnivore’s. A platform had been cleared, and several humans kneeled with their heads down, with many of them seemingly lost in personal despair. The commander nodded toward Emiit, who leaned against his personal Piranha vehicle, his arms folded and his face set in a hard scowl. A’Halbiim approached him and spoke quietly.

“What’s happening here Emiit? What devilry is this?”

His lieutenant shrugged his armoured shoulders, his eyes moving slowly across the gathered humans and Tau.

“I know not Shas’O. We were scouting out their trench lines, three teams, to gauge their strength for the next strike and we found them like this. Wailing like children, wandering aimlessly. Every single one. It’s as if some great tragedy has befallen them all simultaneously, but we can make heed of it. Por’El Ui’Aa’Mai and her ambassadorial corps are here translating, they’re over there with the beloved Aun’Ui.”

A’Halbiim stared in surprise and concern.

“The Ethereal is here? This is a hot zone! It is not safe!”

Emiit gestured around them, his armour creaking slightly.

“Look around you Shas’O, it’s not a hot zone anymore…”

Looking at the Gue’la, in their foetal positions and weeping openly, A’Halbiim had to agree. A small commotion attracted both the veteran warrior’s attention. A group of Fire Warriors, led by the revered Ene’wii, accompanied by Ui’Aa’Mai and her delegation, a sizable black-armoured squad of Scout & Intelligence agents led by the implacable Shas’vre Asha and the Kroot Shaper Pketh.

Alongside them shuffled a robed human, who gesticulated passionately at the Tau delegation. The human did not appear to be of any military rank that A’Halbiim, but instead appeared to be one of the Imperium’s fanatical religious class. He bore a great book in his right hand, and gestured randomly with the left. He appeared old (it was hard to tell with humans) and his eyes and voice showed the same recent trauma as his kin. A’Halbiim approached the group, with Emiit falling in behind his commander. The Shas’O raised his armoured hand in greeting.

“The Tau’va smile upon you honoured Aun’Ui. I must admit to being slightly surprised by your present…company? I was hoping you could explain”

Honoured Ene’wii smiled in his fatherly way and gestured with his head to the human alongside them.

“Honoured Commander, glad you could join us. Please allow me to introduce Rubious Maxstead, the religious hierarch of the Imperium forces here. He has offered us humanities immediate and unwavering surrender on Hul’shadaam”

A cheer went up from the gathered Tau, causing many of the distraught humans to flinch and gaze warily at the sudden outburst. A’Halbiim was stunned.

“Surrender? That is unlike any human force I have ever faced! What is the cause?”

Ene’wii smiled patiently, as if addressing a student.

“Through the lovely Ui’Aa’Mai and translators, it seems the human forces of this world have unanimously thrown down their arms. As to what we cannot identify, but Rubious here has begged the sudden mercy of the Tau’va. He cannot identify why he and his fellows have had this sudden change of heart…but their supplication is total”

A’Halbiim gestured to the priest, who continued to talk animatedly to the Ui’Aa’Mai, who conversed in the human tongue skillfully and with far more grace than any Gue’la.

“Surrender, whilst preferable to wholesale slaughter, must be verified Aun’Ui. Allow my troops to take the humans into custody, allow us to verify this story…and if it proves false then we can act. We came to this world to secure the bounty of the planet, not to slaughter indiscriminately”

Shas’vre Asha stepped forward from her black-armoured agents and nodded in agreement.

“I concur with the commander. This sudden surrender is most unlike the human Imperium, however it is preferable to open, unnecessary bloodshed. We must verify the surrender before any further action can be taken. This cease fire should be used wisely”

A’Halbiim nodded his thanks to the Intelligence Commander, warming to her. He could see Pketh nodding behind the Ethereal in agreement. Ene’wii maintained his smiling, warm demeanor, but his eyes spoke entirely differently. There was something cold and calculating in his eyes, something that spoke of another plan. He turned to the graceful figure of Ui’Aa’Mai questioningly.

“My dear, verify with our friend here that his people will not raise any arms against us upon this world. We have their complete surrender”

Ui’Aa’Mai lilting voice sounded again in the human tongue, strangely exotic from Tau lips, and the priest nodded fervently in response. He compounded his point in his strange dialect before Ui’Aa’Mai nodded her assent.

“We have complete surrender Honoured One. The Imperium will raise no arms against us this day”

Ene’wii nodded his understanding, and in an firm, commanding voice spoke one thing to the gathered Tau.


“Kill them all”



Before any word of correction or query could be raised, the gathered members of the Fire Caste turned their weapons upon the defenceless humans. A’halbiim roared in shock, but his protests came too late. Pulse Rifles coughed and whined as thousands of the Gue’la lost their lives in a barbaric cull. Many were slain by bonding blades, most by ion pulses or laser shots to the head. None resisted, and many seemed willing to be slain. A’halbiim stood in stunned silence, as did Asha. To slay the unarmed was beyond dishonour, to slay those that had already surrendered was doubly so. Even the outwardly barbaric Pketh looked disgusted with the command. A’halbiim did not blame his warriors: who were they to counter the command of the Ethereal. But still, he felt sick to his stomach.

Ene’wii cast one last haughty look at his disciples, before turning on his heels and marching toward his waiting transport. The delegation from the water caste followed him, visibly shaken by the sudden, barbaric violence. The corpses of the humans lay where they had fallen, and already Fire Warriors started to look uneasy with their sudden actions. Ene’wii entered his transport, and before the armoured screens closed A’halbiim noticed a figure within, tall, taller than any Tau, dressed in robes and pale armour plates that were almost biological in form. A’halbiim saw the Ethereal speak to this figure, and the figure bow in kind before the screens snapped shut and the craft rose on pillars of anti-gravity into the air.

What lesson Ene’wii had sought to impart upon the bloody soil this day was lost upon A’halbiim, who shouldered his way grimly past the warriors of his caste back to his ship. The Ethereal, and the Empire it seemed, had other plans for Hul’shadaam, plans that did not allow for the survival of any humans on the world. And whatever these plans were, for the first time in his long, violent life, A’halbiim wanted no part of them.

Ugh, Eldar.

Do any of their plans not involve killing humans?

The Eldar had to come in somewhere. They have been missing of late.

Tricksey slender space elves!

 Mr Nobody wrote:
Ugh, Eldar.

Do any of their plans not involve killing humans?

What?! Where are the Eldar? These were Tau, last time I checked.

Tall, pale robes and form fitting armour that's organic in design, Eldar seems a good bet.

Who else could it be?

[redacted]

YES YES YES!!!!!

Oooh...

Sweet, I was thinking that the he whole tau part didn't really have much to do with Big E's death, besides the fact that the eldar are there, which could point to something that they need the tau for now that humanity is weak, or its just the eldar being eldar and are just screwing everyone else over because they can, one of the two. Knowing that this is about the Death of the Emprah, I would go with the former. This new bit with the Blood Angels seems more directly involved with Big E (being spehss mehrines) , but no matter what you've written so far I've been a big fan of it

 2BlackJack1 wrote:
Sweet, I was thinking that the he whole tau part didn't really have much to do with Big E's death, besides the fact that the eldar are there, which could point to something that they need the tau for now that humanity is weak, or its just the eldar being eldar and are just screwing everyone else over because they can, one of the two. Knowing that this is about the Death of the Emprah, I would go with the former. This new bit with the Blood Angels seems more directly involved with Big E (being spehss mehrines) , but no matter what you've written so far I've been a big fan of it

I know I rarely respond to queries and stuff regarding the story, but you're right about the Tau section. I wanted to show that despite the Emperor's death, life continued uninterupted for many denizens of the universe, especially the non-warp sensitive Tau. Was probably the most difficult (and in some ways the most fun) section written so far.

Although the Emperor's death did have an effect on humanity on Hul'shadaam (when most of them collapsed into hysteria and sorrow) I wanted to show it was just the humans that were suffering, in the greater schemes of the other species the Emperor's death would not hold as large an impact.

I'm going to develop this more as we go on, especialy with the Orks and in a HUGE way with everyone's favourite gribblies, the Tyranids.

Ok, that clears things up. Thank you, and I can't wait for this here nids and ork's section.

[redacted]

Top quality as ever, a master of tension and when and how to leave a cliffhanger :-)

I'm guessing this Tyranid is taking xenomorph approach and using bodies as hosts. It also looks like the tyranids are using a microbial form of warfare as well.

Really? I'm guessing that the Blood Angel has regressed and is moving through systems. If so, when the Deathwatch capture it, there will be some conflict between the Watch and the Sons of Sanguinus...

[redacted]

Wow, that was incredible. I loved the systematic killing of the Brothers, and it was all so gruesome. Very well done, this was fantastic. It's a little frightening to see how fast the virus takes effect.

Someone call the grey knights, or a extermitus strike.

Great writing, such good pacing and descriptions :-)

Feth, I didn't expect it to be that powerful!
That was intense, brilliantly written!

EXTERMINATUS! IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO BE SURE!

Human flesh is but another form of steel, and like steel it can be tempered and moulded in the heat of the flame. This is a truth known to all Sons and Daughters of the Fire World.

The heat of the inferno has power to both destroy and nurture, to destroy and protect. The same is true of flesh and bone. This is a truth known to all Sons and Daughters of the Fire World.

When fire and steel meet, when will and want combine, then the greatest deeds and the greatest evils are sown, ready to spring hopeful fruit or bitter poison. With this meeting comes responsibility, this is a truth known to all Sons and Daughters of the Fire World.

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

The chamber is dark, the fires burning in pits along the walls doing more to accentuate the darkness than dispel it. Tumultuous shadows dance across the bare, rock walls in patterns of black, orange and red, the visions in the blackness differing for every eye that looks upon them. The ground below is blackened sand, fine granules of dirt and fused glass that cut my skin as I kneel on the floor. I am naked, my form open to the harsh heat and galling smoke that billows through the small chamber. My eyes sting and water, but not enough for me to blink the pain away. My skin blisters slightly, its already blackened form darkening under the scalding air. My breathing is shallow and sore, but each painful breath is a reminder that life is trial and suffering, and that I am very much alive.

Before me stand three of my kin: giants all, obsidian skinned and eyes like flaming coals. They look down upon me with no malice, but brotherly understanding. They are dressed in scaled robes of the deepest green, hewn from the hides of great reptilian beasts that are endemic to our home world. They stand before me, intoning words written by our Father and his Father many moons ago. The words have meaning, the words have purpose. And in the reading of them they pass this purpose to me.

They dowse me with boiling oil, the liquid hanging to my skin in painful runnels, searing new meanings and marks into my flesh. This is no ritual, such witchery is the purview of many of our brothers across the stars, but this is simply a reminder. Of who we are and what we must do. This is a truth known to all Sons and Daughters of the Fire World.

And none more so than my brotherhood - The auld XVIII.

The burns and blisters heal almost as soon as they occur, my flesh being that of our Grandfather on auld earth. We are blessed and cursed, to be the bringers of peace and protection, but also the stealers of life and diversity in an uncaring cosmos. We are humble in our task, and we are chided for this. We take pride in who we are and what we do, but it is a different pride from our cousins, it is a pride borne of the Fire World.

I stand at the end, my form ravaged by heat but my soul shining. My brothers approach and wrap a deep green hide around my blistered shoulders. The cool inside feels like a blessing against my skin, the flexible scales of the outer layer blocking the relentless heat. We join hands in a martial clasp, and they wish me luck upon my journey. Nocturne go with you, they say for they know this might be the last time I ever see the home world.

I march from the blackened cave, the smoke and flames at my back. I march, strength in my steps and purpose in my eyes. I know my task and I will give my life to it if I must.

My name is a blessed name, one passed to me by one who also bore that name. And it was passed to him by another bearer of the same name, and so on.

I share the same name as the one who sired me in the light of the true Emperor.

My name is He’stan, but my brothers know me as Vulkan.

And this is the story of how I sailed the stars beyond the Fire World, the story of how I found my Father and his dreadful forgings and the story of how I died…

Cool, Salamanders are taking part, but this doesn't sound like it's going to be a happy reunion

I just read all of it.

Without wanting to sound like a suck up, this is amazing, truly gripping stuff. You are an excellent writer and the fact that you have managed to only increase in quality with each installment is impressive. I love that you've managed to capture the feel of each faction while basically bringing them to their knees. I especially love all the horror elements that you've added that fit into the universe perfectly.

I very much look forward to what else you have to put out. Are we going to be seeing anything with the Echlisiarchy, Krieg or Commoragh?

Heresy! Purge yourself now.

Oh my god! How can the inquisitor be defeated so easily? How can the Blood Angels cope with this kind of threat? Oh, in the original, they were never THAT powerful. A single beast can take down a kill-team? That's just so.... so... just so wrong, yet so right in a way. I love the detail. Nearly made me hurl my dinner back up.

One bit of feedback that jarred pretty badly: The High Lord complaining about being woken up in the middle of the night.

The Imperium is surrounded and under constant attack from aliens, heretics, rebels, daemons - the threats are coming from other dimensions as well as the material realm - also, different worlds will have different diurnal cycles - it is somewhat bizarre for a High Lord to get *any* sleep when he's trying to manage an empire of 1,000,000 worlds with octillions of cizitens, let alone a full eight hours.

I'm not even sure this would work for humorous purposes. An empire of 1,000,000 constantly-embattled worlds would be throwing up emergencies every second, not every week.

Other than that highly depressing, but extremely well-written and very 40K.

 NoPoet wrote:
One bit of feedback that jarred pretty badly: The High Lord complaining about being woken up in the middle of the night.

The Imperium is surrounded and under constant attack from aliens, heretics, rebels, daemons - the threats are coming from other dimensions as well as the material realm - also, different worlds will have different diurnal cycles - it is somewhat bizarre for a High Lord to get *any* sleep when he's trying to manage an empire of 1,000,000 worlds with octillions of cizitens, let alone a full eight hours.

I'm not even sure this would work for humorous purposes. An empire of 1,000,000 constantly-embattled worlds would be throwing up emergencies every second, not every week.

Other than that highly depressing, but extremely well-written and very 40K.

My High-Lords are particularly beaurucratic, highly entitled and live relatively comfortable lives (by 40K standards that is) - they are some of the few who would actually get sleep, they have underlings for everything else...much how like modern governments work

Beautiful, just beautiful.

Just to let you know guys, the next section with the Slamanders is coming, however I'm delaying it till after I've read Deathfire (the new Horus Heresy novel)

I'd like to keep my Salamander's in character and sticking to the lore as possible, so I may rewrite some parts

READ FASTA!!!

*sniff* I just wanna read more...

paint the book red?

and DLS for that matter too!

'Deathfire' finished (off-topic: it's really good) - ready to redo the Salamanders section. I think you guys are going to love it especially those who think the tale thus-far has been too depressing

By this tome and by my word, I know this to be day Two Hundred and sixty seven thousand, four hundred and twenty three of my Pilgrimage. It has been many moons since I have last put quill to parchment and I am shamed by my tardiness. These past months have been ones of relentless events, the thread of time twisting and fraying before the inexorable march of the future. However, the tome beckons and by the words of my Kin, my Father and Him upon Earth I must abide. And despite our hardships I have news of great import.

I think I have found it.

I think I have found the Song of Entropy.

We orbit a desolate sun, a blue orb of cold rage and snuffed life. It is a broken, diseased thing, its former glory utterly diminished. The star would have quietly burned into obscurity, long into the heat death of the known universe, if not for the intervention of the fates. We have named it Ikaros.

We had been at High Warp for a period of three months sidereal, the maddened ocean of souls battering our hull in impotent fury as we ploughed the endless expanse. The last clue to our quarry had been the dying breath of a traitor-kinsman of the auld XIV. We had warred and bled and broke them upon the sands in what my brothers have come to call the shattering of the Grim Scythe. We stood as legion against them, myself and my brother Drakes, and sent them screaming to whatever Hell they have made for themselves. From the cracked and bleeding lips of their Lord Bal’Ashoth we discovered their dark purpose: they had been hunting a mining ship, a mining ship said to be shadowing away an artefact of potency and unrelenting power.

A weapon that they believed could age the stars and wear away at time itself. A weapon that I know by rights belong to myself and my kin.

The grim lord did not finish there, as he smiled his bloody grin before me. After the ranting and raving, the promises of pain and revenge, he lay his cracked head back upon the bloody floor, and as his last poisoned breath wracked his lungs he spoke one last thing.

“He has it…the one my Legion still hunts…the great coward, the only one who ran…he will die Salamander…my Legion will break his back and flense his skin…we will…”

I crushed his skull with my fist and silenced his filth forever, his words heard only by me.

We let loose sails and struck hard into the warp once more, following the bow wake of the mining ship just as drkall hunts the dust trails of the great wyrmeglls of Nocturne. I had stared into the flames every night and seen that our prey was near, and perhaps something I had hidden form my brothers. A greater hope, a dream that I alone still clung to in the vestiges of the dark.

An errant father returned? Dare I to dream?

Then the Warp died.

Understand, that in my long life of war and wonder, I have seen the Warp becalmed like a looking glass. I have seen it rage with more fury than Deathfire itself. But when I say the Warp died, I mean it vanished. We were thrown from it, cast back into the blackness of the void with barely a tremor or shake of violence. It passed like the last breath of the ancient. We were within the fury of the empyrean one moment and then not the next.
Our Navigator, Verata, and our Shipmistress Quo’Ertaa were perplexed and vexed. They could not re-enter the Warp, they could not even see it. From the information they could glean, the warp simply was not there anymore, it had vanished, along with the beckoning glow of the astronomicon. Such lunacy was met with derision from my Brothers, but when Xathen, our revered shaman nodded in assent with the mortals, we were given pause.

The stars said we were still in the Segmentum Solar, several thousand light-years from Auld Terra (and even further from Nocturne) but in and stretch of the higher spiral arm. Little explored and little tended, we found ourselves orbiting the sickly blue star, its fury having died and dwindled long ago. We drift like a mournful pup around a dead parent, adrift and utterly lost and bereft of hope. And yet...

I am called to the bridge. Mistress Quo’Ertaa has summoned myself and my brothers. She has found something, something that gives form to my misty hopes.

She has found a world.

Ooh nice,, they have found somthing interesting, is it the one and only primarch in a box?

That's The Unbound Flame, if The Unremembered Empire is anything to go by.

Agh, not a salamanders expert, thanks for correcting.

With a rumble of rolling gears and oiled metal, the grim portal to the bridge of the Smaragdus yawned open on heavy pistons and cogs, ushering in the hulking form of the ships master. Swathed in curved, etched armour of deepest emerald and clothed under skins of reptilian monsters & the trappings of rank, the imposing figure approached the central throne in quickstep, the marching of his armoured-feet resounding like drumbeats upon the metallic floor. Coming to a pause beside the throne, he nodded his helm to the figure seated there, who returned the gesture with a respectful smile. Both were masters of the ship, an easy alliance strengthened through mutual respect and experience.

Motion and ordered chaos buzzed around them on the dimly-lit bridge, crew men and women going about their business with practiced ease and drilled efficiency. A pair of Astartes in similar shades of green and emerald stood on guard at the corners of the vast room, their visors drinking in the room as the water starved at an oasis. Like their lord, they wore bestial hides and talons upon their armour, signs of a vicious home world and brutal upbringing. But no fear radiated from the mortal crew for these giants of armour and flesh, only quiet trust and shared purpose. The myriad stations and crew faced a dominating screen at the centre of the chamber, like a monolithic leviathan eye, swallowing the wall before them and shining outward into the cold void beyond. A small, dull orb sat beyond, winking in the light of the sickly star it orbited.

All eyes were fixed on that orb.

From the shadowed recesses at the back of the bridge another giant approached the throne, similarly vast but less ostentatiously adorned than his brothers. His armour was instead loose fitting and not completely sealed, a set of heavy and careworn grey fatigues underneath. He word a torque of long talons about his neck and had the look of seasoned hunter. His skin was black as coal, smooth and freshly shaven, and his eyes burned a furious crimson. To the unfamiliar he would appear as a demon, some age-old horror from another time but his easy smile and deep, youthful baritone spoke truths his mien would not. He bowed to the pair before him.

“So, my Lord, my Lady, which would you prefer? A tale of woe or a tale of joy?”

The woman in the throne, though slighter than either the massive armoured forms beside her, radiated authority with a calm and confidence. Her skin too was onyx, slightly lighter than the giant beside her, but her eyes burned just as furiously. She wore her hair severe, closely cropped like a dusting of pale sand on black rock. Although unarmed and seemingly at ease, she commanded immediate respect, even from her vaunted company.

“Let’s not sugar-coat things Erx, what do we have?”

The warrior named Erx, whose honour was to be Head-tracker and Hunter of the Pyre, gestured to the monstrous viewport and the small planetoid in its gaze. His armour whined quietly as polymers and servos mimicked his movement, the quite clinking of his trophy torque tapping like gentle rain. He spoke with experience belying his youthful features, a keen insight within a warrior’s form.

“Woe then it is…Following on from the augers of our blessed Navigator, we are adrift from the warp with no possibility of re-entry. Navis Verata has scanned the known charts of this section of the segmentum and the next viable warp-point is at least six light years distant.”

The Shipmistress sighed and rubbed her temples, her voice weary of news.

“Has Xathen verified this? I do not doubt Verata’s word but to have no translation point for that far a distance is unheard of…”

Erx nodded, his face solemn.

“Aye Mistress, it’s true. Both Xathen and Verata agree. It is as if the Warp is simply not there anymore. And more worryingly, the astronomicon has vanished with it. We cannot see the Emperor’s Light from our current position. It’s almost as if it has been snuffed out.”

Mistress Quo’Ertaa narrowed her eyes, before turning to one of her vox-officers.

“Pass my thanks to Navis Verata and Lord Xathen. Kindly request they continue their scrying”

The officer nodded, fanning his hands across his chest in the sign of an Aquila and went to work at his station, a microphone at his mouth and a keypad at his fingers. Returning her attention to the giants beside her, Quo’Ertaa spoke again.

“And the good news Erx? Please illuminate us, a sliver of hope would sit well in these confusing times”

Erx nodded once more to the yawning display in front of them and stepped forward, resting his not inconsiderable bulk on the iron pulpit around them. His back was covered in a heavy cloak, its pattern dusty and dark. He seemed out of place amongst the technology around him: he would appear more at home on some wild, unknown frontier hunting prey and living from the land.

“The signal…the one we have been chasing. It’s on the planet. Not indigenous to it I think, but it’s there somewhere on the surface. We’ve chased it down.”

Quo’Ertaa’s eyes lit up, the furore of victory in her reach once more. She turned to the Astartes beside her, who until now had been as silent as obsidian and questioned excitedly.

“The mining ship! We’ve found it at last? Blessed be! Lord He’stan, could it be?”

Both Erx and Quo’Ertaa fixed their attention on the silent Astartes, who stood with his great arms folded. He considered for a few moments, his eyes trying to pierce the veil of the world below and reveal its secrets.

Could he finally have done it? Could he be at the end of their hunt?

Father?

With a subtle nod, Vulkan He’stan, named as much for his Father as for his legacy, turned toward the entrance once more, marching with a purpose that suffused the entire ship. When he spoke, it was with the baritone of the deep places of the earth, like a vein of magma cutting through rock.

“Mistress Quo’Ertaa, set course for near-orbit. Erx, assemble the Pyre…we’re heading to the surface. Our destiny awaits!”

I seriously check this thread everyday waiting for updates! More please

The sky thundered by as the dropship tore through the heavens, a keening lament rippling across the emerald hull as the blunt-nosed craft rent the air with speed and mass. Clouds and vapour whipped past it at dizzying speeds, the colossal engines that bore it vomiting heat, smog and sheer thrust as it descended to the planet below. The markings and engravings lining its hull had been dulled black by the fury of atmospheric entry and the glinting reptilian pennants on its side appeared as blackened hellish dragons. It was a squat, ugly craft designed to deliver terror and war to any that fell beneath its shadow. But today, it carried not battle in its grip, but inquiry, its passengers coming to an end of a long and difficult quest. With a blast of fractured air, the ship lurched down in a steep dive, a deep boom of released pressure bellowing in its passing.

Forgefather Vulkan He’stan gripped the iron overhead as the Thunderhawk shuddered in a violent palsy. His enhanced frame and armour allowed him to remain upright and still even amidst the most brutal quakes and firefights, but the jagged descent of the craft was trying even him. The world below raged at the infringement of the Thunderhawk and threw all the fury of the sky at it. If He’stan had been a mortal man, he was certain he would have passed out by now.

He moved down the central gangway, his arms above his helm, gripping the overhead and support loops in a simian gait, approaching the cockpit of the craft. At his sides, his small band were sat, locked into support cradles with heavy belts and pressurised locks, better to belay the shifting shunts of the ship. They were all armed and armoured in brilliant greens and blacks, and each were locked in their own mental preparations for what they would find on the surface. He passed them one by one, a quiet nod of affirmation to each of them.

There was Gilbron and Archimad, sat opposing each other, fully locked into their gleaming warplate. Deep emerald green, like the hide of ancient reptiles coloured their armour, and they each wore scaled pelts across their shoulders and backs. Gilbron went without helm, his obsidian face and crimson eyes locked in deep concentration. Across his neck hung a thick torque lined with shell fragments and sharpened teeth, and the pelt on his shoulder was a deep and shadowed red. In comparison, Archimad wore a blackened helm indented with fine spikes of silver, and the pelt that wrapped around his torso was deep blue. His hands rested on his bolter which sat upon his lap, its form as refined and tended as its owner. He nodded gently as his lord passed by, his red eye lenses betraying no emotion at all.

Next to them sat Toro, the Pyre’s resident tech-marine and oldest member of their small band. A truly ancient individual, the Lords of Nocturne had deemed Toro too old for field service and had attempted to side-line him into the Forges of the Fire World, forever doomed to while away his final days as a tinkerer, teacher and fixer whilst younger men and women ruled the universe. This had not sat well with the notoriously garrulous blacksmith, who argued vehemently (and at length) about this unnecessary ‘honour’. His fate was pulled shockingly and abruptly from his, and the Nocturnian Lords, hands when an Orkish Horde descended upon Nocturne’s sibling systems. All brothers of the flame were called to fight, and it was during this bitter and bloody conflict that the paths of Toro and He’stan crossed and became inseparable. Toro saw his commander’s quest as a last chance for glory and purpose, and Vulkan greatly appreciated his comrade’s technical expertise and his sound (if often wordy) advice. As the commander passed by, Toro was adjusting some minor tweaks to his helms optics and nodded with a wide smile at his commander. His teeth shined white, mirroring the thick beard and hair that hung from his dark face
.
“Always hated these sudden descents lad, can never trust something with wings but no heart to beat them, eh?”

Vulkan smiled to himself and continued onward, the old techmarine chuckling quietly as he passed.

He came upon the huge and monstrous form of Oln next, quietly whispering in a deep baritone. Oln had been a member of the vaunted First Company of the Legion, a veteran among the fireborn, and strode to war in a suit of monstrous Cataprachii armour which he still wore now. His girth was so great that he sat astride an entire bench himself, his armour and reptilian pelts rendering him a demigod of steel and scale. His decision to leave the First Company and to accompany He’stan on his quest would have been a difficult one for any other, but Oln had made without a second thought. Having been blessed with a mien to match that of their ancient Primarch and being a particularly devout adherent to the Promethean Creed, he saw the Forgefather’s burden as his true calling.

Oln was the quiet, stoic backbone to the small Pyre. They had fought several battles together against the hated Hrud, many of which they had been integral to the others survival. After they had cleaned their blades after the final battle did Oln kneel before He’stan and ask to join him upon his long and winding road, with the Lord of the First Company giving his comrade his blessings. He’stan accepted without hesitation. Oln’s viciously clawed gauntlets hung deactivated at his side, and the large warrior whispered prayers under his breath, his eyes closed and head leaning back against the inner hull. His fanged helm sat on the seat beside him, its eyes staring blankly forward. Vulkan chose not to disturb his brother, respecting the larger man’s space and moved on.

Next to the bulkhead leading into the cockpit, past the main holding bay were two of the Forgefather's most trusted companions and the backbone of the Pyre, who sat in fevered discussion over the screaming of the ship. Xathen was clad in curved Green Astartes plate much like his brothers, but around this were wrapped heavy robes of midnight blue and aquamarine, and about his head sat a crystalline, ice-like crown of lithe crystals and circuitry. His black skin seemed sheened in a dusting of hoarfrost, and his eyes shone a pale purple as opposed to the usual crimson of the sons and daughters of Nocturne. He was a Shaman, a Psyker, a warrior-mystic of the Emperor’s Legions. He was also deeply antagonised by his colleague before him.

Gesticulating broadly and with a crooked smile sat Erx, the Pyre’s chief hunter and scout. He had long ago rose to the full rank of Brother and had fought in over two dozen campaigns earning laurels and praise aplenty, but still wore the carapace and cloak of a scout, all battered and careworn. He preferred to be as light as possible, a silent shadow tracking the enemies of the XVIII wherever they should roam. His armour and fatigues were earthy and worn, and a long elegant rifle sat strapped above his head. He was in heated discussion with Xathen, as ever, and they seemed to be in intense disagreement.

Some things never changed.

When they noticed their commander, they turned to face him eager to draw him into the discussion. Xathen spoke first, his voice a deep and cultured baritone.

“Lord He’stan, please talk some sense into our chief scout here…We need to get a lay of the land before we commit any kind of ground action. We should scout out the crash site from the air and then allow orbital scans before we even think about heading in.”

Erx smiled that wicked smile of his, the one that made him seem younger than his many years and nodded to the Librarian.

“My learned colleague is right on a technical level, my Lord, but he has no appreciation for the hunt. Our quarry has gone to ground and we are at the prime moment to tighten the net. Any delay would risk us losing the scent once more”

Xathen and Erx were two of the Forgefather’s closest commanders, and indeed two of his closest friends, but two more different individuals the Forgefather suspected would be difficult to find. They had both been at perpetual loggerheads since joining the long and lonely quest of the Forgefather, the Librarian joining a few short months before the Scout. They were the longest serving members of the Pyre, and He’stan did not know where he would be without them.

Xathen was a man of constant consideration and contemplation, and regularly advised caution on any action. Although not as skilled in the arts of divination as some of his Librarius Brothers, he would often sense a disturbance, a darkening of the fates as he would call it. At these moments, the Pyre would do well to enact caution in their actions.

Indeed, Xathen had saved He’stan and his charges from several grim fates across the years: a potentially fatal ambush by Eldar Pirates on Samael XII which ended in victory for the Salamanders despite the hordes of lithe aliens assailing them, the unseen weakening of the walls of Hive City Drakma by Tyranid Micro-phages spewed from hidden drone-ships in low orbit, and most recently the successful identification of a Chaos Assassin disguised as loyalist Astartes sent by no less than Abaddon the Despoiler himself to slay Vulkan and put an end to his quest. Xathen’s gut feelings were always dependable in Vulkan’s eyes.

However, Erx also held the Forgefather’s ear and he also was rarely wrong, especially on matters of strategy and instinct. He had led the Pyre on the hunt for Lost Relics for several years now, and although they remained as elusive as ever his guidance and keen insight had seen the Pyre victorious on many fronts. He had led them near-blind through the noxious bile-fogs of Troja, fighting off horrific plague-beasts and traitor Astartes every step of the way. He mapped a course through the Spine Fields, a great chain of asteroids and icy rock spanning an entire sector which had led to the deaths of countless ships and souls. He had also rescued his comrades from a brutal, suffocating death on the temple world of Gild VXI, infiltrating the enemy position alone and blowing open the Ancient Temple traps that held his brothers. Erx’s insight and skill was something not to be ignored.

The two differing characters often clashed, and on more than one occasion their dissonance had almost come to blows. He’stan had always intervened, or another one of his Brothers from the Pyre had stepped in to ensure no loss of honour, but he privately worried for his two closest brothers. He could not do without either of them, but knew such close proximity would end in violence one day if left unchecked. He whispered some quiet, calming words to them, attempting to waylay their discontent and marched onward to the cockpit. He would decide the course of action when he could physically see their quarry, not before.

With a hiss of steam and the grinding of motorised cogs and chains the bay door to the cockpit slid open, revealing a broad interior dominated by a wall of sloping armour-glass. White and grey clouds scrambled madly past the hull, and freezing rain water and condensation stained the screens in heavy runnels. In the twin harnesses before him sat the last two members of the Pyre, the Pilot Smogth and his co-pilot Dravell, their hands on the consoles of the juddering Thunderhawk. The consoles before them were alive with buzzing monitors and flickering lights, and their hands ghosting over the controls with practiced ease.

Dravell was armoured in green like his commander, and wore a deep heavy leather hood scalped from the hide of reptilian sand-kraken on Nocturne. He was one of the finest pilots He’stan had ever encountered and when the young Astartes had offered to join the Pyre He’stan had seized the opportunity with both hands. Dravell was the youngest of the Pyre, but had seen much in his short time as a full-fledged brother. In the ship’s cargo claws hung the personal Land Raider of He’stan, the Sol Invictus, and it was Dravell’s job to drive the tank when they made landfall. He traded clipped, static laden reports with the pilot Smogth, who adjusted dials and gripped the control handles with a furious force. His black armour gleamed in the natural light, and stood starkly against the emerald green of his fellows.

Smogth was not a Salamander. He was a brother of the X Legion, The Iron Hands, and had fallen into the service of He’stan quite by accident, although old Oln would say it was providence. He had been part of a defensive delegation sent to the sky-world of Almathea, with a mission of protection and recovery of key members of the Machine Cult stationed there. Almathea was a world of sky cities and vast war zeppelins, and the Mechanicum had an iron grip upon its gaseous resources.

A Tyranid splinter fleet had been winding its way blindly toward the world, and key personnel were to be evacuated and secured for the benefit of the Imperium. The Imperial plan was to deploy a vast air force onto the world to drive the xenos back whilst the Astartes inserted under the covering assault to extradite the planet’s leaders and attack key targets. The closeness of the Mechanicum and the Iron Hands made Smogth and his men the logical choice for such missions.

The plan however fell apart as soon as the Tyranids hit the atmosphere: they came in vast sickening droves, ignoring the ships and fighters of the Imperium and focussing on the populace instead, striking the key personnel with a shocking accuracy. It seemed like the aliens were driven by more than just hunger and instinct. Smogth’s entire squad and his charges were eviscerated by the descending monsters as they boarded one of the world’s many skeletal sky-lifts, leaving Smogth horribly wounded and alone.

He’stan and a company of Salamanders were passing through the system enroute to Dalmia-00 for refit and refuelling after their victory on the Shrine world of Golsch V, and an unexpected translation out of High Warp brought them upon the furious defence of the world. The already battered and tired Salamanders hurled themselves in support of their comrades and punched a hole into the monstrous hordes. Weeks of bitter battle and the deaths of many brothers eventually drove the xenos filth to defeat, and as their leviathan flesh-ships plummeted to the uncaring depths below He’stan and his men found the wounded Smogth, half dead, half mad but still fighting. A mound of xenos corpses surrounded him, many broken by his own fists, and the weary Smogth gratefully passed into unconsciousness as He’stan and his warriors approached.

After weeks spent in an apothecium and a massive refit of artificial organs and limbs, Smogth sought out He’stan and his men. To repay the debt, and to wipe away the dishonour of his perceived failure, Smogth oathed himself to He’stan and his quest, a peculiar request but one that He’stan granted. Smogth had never failed the commander and was an unyielding, sometimes cold but never cruel ingot of iron to strengthen their small band. He’stan rested his gauntlets on the back of their seats for balance and stared into the whipping rain and sky beyond.

“When should be we break through this cloud cover?” he asked, his eyes focussing on the swirling, twisting white beyond.

Smogth checked a screen to his right, a series of wild numbers and symbols running across its length, and answered in a robotic, hoarse voice. His voice box had been one of the things he had sacrificed on Almathea.

“We should break it any second now, He’stan. The atmospheric structure of this world is particularly dense, I’m amazed there’s any sky that doesn’t have cloud. It hates that we are here”

Dravell nodded beside the Iron Hand, his voice softer but still with bass tone common to the Astartes. He gripped a flat lever and pulled it gently in a curve toward himself.

“We’re breaching in 3…2…1…we have cloud break”

The light in the cockpit increased and the furious shaking abated completely, He’stan grateful for the lull in the quaking. The change was immediate and stark, from violence to calm in the blink of an eye. Below them stretched a vast and featureless desert, flat and unchanging like a plain of wooded grain. It went on for a maddening span, unchanging and unyielding.

The sight unnerved the Astartes, all sons of brutal realms of the callous whims of nature. Worlds were not formed planed smooth, the natural order demanded as such. Someone, or something, had flattened this place from horizon to horizon. He’stan felt a cold tremor in his gut, a disquiet in his soul: their quarry was down there, in the white expanse. Was its architect still there also?

Smogth pulled back on the control levers and ceased their descent, the craft lulling into a steady flight above the plains below and the roiling cloud cover above. He turned partly to He’stan as Dravell activated low level radar and detection systems.

“Now we fly straight…this might take a while”


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


Smogth was correct in his summation, with the ship being in the air for over eight hours sidereal. The internal chrons had all shorted and ceased counting, and the radar was maddeningly useless against the flat, featureless expanse. The world seemed to not want to be found or to reveal its secrets to the flying intruders. He’stan had paced through the Thunderhawk many times, conversing with his men and checking his own equipment. The wait was always the worst part in his eyes, the lunatic drudgery between knowledge and action. That is what really drove men to despair. Every time he entered the cockpit, his pilots simply gestured in equal frustration, the thin line of white sky between the gleaming sands and rumbling clouds unchanging before their advance.

On the seventh hour of flight, closing to when the Thunderhawk would need to return to the Smaragdus for refuelling, Dravell noticed something upon the cusp of the horizon: a faint blackened haze at odds with the colours of the world. Smogth immediately set course for the patch of discolour, reporting the potential lead back to He’stan. The ship’s thrusters burned white hot as the heavy craft screamed toward its target swallowing the distance with boundless gluttony, the world below uncaring at its passing.

On the eighth hour, the ship came upon its quarry.

He’stan stood alongside Smogth and Dravell, with both Erx and Xathen at his back. The cramped cockpit felt even smaller with the five Astartes gathered within. Cameras built into the nose of the Thunderhawk relayed images to screens built throughout the gunship, allowing all in the Pyre to witness what the Thunderhawk had found. But He’stan had to see it with his own eyes.

The light in the cockpit dimmed as they approached.

The white expanse of the sand world was broken by a vast, black pyramid. A jutting, solid mass of obsidian rock and metal rose in defiance from the sands, its sides glass-like and flat, perfect in molecular form. It rose easily 30,000 feet from the sands, its bottom octagonal, rising steadily before tapering to a point high above the ground. It shed a monstrous black shadow around it, the shadows seeming to form regardless of the direction of the sun. It was a monster and it filled He’stan with dread. Not fear, Astartes do not trouble themselves with such things, but a genuine disquiet.

A single ping sounded on the radar, not from the pyramid which like the insane world around it obeyed no physical law they could identify, but from a pillar of smoke rising from midway up its colossal form. Erx placed his hand upon his master’s shoulder, and nodded toward the smoke.

“My Lord…is that?”

He’stan nodded grimly.

“It is…the mining ship. Burning on the side of that monstrosity.”

A grim silence fell upon the group, the rumblings engines and whistling wind the only sound to permeate the moment. They approached faster and faster, the monolith eventually filling the entirety of the viewports. The radar pinged softly the closer they approached. He’stan broke the silence, his voice a deep rumble within his helm.

“Smogth…Land next to the smoke. We need to confirm if it is indeed the mining ship. We need to see if there are any survivors…I need to see…”

He’stan turned and marched from the cockpit, his mind as black and hopeless as the pitiless mountain they approached.

Another excellent piece Dark Lord. The only thing I would point out is that you mention the Librarian and the Scout are the final 2 members of the Pyre. Then you say He'stan walks into the cockpit to the last 2 members of the Pyre. Nothing major of course but just a small observation.

Keep up the good work!

TommyBs wrote:
Another excellent piece Dark Lord. The only thing I would point out is that you mention the Librarian and the Scout are the final 2 members of the Pyre. Then you say He'stan walks into the cockpit to the last 2 members of the Pyre. Nothing major of course but just a small observation.

Keep up the good work!

Well spotted, fixed it now thanks man

The Pyre had landed their craft next to the burning wreckage of the mining ship, the vast pneumatic claws of the thunderhawk digging into the flat, glassy hide of the pyramid for purchase. Up close the structure felt less sheer, and although it steadily climbed to a dizzying height, it banked almost gently and the gathered Astartes found they could ascend its surface with little effort. The smooth skin of the pyramid however meant that the Sol Invictus would need to remain behind as its heavy treads would struggle to find any form of purchase. He’stan instead led his men on foot across the black, beetle-like expanse toward the burning remains.

Little had remained of the mining ship, its relative speed and the unyielding monstrousness of the pyramid smashing its component parts to little more than burning detritus. Here and there lay identifiable parts of the overall whole: a stanchion there, a grav-cradle there. But most of it lay doused in smoke and twisted into maniac sculptures of bent and twisted metal. Archimad called his brothers over during their search, gesturing to a solid length of iron thrice the height of a man. It was broad, blackened and slightly bent, but was riveted with a silver plate that had survived the crash. Machine-stamped and engraved in High Gothic, it listed several specifications and technical coding s for the ship that once was, and above it all in flowing, graceful script was the ship’s name:

Palingenesia

They looked to He’stan, as he touched the silvered plate, his touch making it real in his mind. He nodded grimly. This was indeed the craft they sought.

A grim sorrow fell upon the group as they sifted through the wreckage, a wracking realization that their quest had ended in failure. He’stan brooded quietly, his thoughts shadowed and heavy. He cast aside slabs of melted steel and iron with a steadily increasing fury, his anger earning concerned gazes from his comrades. With a bellow of frustration he gripped the remains of a solid bulkhead and heaved it to the side, the bangs almost tinny against the swallowing vastness of the pyramid. He’stan stood, his chest hiking and furious tears stinging his eyes.

Had all this been for nothing?

Was his search to end in ignominy?

Erx approached his Lord softly, concern on his face and placed a gloved hand gently on his shoulder. He leant close to console his master, when something caught his eye. Where the bulkhead had once lain, the ground below smoldered and crisped in a gentle curve, and within the curve the ground darkened almost like a shadow.

Or an entrance.

Erx pushed by his master and heaved at the rubble surrounding the curve, calling for his comrades to help him. Gilbron and Archimad ran to the Chief Scout’s side, and pushed their considerable weight against the bent wreckage, but it took the colossal form of Toro and his terminator armor to shift the heavy load aside. The gathered warriors stared down at what they had revealed.

A perfect circle had been cut into the side of the structure, its span easily twenty feet in diameter and its edges burning and crisping under a cooling heat. The circle was startling in that even the violence of the ship crash had left nary a mark upon the alien structure, and here something had burned into its invincible hide. Whatever had cut this whole had burned with a heat beyond any tool they could wield. It bored a curved tunnel into the darkness of the pyramid, which eventually became lost in shadow.

Something had survived the crash.

Something had dug its way into the monolith.

An excited murmur suffused the group, with all eyes falling onto He’stan and his orders. Xathen took a step forward, his mouth opening to advise caution when He’stan marched forward, drawing his weapons. Before any rebuttal could be voiced He’stan spoke, his helms speakers raising his voice against the maddening size of the pyramid. He said three words, and then marched into the grim darkness.

“We go in!”

The Pyre followed their lord into the yawning hole, not knowing whether he would lead them to the light or into destroying darkness.

The most unnerving trait of the innards of the black pyramid was not its maddening scale and uniformity, nor its mirror smooth and seamless walls crafted in a perfection beyond human hands but by far the faint, emerald light that seemed to suffuse every aspect of its surface. The obsidian walls, bereft of any candle, light or flame radiated a jaundice haze, enough to illuminate the immediate area but not enough to light the myriad tunnels and passes. The walls themselves were solid and unyielding, and no firearm nor blade would pass through them let alone scattered atoms of light. The darkness should have been suffocating and total this far into the mammoth structure, every natural sense screaming that light this far in was an impossibility. But the light hung, like cobwebs floating in soft wind, gripping onto the group and pooling about them like cloying gas.

He’stan paced forward softly at the head of the Pyre, his spear held before him low and ready. A small, blue flame glowed softly at the muzzle of his weapons, ready to explode into a conflagration of killing heat at a thought. Strangely, the light from the flame seemed indistinct and fading, like the sickly light of the inner chambers would not allow any other illumination to exist. The Pyre moved behind him, in a loose but ready pattern, two by two, each with their weapons drawn and scanning. Although the deep, monstrous corridor stretched on for leagues, it was skewered by branch tunnels every few miles, which banked softly and seemed to lead upward toward the summit of the structure. Toto had analysed the strata of the corridors, his readings inconclusive and bizarre. The tunnels were perfectly flat and straight on a molecular level, something which for all intents and purposes should have been impossible. The entranceways were soft and curved, and did not appear cut into the tunnel as opposed to have grown from it. Several wary looks were cast at the unsettling architecture.

The first few openings they had paused to investigate, Erx pulling his camo-cloak tight and stalking into the darkness while his comrades formed a perimeter at the crossing. He would return several minutes later, with reports of the tunnels climbing to the apex of the pyramid but no change or identifiers beyond that. Oln had tried to illuminate the branch tunnels with his suits monstrous spotlights built into the lower gorget of his armour to no avail, the sickening green light swallowed the glaring beams revealing nothing. With one of the tunnels, Xathen had cast out his mind, looking for traces of life or light in the swallowing depths, but his ethereal self would return with nothing but a sickness in his gut and a cold sweat across his back. It wasn’t as though the place was dead, it was more like it had never lived. After the third crossing the Pyre decided simply to march forward on the main concourse ignoring the other tunnels which branched like a great rib cage from a spine. The main path seemed to lead down, toward the central mass of the necropolis and they knew that whatever prize they sought would be further in, deeper in the bowels of the emerald dark.

Down and down they went in pursuit of their quarry, an Ahab to the uncaring whale. Hours stretched on in a day and a day led into two, but still onward they marched. Several of the Pyre had noticed the UI of their helms starting to short, the internal compass and chronometer stopping or vanishing in some instances. Techmarine Toro remarked he had never seen anything as crystalline smooth or atomically aligned as their surroundings, his comrades nodding in assent, only to say the exact same again several hours later. The younger members of the Pyre drew him long stares, wondering if his old mind was leaving him, but Xathen grimaced as he realised it had been said in exactly the same tone and manner, and same cadence, enough to be a duplicate of the same event.

At one point Archimad had joked about earlier in the corridor, at how Gilbron had stumbled on a gentle slope and cursed vehemently, which was most unlike him. Gilbron stared at his brother as if he were mad: that had never happened. When enquiring at his faculties, Archimad was adamant at the event and definitely remembered it happening. He could describe the event in detail, including where the Pyre had been standing, the conversation preceding it and even the angle of the slope as it changed.

An hour later, the great corridor dipped noticeably and Gilbron did indeed stumble and swear, and Xathen’s gut tightened. The Pyre were arranged as Archimad had stated, and the similarities were galling.

Had the marine foreseen this event?

Or worse, had he remembered something that had yet to occur?

Smogth and He’stan noticed the Librarian’s discomfort and both aligned their march with his. Smogth fixed the psyker with his unblinking, augmented eyes and spoke in a grating, mechanical whisper.

“What aisles you Witch-mind? Does this accursed den disquiet you as much as I?”

Xathen nodded, his gaze slowly scanning the darkness.

“Indeed Iron Hand, this place is most disquieting. It’s as if…it’s as if it does not subscribe to the laws of nature.”

He’stan disengaged his helm and lifted it from his head, the autosenses proving useless in the pyramid. He attached it to the magnetic hook on his belt and met Xathen and Smogth with his natural eyes. They burned like pitch in the green haze.

“Could it be the Warp my friend? Could its corrupting touch be at play against our minds?”

Xathen shook his head, his brow furrowed in concern.

“No my lord…if there was a Warp trace here then I would know it. We all would know it. This is something else. Something much worse…”

Smogth snorted, his tone laden with disbelief.

“Worse than the warp? What could be worse than the maddened realm?”

Xathen reach inside his cloak and drew a small, silver coin on a length of leather. It was a small, unassuming thing, glittering brightly in the emerald light. He’stan took it in his hand and studied it. On one face was the marking a dragon, a winged serpent of ancient earth and on the other a symbol of a book. Xathen gestured toward it.

“That is a Coin of Kree. All shaman and Librarians of our order receive one when we come of rank. It’s a small token, a reminder of the legacy we take forward. The Coin is passed from Master to student, and then onward, the coin having many bearers in its long life.”

He’stan passed the coin to Smogth, the small silver disc luminous against the dull metal of the Iron Hand’s armour. He turned it gingerly in his fist, as if some form of witchery lay upon it: the Iron Hands had never been the greatest lovers of the Librarian arts and even being paired with Xathen within the Pyre had not shifted Smogth’s opinion any.

“And why are you showing us this? What can this possibly tell us?”

Xathen nodded to the coin, his tone patient and measured.

“I received that coin from my Master Aldeaa’hulr on the day of his death. He received it from his Master Obvic Strugg, and he from his master Niles of the Burning Plain. There have been seventy-three Masters of this coin in total and even then that was not the beginning of its life. It was found in the ruins of ancient Terra and the Auld Legion brought the coins with them into the stars.”

Smogth still stared in apparent confusion at the coin’s luminous shine and perfect form, but He’stan grasped the Librarian’s meaning immediately.

“This coin is very old” He’stan said, and Xathen nodded, a thin grimace crossing his face. The coin looked silvery and new, as if freshly forged. It did not look millennia-old.

“When this coin was given to me” Xathen said, taking the thin cord from Smogth and holding it up to the light, “it was thick with the rust of ages. Time had taken its lustre and reduced it to oxidised green and red. This is the same coin, but seemingly time has not entered this tomb with us…”

Realisation dawned on Smogth, and the peculiarities of their location suddenly solidifying in the Iron Hand’s mind. Xathen gestured around them with his staff, its totems and fetishes clinking lightly in the still air.

“I do not think Time is our ally here. I think it is being unmade in the most threatening manner I can think of. We have been here before, but have yet to visit this place. This is where the stream of time flows into itself and I fear it will be the end and the beginning of all of us”

This was a very good passage. I really like the way you turn time into a force of terror. Much better than just another physical monster to battle. Very good.

Oooohhhh... I am really digging the horror themes in this reboot.

The great tunnel ran on for several more miles, how many exactly was hard to know, the surroundings were so similar and the faculties of the group of Astartes so disarmed that time seemed irrelevant in the emerald dark. As they marched ever onward, events became stranger and less conjoined, with each of the Pyre suffering their own form of feint madness.

Many suffered memories that they could not have had yet, thoughts of future times and places. Gilbron was so shaken by these ‘memories’ that he opened fire on the dark around them, bolter shells ricocheting wildly off the blackened walls. His comrades wrestled him down, tearing the weapon from his hand before He’stan gripped his arms and shook him firmly, willing the marine back to the present. His eyes swimming back into focus, Gilbron breathlessly recounted the memory of his own death on a world assailed by horrors, the blades of greenskins tearing his limbs and bleeding him onto the ground. It was more than a hallucination, much more. It was a memory of a time yet to come.

Toro and Oln, being the oldest members of the Pyre suffered differently: both seemed to be losing knowledge, losing experience and memories. Twice Oln had forgotten who He’stan and the Pyre were and only a firm command seem to bring his memory to the fore. Toro had almost forgotten his oaths to the Machine Cult, unfamiliar with his armour and its myriad functions. It was almost as if his training and induction had never happened.

Or had yet to happen.

They each suffered separately, each time leaning further and further upon their comrades to bring them from the brink. He’stan gritted his teeth and led them on. He took comfort in the lessons imparted by his Father, for whom he was named, and how he had worked the forge with him and the reassuring tone of his depthless baritone and advice. He smiled at the memory, before the sickening realisation that he had never met his Father, he did not know his voice, he had never even see his face. These were memories of another time, of another He’stan. Causality and relativity were breaking down and not even his identity was his own in the glowing depths.

And then they left the quagmire and stepped into light.

Through a great octagonal arch they marched, and as soon as they left the murk of the dark tunnel then time reasserted itself. They were themselves again, all thoughts and fears from the past hours faded as fog under a spring rain. As the roof rose above them, so too did their hopes once more.

Through the arch rose a great hemisphere of deep grey and obsidian, supported by rib-like pillars of emerald. The chamber was huge, easily the size of the fortress-monastery on Nocturne. But whereas the pyramid had thus far been clothed in shadow and ill light, a great shining light of brilliant silver roared at the apex of the chamber, casting everything into a white, cleansing glow. Around the walls arranged in neat and concise rows were several solid blocky protrusions, rectangular boxes or cases each the height of an Astartes. If one looked hard enough one could almost mistake them for coffins. They ran across the entire circumference of the chamber, and stacked high up, about midway to the roof. Each was black and lined with white and green mineral veins, and on the face of each was inscribed geometric symbols and iconography, which burned a pale emerald in the white light. Several of them, maybe two dozen or so, lacked frontal lids and appeared empty and barren, wires and silvery fluid leaking from their shadows. Someone or something had pushed their way from inside.

It did not take long to locate them. From across the vast expanse rolled the sounds of distant gunfire and the high pitched whine of energy weapons. The Pyre, on instinct, drew weapons and bounded forward into a controlled run, eyes fixed on the middle distance. Their armoured strides swallowed the floor, and soon indistinct figures appeared in the haze beyond. Flashes and explosions of liquid green and flaming orange cast the fighting into stark contrast and amidst the chaos the Pyre saw the combatants.

On one side fought metal revenants, tall angular monstrosities clothed in star-death and aeon-long misery. Skeletal they were, but strong with it, and wielded buzzing weapons of black metal and green crystal. They’re pitiless eyes focussed on their target and with metallic, palsied claws they spat green, flaying death in bitter torrents. They made no sound, their silence all the more intimidating.

Leading them was a monster of gold and bronze, its ageless skull crowned in meteoric filigree and a cape of living metal twisting and billowing around its starved form which hovered obscenely in defiance of physics above its servants heads. It waved a staff of gilt and grief over the heads of its minions, extolling them in a crackling, broken screech. It words were in a long-dead tongue unknown to any living mortal, its words being those that shackled and broke Gods millennia upon millennia ago. He’stan and his men had faced these demons before and his stomach tightened in racially-ingrained spite as he saw them.

Necrons…

Dead Things that Desired a Dead Universe.

Fleshless Horrors from Times Before.

These monsters should have given the Pyre pause, but the Pyre were Astartes. They knew no fear. They charged onward, weapons cracking and spewing into the distant enemy. Some shots found their mark, bolters cracking metal skulls and shattering glassy limbs in a pyrotechnic assault. The machines turned wordlessly, their balefire eyes registering this new threat. They changed formation, and opened ranks to assault this new attacker, and as they parted they revealed who they had been fighting. It was a single opponent.

And this single figure did give the Pyre pause.

Standing amidst the rubble of slaughtered machines and defeated Necrons, a colossal figure swathed in war and drake-scale stood glorious and in victory. In its right hand it wielded an elegant Fire-pike, and ancient flute-like weapon easily the height of an Astartes. Its mouth was ringed with elegant filigree and flame-casters, and it glowed white-hot in fury. In the other hand the huge figure held a glittering hammer of metal and glass, its head heavy and beautifully crafted. The armour of the figure was the deepest emerald, and lined and crafted with golden tracers and designs of drakes and eagles.

Over this hung pelts of ancient reptiles, the skull of one sitting upon the shoulder of the giant, its monstrous tusks enveloping the armour entirely. Its hugeness and monstrousness did not diminish its owner, but served only to accentuate his power.

Most terrible though was the figures face: black as pitch, lined with fury and righteous anger and with eyes burning red as the death of stars. Its teeth gritted and stark against the obsidian skin, the behemoth bellowed in victory and challenge against the milling robotic hordes. It cast its crimson eyes upon the approaching marines and although none had ever set eyes upon the other, the recognition was instant. The moment froze as the giant nodded in recognition, pride and fire in its eyes.

He’stan stumbled and whispered in reverence.

Vulkan Lives…

As soon as the words were formed, the battle cry was taken up by the Pyre. The words gave the moment truth, and the truth was glorious. As one they charged into the deathless automatons, and shouted to the blacked heights of the Pyramid.

Vulkan Lives!

After Trazyn gets this mess cleaned up, there is going to be stern words for Wraith designation MCT-3811 about touching buttons that are clearly labeled DO NOT PUSH UNLESS PHAERON TRAZYN DECIDES TO REORGANIZE HIS MUSEUM

Literal goose bumps. wow

Glad to see necrons taking part in your story, especially being alongside one of my favorite primarchs.

I think that has to be my favorite descriptions of Necrons I've read. Really gets across the timeless horror feeling.

From the Promethean Tome, 19th Epistle, Chapter of Time and Fire

The Lord of Drakes cast his wings into the grim night, and lo his wings of ashen fire brought illumination. On the footprints of his Father he rode, bringing heat and fury to the worlds beyond ours. His wings were so bright, so furious that the past and future bowed before them, covering their eyes before their glory.

But where there is light there is dark, and where there is the healing flame there is the choking shadow. The Lord of Drakes and his kin were beset, a cancer growing upon them and their reality. The sky burned in hateful roiling, and the sons of the Lord of Drakes died upon plains of charcoal and bone. The servants of the eyes beyond painted a black tapestry across the stars, but could not quench the light of the Lord of Drakes.

The eyes beyond coveted the wings of the Lord of Drakes, so glorious and golden were they. The eyes beyond had wings also, but they were twisted, crooked things and they could not ascend the heights of heaven no matter the strength or desire of their conviction. The desired after the golden pinions of flame, their eyes full of malice and thirst.

The Lord of Drakes, being wise in all things, knew that he could not allow his power and responsibility to fall into darkened claws or thoughts. Neither could he cast his own wings down, for they were a part of him, and through him his Father. To unmake them would be to unmake a portion of his own glorious soul.

And so a ploy was hatched, and the Great Lord through heaven and hell to a world of endless glass. This world was ruled by a Dead King, lord of a dead court on behalf of a Dead Empire. The Dead King’s subjects slept in crypts of glass and dust deep beneath the sands and the King roamed the world in a lunatic trail. Cursed to neither sleep nor die, the King found whatever sport his insanity would allow.

The Lord of Drakes came to the Dead King, and asked the monarch for his aid. He beseeched him: “Oh Lord of Death and Sleep, let me bury these wings of Light and Life deep in the firmament of your Dead kingdom, safe from the prying eyes of the foes of us both. An enemy of an enemy is a friend, and a friend to you, no matter how temporarily, I would be for this service. I ask thee humbly and without recourse”

The Dead King looked over the great pinions, but no desire or hunger lit his carrion eyes. Such magic and artistry was paltry to a being that could never leave this plain, and so a thing such as he would never use their might. He stroked his chin and clacked his iron teeth and decreed that he would aid the Lord of Drakes, however in return the Lord of Death stated that the Drake and his offspring could only set foot upon his throne-world when time fed upon itself and the stars swallowed his world. Such a time, in the eyes of Death, would never come. The wings would remain on the Glass World forever.

With a heavy heart, The Lord of Drakes agreed: better he lose his wings for all time than to have them fall into darkness. He cast his wings into the glass sands and turned his back on them, facing the darkness of betrayal and war once more.

Astartes, as is their nature and with the benevolence of their creator, have been designed with near eidetic memories, which meant that their recall was near total and perfect. Many remember everything from when they first rose above the ranks of mortal man, and some can even recall their lives before that time. Most Astartes can recall events with such precision, that to hear one speak of the past is to gaze upon a tapestry of rich information and shocking detail. Many see it as a boon, a small number as a curse, unable to forget any event whether joyous or pained. The reason for this design quirk is to allow an Astartes to remember every aspect of every battle they have ever fought, thus building a wellspring of knowledge and experience that can both keep the warrior himself alive and also be passed onto future generations. However, like their mortal brethren, some events are so harrowing or so overwhelming that it can take their minds weeks, months or even years to process correctly. They are simply left with an impression of the event, a lingering feeling or a dull ache forever ghosting upon their soul. The only recall they can muster is a series of images or feelings, flashing through their mind in a staccato drill, forever unable to grasp the full truth.

The battle against the machines passed much like this for He’stan: in a series of violent flashes and barely glimpsed images, so fast and brutal it was. He remembered the crunch of his weapons upon iron-hard hide, the heat of expelled weapons and unleashed fury, and the sting of the enemy’s blades. He remembered driving his spear through the skull of a gormless, frozen skull which shattered and showered him in small debris and shrapnel. He remembered old Oln gripping a foul necron in his claws and physically pulling the wretched thing in two, a warped, machined death scream shuddering from its mutilated form. The two young Astartes, Gilbron and Archimad, fought side by side, their bolters stuttering in a hellish cavalcade. Gilbron fell to beam of emerald flame, his arm flayed into nothing but stringy bone and his armour scattered into agiateted atoms, and Archimad stood protectively over his fallen brother, his fury heightened at the alien sleight. They fought and they bled and they killed, the speed of the conflict shocking to behold.

And amidst it all was Vulkan, like a nimbus of divine light. Everything about the battle would come to He’stan in fits and spurts, plaguing him for the rest of his life, but witnessing Vulkan in battle for the first time would stay with him forever. The presence of his progenitor had rendered all else unmemorable.

The Primarch was like a typhoon wrought in flesh and steel, his every action and move calculated and overwhelming. His hammer swung in dizzying arcs, sparks and flares left in its screaming assault. Where its head met resistance, it smashed it aside, leaving ruin and destruction in its wake. Xenos Machines clambered at him, striking and firing their necrotic weapons at the Lord of Drakes, but in their folly they were struck down discarded and disintegrated. His eyes were the fury of Deathfire given form, and his utterances were the sounds of primordial worlds forming in the void. At one point the Primarch had raised a hellish, metallic construct from the ground with a solid kick, only to notice a shadowed, assassin machine stalking at He’stan’s back. Calling out “My Son, behind you” Vulkan had thrown his hammer over the Forgefather’s head and struck the metal beast from the air. The sound of the weapon passing overhead had been like a sudden wind, a furious change in pressure through force. He’stan could only stand stunned as the gigantic warrior dashed past, recovered the weapon and used it to cave the skull of another skeletal beast.

And almost as soon as the battle had begun, it was over.

The machines sulked and scurried away into the shadows of the chamber. They slid like vermin into holes and cracks, some slinking back into the tombs that lined the walls. The Astartes fired and hacked until the hated machines were out of range, and then bellowed after the fleeing xenos. They whooped and cheered, emboldened by the presence of their Father. But Vulkan remained stoic and composed, and spoke quietly, silencing his sons immediately.

“This isn’t over my sons” his whispered, like the quiet before the fall, “we have simply gained the attention of the lord of this place”

The Astartes stood alert, their weapons poised and ready as the pressure in the room suddenly changed. The light seemed to diminish and the air itself became unexplainably heavy. Smogth shook his head, rubbing his augmented eyes, his vision warping and blurring. And then He was there. None could say where He came from, or how He had appeared before them. He had simply appeared, towering over them like a monolith of time and despair.

The Dead King had come to see who had intruded upon his domain.

He towered over them, even Vulkan, his hunched, palsied form swathed in torn robes of the deepest black and the oldest grime. He rose, skeletally thin like a vast ancient tree, His limbs held close to His body like a mantis, waiting for prey to slip to close to the killing strike. Underneath the blackened tatters His legs descended, eight in total, like spider legs bladed and sharp. They clacked on the metallic floor, a random rhythm like hale upon glass. His head hung above them, the robes hanging down in a heavy, swallowing hood that only the lower half of His face escaped from. The chin was metallic and smooth, much like any Necron, but the jaw worked in an anxious manner, something lunatic about its constant gnawing. Within the shadow of the hood burned three points of the deepest silver, filled to the brim with age-old madness and despair arranged in a rough triangle. They bored into the primarch like sunspots, blazing and hungry, keen to swallow light and life. A great pair of wings rose majestically from its shoulders, their subtle form wrought from pale glass and metallic armature, and they rose and fell as if in breath, the organic motion all the more horrifying due to the dead nature of their bearer. He looked down upon the Astartes, his depthless gaze focussing on the Primarch, and in a voice that was old when the stars were young and as dust-filled as all the crypts in all the galaxy, spoke.

“So, my young friend…we meet again…”

The Pyre raised their weapons threateningly, aimed squarely at the palsied, carrion shape that stood before them. Ignition-hammers locked, fuel lines guzzled and energy coils whined as the gathered warriors prepared to fight the great, undead monarch. He’stan hefted his spear over his shoulder, ready to hurl it at the central mass of the blackened wraith. The air was charged, violence threatening to erupt at the slightest spark, but great Vulkan, calm and stoic, raised his hand to halt his son’s murderous impulses. He stared the Dead King directly in its shadowed face, and in a measured voice spoke to it as an equal.

“Greetings Lord of the Dead Spaces. Indeed I have returned.”

The wraith tensed its metallic claws, their edges scraping and tapping spasmodically in a lunatic rhythm. A deep chuckle escaped its heavy robes, or as close an approximation as the xenos monster was capable of. When it spoke, it was melt water running down metallic walls, a cold whisper in an iron necropolis.

“Ha! You are most welcome then, come sup upon the fine fruit of my bounteous kingdom.”

The monstrous shade lifted its head and gazed around randomly, seeing a time and place that was not concurrent with the dark tomb they were in.

“Where are my shabti? My Ubshul? Where is my court?”

He’stan stood uneasily behind his master, his grip tightening on his weapons. He could see his comrades were as uneasy as him: the monstrous xenos was clearly mad. Vulkan spoke again, no hint of aggression in his voice, only easy power and respect.

“My friend, I have no need of sustenance or finery, although the runnels of your kingdom are the finest I have yet seen in my long years. No finer kingdom exists under the Living Sky or the Death Below.”

The monstrous hood swung round to Vulkan, hanging inches I front of his noble face. The pale, glowing eyes considered him coldly, before a cackle shook the monstrous body of the Dead King. His wings fanned out wide, their swallowing mass easily the length of a Thunderhawk, maybe more. He rose to his full height again, and cocked his head like a curious bird.

“Then why do you return here, Princeling of the Small God? I had not expected you to return to my Empire for another millennia or more? Have you come to give fealty to me?” another cackle, revelling in some joke only the Dead King was privy to, “or do you come to ask for my boon and favour? My court may glitter, but my resources are stretched feeding such a broad populace”

It gestured wide around the chamber, again pointing at things that were not there. The Astartes followed its gaze around the room: it was a barren, dead place, its subjects were cold, dead machines. Was it too locked in another time? A better time? Vulkan spoke again, seizing the monsters attention from its reverie.

“No my lord, I come to ask you to return what I entrusted to you. The world beyond has gone mad, the laws of nature and neutrality have been usurped and I need you to return that which you have kept safe all these years.”

The wraith paused, its body becoming very still.

“I need my wings back, Lord of the Dead Spaces”

The Dead King hunched forward, bringing its monstrous head in line with Vulkan. The Primarch did not shirk or shrink from the dark gaze, and stood solid, his face stoic and set. The random shudders and twitches that rocked its colossal form abated, and it became frighteningly still and focussed. Suddenly it was with them in their time, its fanciful haze lifting immediately.

“We agreed, Emperor’s Son, the wings would remain here, till such a time as the heavens were ending and the universe is in ruin. I see no such change. You should not have come here.”

The wings of the beast rose threateningly, a great shadow covering the gathered Pyre. Some took a step back, bracing themselves for combat. But again, Vulkan was unmoved. He spoke again, no challenge in his voice, but a slight hint of sorrow evident.

“Tell me, King of the Dead Spaces, how would you know? What event would occur to tell you that the Universe had gone mad? How would you know our Epoch was ending?”

“Ha! How would I know? I am the King of the Dead Spaces! I would know intimately!”

“But how? What event would need to occur for you to know?”

The hood twitched, the dead mind behind it considering the question. Aeons of madness warred with the horrific truth of the modern times, and once again age old comfort rose to the fore. Old beliefs lapped against the shore of its psyche and the Dead King fell back upon ancient routine.

“The Gods would fall and the Kingdoms and Empires would crumble. I would know because of this”

Vulkan breathed in deeply, his next words mountainous and heavy. His eyes glistened slightly, and when he spoke it was like a blade driving through He’stan’s gut.

“My Father is dead…the God of mankind has fallen. The Empire of Man lies in ruin after his death. The times of Ending have arrived. For my people, and I fear yours also”

He’stan staggered, his mind reeling. His brothers around him gasped and wept softly. If any other had voiced those words, the Forgefather would have refuted them with every fibre of his being. But his Father had said it, and with such conviction that it could only be true. He’stan went to his knees in despair, wrenching his helm from his head. He breathed in the dusty, funerary air, tears spilling across his scarred cheeks. His comrades were similarly disarmed. Only Vulkan seemed unaffected.

The Dead King drew a long, heavy stare across the mourning warriors, taken aback by the sudden emotion. Its wings vibrated, shaking out in confusion before it turned its monstrous gaze upward, through the ceiling of the vast chamber. It stood motionless for moments, the time dragging. The Astartes did not react to its sudden stillness, too lost in their pain and sorrow. Vulkan stood as ever, stoic, strong, immovable. He focused his attention upon the Dead King, patiently waiting for its response.

The Monarchs mind spread out to its augurs and scryers, all linked by millennia-old code and neural networking. Dust-covered scopes and arrays cast signals into the dark, challenge and response protocols older than most stars fleeing across the black vastness of space. From crumbling necron warrior to victorious nemesor, from maddened cryptarch to the sleepless sentinels of the old Nectrontyr Empire the information flowed like water and lightning, jumping from perception to perception, until at last the truth was revealed. The God-King of Man was dead, the denizens of the other-space would soon be free.

And worse still.

The Dragon would rise, hungry and vengeful. The last of the Star Gods would rise from his tomb, unshackled by the death of Mankind’s Emperor. He would come for the Dead King’s kingdom. He would come for the Dead King.

All the Necrontyr had sought to build would be as ash and glass upon the crags of time.

The Dead Kings perception returned to the here and now, or at least as much as it was possible for the half-mad machine to inhabit the present. It stared at the Lord of Drakes and the Lord of Drakes back at it. An understanding passed between them, the Lord of the Living and the Lord of the Dead. Finally, after moments of silence, the Dead King spoke.

“The Wings are yours once more…under one condition. Use them to strike at the Dragon, find the Beast of your Red World and lay him low. It is the ruin of us all, Emperor’s Son, more than you know…”

And with a gasping of sepulchral winds the Dead King was gone.

The vox suddenly erupted in the helms of the Pyre, a myriad of voices from above calling for status reports and the location of He’stan and his men. Something was happening in orbit: some mass was pulling itself into the relative orbit around the Smaragdus, something big and something dense. The crew of the ship were at high alert and were calling for the Astartes to return. He’stan looked at his discarded helm, his need to move warring with his desire to cease when a gentle hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned and looked up with tear-stained eyes as his Father stood above him, a weary smile on the Lord of Drake’s face. When he spoke it was with a softness belying his warrior’s visage.

“Come my son, the time for grief is later, now we return to the stars

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Quo’Ertaa bellowed from her command dais for updates and order, the bridge shaking furiously as some unseen mass pushed upon the gravity around the ship. Her crew, panicked but professional, checked and rechecked feeds and attempted to correct pressure and data flow. Crewmen and women miles below in the lower decks struggled against the kicking of their vessel, the sweat and strain of their muscles pulling against gravities heartless whims. Quo’Ertaa signalled her helmsman again, ordering him to relay the recall message to the surface again: they had to get the Astartes back to the ship, they had to get away from whatever was forcing its way into the universe from this point. The ship shuddered violently, hurling the captain to the deck. Several crew members collided with their consoles, one unfortunate soul hammered his face straight into the edge of his equipment shattering his nose and cracking his teeth.

In her seclusion sphere, Navis Verata closed her eyes and prayed to the God-Emperor for deliverance, her grav-cradle straining to maintain some semblance of calm as her chamber rumbled and cracked. She screamed as a deafening drone erupted in the ship, the sound of a monstrous will pushing into reality, usurping the natural order.
And then it was over, and all was silence.

Quo’Ertaa gripped the side of her command throne and stood unsteadily, like a dear new-born and unfamiliar with the waking world. She grasped her head, a thick bloody bruise marring her forehead, and sucked air between her teeth in pain. She’d had worse, and was simply thankful to be alive. She called out to the bridge crew, who replied in kind: no casualties in the command crew. Information funnelled up from the lower decks and the engineerium, apart from some injuries and concussion, the majority of the crew were alive and well, if a little shaken. The Captain breathed a sigh of relief, and immediately opened a channel to the Navigation Sphere, needing to know if they were still flight capable. The channel hissed and pinged mechanically and Quo’Ertaa spoke quickly.

“Verata? Verata, are you there. Respond, are you injured.”

A whisper answered her, the Navigator lost in emotion, and her voice cracked in what could only be described as awe.
“Captain…can you see? It’s…it’s so beautiful”

The Captains attention was pulled away by a gentle touch on her arm, her Helmsman gesturing to the viewpoint. She turned her crimson eyes to the grand ocular port and her breath was stolen.

Before them, in a synchronous orbit with them was a ship, a grand vessel gilded in emerald and gold whose beauty and perfect form brought tears to the Captains eyes. Easily dwarfing their vessel, it hung like a continent set to ply the stars, its body crenulated and ornate. Tapering toward the front, the prow was shaped like a silvered dragons head, its scales sharp and perfectly symmetrical. Its body was the colour of the forests of ancient terra and widened out to a bulky, powerful drive section. Colossal engines squatted at the rear of the colossal vessel, silent and dark now but even from the size Quo’Ertaa could imagine their god-like power. Great wings hung from its midsection and spread out in mighty golden pinions, each heavy with docking cradles and weaponry of world-ending proportions. Their ship, and dozens like her, could easily dock with this immense vessel at once and still have room for more. It dwarfed even the Grand Cruisers of the Jupitan Defence Fleets.

And dominating the structure, just below the central bridge towers was a mountainous series of interlinking rings, four in number, rotating in an immense sphere, each inscribed with mile-long symbols and numerals. The rotations passed by each other, forming an immense cage of gold and metal. At the heart of the rotating rings was a sphere of pale energy, a furious ball of plasma held in place by the concentric iron around it. A newborn sun, blue and powerful radiated at the heart of the intricate structure. This ship, this world-protector was perhaps the most perfect creation that Quo’Ertaa had ever seen.

The crew were shaken from their reverie by the sudden awakening of the vox network, every speaker and transmitter on the ship playing the same message. A voice spoke to them, deep, measured and compassionate and to hear it was to be at peace with one’s self and the universe. The voice came from the glorious ship, and it brought with it safety and security:

“Smaragdus, this is Vulkan of The Song of Entropy. Your Lord He’stan and his men are safely aboard. It is good to meet you.”

I think this is my favourite piece of the entire story. It's marvelous

Amazing as always.

Gunfire and energy discharge scorched the air above the muddy trenches, vapour and abused air molecules sizzling in the wake of the furious torrent. Detonations of bullet and bomb erupted amidst the chitenous, alien swarms that hurled themselves at the Imperial Lines, greasy ichor dripping to mingle with the blood and mud at their clawed feet. They came as a relentless wave, billions of fangs lining millions of rabid mouths, alien eyes locked on their prey like fireflies in the night. They screeched and roared, the sonic assault as traumatic as the physical, the sounds of massed alien bodies rushing onward like filthy rain. Tyranids, creatures designed purely to kill and consume in a drove of unremitting, biological fury. They came in a swarm numbering in the millions covering the ground in a dense carpet of chiton and muscle and the horizon in silhouettes of heinous monstrousness.

Giant warriors in armour daubed in sunlight yellow or midnight black poured firepower into the beasts from the shallow trenches, the staccato fury of bolter fire and artillery rising to meet the alien din head-on. From the alien swarms rose great beasts of darkened bone and armoured plate, the heads split with hideous toothy grins behind which malign minds ushered forward their smaller kin. The horrors poured into the trenches, their forms myriad and terrible to behold, skittering like vermin into the human defenders, who cast aside their firearms and met the oncoming host with blade and fist and maul.

Skulls shattered as heavy iron met xenos flesh, swords slashed into throats spilling black, filthy liquids into the mire-like ground. Open braying mouths clamped onto armoured limbs, tearing and pulling the giant warriors into the quagmire of alien bodies. Talons tore and sliced, claws punched and gored and above it all alien colossi fired spewing founts of killing acid into their enemy. Plasteel and Iron plate melted under the liquid assault, throats liquefying even as their own screams tore them apart. The air was thick with bloody vapour, and sinew and alien muscle lined the trench ways, and still the fighting roared on.

Arron Polox slammed his powerfist into the leering face of yet another foe, the monstrous device discharging seismic force outward, liquefying the alien’s head in as little time as it took to blink. The headless body jerked spasmodically, teetering to and fro before collapsing messily on the sodden ground. It was soon trampled by several of its kin who charged forward, heedless of its death or the danger ahead. Arron swung his fist into a defensive stance and brought up his sidearm which he held in his left hand. An ancient and ornate plasma pistol, the weapon hummed loudly as it charged, the miniature fusion reactor within pouring plasma derivative into the magnetic core, forcing the furious energy into a physical form. With a scream of released pressure the weapon fired, a spray of incandescent starfire erupting in a shocking blast, liquefying alien armour and flesh, blistering the creatures as they charged onward. The weapons left a trail of smoking discharge as Arron spun on the spot, bringing his gauntlet to bear again. He punched and tore and fired upon the driving monsters, his movements furiously mechanical.

Behind him were his brothers, Temeret Squad, four Astartes warriors oathed to hold back the alien swarm alongside him. Like him they were clad in armour of heavy gold and brilliant yellow, their heraldry marked in black iron and ivory. Upon the shoulders was a glorious icon of white and black, a clenched fist on a field of purest white: the sign of the Imperial Fists of Inwit, the praetorians of Terra itself, the sons of Rogal Dorn. In their mailed fists they carried Bolters: furious, fully automatic weapons, loaded with shells closer to missiles than actual bullets. They raked the lines of alien horrors in broad, explosive waves, the aliens so tightly packed that it was impossible to miss. The gathered behind Polox, covering each other, ensuring that the xenos filth were given no quarter. Clipped words of battle commands droned between their helms, just beyond hearing above the screeching lunatic hordes that poured into them. The horror was ceaseless and relentless, and yet they held like mountains in a furious ocean.

And yet the aliens came on.

Further along the trench, to the back of Arron and his squad were more Astartes holding the bottleneck of the trench network against another swarm, and whilst they too were sons of Dorn, they wore not the glorious golden yellow of the fists, but were clad in black and iron, their image evoking medieval horror and torture. They were a larger group, but seemed less uniform and watertight than Temeret Squad, and whilst the Fists were drilled and efficient, the other Astartes seemed driven by rage and furious contempt. They struck out with heavy blades and shields, some with flamers and gouting fire-pikes, and all under a bellow of sheer religious fervour and fury. They were Black Templars, crusaders and zealots to a man, brothers and kin to the fists but utterly different in mind and mien. Led by a particularly venomous captain by the name of Gerrus, the Black Templars tore into the xenos swarm with a relentless, dangerous drive.

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The Tyranid swarm had descended upon the world of SV63-19 with their characteristic ravenousness and bile, and the Imperium had mounted an immediate defence. The world was a bulwark world, a bastion that guarded the sectors beyond, thanks in part to the world’s incredible size (over 90,000 miles in diameter) and its abundant, frosty ring system that hazed it. Miles of rock and ice spread out in equal plates around the world, and the Imperium had nested the vast expanse with gun emplacements, mines and laser grids. Above this squatted dense orbital platforms, autonomous broadside bases and a sub-fleet of fourteen defence vessels girded the world below. The high level of defence was down to the abundant resources on SV63-19, the world was heavy with metals, gases and a rare sub-plasma conduit known as Immortium. The population was sparse, mainly mining colonists and Mechanicum Frontiersmen, however the sheer resource wealth meant the Imperium was loathe to leave the planet to the whims of voracious aliens. An immediate request for intervention was issued to all Imperial Forces within the surrounding eight systems.

The call was answered by a staggering array of the Imperium’s military might: two regiments of Jezzari Shocktroopers on refit and resupply from the nearby Dolmius Cluster and six armoured battalions from the Venzolo Guard boasting hundreds of fighting vehicles and artillery. There came the Almeda Sky Burners, an elite squadron of a thousand fighter craft linked to the Cadian XVVI who coasted into the system in their heavy, ponderous bulk carrier. The Cadian’s were particularly numerous in their response: over 450,000 fighting men and women descended to the planet, with a host of Leman Russ armour killers and 7,000 massed missile batteries. Behind them came the glorious squadrons of House Perlius, twenty four noble knights and their attendants and the cloaked, mechanical hosts of the Hu’Lund Skitarri Legions. And dominating them all was the maddening forms of two Warlord Titans, the Geneviève and the Lament of Brochus, veterans God-Machines of the Holstoth Pacification - The Mechanicum were clearly keen to maintain its stake on the world.

The reinforcements were bolstered by contingents from no less than two chapters of the noble Astartes: a force of 300 Imperial Fists led by Captain Gauiss Menxx, returning to the central Imperium from a peace-keeping tour on the border-provinces of the Golgon sub-sector. Having left High Warp to allow fleet reformation, the Fists had receive the request for aid almost immediately upon leaving the Ether. Menxx, a man of great honour, was loathe to leave innocents to the harm of the oncoming alien tide and immediately set course for SV63-19, his small fleet of twelve vessels bolstering the ranks arrayed in the defence.

Shortly after Menxx had joined the command staff of the defenders, another Astartes fleet was detected, albeit one of considerably larger size and strength. Boasting twenty vessels, and led by a monstrous Grand Cruiser named the Affinity of Faith, a crusader host of four hundred and sixty Black Templars translated in-system in direct summons to the reinforcement’s request. Led by a Marshall Hugo Smight, a humourless and stern man even by the intimidating standards of his Legion, he led his forces to the surface and immediately was at logger–heads with his counterpart from the Imperial Fists.

Long ago, in the mists of time, all Astartes belonged to one of twenty Legions. Colossal military bodies, they each boasted tens of thousands of warriors, enough to destroy worlds and defend systems. Each was a law unto itself, and they were the greatest military forces mankind had ever seen. Then the Great Heresy came and the Legions turned on their own spurned by the Arch-Heretic Horus, the Emperor’s most precious son and greatest disappointment. The Imperium won the ensuing war, barely, and had to take steps to ensure such an event could never occur again. To this ends, the remaining loyalist Legions were shattered, split into smaller fighting forces that could never threaten the Imperium again. The Imperial Fists, the VII Legion, followed suit and split into three smaller fighting forces: One kept the name and heraldry of their former Legion, another became the Crimson Fists, who we will discuss at a future time, and the Black Templars.

Three forces joined by blood and origin, but split in mind and heart. The Templars were venomous were the Fists were reserved, unflinchingly cold were the Fists were stoic and fervent to the cause whereas the Fist were quietly loyal. The Fists were resolutely a Codex Chapter, and obeyed the tenants set out in Codex Astartes ages ago, whilst the Templars scorned upon it, swelling their ranks vastly over the prescribed limits. The Templars were a furious hammer to the Fists measured shield. And although they shared ancestry and bloodline as cousins, the two could not be described as close.

Upon planet fall, Smight had criticised much about the Imperial Defence as too static and too reactive, highlighting the pitfalls they would face against the Tyranid menace. He stated that the Imperials should define the flow of battle, and should immediately counter attack against the alien hordes before they could gain any foothold upon the world. Menxx, calmly and without the bluster of his cousin, stated a static defence across a broad trench network gave the best chance of success. The Astartes would take point on the defence, and flow back through the trench system as the battle dictated. Menxx highlighted he had fought the Tyranids numerous times, and this defensive method had quelled them each time.

Smight implied that Menxx was a coward, afraid to sally forth and meet the foe head on.

Menxx implied Smight was unfit for command.

Smight demanded the Fists leave the defence to the Templars, and run back to the home fires were the clearly belonged.

Menxx stated that Smight and all like him were a disappointment in the eyes of the Gene-Father.

Tensions flared, harsh words were voiced, and only the calming voice of the overall theatre commander, Lord General Tantalus Oswald halted the debate before it came to blows. He pointed out that they were all here for one cause, and that cause was right on their doorstep. He deferred to Menxx, his legions of Imperial Guard and armour being favoured to static defence. Smight stalked from the command tent bilious and off-humour, but his warriors followed the grand scheme also.

Over Four Hundred and Sixty thousand men, women and military assets were stationed for the defence, the horrific fury of mankind’s military might on display for all to see. It was a force that could conquer planets, systems, even galaxies. It was rested and ready, its attention on a knife-edge ready for the coming war. They had faith in their weapons and in the God-Emperor on old Earth. They were the shocking face of modern war.

They would stand no chance at all…

Tyranids. What happens to our defenders

I do not envy the man who must stand between two Space Marines in an argument.

Hey guys, super sorry I've not updated this in forever. New Job, external writing and not being in the country have all gotten in the way of my favourite place on the internet.

I'm pretty busy until christmas, however the next part has a rough skeleton and I'm hoping to pick this back up in January and hopefully update more regularly.

Thanks folks!

No problem, we can understand you being busy. Thanks for the update, and I guess we'll be seeing you around January then.

We forgive you,

We forgive you because we love you,

And we love you, TO DEATH.

In all seriousness, good luck with the challenges and opportunities life has chucked your way. We look forward to more.

Hey, no worries! Looking forward to when you can settle back down!

I just assumed the story had finished. Maybe the death of the Emperor had caused a cataclysmic galactic event such as the Galaxy imploding and as there was no Galaxy you couldn't write about it....sort of like ending a film half way through a sentence.

But in all seriousness best of luck with your new job and hope you get back to writing soon

Is there anyway we can get a collected, up-to-date version of the most excellent story contained within this thread?

Please?

Sorry for a bit of a non-update guys, I've not forgotten about you all. I've removed the Blood Angels sections as I'm reworking them into my new entry into Black Library's latest open submission.

I have them saved though so don't panic

The world was burning.

It smouldered silently in the depthless black, a glowing orb of fury and extinction. The skeletal remains of orbital docks and orbiting stations added to the conflagration, and swollen, obese shapes skulked in the ruin vomiting hordes of chittering, alien offspring onto the fiery globe below. The ships of their enemies had long ago been sundered into flotsam, with many dead and fewer limping away from, their engines flaring weakly in retreat.

The atmosphere protested at the violence, rain and ruin billowing in mad tangents, whipping the punished air into a maddened frenzy. Dark, gory shapes screamed from the inky blackness above, trailing runnels of umbilical fluids and alien ichor in haphazard spirals. Metallic fury roared up to meet them: clouds of shrapnel and flak scattering death-dealing debris into the air, tracer rounds the length of a man’s arm screeching in veering lines of explosive fury. Winged horrors, dredged seemingly from the terrified dreams of lunatics, flitted to and fro between the killing pulses, screeching their alien, carrion call to the tortured skies. Man-made craft, all angles and hard lines, blitzed in wide arcs, their wings and noses alive with flashes of automated gunfire. The sky brimmed with death and madness, the sheer scale of the slaughter enough to steal the breath of the hardiest warrior and most demented of butchers.

But it was nothing compared to the slaughter below.

The broad landscapes of SV63-19 seemed to pulse and teem as if the planet itself shivered and quaked in a morbid impersonation of life as trillions of glossy, beetle bodies flowed like organic rivers toward the warmth of their prey. A solid mass of xenos horror crawled across the world, encircling and swallowing the planet and its defenders in an endless tide of brutal, alien bodies. The sounds of bone scraping and thrumming, alien screeches and dry alien bodies would have driven a man insane had it not been for the near relentless gunfire drowning out all other sound.

The orbital defences had failed, and the small fleet, enough to pacify whole systems of more civilised foes, had been smashed into obscurity by the encroaching Tyranid swarm. The swollen alien hive ships had destroyed the world’s defences with mammoth beaks and talons, tentacles and fleshy growths the span of continents, with hails of digestive mist and solid, bony flack. They then descended upon SV63-19 with all the starving fury the universe had bred into them.

In the ocean-laden Northern Hemisphere, a great sea battle raged as the planet’s naval defences battered at the oncoming swarm, their hydra batteries and mighty cannons duelling with the skyborne threat. Colossal meteors of bone and gristle plummeted into the icy waves, before great tentacle-heavy leviathans rose up in anguished birth-fury, beady blackened eyes set on the crafts of mankind. Winged behemoths skulked in the sky and pulled the defences of the Imperium to the ocean below, their chattering din adding to the lunatic crescendo building around them. The fighter screens deployed to provide cover and support for their ocean-bound comrades burned and spiralled out the skies, their engines clogged with sticky, fleshy matter. Clouds of alien spores, near-microscopic in size, coated engines, vents and rebreathers and tore down entire squadrons. Pilots tore off their masks screaming as flesh-eating microbes tore through them, coughing blood and liquefied organs onto their controls. What the microbial horrors didn’t kill was torn down by ghoulish winged beasts of talon and flail, and soon the Northern skies belonged to the xenos.

In the cold, icy tracts of the western planet, a ground war of dizzying scale was entering its final, painful moments. A full half of the relief force’s military might had been stationed there, protecting the mining stations and research colony established many years before. Above the glorious display of mankind’s military might stood the Lament of Brochus, a Warlord Titan, its staggering scale matched only by its capacity for destruction. Pale blue banners traced in gold hung from its noble arms, and its sonorous war horn blared in challenge to the rushing hordes of monsters that stampeded toward the human lines.

When the Imperial forces opened fire, it was with the sound of the world ending. Millions of weapons fired as one and the spectacle would steal the breath of even the hardiest malcontent: the relentless din of automated fire, the proud shouts and battle cries of thousands of throats singing as one, the whip crack of tanks and war machines pushing on their stabilisers as they hurled rounds above the battlefield and most regal and terrifying of all, the Lament unleashing absolute destruction from its godlike fists, its mournful song piercing the veil in its mechanical majesty. The wall of alien flesh buckled and ruptured in the face of mankind’s retribution, and yet on they came. Clambering over the bodies of the fallen, bristling with organic armour and talons, the aliens came on and soon they replied in kind with their own firepower. They vomited acidic bile into the ranks of humans, serrated spines of poisoned bone and shrapnel flew from muscled pores, greenish hails of lightning and sensory overload discharged in arcing explosions. The Imperial lines faltered, and men and women fled. And as the Imperial Line disintegrated, a counterattack pushed from the reserve.

From the fleeing human masses came regal giants, shining in plates of emerald green and crimson, moving with a grace belying their great size and warlike nature. With a clarion call they charged, huge pistons and monstrous engines driving the mechanical comets forward. Lances the length of trees lowered, energy fields sparked into life and great shields lowered in front of grim, engraved canopies. The Knights of House Perlius cannoned out of the human battle-lines, their weapons barking and screaming into the oncoming tide of monstrous flesh. Where their weapons struck, ruin and destruction followed, and scores of Tyranids fell dead beneath their relentless kin. The monstrous mass reared in fury at this new challenge and plunged ever onward into the noble machines.

With the sound of waves smashing against a cliff face the Knights and Tyranids met in a tangled melee of scything talon, piston and flame. A brutal circle of slaughter opened up around each of the towering machine-warriors, their pilots calm and precise despite the chaos unfolding. The tide of aliens halted against the mechanised bulwark and a shudder ran through their lines, and the human warriors cheered and entered the fray once more. The Lament of Brochus saluted its smaller kin with a blast of its great horn, before once again puncturing the alien swarms with calculated laser fire, and the battle seemed to sway in the Imperium’s favour.

And then a shadow fell across the human lines.

All human eyes turned upward as something immense and horrific moved out of haze and smoke of the horizon. At first it seemed as if a mountain had uprooted itself from the strata of the planet and was now moving inexorably toward them. The alien masses unleashed a keening wail as a great and terrible shape came into view. A continent of alien flesh and armour strode through the smoke, dragging its maddening bulk across the plains on eight monstrous legs, each footfall cracking the earth and sending seismic walls of force in all directions. Great spines and pillars of bone ran across the monstrosities back, and it was dotted with tens of thousands of giant, slime-filled pores. From each pore chittered billions of aliens, cavorting and waiting upon the back of their great sibling. A great swaying tail balanced the creature, and as it swung overhead it blackened the earth below as if the sun had never been.

And hung low under its frontal arms was a maddening visage, a face of horror and alien monstrousness. A great maw of unfathomable size grinned at the world, lined with razor sharp fangs each the length of one of the duelling knights below. Yellowed and stained, the dripped viscous fluids in great runnels down the ground many miles below. Spines and armoured chiton covered its ruddy flesh, and sixteen malicious, black eyes stared out of its horrific face. Great mandibles and antennae waved about its head and under its great jaw hung a bulbous, cancerous growth of tumour and bone. It stomped from the smoke cover and paused above the hordes of smaller xenos. It seemed to consider the Imperials arrayed before it for a silent minute and then bellowed a roar that deafened the entire frontline of the Imperial forces. If any of them were to survive this encounter, they would be irreversibly deafened for the rest of their lives.

But none would survive. No one could survive this.

The monstrous goliath seemed to heave and choke, before an unending stream of steaming mucus burst from its gullet. A tidal wave of sticky matter shadowed the ground and struck with the force of a comet. Where the vile fluid touched human flesh, it seared and burned like the most potent acid. Where it touched the Mechanicum-blessed steel and metal of the Knights, it smoked and blistered, eating through the molecules as if they were so much swill. The Imperial Line, or at least those not caught in the murderous deluge, broke in a frenzy, clawing at each other to get away from the unholy mountain of flesh. Melted and sticky limbs rose from a bloody quagmire, begging for mercy and help as their bodies dissolved into a swamp of human matter.

Above the fleeing armies stood the Lament of Brochus, who would not see this slight to her allies go unpunished. The mighty Warlord braced its colossal form and fired with every weapon it could bear. The Volcano Cannons mounted on its arms blazed with a blinding light, a stream of killing flame blitzing across the air. Its shoulder-mounted laser blasters stuttered into life, stabbing the bio-titan with crimson spears of killing energy. On its carapace, missile pods opened and bombarded the enemy lines with corkscrewing missiles and flak, eliciting great explosions of dirt and alien bodies. Warhorns bellowed in righteous fury as thousands of aliens died in holy fire.

The bio-titan screeched as blobs of flesh and steaming chiton exploded from its hide under the assault. Great streams of gore showered the field below, the stench beyond words. Wounded, the beast focused its myriad eyes on its attacker and lunged forward. Its pace was breath-taking, stunning for something so maddeningly huge. Its talons scraped runnels of rock and dirt in great waves, broken bodies of both xenos and man flying behind it in its flight.

On like a juggernaut it came, the very air protesting at the passing of such a colossal form. The Warlord boomed its horns in response and unloaded yet more fury into the oncoming beast. The ground vanished between the colossi, and with world-ending force the alien monster impacted the Imperial Titan.

A wave of invisible force exploded outward from them, dust, debris and corpses hurled violently through the air from the impact. Alien flesh met Imperial steel as they smote each other with fire and claw. Defence turrets and flak-arrays raked the hide of the alien terror, weapons designed to fell boarders and enemy titans doing little but enraging the great beast. It's monstrous claws swung out and flared as they impacted advanced shielding and void-arrays. The Lament, not designed for such close-quarters battles, swung ponderously to the side before slamming its right cannon arm into the xenos titan's side. Energy exploded from the colossal barrel and a smoking gory wound opened like a rent in the earth. With a scream of pain and alien frustration the monster rose to its full, blasphemous height, and the cancerous growth hanging below its maw rippled obscenely

With a sickening tear of sodden flesh heard many miles away, it burst open, revealing stinging tentacles and a colossal lamprey mouth lined with deadly fangs. The fleshy horror fell upon its prey, both mouths working obscenely on the head and shoulders of its enemy. The Princeps and her noble crew screamed as the alien horror chewed and digested them alive. Great teeth cut through adamantium, gears and pistons whined under the weight and in a moment of utter panic the Princeps uncoupled the safety protocols on her steed’s core.

A rumble shook the Lament of Brochus, as it stood savaged and mute, before it blossomed into a great cloud of atomic fury. The power of a raging sun expanded across the battlefield, vaporising any unlucky enough to survive the battle. The great bio-titan fell, its insides scoured by killing fire and its body blackened to a peeling crisp.

The shockwave rumbled voraciously across the killing fields, coating all in its path in corpse-ash and dust.

When the dust settled many hours later, and the weak sunlight finally pierced the murky skies, no living thing was left on the Western Front of SV63-19…

Glad to see this back, and with what an entrance!

Pleasure to have you back. And good luck with BL.

With a scream of tortured metal and splitting air, another dropship sprang upward into the wet air, its nose rising steeply as it tore its way into the atmosphere. Dozens of similar vessels did likewise, rising on retro-thrusters and launch-pods, corkscrewing aggressively into flight. Smoke and fire concealed most of the skies, but what patches of blue could be made out in the maelstrom was thick with heavy craft fleeing the dying world below. Some made it to the relative safety of the darkness above, others were sundered by flak of bone and gristle, their stricken hulls belching fumes and murdered bodies as they span toward the ground. Already, pyres of destroyed vessels dotted the landscape, their smoke and detritus adding to the grim air.

Rain lashed the spaceport and iron corpses, a furious hierophant of the elements, its diluted cracking smashing into the blocky permacrete buildings. The sheer volume of objects streaking through the skies and the introduction of alien microbes causing a tsunami of poison rain. It drove down in a wall of grey water, muddying the round into a sick, gooey soup. SV63-19 was dying, its body smothered in a watery grave, and what remained of its populace swam for the blackness of the void.

Around the squatting spaceport came tides of alien madness, a Tyranid swarm of staggering numbers poured toward the last bastion of the humanity on the world, their eyes and drooling mouths fixed on snuffing out what lives remained. The rest of the planet was dead, its defenders consumed and their weapons smashed to tinder. It was a horde of utter lunacy and inhuman hunger, and its ending of the world was entering its final, agonising moments.
The death blow was struggling to fall however: around the grey, ugly buildings of the last human outpost ran a thin line of gold and black figures, standing shoulder to shoulder, blazing away with weapons of righteous fire, deep trenches and defence networks slowing the oncoming tide. The giants roared with gunfire and fury into the alien masses, their anger matched by their furious drive to save the people fleeing the world. Astartes, defenders of the Imperium, standing against the dark tide as they always have and as they always would. High above their heads, the automated defences of the spaceport chattered and roared in a similar blaze, their overwhelming fire rending chitenous bodies in twain in a staccato drumbeat of fiery fury.

Tanks vomited shells into the hordes, plumes of fire and viscera blossoming in the unending press of bodies. Laser fire and plasma flare devoured the beasts in a gluttonous, pyrotechnic display. Where the lines became too close, chainswords and wicked blades licked out to cut heads from twisted bodies and gouge eyes from hateful skulls. The glorious Imperial Fists and wrathful Black Templars stood against the enemies of man, hurling their fury unto the backs of the black-hearted.

And yet the monsters came on.

Captain Gaiuss Menxx was not one to dwell on fatalism, but even he could see that his defence was breaking. The commander of the Imperial Fists stood with his men on the frontline, the twin barrels of his Storm-Bolter white hot through use, his voice hoarse from bellowing orders and extolling his men onto further glory. His Astartes, the men he had commanded for decades did him proud, never shirking, never stopping, never surrendering to the black mass of instectile madness that descended upon them. The aliens roared and screeched and chattered, a living wall of men’s deepest nightmares made flesh, and pulled and rent and clawed at the brave men of the Auld VII.
Thousands of the beasts died as the battle raged, their lurid, glaring eyes dimming as rounds tore out their throats or burst within their sickening, fruit-rot bodies. But they wouldn’t die alone, and many of Menxx’s brothers lay torn and smashed on the blood-thickened mud below. The ring of Astartes grew tighter and tighter as the aliens gained ground, and Menxx knew this battle would soon be lost. He fired pinpoint shots into swollen, distended skulls with a calm belying the raging battle and his command squad, marines of highest honour and talent fought alongside him. Stretching off around him was trench network of golden armour dozens of his warriors arrayed in a think, immovable line of righteous vengeance, the Imperial Fists making the Tyranids pay in blood and bodies for every inch they claimed.

This world is lost, he thought, and my brothers will be lost with it…

The decision to withdraw is never an easy one for an Astartes to make. The implications of cowardice and self-preservation would balk most warriors of high honour, but for an Astartes it is almost a reflex action. Retreat is simply not an option for most Space Marines because it is unnatural to them. Death or Victory, as the battle cries often went, only in Death Does Duty End. But as Menxx stared out at the masses of seething beasts and alien horror, he knew that to die here would be a dishonour to both his men and his Imperium. A tactical withdrawal, taking as much from the spaceport as possible, a calculated relocation to the next location in the Hive Fleets path was the most logical course of action.
It was not retreat if you moved form a place of weakness to a place of strength.

Menxx blink-clicked his retinal UI, opening a channel to his counterpart in the Black Templars who warred on the opposite side of the Spaceport. The vox link blared to the sound of distorted gunfire and bellowing voices, all smothered in distortion and over-gain. He winced at the sudden noise, which roared even over the actual firefight around him. Several seconds of the discordant din passed before a gruff, wrathful voice, laden with disrespect cut through the feedback.

“What is it Menxx? If you haven’t noticed I have a war to fight here!”

Menxx scowled within his helm, loosing another buzz of rounds into a tall, spindly form that wavered too close to the line. He spoke in a level, deliberate tone, partly because of the strains of combat, mainly because he loathed speaking to Smight, Marshall of the Black Templars stationed on SV63-19.

“Our position is close to overrun Smight, our forces should fall back to the cover of the Spaceport and we should signal for withdrawal from the surface.”

More static, more gunfire. Menxx drove his fist into the face of a screeching mouth of fangs and venom, wrenching the spine of the beast through its drooling dead mouth. His veterans gave him support, their swords and hammers smashing aside the brood that threatened their position. Smight spat down the connection.

“Scared are we Imperial Fist? We are the Sons of Dorn, we do not retreat! We know no Fear! Or have you forgotten that?”

More gunfire, more alien screaming, more frustration.

“Look past your pride Brother, most of our charges are in orbit, we should join them. The battle here is lost, but the battle elsewhere can still be won”

“No! We do not retreat. Glory and Death! We stay here till the last man Menxx, you cower away if you want, but we are the Black Templars, we do not turn our backs!”

Menxx cursed internally.

“Smight, Listen to me! Do not waste the lives of your men. We can strike back at the xenos elsewhere. SV63-16 is lost! Order your men to fall back with and we can strike back before…”

The line cut in sudden silence, deactivated.

Menxx stared in stunned frustration at the vox icon, which blinked a steady red, its steady pulse mocking him.

His reverie was broken as a colossal detonation erupted behind him. Several Fists flew into the air, their bodies broken and twisted into painful contortions. Smoke and dust rained down upon the lines, small slivers of stone pattering off the Commander’s golden armour. The onslaught continued, with even greater and more loathsome shadows moving amongst the Tyranid lines. Far in the distance, great lumpen shapes the size of mountains moved in the haze, their ponderous march in line with their smaller kin. Jets of acid and solid lumps of bone-shrapnel the size of men flew overhead as the alien’s specialist forms prowled closer.

The end was coming quickly upon clawed feet and rabid hunger.

Menxx activated the vox once more, reloading his weapon in an almost subconscious gesture, the frustration buried underneath his combat instincts. A golden symbol representing Sergeant Polox opened. Polox was one of Menxx’s veterans, a brother whom Menxx himself was grooming for command: a strong, taciturn warrior every inch the noble Son of Dorn. His squad, Temeret, were far to the west of Menxx’s position, defending the western loading docks of the port. His brother’s voice came through, noise and eruptions blaring in the background.

“My Lord?”

“Polox, this position is overrun. I want you and Temeret Squad to link up with Squads Ganymede, Dolomite and Harbinger and effect a sweeping fall back to the facility. Overlapping fire patterns. Relay to the wider line also. We are to effect a fighting withdrawal from the Spaceport”

Seconds of static-laden noise washed down the line, as Polox and his men fought the oncoming storm of flesh and bone. Menxx squeezed the trigger of his weapon, a blaze of tracer rounds whipping into the xenos lines, cutting down three more foes. Their bodies were soon mulched under the oncoming rush of monsters.

“Aye Lord, your will be done! Effecting withdrawal now…My Lord, where will you be?”

Menxx nodded to the marines next to him, who dutifully took his place in the line. Shouldering his way through the trench line at a run, Menxx's eyes were set on the other side of the facility. His cloak whipped behind him in the rain-soaked wind, and his boots left deep, sticky footprints in the churned mud.

“I am going to save our Brothers from themselves”

Two more posts, and both of them spectacular. The tyranids are definitely a good conduit for the horrors that are happening, welcome back, Seanron.

I hope you get to,do this full time with copy rights. Amazing.

The defence lines drawn up by the Black Templars were drowning in fire, cascading walls of flame burning as far as the eye could see. Menxx’s armour filtered out the worst of the smoke and air-contaminants, but it didn’t protect him entirely from the areas acrid taste. His throat ached with the taste of it.

It tasted of fire and brimstone.

Black Templars, their armour darkened and baroque fought amidst the flames, flamer units and meltas screaming and whooshing into the oncoming surge of Tyranids. Chanting filled the general vox, prayers of wrath and ruin being uttered by the black-armoured warriors. Banners and chains fluttered in the smoke-choked air, and braziers dotted the landscape, burning tinder of alien skulls. On a stanchion of twisted rubble stood a bronze-armoured chaplain, his cataprachi armour beyond ornate and laden with prayer-scrolls and symbology, screaming vehemence at the alien hordes, almost threatening his brothers below into greater acts of suicidal valour.

The Templars fought as men possessed, a wild, hateful fury compared to the composed icy temperament of the Fists. They hacked and burned anything that came within range, the solid wall of seething aliens burning and breaking before them. The trenches were lined with alien bodies and slain Astartes, and the air stank of promethium exposure. Hordes of aliens poured from the rising plateaus beyond the defensive line, equally as fathomless and driven as those his Imperial Fists had been fighting. But the feeling here felt different.

This was not war, this wasn’t even a defiance.

This was Hell, in its most archaic form.

Many gave Menxx sideways glances as he stormed into their trench line, his golden-yellow already darkened by soot and filthy rain, but still glaringly different from the black armoured marines around him. One or two who went without helm even sneered at the Captain. Such slights were of no concern, not when the lives of so many depended on so little. He shouted over the din of gunfire and flamers, his suits grille lending gain-based volume to his words.

“You men, Where is Marshall Smight?”

Many of the Templars ignored him, too busy with the business of the battle to respond. A young Neophyte turned to Menxx, his eyes and face young but ingrained with the same fury common of all the Templars. His hair was a pale blonde and his eyes were a piercing blue. A thin scar ran down his left cheek, which did nothing to counter his youthful aspect. He shouted over the din, lowering his bolter to speak.

“Further up the line, My Lord. In the thick of it…”

Menxx again ignored the sour tone the Neophyte attached to his title, and gestured down the trench.

“Show me boy”

“My Lord, I have orders to…”

“SHOW ME!”

Menxx’s frustration with the Templars broke momentarily and he seized the gorget of the Neophytes armour, the young Astartes clearly taken aback by the lunging grasp. A few of the Templars turned their heads at the sudden movement, then returned their attention to the furious battle. Shrapnel flew over their heads and a great screeching shadow crashed far behind them, a great carrion-beast brought low by automated fire. More flames burst from the enemy lines, more smoke and charnel stink to choke the senses.

The Neophyte stared harshly and then finally relented, nodding his head sullenly and breaking into a jog down the trench, followed by Menxx.

They jogged for a mile, swallowing the distance in the loping gate that all Astartes are known for. The whole line showed similar signs of fervent battle, walls of Black Templars on fire steps pouring ammunition into the hooting waves of monsters. Some had removed their helms, relishing in the scalding fury, striking at the aliens with heavy broadswords and shields. Others stood like dark devils, curving looping gouts of burning promethium from heavy flamer units held in dark gauntlets. Great banners dotted the line, some of blackened silk and heavy fabric that burned in turmoil, others were grim crucifixes to the skeletal remains of heretics and foes the Templars had slain in their crusades.

And everywhere was the relentless shouting, praying and snarling that were common to his cousins, adding a desperate fervour to the battle.

How different we are, thought Menxx, how did we become so distant?

As the thought dawned, the din of the battle faded and eventually became silent. Menxx paused in his advance, startling in its suddenness. He gazed around, the scene seeming to slow in his mind. He saw his cousins engaged in brutal combat, their weapons blazing in swampy slowness. He could see the tracers of scarlet their rounds left in the tortured air. He witness the roaring, grinning maws of the alien enemy, spittle and viscera drooling from between needle teeth. He could see their bunched musculature in finite detail now that they were slowed to perceptible levels. He saw the alien madness that bled form their eyes in horrific bale-fire and the cold, hungry intellect behind them.
The air hung like a breath before release, the blood, bullets and horror hanging in a silent pause.

Then he saw it.

Approaching slowly down the trench, smoke and mist clinging to it like a ragged cloak. The eyes burned like red coals, furious crimson slits from an iron skull-helm, blacker than even the night above. Its armour was baroque to a monstrous degree, the plates carved in leaping flames and jeering revenants, the armour as much a symbol of potent horror as it was a defence. Flames flowed freely about it, and smoke and sparks rose lazily from joints in its form. In one hand it carried a great shield, a twisted screaming human skeleton fused to the broad face, and in the other it wielded a mace of blackest metal, chains and flames dripping from its heavy length, the head festooned with spikes the length of Menxx’s forearm. This was a dark mirror, an image of an Astartes born in the deepest recesses of The Pit.

Behind it came others alike to it, armoured warriors bathed in flame and smoke, their armour black as pitch. The smouldered in the haze, their blackened plates emblazoned with flames and writhing spectres. In their hands they carried weapons of grim promise, great scythes and spears, shields of burnished bone, harpoons that could slay the mightiest beats, great chain glaives the height of men and bolters carved from the bones of deceased lunatics. They drifted ethereally forward, their footsteps disturbing nothing in their path, approaching Menxx with the inevitability of slow, cold death. A Legion of damned warriors, drifting form the mist to bring death.

You will all die here. You will be damned if you do not flee.

A sepulchral whisper on the wind, chilling to hear and even more terrifying to understand gripped to Menxx’s soul and he knew it came from the lead warrior. Their march ceased several paces before Menxx, the leader raising his monstrous mace to point directly at the Captain’s chest.

You will be damned!

Menxx blinked and they were gone. The madness of the battle reasserted itself and time took its regular flight once more. He shook his head, blinking quickly at the vision that had just assailed him. The Neophyte stood before him shouting.

“Captain? Captain are you well?”

“I am fine boy…momentary lapse, nothing more. Where is Smight?”

The Neophyte seemed less than convinced.

“Just over the next rise sir, but word has just come down the vox. My Lord’s position is under heavier assault.”

Menxx nodded.

“Then lead on…time is of the essence”

They ran again through the trench, bullets and bone exploding over their heads while from the shadows of the smoke a set of red eye lenses considered them coldly.

They found Smight exactly where the neophyte had said: in the thick of a brutal melee, breath-taking in its viciousness. They paused at the crest of an earthen bulwark, taking in the sheer scale of the combat below. The aliens swept as far back as the eye could see, a living carpet of brutal intent, and all held back by a thin line of black armoured warriors. And at their head was Smight, a furious golem of bronze and black, calling to his brothers to strike back at the hated foe and to give their lives for the Emperor.

Smight was a daemon forged form flesh and iron, his every move brutal and calculated to inflict the most harm, his every utterance were words of roaring hate. His heavy fur cloak, likely shorn from the back of some great alpha predator, swirled about his shoulders like a revenant, its formerly white coat stained with ash and blood. His terminator armour was dark iron and heavy bronze, and it clattered with chains and devotional tokens, a monastery formed from armoured plates and stained with the viscera of his foes. In his right hand he wielded a colossal broadsword, easily the height of an unaugmented man, its length shimmering and diamond-cold, a steaming and hissing power field flash-condensing any liquids or flesh it touched. His left fist was locked within a monstrous power-fist, a lumpen, brutish mimicry of his own hand laden with killing energies and dense plating. He swung both in violent loops, whatever wasn’t smashed into a gory paste was sliced in twain by a whistling razors edge. Smight went without helm, his pale skin darkened with alien blood and soot. Only his eyes were left undimmed, wild and alight with the fury of combat.

Around him stomped the massive forms of Black Templars veterans, all encased in equally threatening terminator plate and all giants of unrelenting war. They blazed away with flamers and buzzing chainfists, hacking and beating the wall of alien combatants into submission. They formed a heavy, unmoving wedge against the tide of monstrous flesh battering against them and the site would stir the soul of any loyal child of the Imperium.

But it couldn’t last.

Bulbous headed alien horrors, with clawed limb and flicking tongues, pulled and dragged at the noble terminators, pulling them to the muddy ground. Armour came apart under acidic vomit and alien fangs, and for every victorious kill another brother would be pulled down. In the shadows stalked gargantuan, skeletal forms, like insectoid mantis’ given fuel through nightmarish growth. Great limbs of bone and sinew stabbed form above, seizing heads, arms and necks before pulling and hacking at the Marines below. Swollen floating creatures, malformed things of grinning teeth and sickly light, projected great beams of melting light into the Terminators, setting ablaze warriors and liquefying them in their own armour.

Already, dozens of dead brothers lined the battlefield, their ancient suits beyond any kind of repair or rescue.

Menxx had to end this. He charged into the melee, bringing his own weapon to bear, his bolter chattering and raking the enemy. He bludgeoned his way next to Smight, whose wild eyes beheld him for barely a moment. His voice was granite, all aggression and strain over the apocalyptic din.

“Come to join us Fist? We should feel blessed…”

Smight’s broadsword licked out and smote the head from a grinning horror before it could pounce upon him. Menxx blazed away with his bolter, hosing a giant, lurid worm-beast with explosive shells.

“You know why I’m here Smight! You need to pull back, now! The line is buckling and we need to relocate to mount a stronger defence”

A snarl left Smight’s lips as he pounded his swollen power fist into the chest of a four-armed gibbering serpent, blood and bone exploding out the creature’s back. He turned on Menxx with a furious glare.

“No! You do not come onto my field and tell ME the battle is lost!”

He gripped Menxx by his collar and shoved him back violently. His armour whined, and Menxx felt himself slide back, the terminator armour lending Smight lunatic strength. He gripped onto the Black Templar’s arm and struggled as he was pushed back. The battle was momentarily forgotten as all the ire the Marshall held for the Fists was finally vented. Spittle flew from between Smight’s teeth as he ranted.

“We are the Black Templars! WE DO NOT RUN FROM ANYTHING! Coward! You and your preening Fists, so pure and righteous, afraid to muddy yourself on the real battlefield”

Menxx could see a light in Smight’s eyes, a cold and relentless fury that would not see reason, and knew his words would fall on deaf ears. He struggled in the iron grip, all too aware of how close the battle was. Smight roared as he pushed Menxx farther back.

"WE ARE THE SONS OF DORN, YOU ARE A PRETENDER!"


I need to fight back - I need to end this, thought Menxx, but then what? How am I going to save these men?

It was a small mercy then that the choice was taken entirely from his hands. The smell of brimstone filled his nostrils, and smoke clouded his eyes and from the right a black gauntlet wreathed in images of flames and skeletal terrors reached between them and seized Smight’s head. The Marshall bellowed as the iron grip seized his face entirely.

The revenant from the Trenches stood beside them, smoke and flame billowing from its armour, its furious burning gaze boring into the thrashing figure of Smight. It leaned forward, dirty soot spilling from its mouth-grille and in a voice that was too many voices spoke one word.

SLEEP!

All I can say is... wow. I now want to collect and paint some fething Legion of the Damned!

SLEEP!

One word and Smight was down. An Astartes in full terminator plate is nigh-invulnerable, a walking, armoured mountain, a demi-god of battle. Only the strongest weapons can fell them, only the gravest blows could stop them. And here on this muddy battlefield, a spectre form the stuff of nightmares had toppled one with a word.

Smight toppled to the side, his transhuman bulk and armoured weight splashing messily into the muddy boards below, water splashing out around him. His head lolled, his mouth open and panting like some canine predator. His eyes rolled into the back of their sockets and he jerked spasmodically, his armour whining in sympathetic movements. Several Templars called out, a pair rushing to their stricken commander’s side. Someone called for an apothecary, another raised his weapon at the revenant. Chaos broke out within the defence line.

Menxx stood aghast, frozen to the spot, staring dumbly at the huge, prone form at his feet. The revenant stood alongside him, fumes and ash rising above it despite the torrential downpour. It stared down at its victim, its fist still held aloft, its gauntlet locked into a claw. It seemed not to care about the Templars threatening it, or the seething horde of aliens beyond. It simply stood, solid and unyielding, underneath the grey rain.

Menxx finally found his voice, disbelief and anger flaring his words.

“What did you do? Is he dead?”

The spectre turned its head slowly to regard him, its eyes like windows to some blood-choked realm. It slowly lowered its hand, and its voice that was too many voices sounded once more.

No, he shall live. At least he will if you and your kin leave this rock.

“What did you do?”

He would not listen to your reasoning, Captain Menxx, Fist of the Imperium. We took steps to ensure his survival.

Menxx stared dumbfounded at the armoured spectre. How had it known his name? How had it known what he was attempting to do? His mouth hung agape and his bolter fell from his fists, its heavy strap hanging against his waist. His reverie was interrupted by a harsh call from behind.

“YOU THERE! HEED ME!”

Behind them came heavy armoured footsteps, thumping metal treads muffled by the mud, and the spectre’s eyes rose above Menxx’s shoulder. A booming voice, one heightened by fury and vox-grille bellowed behind them:

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO THE MARSHALL?”

Menxx turned and beheld a group of Templars wielding flamers approaching them, led by a warrior in grim, brass-plated armour. His head was encased in a bleached skull-helm and a heavy brazier was set into his backpack, a white flame burning at its heart. Heavy robes of black and grey swathed his curved form, and a solid, chain-wrapped crozius sat in his fists. Menxx recognised him as Prahss, the Black Templar detachment’s head chaplain, and second in command to Smight. Menxx remembered he was just as furiously stubborn, if not more so, that Smight.

“I WILL HAVE YOUR ANSWER! THIS IS TREACHERY! YOU LAY LOW MY COMMANDER AND EXPECT TO LIVE?”

The chaplain radiated fury in his every movement, and Smight noticed the shivering tension in heavy crozius he carried. He was certain that one misplaced word and the Chaplain and his men would attack. He raised his hands in a peaceful gesture, his bolter slung at his hips.

“Peace Prahss, I can explain what has happened…”

The revenant stood forward and its myriad voices sounded again, wisps of ethereal detritus dripping from its mouth.

To me, Chaplain of the Templars in Black. Look to me and behold the answers.

Time seemed to slow again, a cold, queasy stone settling in Menxx’s stomach. The chaplain raised his crozius and stepped forward boldly only to freeze in place when his helm’s eyes met that of the revenant. They stood motionless, each gazing into the other, as the rain lashed overhead. Prahss’ men looked to their commander then the revenant then Menxx, their agitation evident by the twitching of their weapons. Several Templars from the rear of the gun line also turned at the commotion, their curiosity beckoning them.

What passed between the revenant and Prahss is unknown, the secrets locked behind the silent gaze. Prahss trembled, his body shaking as if under extreme cold. Slowly, but surely, his crozius dropped to his side and he lowered his head in exhaustion. Menxx heard the crackle of the chaplain’s vox-unit sound, a whisper.

“Very well…”

The revenant stood motionless as Chaplain Prahss turned to his men. His shoulders hung heavy, as if defeated, and though his voice boomed artificially from his helm, it couldn’t over the uncertainty tainting his voice.

“Templars of Black, my Brothers, this position is overrun! We are to execute a fighting retreat! Head for the centre of the complex, get to our landing craft. You men, gather up the commander and bring him with us. All units, fall back, now! For the Emperor!”

Astartes, as noted earlier, are loathe to retreat even in the face of overwhelming odds, however they are equally as adverse to disobedience. The Black Templars enacted their orders immediately, the frontline falling back in short order. Menxx felt himself pulled along with the flow. He turned to see the revenant, to offer some silent thanks but his voice was stolen from him yet again.

Out amongst the tides of aliens were figures in black, blacker than even the Templars, and the sheer fury and power they displayed was staggering. Warriors in burning armour struck out with weapons of grim portent, hacking apart aliens with consummate ease. Flames billowed from weapons and mouth grilles, consuming attackers and bathing the area in flame. From the skies fell armoured warriors, black as onyx, with great wings of bone and smouldering sinew, impacting the tides below with meteoric force. The wielded spears and swords, great maces and terrible claws. The struck at the alien tide, which quivered and turned on itself to fight the latest enemy. From the shadows came more and more warriors, each one a ghastly mirror of the Astartes they were defending.

Menxx had seen war, he had seen its face countless times and knew it well. He had seen cruelty and horror and butchery enough times to drown the souls of all mortal men. But this moment would stay with him for the rest of his life. For it was the silence the damned legion fought in that marked them as unnatural. There were no cries or shouts, no intonations or battle-roars, no painful laments or furious screams. Just a cold, fathomless fury, like the deep ocean. They were a leviathan thing from the deep, dredged up and let loose upon the world.

Menxx had seen many things in his long life, and would see many more in his long journey. But the site of the silent massacre, the quiet, abyssal rage of this damned legion would forever chill his soul. In the fleeing masses of the Templars, Menxx saw the Revenant and it saw him, and silently, glacially it nodded in recognition before turning slowly to the battle and vanishing into the chaos.

Took awhile to catch up…

The way you described the fight between the Imperator and Bio-Titan is worthy of a Godzilla movie! That, and the description of the Legion of the Damned is downright staggering in the way they slay Tyranids in absolute silence…

Just updated the initial post to include the latest chapter folks and some upkeep on the thread.

There's two more sections to this first part and then we're done with Movement One.

I'll then get it all together into a PDF with lots of fancy editing and design and put it all into a big article for you all. Then there will be a small break and then I'll fire into Movement Two.

Thanks for your continued reading and patience guys, I know I'm a bit up and down with updates

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:
Just updated the initial post to include the latest chapter folks and some upkeep on the thread.

There's two more sections to this first part and then we're done with Movement One.

I'll then get it all together into a PDF with lots of fancy editing and design and put it all into a big article for you all. Then there will be a small break and then I'll fire into Movement Two.

Thanks for your continued reading and patience guys, I know I'm a bit up and down with updates

I love what you're doing here - and I love that you'll be PDFing it for us in a bit!

Then I'll have a sit down and proper read through, and I'm really looking forward to that!

Throughout the millennia of mankind's existence, those who have braved the challenge of striking from their homes to plunge into the inky black of the skies above have oft returned with stories akin to this of the Mariners of ancient earth.

They would speak of the waves and currents of the night sky as if they were the great blue oceans of the home world. They would wax lyrical upon the endless oceans of the void, the stellar winds like icy draughts, the stars and nebulae like the twinkling eyes and bodies of deep sea creatures.

They would tell their sons and daughters of the siren song of space, and it's clarion call to wonder and adventure. But they would also whisper after of the dangers of the void and its predators, it's fickle and capricious nature and its utter contempt to the existence of those who sail it's seas.

The battles fought and quests imparted in the airless expanse mirror this of seagoing vessels long ago, and to those who find themselves lost in its monstrous span there is nothing but the long, slow, suffocating death of the lonely sailor. In the depths of the blackness, no sound is there to comfort you, no air or heat to warm your soul, simply a crushing cold relentless in its killing fury.

And through its currents floats a predator, leviathan and quiet, it's form coasting the veil like a deep sea orca hungry for the kill. It's flanks are clothed not in meat and bone, but mile thick metal and steel armour.

Adamantium plates hang from it in a cloak of shimmering reptile scales, from its spine rise great spears of hollow metal and vanes of delicate crystalline equipment. It is dagger shaped and ribbed, widening toward its centre, with thrumming, monstrous engines at its back.

Its hull is darkened a deep blue, almost black amidst the swirling stellar winds, with tracers of silver and ivory carved into its flanks. Invisible radiation and burning matter drip from its hull as it cruises the quiet depths, the only indication of movement the occasional burst of energy form the leviathan's energy shields.

Micro-meteors and starlight flash from the iron monstrosity as it makes its ponderous way through the skies, its destination unclear and its future in flux. Its past however is grimly obvious from its hull: miles of chains and spikes line its upper skin, each word with the torn and frozen remains of a million corpses. Skulls blackened and cracked by frostbite, broad flags of tanned human hides stiffened and hanging like a canopy of rotten greenery, meters of viscera-heavy innards laid bear to uncaring cold of space. The macabre display is a scene from ancient hell.

Under the gross tableau is a great name, scarred into the plating in writing many miles high and stained in the blood of countless victims: The Sable Prince. It is a lone vessel, a warship of dizzying power and grim repute, and it carries a crew of the most horrific creatures imaginable. Murders, sadists and deviants stalk its halls, and together they scour the skies for new innocents to vent their insane fury upon. They were once legion, a force of true galaxy-slaying brutality but with the the death of their progenitor many millennia before, they are now nothing more than viscous pirates, opportunist of the lowest kind.

They are Night Lords, traitor Astartes, slaves to no one save their own brutal desires and they stalk the stars like the whalers of old.

Deep within the bowels of this Hell-ship, the horror is magnified. Its corridors dark and leaden with a copper-stink, corpses and slain foes nailed to very walls in a myriad range of scarred disarray. Slaves and human detritus stalk the halls, hoping to remain under the notice of their sadistic benefactors, squabbling and fighting over whatever their wretched minds deem valuable. The Astartes themselves spar in great iron cages, venting their endless desire for pain upon torture wracks and skinning-posts and rule the darkened miles of iron caves like warlords of antiquity. Their leader, a pale, twitching overlord by the name of Alvante sits upon a throne of bone and skinned flesh upon the craft's bridge, allowing the degradation and personal vendettas of his crew to run riot to stave off the boredom of his long existence. His lieutenants stalk the darkened halls and bulkheads, hungry for carnage and blood, slaking their whims upon the bodies of any they happen upon, even fellow Astartes.

To these revenants, brotherhood is nothing in the face of the dark desires in their hearts.

Two of the armoured monsters stalk toward the lower decks of the ship, neither speaking, both intent on what remains of the ships brig. Now more akin to a blood-caked dungeon, it now contains a sole occupant.

Chained at the centre of chamber, his muscular arms held above him in cuneiform by chains of dark iron and spikes. His body is over-developed and pale, a solid black mass stretching the skin of his chest and grey, greasy, blood-flecked hair hangs in heavy loops below his shoulder. His skin is white, almost to the point of albinism, and is broken up by broad, looping tattoos of blue. Depicting coiling serpents and looping canids, they crawl up his scarred back and end below his thick neck. His face is bruised and broken, and blood drips from his heavy lips down a long beard of silver and grey. His head hangs heavy, his body exhausted and beaten, and only a leather loincloth covers him. His breathing is shallow and panting, the air puffing in small clouds between long, sharpened incisors like those of a hound. He is a beaten animal, resigned to its fate and conserving its energy for the fatal blow.

The great doors open upon ancient gears, casting murky illumination into the cell and the bound warrior raises his head. He squints at the approaching pair of dark-armoured warriors, and a feral smile lines his beaten face. He recognises these ones, they have come to visit him before. One is a hulking, cloak-wrapped beast by the name of Ramsae, a grinning monster more keen to skin and flay than fight like a true Astartes. His belt is heavy with hooks and flensing knives, a symbol of his former legion sits screaming upon his breastplate.

The other is one that he has seen dozens of time, but has never laid hands or pain upon him. The second Astartes is slighter in build and always seems uneasy in the company of his brother. He hangs back slightly, letting Ramsae dominate the room. His name is Juda, and only his armour marks him as a Night Lord. He has always seemed almost contemptible at the pain that goes on within this room. The larger Night Lord approaches, his armoured get thumping loudly to a halt before the chained prisoner. His voice drips like poison from his helm, his burning crimson eye-slits burning into their potential victim.

"Greeting Little Wolf, it's time again. Time for you to sing for me"

The Wolf spits a wad of phlegmy blood at Ramsae's feet and when he speaks, it is with a cold, winter-cracked accent like the world he calls home, a world the Imperium calls Fenris.

"Ah, the bastard returns...I was worried you had forgotten about me"

Bit more upkeep on the thread: spellchecking, the contents updated, Intro Images added to parts XI and XII, and Part XIV: Redemption has started now - think you're all going to like this one in particular.

Is your PDF version ready?

Or if not, any estimate as to when?

Well this last bit should take a week or two I think, then I'll put it all together. Think maybe the end of the month if I'm able

With the confident swagger of the untouchable sadist, Ramsae stomped forward toward the bound wolf and gripped his lank hair in an iron grip. He pulled his prisoner's head back violently, causing the wolf to grit his teeth, his eyes wincing at the sudden pain. The light became jarring in his eyes as the winged helm of the Night Lord filled his vision. The grotesque helm and it's burning lenses stared down at the shackled Astartes, small wisps of air escaping its swollen mouth-grille, the armour humming with barely restrained energy. Ramsae's granite voice dribbled forth like a sick plagued miasma, poisonous and painful to hear.

"Oh I could never forget you, my precious little wolf. Not when you have so much to sing to me yet. Your song intrigues me and I could never abandon you before it is finished"

The wolf grinned cruelly at his tormentor, a gleam of defiance bright in his eyes.

"You know I've yet to sing anything worth hearing Ramsae. Unless you want to hear more about your lineage as a whoreson and weakling whelp. I've plenty to say about your cowardice and ineptitude you worm"

The helm froze momentarily, a shudder running through the hulking warrior. The Wolf had realised early on that Ramsae was easily goaded with petty insults, usually ending in pain and broken bones. Ramsae however relinquished his grip and casually walked to the rear of the cell, his footsteps receding behind his victim. Juda stood impassive and still as ever, his eyes averted form the grisly proceedings.

A black, damaged cabinet dominated the wall at the rear of the cell, and arrayed within was a dizzying collection of blades, knives, crooked wires and flensing tools. Each one was blackened with old gore and detritus, some lined with bodily grease and tattered hair, others still lined with thin strips of human flesh. Ramsae passed his hand over them leisurely, like a merchant perusing wares at a summer market, a connoisseur deciding upon which fine vent to sup upon on a fine evening. He leisurely picked up a long, twin-pronged spiral blade nearly the length of his forearm, it's length twinkling in the dim light. Usually used to hollow out the hides of cattle for roasting, it doubled in the hands of the Night Lord as a particularly gruesome torture tool. He chuckled as he approached the crouching prisoner once more.

"I am well aware of my heritage Little Wolf. We sons of Curze are whoresons all. I have no illusions of grandeur or high honour, unlike you and your petty wolves. What would your jarls think of you now, kneeling in a pool of your own gak and piss, begging us lesser legions for your life?"

With a blurred flick of his wrist, Ramsae brought the blade to the Wolf's eye, hovering just above it, the threat of its advance hanging on a hairs breadth. The wolf did not flinch, his eyes fixed on his tormentor, fierce pride shining under his shaggy mane. His response was a defiant snarl.

"All that is true barring one thing, Night Lord. I've never begged you bastards for anything. No Son of the Rout ever has. I can forgive your small memory and idiocy I suppose"

The armoured Night Lord laughed, the sound spilling form his helm as a cough of heavy static. He stood straight again, removing the blade from his prisoners face and toying with it between his heavy gauntlets. It appeared as a child's plaything in the over-wrought hands of the traitor Astartes. He turned casually, his voice light with grim mirth.

"Today is different I feel my friend, today you will finally sing me that song I have been hungry for. You'll tell me everything I want to know and then you'll beg me to kill you in the end to remove the pain of your dishonour"

The wolf cocked his head as a curious bird might, his greasy locks falling across his face.

"And why is tonight so special whoreson? You finally find the stones to leave your mothers teat and stand like a man for the first time in your miserable life?"

Ramsae was about to reply when his cohort answered instead. Juda's voice was softer than his brothers, less severe and bile-ridden, and a hint of some slight emotion coloured his words. The Wolf couldn't pick it out accurately, but it was somewhere between recourse and exhaustion.

"We are due to make high warp to a gathering of our kin, cousin. My brother is concerned that he will need to hand you over to his betters before you relinquish your secrets..."

Ramsae turned slightly in annoyance, his tone murderous.

"Watch your tongue Juda...don't make me find a new plaything in your innards..."

Juda nodded his head, less in deference and more in relinquishment. This seemed to be the core of their relationship the Wolf had noticed: Ramsae was all talk and violence, throwing his weight around and revelling in the little cruelties he inflicted. Juda was more reserved and quiet, and never joined in the violence. Indeed, several times he had actually stopped his comrade and reigned in his barbarism. As to why the Wolf did not know, but it frequently felt like the smaller Astartes was tired of the barbarism his colleague indiscriminately inflicted. The Wolf had noted this, and when his hopes of escape were still high he would wonder if he could use the other mans timidity to his advantage.

But now hope was in small supply, and all the Wolf had left was his defiance.

Ramsae returned his attention to his victim, and began a slow, deliberate walk around him. His metallic footsteps echoed around the small cell. When he spoke, it was to his fellow Night Lord, although his eyes were relentlessly fixed on the Wolf.

"Remind me Juda, what do we know of the Little Wolf so far? Where did his song with us begin?"

This was a tired part of the game Ramsae chose to play: having his subordinate repeat what they knew of the Wolf, and then threatening violence for more. It would be tiring if not for the pain that always accompanied it. Juda nodded once more, and from the movement of his head, it was clear he was viewing information on his helm display. He had said the words many times before, but still he accessed the official record out of habit.

"As you know Ramsae, we happened upon our esteemed guest eighteen cycles ago. We happened upon his vessel crippled within the Eye and limping out of Medrengard Space. The vessel was clearly not his own, and wore the pennants of the IV Legion..."

"limping away from the Iron Warriors" Ramsae's attention returned to the chained wolf, "curiouser and curiouser"

Juda nodded in agreement.

"Indeed. Our friend was blazing to the Cadian Borders of the Eye broadcasting a Fenrisian Distress on all channels. He was also alone...all we found on board the vessel were corpses and questions"

Ramsae crouched low beside the Wolf, and arched his head next to the prisoners ear.

"And thus we come to the question again my friend...what were you doing on Medrengard? What drove you to that hovel of suffering and iron?"

He brought the blade up once more, it's edge serrated and glinting.

"What secret did you discover on the white world? What discovery did you make that sent you calling out into the black for any of your kin? What have the Iron Warriors been hiding down there?"

The wolf sighed, seemingly exhausted and nodded sadly.

"Alright Ramsae...I'll tell you..."

He paused, the silence expectant and full. He leaned slightly closer to his tormentor, drawing his mouth closer to the bestial visor.

"Your mother's virtue...that's what they're hiding down there..."

The wolf spat a heavy glob of phlegm into the helm of his enemy, and the sticky fluid smoked slightly as it ate into the paint of the helm. Ramsae rose up with a furious roar and gripped the neck of the wolf in his monstrous gauntlet. Juda made a step forward as if to stop him, but then stopped himself.

"Mongrel gak! I'll teach you some damn respect!"

With a violent movement, part stab and part slice, Ramsae brought the blade up quickly into the wolf's face and tore out his left eye in a fountain of blood and tear fluids. The wolf barked and choked in pain, his face alight with pain and tension, his bloody orbit lying on the floor in a pool of fluids. It stared up accusingly and bloodshot, lying impotent and discarded upon the hard patina below.

Ramsae raised his foot and stomped on the mucousy orb, stamping on it until it was a fine pink paste upon the floor. The Wolf's breathing came in short sharp gasps, his eye socket aching and sharp. Ramsae shoved him backwards, his muscles protesting against the heavy chains, old scars and bruises welling up once more. His body fought furiously to stem the pain and adapt to the removal, but he was old and in very poor shape. He let out a pained growl.

"You bastard...you'll pay for that"

Ramsae turned away casting the bloody tool to the floor, making to leave the cell in frustration. He was muttering furiously under his breath, his words lost in an incoherent rage. He sliced his hand sharply in a silent order and Juda began opening the cell door to his master.

Then, for, the deepest dredges of his pain, the Wold noticed a numbing hum building in his head. It started quietly and built in intensity, almost as if the removal of his eye unlocked a door and the noise was now pouring forth. It was different from the noise of pain and the eventual silence of unconsciousness - this was something altogether more powerful.

The Night Lord's seemed not to notice the approaching crescendo and the Wolf winced at the peculiar sensation. A golden light entered his vision and a sound almost like a soothing voice hovered in the periphery of his perception. It told him to open his eye, to open his true eye and see.

When he opened his remaining eye, a new sense of clarity fell upon him and a golden glow suffused his sight. Ramsae had already stormed from the cell, a petulant child bored with the toy he had broken and Juda was preparing to close it once more. The wolf found his voice, a voice that was both his and not his, and what he said stopped the Night Lord in his tracks.

"Your name isn't Juda..."

The Night Lord paused, and looked at the wolf


"I know who you are, your name is Abraham."


The Night Lord's hands trembled slightly and when he spoke it was with genuine emotion: awe, surprise, fear.

"What? What did you call me?"

"Your name is Abraham...and you have hidden for too long"

Juda stood stock still, frozen before the cell door, the words of the Wolf pinning him to the spot surer than any quirk of gravity ever could. When he spoke his voice trembled, his tone somewhere between curiosity and paranoia.

“How do you know that name Wolf?”

The Wolf nodded his head solemnly, his hair and beard dipping slightly, unsure himself of how he knew the answers but the words coming unbidden anyway.

“I know much about you. I know your name is Abraham Drangspear, third son of the Drangspear Line, ancient noble house of The Gala P’Gos Peninsula. I know you were given to your Legion as child, your head full of noble ideals and goals. I know you have lived since the dark days of your Legions fall from grace and I know you have hidden ever since.”

Coming fully into the room and closing the heavy cell door behind him, the Night Lord paced quickly toward the Wolf and knelt quietly. He removed his helm with a gentle twist and hiss of atmosphere, and the face underneath was surprisingly noble and handsome. He shared the paleness common to his Legion, his eyes like orbs of midnight water and his hair close-cropped and black as jet. He shared a broad, almost equine aspect similar to the Wolf, but his face was much more angular and less obviously brutal. His mouth was downcast and his brow heavy, and without the static baffling of his helm his voice was like a stream of ice water, cold but not harsh.

“You know nothing Wolf, you don’t know who I am…You don’t know what I have done!”

The Wolf leaned forward, a savage smile breaking his face, his one eye gleaming.

“I know you were not born of Nastromo…I know you are Terra-Born, something your brothers do not know”

Juda glared angrily into the face of the wolf, before slumping, defeated. He slid back, sitting roughly in front of the prisoner his head hung low. Silence fell upon the pair, the Wolf and the Night Lord, and when Juda next spoke he could no longer hide his weariness.

“I am so tired cousin. You must think that humorous: the monstrous Night Lord tired of the war”

The Wolf nodded, more in sympathy than any agreement.

“The war is not what you are tired of Abraham, we both know what it is that ails you”

Juda, who was Abraham, looked up, his eyes softening, the weariness apparent on his face.

“Then tell me cousin, tell me what I am tired of…”

The Wolf breathed in and closed his eye. The golden light that suffused his mind pulsed and memories and images came to him from the light, memories he couldn’t possibly know but now did. They were viewed from afar, like a great eagle watching form the skies. A consciousness, more complex and vast than any the Wolf had ever known suffused him and brought the words to the fore.

“You are Abraham, born of Terra. When the schism came and your Legion sided with darkness, you and your brothers fought on the side of the Emperor. You and five hundred of your brothers, Terran and Nastromon alike, took up arms against the Usurper and stood for the defence of the Throneworld against the wishes and design of your Father and Brothers.”

Abraham, who had once been Juda, nodded.

“Aye…they were dark days, but the choice was obvious. We owed our existence to the Throne, and we would die to see it safe. The choice was an easy one.”

The Wolf smiled in agreement, and continued, his voice getting stronger and clearer the longer the story was told.

“But then the War came to Terra and you and your cohort were at the other end of the galaxy, fighting traitors wherever you found them. You employed the fear and subterfuge your Legion had bred into you against the enemies of the Imperium.”

Memories came to Abraham, memories of a time long ago. He remembered leading his brothers, the Cohort of the Umber Throne against the forces of the Arch-Traitor Horus. He remembered glorious battle and purpose. He remembered slaying Iron Warriors on Tannus, breaking through the cult-lines of Alpha Legion on Fornia XI and supporting Blackshield Companies in a shadow campaign against traitor-Mechanicum forces on the vassal Forge-Realm of Gilineaad. His purpose had been clear.

“But then you met your Legion once more…”

The memories soured. The wider Legion was fractured, a hollow picture of its former self. His Primarch was missing and his former Brothers had fallen to petty barbarity.

“What did you do when you happened upon your Legion once more?”

Abraham looked into the Wolves remaining eye, and felt guilty tears prickling at the corners of his sight.

“We hid…we ran…we chose not to fight”

“You couldn’t bring yourself to fight your brothers, regardless of how far they had fallen, so you took the path of least resistance”

It was not a question. It was a statement, harsh and utterly honest.

“We couldn’t fight them. They were many and we were few. They were our Brothers.”

“They knew you were no longer loyal to their cause and pursued. Many of you perished. Few survived. How did you survive Abraham?”

The silence fell once more, the air leaden. Abraham had never spoken of his survival to anyone, not even those he knew remained hidden as he did. When the words came, it was as if a great burden was lifted.

“Our ships burned in the heavens. Dozens of them boiling into the void. My brothers were dying on both sides. Sevatar, the cold bastard, had sent terror-squads in to kill us personally. They wanted to watch us die and skin us where we fell.”

Abraham shook his head, the memory clearly sickening him.

“One happened upon me within the vessel. He was young, a Neophyte, a brother I had never met before. It was clear he was brought in early on in the great betrayal. He was raised in the hatred and blackness that had descended upon my Legion. He looked at me like a cut of meat, and with a maddened desire he charged me.”

Abraham looked up, guilt wracking his noble features.

“I ran him through with my blade, I ended his life. He was young and full of potential, he simply found a wrong path…I looked at his broken body, his cold dead face and realised my chance.”

He rose to his feet, his shoulders straightening slightly as the confession came.

“I took his armour and pennants and made them my own. Very few in the parent Legion knew me by sight, so to fade away into the character of another was easy. I killed my way off the ship and embedded myself into one of the satellite warbands. Ramsae and his ilk are vain and callous, and always keen for new cronies and sycophants. Embedding myself into his service was easier than you might imagine…”

The Wolf’s mouth tightened as he responded.

“So you chose not to fight but to hide within the belly of the beast. A single grain of sand moving against the tide. The name of Juda is very fitting.”

Abraham sighed, no defence coming to the fore. Before he could speak again the Wolf continued.

“But you have not been idle in your long years with your kin. Small acts of sabotage and kindness have been hidden in your duties. Prisoners released under the attention of your Lord, locations of Imperial Colonies removed from ships systems, mercy granted to those you could not save”

“You make these things sound like things to be admired. I am a coward cousin, you can say it. For every life I save or spare, hundreds more are destroyed by the sadists and monsters I call brothers. I hate them for what they have become, I hate them for their petty hungers. And I hate myself for allowing it to happen…”

The Wolf shook his head.

“You are simply lost Abraham, not a coward. You have been fortunate these long years, your Lord seems to take particular joy in fighting his fellow traitors and you have been able to fight for the Throne in your own, distorted way. Still, you have much you need to atone for”

A new trickle of coppery blood dripped form his abused eye socket and the wolf shook his head to remove it. His voice had changed, more powerful, less haggard and with hints of a new accent underneath.

“The time for hiding is over Abraham. A great change has come to the Universe and all loyal sons and daughters of the Throneworld must stand in the Light or let darkness prevail.”

Abraham sneered, but there was no strength in it. He had been exposed and laid bare and his conviction was waning.

“How do you know these things Wolf? What can I possibly do to atone for centuries of inaction?”

The Wolf fixed him with his remaining eye, and he felt the Golden Light within fill him utterly. His conviction was iron-shod and his certainty complete.

“I am not a Wolf cousin. My name is Wodin, skjald and winter-seer of the Lost Companies. You will help me return to Fenris and I will share with you the secrets I found on the White World of Iron.”

A sly grin lit up Wodin’s face.

“And I will give to you the certainty and purpose you crave…”

Oh this is very good. When you had the Alpha Legion rescuing the human psyker I got excited and bought a few Alpha legion mini's. Now I want to buy some Night Lords! Forgeworld loves you and my wallet hates you.

DarthDiggler wrote:
Oh this is very good. When you had the Alpha Legion rescuing the human psyker I got excited and bought a few Alpha legion mini's. Now I want to buy some Night Lords! Forgeworld loves you and my wallet hates you.

Awesome dude I love this kind of response. Sorry about your wallet though!

Dude this is amazing.

Another great couple of posts. Just a couple of things I think it's 'Sevatar' rather than 'Sevetar'. And when the wolf loses his eye you've written 'It stated up accusingly' should that be 'stared' rather than 'stated'?

Also there's only one other thing I'd say and I 'ummed and erred' about writing this, as there's no way I could do what you're doing and I really do think it's a great. But I don't like 'Ramsae' and I think it's because the name and the way he acts smacks me as too 'Game of Thrones' . Don't get me wrong I know the Night Lords would torture people, and I know we all take influences from somewhere but I think the fact he is called Ramsae just strikes me as too obvious. If you're not a GoT fan and it's just a coincidence then great. But for me all I could actually picture was the GoT character and I'm sure you'd rather people have more of a mental picture of the character you're trying to create then from the TV show.

But in the end I thought you'd rather people tell you their thoughts as if you're anything like me, people are always looking for ways to improve.

Please don't take this the wrong way, looking forward to the next piece.

thanks

TommyBs wrote:
Another great couple of posts. Just a couple of things I think it's 'Sevatar' rather than 'Sevetar'. And when the wolf loses his eye you've written 'It stated up accusingly' should that be 'stared' rather than 'stated'?

Also there's only one other thing I'd say and I 'ummed and erred' about writing this, as there's no way I could do what you're doing and I really do think it's a great. But I don't like 'Ramsae' and I think it's because the name and the way he acts smacks me as too 'Game of Thrones' . Don't get me wrong I know the Night Lords would torture people, and I know we all take influences from somewhere but I think the fact he is called Ramsae just strikes me as too obvious. If you're not a GoT fan and it's just a coincidence then great. But for me all I could actually picture was the GoT character and I'm sure you'd rather people have more of a mental picture of the character you're trying to create then from the TV show.

But in the end I thought you'd rather people tell you their thoughts as if you're anything like me, people are always looking for ways to improve.

Please don't take this the wrong way, looking forward to the next piece.

thanks

Thanks for taking the time to read dude. Fixed those errors you pointed out, Autocorrect can be a real pain in the bum sometimes.

As for the name, you caught me. All writers do it, it's the reason names like Elvis, Gabriel, Jonah and Ahab are used so often, they immediately conjure an image. I must admit, it was more Ramsey as he is in A Song of Ice & Fire rather than GoT, but I did use the name to evoke an immediate image. It's probably some selfish catharsism on my part as well, considering I know what's going to happen to him in my story

But still thanks for taking the time dude hope you'll keep reading

Hey I know, GW themselves aren't exactly always original when it comes to names! I think it's just because the show's back on and it's so 'current' that he's all I could picture! Don't worry I will continue reading, as I say I think you're a great writer and I could never do what you do conjuring up the imagery and setting with your words.

I've read all the Song of Ice and Fire books myself, wished Martin had gotten round to finishing the latest book before the series overtook him but hey ho, I'm sure as a writer you're probably more sympathetic to him than most!

The moment hung between them both: The wolf with a single shining eye of gold, black-pinned and heavy with knowledge, and the Night Lord, with darkened eyes of doubt and ages-long pain.

Abraham had hidden for centuries, quietly working against his own Legion from the shadows, but never as overt as bravery demanded. His guilt hung heavily upon him each night as he stared into the black. He would tell himself in his more painful moments, that he was still an instrument of the Emperor’s Will, waging a quiet war against those he despised. But with clarity of thought he always realised it was not enough. Sometimes he wished to don his old armour, its form pure and unsullied by the trappings of madness, and fight his way to Alvante in his throne room and tear his black heart from his chest. He would imagine himself dying in a blaze or righteous glory, dying with the Emperor’s name upon his lips and His will within his arms, taking as many of his black-hearted traitorous kin with him as he could.

But always cowardice would seep back in the night, and he would continue his small sabotages as if they meant anything in the great scheme of things.

The Wolf knew these things. He knew that all Abraham required was a guide, a sign pointing him back to the right path. His eye beseeched in the dim cell, and he opened his mouth to speak once more as the heavy cell door ground open on hydraulic gears and suspensors. Abraham turned in panic, seeing the slow heavy door rumble open. He turned to Wodin, returning his helmet to his head and whispered in a static-laden hiss.

“Be still. Say Nothing”

Abraham slipped into the shadows at the corner of the cell, his midnight armour blending with the inky, sodden darkness. The lenses of his helm dimmed into nothing and Wodin lost sight of his would-be ally in the gloom.

The metallic door boomed open and Ramsae stormed in once more. The larger warrior stood silhouetted against the glum light outside, his head scanning the chamber. His voice crackled from his helm in a furious baritone.

“Juda? JUDA!? Where in blazes are you, you swine-stain!”

He took a ponderous step into the cell, his every movement aggressive and confident. His helm hove to and fro, its burning irises drinking in the room. But still he didn’t see Abraham, his camouflage complete in the dull haze of the room.

Ramsae approached the Wolf, standing tall above him, his armour glowering and buzzing with a machine growl. He grunted impatiently.

“I appear to have lost my subordinate Little Wolf, how unfortunate. I don’t suppose you have seen him?”

The hulking warrior drew a long, blackened punch-dagger from his belt, easily the length of a human femur and brought it close to Wodin’s face. A dark chuckle left the Night Lord’s grille.

“Is he still in here with you, hmm? Maybe here for some private sport?”

With one armoured paw he gripped the back of Wodin’s head and grasped it tightly, bringing the punch dagger back threateningly.

“Can’t have him enjoying my plaything before I’ve had my fill...”

The blade drew back, the servos of the armoured gauntlet tightened and Wodin grit his teeth as a monstrous cry filled the cell and Abraham launched himself from the shadows to bodily tackle Ramsae. They collided with a teeth-shattering bang, armoured plates and connectors protesting harshly at the violence. The punch-blade went to the ground with a glassy staccato, and the two Night Lords struck the metal ground with a throaty scrape.

Ramsae spun under his former brother, an incoherent bellow on his lips as he brought his right fist up to choke Abraham. His left punched and punched and punched into the smaller mans sides, the cell becoming of a sonic forge of hammer blows. Abraham, though slighter, fought all the harsher bringing his hands down in open-palmed strikes to Ramsae’s helm. He forced his enemy down bodily, using his own weight to pin Ramsae to the floor.

Ramsae however had not risen to command through weakness, and the bulky Astartes brought his upper body up sharply and cracked his helm off Abraham’s with a heavy tolling. Abraham flailed backwards, his helm dented and useless and struggled to pull it from his head. Ramsae rose from the floor, spitting blood from his mouth-grille, his right lens cracked and useless. He turned with a snarl upon his smaller brother.

“Finally worked up the stones to face me coward! After all these years, you finally snapped?”

Abraham pulled the twisted metal from his face and cast it aside, his face riven with sweat and fury. His eyes blazed at finally fighting his twisted commander, finally bringing him to call for all the gross indecencies he perpetuated in their long existence. He yelled furiously as he charged across the small room, bringing his fists down in a two-handed hammer blow that smashed hard into Ramsae’s shoulders.

The bigger man rode the blow, wrapping his great simian arms around his opponent. With all the strength that his genetic heritage and powered armour lent him, he hoisted Abraham inches above the ground and hurled him heavily across the cell. Abraham sailed, his course whistling and with the sound of meat breaking under a hammer he impacted into Wodin. The Wolf was cast violently aside, his bindings shattering form the ceiling above him with a whip crack. The Wolf went to the floor, his head smashing into the cell wall, a grunt of agony coursing through him. The room swam and his mouth tasted foul and coppery.

Abraham attempted to stand, his legs like jelly and spine in burning pain when Ramsae was upon him once more. The maddened Astartes gripped Abrahams throat in his heavy gauntlets and crushed down, spit and blood foaming from his helm. He cackled wildly as Abraham struggled beneath him, the blood leaving his already pale face. The smaller warriors eyes rolled back and he gasped for air, and Ramsae brought his helm closer.

“I always knew there was something wrong with you weakling! You’re no Astartes! You’re a mewling whelp. You’re nothing but meat for cutting...”

The room grew dark for Abraham, his eyes burning as tears pricked under the assault. It could not end like this. Not now...

With a bellow of unbound rage and the crack of petal being parted, the blackened punch dagger cracked out from the front of Ramsae’s throat, blood boiling form the wound and splashing onto the choking Abraham. The sadistic warrior’s hands left his victim and went to his throat, a frothy gurgle escaping him. The dagger pulled out violently, a spray of gore splashing up the wall with furious pressure released. Abraham tumbled backwards, his lungs greedily drinking down air in great gulps.

Ramsae tumbled, his hands pawing uselessly at his butchered neck, his teeth cracking as they worked wordlessly in agony. A shape hove’s into view, indistinct in the billowing pain as Wodin pounced once more, the punch-dagger in his fist and a look of vengeance upon his grinning face. The dagger strikes once, twice, three times more into the Night Lords side, the sound of bone and meat parting singing a swan-song for the doomed man. The dying warrior tries to speak, but the pain saps all energy and as his eyes dim he hears his last sound.

“Like this you bastard...not bound, but as equals. This is how real warriors fight...”

And with a blood-frothed gasp, Ramsae dies, his throat torn and his inside streaming onto the cold ground.

“Not like butchers...”

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

Wodin helps Abraham to his feet, the Night Lord rubbing his throat gingerly. His face is pitted and bruised, but already his Astartes physiology is repairing him. The swelling will fade, the bleeding will stop. He takes the Wolf’s hand gratefully and rises shakily. Wodin nods, the sticky blade still held proudly in his fist. He gestures to the twitching corpse of Ramsae, quietly bleeding on the floor, the pool of blood steaming in the cold air.

“Does this mean you will help me cousin?”

Abraham spits onto the floor, a bloody wad of phlegm splashing messily to mingle with the blood already pooling there. He looks up at Wodin, suddenly so clear in his purpose.

“Aye...I will help you Wodin. I need...I need to do this. For the memory of my Legion and for my years of disservice”

Wodin nods in understanding, a proud smile cracking his haggard features.

“And for Him on Earth cousin. I will show him I am still loyal...”

First Epilogue


The great crystalline image shifts and warps constantly, its insubstantial form like wisps of atomic smoke in a murky haze. Tracers of electric blue swirl and coalesce into forms of pleasing geometry, whilst orbs and splashes of delicate colour and partial haze scatter the great image, reams of iconography and hieroglyph stretch in gentle curves around every item. The great holographic projection dominates the chamber, itself a mighty hemisphere several stories high and brimming entirely with crystal clear water. The walls appear clothed in ancient stone, carved with ruins and images of a time long past, but nestled in plain sight amongst them lurks high technologies of a bygone age, tiny emitters no thicker than a human hair but capable of relaying vast, holographic constructs like the one dominating the chamber, tiny pearl crystals acting as foci for mental powers of staggering scale, tiny, coral-like tubes that filter and clear the huge volume of water within the chamber.

The cold blues, whites and greens form a roving tapestry of information, staggering in its complexity and beauty, swimming through the perfect blue in pleasing curves. Three dimensional and circular, the hard-light edifice depicts a galaxy, gently curved and spiralling, and within swim myriad systems, planets and singularities. Every detail is included, so complex and intricate that life appears to teem on the graphical orbs.

The information swims and bobs before three colossal beings who float in repose in recesses set into the walls of the great hemisphere. Each one seems completely still and devoid of life, the illusion betrayed by the slight flurry of bubbles that issue from fleshy tubes lining their throats or the occasional, slow movement of their black, dish-sized eyes. Ropey, muscular tendrils issue from their torsos, swaying and basking around their supine forms, the gentle currents issuing forth into the great construction of photons and light, lending the holograph an almost mystical air. Beads of air-filled bubbles cling to their mighty forms, their lower tendrils hanging far below, pooling on the stone floor which appears as an inverse tropical pool, green moss and lichen dusting its rippling base. The great hologram reflects in its depths, appearing as a starry sky upon a blue ocean.

The silent watchers are blueish in complexion, their skin rubbery and moist like a porpoise, appearing bloated and glistening in the pale light of the holographic galaxy. They float gently as if in intense concentration. Faint flickers of power and sparks crackle through the moisture around them in sympathy with their thoughts, great tentacles snaking away into the stone walls, gently swaying in the current. Across their rheumy chests lie gangly arms easily the length of a man, reptilian and alien all at once. Terminating in great hands bearing long, multi-digit fingers each, steepled in a prayer-like clasp. Small tics of movement ripple under their slack skin, blood flow creeping through ancient veins, feeding a great swollen head sat upon a sunken neck. A nest of feeder tendrils hang in imitation of a bushy beard, and underneath yawns a viscous beak, opening and closing in a facsimile of breath.

Despite their hideous appearance, each of the creatures hides in its depths a mind of the most beautiful complexity, a biological supernova of neurones and synapses feeding thoughts beyond the ken of any mortal. To these creatures, the lives of men, orks, tau and Eldar are fleeting ephermal things, no more than a quiet sigh in the endless song of eternity. These creatures strode the stars when they were the only ones to stride them, and watched with quiet pride and endless curiosity as the young species took their first faltering steps into the light. They are the first of all psyonics, the greatest of psychic kind, the oldest of the ancient kin.

These three are also the last of their kind, hidden away in the dark corners of the universe, awaiting a time when they might rise again.

They have watched the universe for a millennia, since the fall of their great plan and since their siblings and spawn burned in a furious war of the heavens. They have silently and patiently influenced fate from the borders of existence, watching new plans and schemes grow as a vine consumes an ancient tree line. And now plans they set in motion eons ago are suddenly crumbling before them.

Scarlet stains of painful crimson scar then massive hologram before them, illustrating where the endless tides of then Primordial Enemy have spilt into the realms of the real from the infernal realm. What has triggered this sudden cataclysm can only have one source, and now they pry into the ether to ascertain the cause.

They have always known this doom would come, but even still, a shudder of surprise runs through their mighty, blubbery bodies.

A sphere of holographic light warps and flickers in the great display, before solidifying into the shape of an alien face. Insectoid and chittering, the face is constantly in motion, mandibles clacking and antennae twitching in staccato rhythms. It bows to the great ones who acknowledge its presence with little more than a gentle sigh and focussing of their black-pinned eyes. It's voice is a gibberish, clicking and clacking with a shuddering palsy. It's language is a screech, the sound of nails upon concrete. The creatures reclining beneath it lack the auditory organs to understand its words, but their powers of perception go far beyond such base needs as language.

"Oh high ones, blessing of xathxsi upon thee. The many mouths of the many mothers and fathers sing your blessings."

The creatures respond in kind, their bodies and mouths remaining still, their minds singing in unison out across the voids to the mind of their messenger.

Dispense with the pleasantries Ma'lcrau, we know you bring grim tidings before us. Speak.

The being known as Ma'lcrau shudders in supplication and obedience. It's tone, if one can be discerned amongst the inane chatter, rises in speed and pitch.

"It is as you had foreseen oh mighty ones. The Deterrent has perished. The Father of the Mon-keigh has passed into the aether."

An imperceptible nod mars the stillness of one of the Great Ones. Another closes its eyes in an approximation of sorrow, translucent sleeves of flesh sliding horizontally across its eyes. One voice booms across the light years, causing Ma'lcrau to flinch.

Can this be verified Little One? How have you come to know this?

"The Cabal of your servants has proved this veracity through operatives within the Palace of the Deterrent. Everything you have foreseen has come to pass. The Mon-Keigh nation will fall to turmoil."

A shallow gasp shudders through one of the ancient masters, the closest it has come to surprise in its epoch-spanning life. Tracers of luminous light run down its spine, like a deep sea rhythm with its thoughts.

Will fall? It has not already?

"No my Lords...the underlings of the Deterrent have hidden the death from their subjects. The core of the Mon'keigh empire remains standing, for now."

The Masters go silent momentarily. Ma'lcrau is used to this. The quiet colossi before him commune with each other, their minds linked in a way that mortal specials will never know. In the realm of the mind, the Masters are without equals, and the passing of moments in this world is many years worth of communication in the hallowed minds of the masters. They will have discussed every possible outcome from this moment in the time it takes Ma'lcrau to breath. When finally they speak, it is not to him.

Sha'ariim! Come!

Another hazing of light in the great holograph creates another figure of blue and green, many miles away from the insectoid chaos of Ma'lcrau. Lithe and gentle, with curved deep eyes and pointed ears, dark hair and skin unblemished and porcelain, the newcomer is named Sha'ariim and she is one of the Eldar species. Ma'lcrau has always privately despised The Eldar, they who failed before and in their decadence fuelled the horrific strength of the Primordial Annihilator. These thoughts are hidden from Sha'ariim, private to all but the masters. When she speaks, it is in the lilting tongue of her people, all song and sorrow.

"Greetings my masters. I am surprised by your call. I had not expected to 'flect with thee until the next new moon. The operation with the young ones continues as planned"

Circumstances force our hand child. The fates of all are in peril. The Master of The Mon'keigh has passed and the fate of all and none rests upon a knife edge.

The Eldar pauses, absorbing the knowledge.

"That explains much...the Mon'keigh that were in combat with the young ones had suffered an staggering malaise that I found quite perplexing..."

That is understandable: The Deterrent was intimately linked to his species, much like we are with you all. The racial sorrow they feel is a byproduct of The Deterrent's power. It is also one of their greatest weaknesses...

"But My Lords, you designed them that way did you not?" Chatters Ma'lcrau, his bladed limbs shuddering. "You made us all like that"

Yes Ma'lcrau, we did, but to link to us, to you all...we never planned for that connection to be hijacked by a creature such as their Emperor...it was an unforeseen circumstance of their vitality.

The Eldar nods.

"I remember...you did approach him once, offering him a place in our Cabal. He declined in the most pragmatic terms."

He did not need us at the time. If not for the Ruinous Powers corruption of his sons, he would have never needed us. But now he is dead and his people will slip into death and despair.

The Eldar sneers, her beautiful feature marred by contempt.

"Well then let them die, they have caused enough misery and horror in their stupidity. Let them die and rid us all of their idiocy"

A tremor runs through one of the ancient masters, photoreceptors in its whale-like skin reddening in sympathy with its frustration. It speaks as a parent to an unruly child.

We cannot child. If mankind dies to the Primordial Annihilator now, we all perish. It is not like it was in the old times. Mankind holds they key to the universes survival. If they are to die, the must die in the correct manner.

Another voice sounds, another Master.

You are to cease your doings on Hul'shadaam and make all haste to the centre of the Mon'keigh empire. Gather the Cabal. Gather the faithful. There is much to do.

"And what of you my Lords?"

We will be with you soon...it is time for the Universe's First-Born to return to our home.


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

And that's it for Part One folks hope you've enjoyed so far

Awesome, awesome stuff!

I'm really looking forward to the updated and up to date PDF version now!

Amazing work as always, Alas, as Necrons have always held a special place in my heart, I can't help but feel disdain once my eyes fell upon "Old Ones"

 King Pariah wrote:
Amazing work as always, Alas, as Necrons have always held a special place in my heart, I can't help but feel disdain once my eyes fell upon "Old Ones"

I'm sure the good old Necrontyr Empire will have something to say as well

Ladies, Gentlemen and Faithful Servants of the Emperor, thanks for your patience.

Book One of The Death of the Emperor is now available as a PDF via my Dropbox below

https://www.dropbox.com/s/kqvnwiug17octny/The%20Death%20of%20the%20Emperor%20-%20Book%20One.pdf?dl=0

To give you an idea of how monolithic it's become: over 100,400 words, 194 pages, sixteen chapters. All put into a PDF for easy consumption!

Super-glad to have it done and dusted, means I can start working on Book Two now Thanks for reading guys, you've made this an absolute pleasure to write and create.

Also, added the PDF to the contents post as well!

Cleared the thread cache, and that looked like it fixed the issue!

Good to see the collected PDF is here - thanks!

Made a very slight change to the initial post on the lead up to Book Two

The Eye is silent.

It pulsed weakly in the pale blue sky, its usually angry scarlet dulled to a burgundy smear on the otherwise clear morning. Birds sung in the rain-hazed forests and clouds flitted peacefully in the sunlight. Green hills rolled outward to a forest of lush emerald, thick and unyielding like a wall of fir and leaf. A city of grey steel and concrete basks in the sunlight, its streets unusually quiet in the morning haze. In the distance stand noble peaks and further still dazzling oceans of blue and cerulean. The scene is played out across the world, and if not for the ever-present stain on reality above, it could be considered tranquil.

But the Eye is always monstrously noticeable, such a cosmic error could never be easily hidden: it ran across the edge of the horizon like a false sunrise, its bitter image a constant reminder of the horror that dwelt within. It stretched obscenely across heavens, like a hasty and angry smear on an otherwise beautiful painting. The world suffered its presence, a cancer growing from the reality above.

But it no longer screamed and buzzed with a funerary dirge, it no longer vomited terrors the like that mankind trembled in fear from in an endless celestial parade of grotesquery. The people below, usually plagued by Nightmares and visions of ruin, slept peacefully in the cool nights and paid it no mind in the hazy days. It hung in the sky limp and blistered, its fury seemingly abated for the time being.

Augurs and Long Range Telemetry Discs poured their vision into the hated scar, satellites and psy-scryers still poked and prodded with radio waves and exotic radiation to ascertain when the next attack would come, but not with same urgency as was normal. They seemed almost lazy and calm in the face of potential attack.

The next attack always came, went the old adage, there would always be a next attack.

It was never a case of if. It was a case of when.

When the hateful creatures and denizens of the dark realm would sally forth in an endless tirade of butchery and bloodshed. When the people of the green world would take up arms and throw the hateful monsters back to the hell from whence they came.

When the noble lands of Cadia would once again shudder to the sounds of gunfire, death and screams. It was a certainty borne of centuries of grinding attrition and butchery.

But in recent times, there was nothing.

Something had changed: The Eye hung silent in the sky, its fiery glut now a pale shadow of its former ruinous glory. No raiding parties screamed from it, no haram of unearthly beasts formed in its hell-light. It was barren, the birthing of its horror seemingly silenced.

Cadia’s commanders had maintained the world on a high alert status out of experience, for to drop ones guard was to invite ones enemies into the fortress. The great macro-cannons and star-battlements still aimed their monstrous strength into the horrific phenomena, the grey and green fleets of the Cadian Defence Fleet still ringed the sector in a colossal wall of iron and engine. But a malaise had fallen upon the world, a soul-deep certainty that something had gone awry in the universe beyond.

At first, the people of Cadia stared up in suspicion. Their world, and the worlds linked to it formed what the Imperium referred to as the Cadian Gate, a scar of stable, real-space matter that punched into Eye of Terror, the greatest and most persistent Warp Storm in mankind’s history. They were mankind’s shield against the horror that lurked within, a bulwark against the formless terrors that called the warp storm home.

But the monsters no longer came, no armada or swarm crawled form the cancer above.

Suspicion turned to fragile hope. Then hope became despair.

If the terror beyond no longer flooded the Cadia Gate, might it have found another route into the Imperium of Man?

What use is a fortress when the invaders already prowl within the walls?

The idea was a persistent one, a cloying viral image that festered and grew as it was considered. Might the forces of Chaos have skipped the steel wall of Cadia all-together and found another real space route in which to vent their fury?
Might mankind’s resources and military might now be focussed in the wrong place.

Situations like these had occurred before of course, the waxing and waning of the Eye of Terror being like the stages of a moon. In these events, Cadia’s armies of Astropaths and Sanctioned Psykers would contact the Imperium at large to ascertain the likelihood of attack elsewhere. Many times a ploy by The Despoiler would be foiled by this net of communication.

But no word was forthcoming from the Imperium. No word was forthcoming from the Throne-world. No word came from anyone
.
At first it was suspected to be an enemy ploy, a damping of Cadia’s communications networks in preparation for an attack. A new Black Crusade was in the works, said the Old Generals, mark my words. The Despoiler is coming! It seemed a rational assumption that the enemy would try to usurp interstellar communications.

But when the Astropathic Choirmaster of Cadia was consulted, she espoused an altogether different view. It wasn’t so much that their messages weren’t reaching their destination, it was that the destination was no longer there. When they employed their witch-sight, the glorious beacon of the Astronomicon was curiously absent form view.

It was as if the rest of the Imperium was no longer there.

The Lords and Masters of the Green World bent their resources to unlocking this puzzle, using technology and Astropathic arts to lift the veil and re-cement communication with the Empire. For weeks, the Choirmaster and her kin poured their power into the heavens hoping to find a hint of the Homeworld.

Weeks turned to months, and months bled into a year, and still the Imperium and the Eye were silent. There were no enemies beyond and no allies either. It was as if the Universe at large had simply ceased to exist.

Cadia was alone, and this terrified her population more than any horror they had faced before.

The council chamber erupted into furore once more, several raised voices shouting and demanding for attention but finding nothing but hostility in return. Verbal attack and riposte echoed across the vast, hemispherical chamber, and many a scowl and barred teeth painted the faces of those within. Fists are slammed upon tables, a quill is broken in an angry grip and the honour of maternal parentage is called into question. It is like a rowdy school yard dressed in finery.

The Cadian High Council Chamber had often been a place of harmony and singular vision, but over the recent passage of time it had become one of dissent and disunity.

The grand vaunted windows fill the room with pale morning light, and motes of dust floated in the glare from the opulent crimson curtains that lie open to the morning. The walls are deeply lacquered wood, stunningly brown and well-cared for, and a forest green carpet coats the wide floor. A heavy stone circlet dominated the room, a wide pale table in the heart of the chamber, its circular body heavy and careworn. Its central mass was hollow, and within crouched a sprawling growth of projectors and cogitators, above which hovered green holographic screens and three dimensional representations of planets and galaxies. A grand chandelier of ruby and emerald hung form the high ceiling, and above that a sumptuous fresco of angels and demons locked in a sprawling combat.

Around the table sat twenty four men and women of high standing and noble birth, with only four seats remaining empty. A twenty ninth seat, more vast and regal than the others, sat at the head of the round-table. Carved from onyx and gold, its proportions quite outside the scope of a regular human being, it sat empty. Draped upon it; a regal flag of red silk showing the raptor of Terra, and upon this sat a laurel of gold. The throne was ever empty, and represented the Master of Mankind in his long absence. Even empty it dominated the room with its quiet, unyielding form. It demanded respect from any who debated in this chamber.

Although respect is something lacking from the twenty four who currently inhabit the chamber. Usually stoic and conservative, the men and women gathered here shout, scream and spit at each other like drunken louts in the hazy death of the evening. Some stand and point threateningly, others sit haughtily, their noses held up in disdain. Others grip the table in a vehement frustration, while some brood quietly, their hands steepled before them.

It has been a year since their world lost contact with the Imperium at large, a year since the Eye last screamed at their world. Events have gathered pace and now they must meet to decide the fate of their people. They have all entered this room with their own agendas and own wants. The strain is starting to show, and flared tempers and angry retorts are all too common, even to these Lords of Cadia.

They have all met for one reason: To ascertain the fate of Terra and the next steps that Cadia should take.

The gathering is not going well.

Brilliant writing - I am once again in awe of your work!

“ORDER!” bellowed the adjudicator, thumping his iron staff into the marble floor, “MY LORDS, WE WILL HAVE ORDER!”

The delegates still stood, arms flailing in mad accusation and voices raised in complete disarray. Some addressed the room, others focussing their ire on individuals. Some looked sheepish as the adjudicator called for calm, sitting sullenly in the noise. Pandemonium was too soft a word for the vitriolic noise filling the chambers. The adjudicator slams his cane down once more and raises his voice above the delegates.

“IF WE WILL NOT HAVE ORDER THEN THIS CONCLAVE IS OVER!”

Most of the voices dwindled to solemn grumbling, others a sly hiss of irritation. Most took their seats, some leant on the table fists balled into white angry stones. The adjudicator looked over the gathered Lords and Ladies, his steely gaze that of the strictest scholam master and pointed with his staff of office. It was two thirds his height, and carved with iron symbols of Cadia’s laws and achievements. It was the High Staff, and in the Conclave it was a potent reminder of purpose.

“You are the masters of Cadia, Lords and Ladies of The Gate. Please compose yourselves as such. I and the High Lord will not tolerate another outburst.”

The adjudicator nodded to the aged gentleman beside him, who sat silent and brooding at the right of the Throne at the head of the table. The symbolism was clear: this old man, this aged Lord with his grey, thinning hair and wrinkled jowls, was the Right Hand of the Emperor on Cadia. The old man’s face was a weathered fist, all lines and age, and his eyes though grey and fading possessed a steely strength common to all born in the face of unremitting war. He demanded utter respect in his silence. The Old Man nodded in reply and the adjudicator continued.

“Thank you My Lord...Mistress Gase, please continue with your report”

From the opposite side of the round table a woman stood wrapped in robes of white gauss and gentle silvered chains. She seemed utterly delicate, almost like frost thawing on a spring morning, and she radiated a cold quite at odds with the ambient temperature. A white sash marked with a a golden eye wrapped around most of her head, hanging loosely behind her back and trailing on the floor behind her. Despite her obvious blindness and seeming frailty, she lacked neither for sight nor strength. She was the Master of Astropaths on Cadia, a powerful messenger and psychic, and when she spoke the gathered Lords listened.

“Thank you Adjudicator Melchior. As I was saying before that minor interruption, I am afraid I bring grim tidings form the Choir once more. We have again been unable to pierce the veil that dwells about our system. The Warp is quiet and melancholy, but our sight cannot pierce beyond the edge of the Gate”

A cough issued from an extravagantly dressed general to the left of the Choir Master. He rubbed his bushy moustache without thought and when he spoke the faint traces of a fine Terran accent could be heard underneath.

“I take it there has been no word or contact with the Throneworld then?”

“Sadly Lord-General, no there has not. Once again the Choir cannot even see Terra let alone contact her...”

With a harsh squeal of metal upon stone, a heavy-set man in the uniform of Cadia’s admiralty stood suddenly, his fists balled in accusation. This wasn’t the first time he had interrupted proceedings.

“What use is your witchcraft and bone-shaking then Gase!? Terra has not simply vanished, your coven simply isn’t trying hard enough!”

Another seat screeches and a willowy ancient wrapped in silks of deepest mauve and blue rises. A tight fitting hood of silver wraps his bearded head, covering his forehead. His spindly limbs wave in aggression like a witch-doctor lost in a psychedelic stupor.

“The Navigator House of Temiel will not stand by and allow you to ridicule our cousins from the Astropathic Choirs Admiral Blaire. Your long-standing mistrust of the subtle arts is not why this conclave has been called!”

“Trust you Temiel, to stand with your witch-kin siblings! Why haven’t the Navigators been able to see Terra? Or the Astronomicon? Your friends from beyond finally abandon you?”

“The Navigator’s art does not work like that Blaire, or are you too stupid or arrogant to remember that?”

Utter pandemonium follows. Every Lord and Lady is suddenly on their feet. Accusations fly, old rivalries explode. The adjudicator looks to the Old man who scowls in frustration. He raises his staff, ready once more to call for order when the doors to the chamber suddenly boom open, filling the chamber with light. All voices are silenced as a single set of footsteps marches into the room.

The new arrival scans the room, violet eyes drinking in the scene. A sabre and heavy pistol sit upon the newcomer’s belt and a well-worn cape hangs at their shoulders. Their hair is shoulder length and neat, their uniform has seen action but is not untidy and a smirk of confidence paints their face. The gathered officials are suddenly po-faced and silent. The newcomer bows lightly and speaks clearly and with a voice that is used to having its orders obeyed.

“My Lords, please accept my humble apologies for my lateness, I had urgent business in the Southlands, damned insurrectionists keeping me from all this loveliness...but I am pleased to see you chose to start without me.”

Standing straight once more, and with eyes now suddenly furious, Lady Castellan Amanda Creed, high master of Cadia’s armed forces and Defender of the Realm demanded their attention and compliance.

“And now if you’re done squabbling like spoilt children, we can discuss how we are going to renew contact with the Homeworld”

More! More!

I always enjoy your writing Dark Lord Seanron.

Creed marched toward the round table, her every step deliberate and pronounced, her boots sounding like a snare off the polished floor. The nobles averted their eyes from her approach, complicit in their guilt of excluding the Lady-Castellan. She was a savannah predator coasting through the room, her poise confident and her eyes afire with purpose. She considered them one by one, daring them to rebuke her, challenging them to question her authority.

They did not.

The gathered lords and ladies, masters of men and commanders of untold resources, quailed at her advance. Their combined influence could swallow star-systems and end worlds, could launch crusades and defend sub-sectors, but they knew to whom they paid deference. They knew who Cadia truly followed.

When Creed spoke, Cadia listened.

When Creed commanded, Cadia went.

For all intents and purposes, Creed was the will of Cadia.

And at this moment, Creed and Cadia boiled with frustration at their indecision.

Only two amongst the gathered nobles seemed unbowed by Creed’s presence: the Adjudicator, master of proceedings, nodded respectfully and ushered the Lady-Castellan to her seat alongside the Great Throne.

The other was the Old Man, who smiled warmly at her approach. She paused next him, and lowered herself to one knee. When she spoke, it was hushed, quiet and with genuine warmth.

“Sorry I’m late, I came as soon as you I could”

The Old Man nodded and placed a gnarled hand on her shoulder, gently and parental. He leaned forward with effort and kissed her gently on the forehead. They looked into each other’s eyes, eyes so alike it was uncanny. The gathering sat in reverent silence, not daring disturb this moment. The Old Man cleared his throat and whispered.

“It is good to see you Mandy”

She grasped his hand and squeezed softly. A smile ghosted her lips.

“Thanks Dad…”

Rising again to her full height, Creed turned on the room and cast away all softness and light. Again, she was the Commander, the Conqueror, the Castellan. Her uniform accentuated her natural authority, its blacks and greens casting her as a warrior-general. Her eyes were the violet common to Cadian’s, but they burned now with an intensity that forced one to avert their eyes lest they be found wanting. She was controlled military fury distilled.

“So, my Lords, what have you been discussing in my absence? Still quibbling over the finer details of our situation? Still trying to increase whatever petty hold you have of our troubles?”

None spoke immediately, although there was plenty of uncomfortable shuffling and wayward glances. Most waited for others to speak, whilst others simply remained silent. Eventually, Navigator Temiel stood slowly and bowed to the Lady-Castellan. His haughty demeanour was now nowhere to be seen.

“Lady-Castellan, your presence is, as ever, greatly welcomed at this council. We were simply discussing the possible ramifications of our severance from the Home world and our continuing inability to regain contact with The Throne...my colleagues from the Astropathic Choirs were just now...”

A gruff snort of derision escaped Admiral Blaire, cutting Temiel off sharply.

“What my esteemed colleague is neglecting to inform you, Lady-Castellan, is how he and his coven-mates are the primary reason for our lack of contact…”

The Psyker-Lord glared at Blaire, threatening to launch into another tirade, but before any further rebuke could erupt Creed held her hand up for silence. All eyes snapped once more to her.

“My Lords and Ladies, I understand that you are under great pressure to serve our beloved Cadian Nation. I know that the fire and steel of our homeland runs deep in our veins and can lead to our molten temperaments spilling to the fore. However, you have done NOTHING but snipe, and cajole and bark at each other for these past months. You have allowed Cadia and her people to stagnate in ignorance whilst I have been away”

Many of the Lords looked away in guilt, whilst some became suddenly very interested in the tiled floor beneath them. A few, Blaire included, seemed to be about to rebuke her stance but then though better of it, instead choosing to stew in demure silence. The Lady-Castellan continued.

“I have been fighting insurrectionists and cult-insurgents for the past two cycles in the Southlands as you all know, keeping your interests safe while you hide away like a pit of vipers in your bilious wretchedness. Whilst the Cult Forces on Cadia are lighter and even less coordinated than before, they are still a very real and potent threat. I would still be there, if my Father hadn’t summoned me”

The Admiral looked venomously to the Old Man, who remained stoic and quiet, watching his daughter dress down this room of masters. He had taught her well.

“You have spectacularly failed to formulate any kind of plan, any kind of united front to these dark times and instead choose to wallow in beleaguered ignorance and ignominy. Well, no more! As of now, I am taking command of this council and we will move forward with MY plan!”

Lord Peesby, a ratty looking Administrator and head of Cadia’s Bureaucratic legions raised a meek hand. Creed smiled and nodded to the skinny, greying man who stuttered in reply. He had the worrying habit of constantly fidgeting with his spectacles, making him seem untrustworthy. It was something he was painfully aware of, and his nervousness at appearing so made him fidget even more.

“My Lady…this is most irregular…I mean, that is to say, we are a Democracy of Command…you cannot simply storm in and demand we follow you with no choice…can we? That’s not how Cadia works”

Creed smiled at the mousy gentleman, a smile that made him immediately regret speaking. The kind of smile a shark delivers to its helpless prey.

“My dear Lord Peesby, of course you have a choice…you either hear out my plan and agree to follow it, or you can be thrown in the stockades until you come to your senses. Are we clear?”

A shocked murmur rippled through the gathered nobles, and the ratty scrivener balked. The Old Man and the Adjudicator attempted to stifle smirks at the discomfort in the room. Peesby gripped the legs of his spectacles so hard they almost fell off. He coughed anxiously.

“You are being overly harsh my Lady”

“These are harsh times Peesby, and harsh people must step forward to protect the greater whole. Will you listen to me?”

The scrivener stood for a moment, all eyes on the room fixed upon him, before he visibly sagged and took his seat once more. This was the height of his resistance, and the pressure of being the centre of such attentions was beyond him.

“We shall listen my Lady, what is your plan?”


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Creed began a steady march around the table, her arms moving in broad strokes as she began to discuss her plan with the gathered nobility. Her voice never wavered, her surety iron-clad. Her words were to the point and descriptive, and each of the Nobles hung on her every syllable, whether in agreement or not.

“As you all know, we have had no contact with the Throneworld for a solar year Terran-standard. Similarly, we have had no contact with the wider Imperium for just under that time. No trade, no astropathic communication, nothing! We are essentially alone in the void.”

She turned slowly on the spot, drawing her steely gaze around the room.

“This is not anything Cadia has not faced before: we have been cut off from the Imperium while we warred with the Despoiler and his Crusades. But the fact that The Eye has remained similarly quiet is disconcerting. More than that, it is downright frightening.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the more militant Lords, with several nodding their concurrence. She was giving voice to a fear that they all held in one way or another.

“Of course, the ways of the Despoiler are viperous and unpredictable. This could be a ploy, a seeming cease-fire to lull us into a false sense of security. Wait till our back is turned and then strike at our spine with a poison dagger. For this reason we cannot lower our defence, the gate must stand firm!”

Again, more murmurs of assent, but some Lords shook their heads and grumbled to each other. Sly whispers were traded and some looked to argue, before Creed cut them off with a curt glance. She was coming to the crux of her point and would not be interrupted.

“But what if it is not a feint? What if, Throne Forbid, the forces of the Black Crusade have bypassed the Cadian Gate altogether? What if Terra stands embattled now, the Imperium in flames and we are here, keeping a lonely home fire burning while the fortress falls? Should we stand by and do nothing?”

Creed turned sharply and pointed to one of the Lords sat at the round table.

“My Lord Olnixx, your congregation has been in very strong favour of an active foray away from Cadia to ascertain the fate of the Throneworld. One many of our hallowed company seem not to share. Tell me, what was the likelihood of the Despoiler bypassing Cadia and striking at the Imperium directly?”

A hulking figure in the volumous red robes of a Martian Adept rose slowly and with visible effort from his chair. His face was partly hidden under a deep, rubberised hood of scarlet, but what was visible was a mess of heavy cabling and blister-like sensor orbs fused into a scarred and unhealthily pallid skull. Static discharge oozed from his heavy body, and a deep hum throbbed from his robes, making the teeth of those nearby ache. A boxy generator sat between his broad shoulders, with thick loops of cabling and chains snaking around his brutish form in a mechanical mimicry of a serpentine embrace. When he spoke it was grating and distorted, like plates of blunt metal scraping against each other. The other Lords sat nearest him winced as he began.

“Thank you Lady Creed. The Mechanicum of course appreciates whenever you call upon our insight and knowledge. Our Data-Scriveners and Staticiologists have worked ceaselessly in their calculations, and we have narrowed the likelihood of the [subject] DESPOILER [/end-subject] laying siege to the Empire without recourse through the Cadian Gate to be 65.3333333% repeating, rising to a rate of 68.333333% if he has amassed anything in magnitude to the last four of his crusades - an unacceptable risk in the Mechanicum’s hallowed opinion…”

Once again, Admiral Blaire rose sharply from his seat, his fists raised furiously to match his voice. His dislike of the Mechanicum rivalled that of his distaste for the Psyker arts, and seething disrespect coloured his tone.

“And you would have us abandon the Gate? Olnixx I have tolerated you and your coven of revenants for many years, but I have reached the very limits of my patience with you and your superstitious ilk! Statistics and Witchcraft? Black math and sorcery? They do not defend the Imperium! Blood, sweat and bullets, they are what built this world and that is what will defend us now! My family has defended Cadia for generations, and I will not have that illustrious history threatened by this harem of cowards and ingrates, I will not have…”

A sudden crack of skin on leather and Blaire was on the ground.

No one saw the blow coming, so fast and stunning it was. Blaire lay in repose on the floor, a look of dumb shock painted on his face. A thin dribble of blood dripped form his aghast mouth, and a cracked tooth nestled in a small pool of vitae beneath him. His chair lay behind him, similarly discarded, and over him stood the furious form of Creed. Her eyes were alight with anger and her fist hung in the air, it’s black glove scuffed red from the impact of her strike. She had been so fast, so furious that Blaire never had a chance to defend himself.

In their darker, pettier moments, many of Cadia’s leaders would whisper grim bemoaning about the Lady-Castellan. They would sneer and claim her high status was down to her bloodline, that she essentially inherited her stewardship from her illustrious forebear. They would claim she lacked the will and ability to command, and she was a Creed in name only. A meagre woman defending the homeworld was ludicrous.

These people were fools.

Amanda Creed had become Lady-Castellan through her furious intellect, tactical drive and skills in the theatre of war. She had risen through the ranks as any other son or daughter of Cadia had before her. She had refused every benefit and favouritism sent her way due to her name, and had become a glorious commander to rival her heritage through blood, sweat and many, many tears. Her tactical acumen was sharpened in battle, and she inherited that wry feel for war that was her bloodline’s greatest asset.

Unlike her Father however, she was also a staggeringly sharp warrior, a brawler and swordswomen of sublime skill. She had trained with masters form different regiments, fought face-to-face with beasts and xenos of every stripe and had warred across the galaxy for over three decades. Few in the Cadian forces could match her abilities or achievements.

It had been a proud day for her Father when he passed the mantle of Castellan to his daughter.

And now she stood, with her years of experience and combat skill, looking down with monstrous fury at the reclined figure of Admiral Blaire. Her voice was like creeping ice, ready to crack and drown the Admiral at the slightest provocation.

“Admiral Blaire, I have tolerated your disrespect to this council for far, far too long. You’re condescending nature and utter lack of honour has tarnished this company for the last time. I demand some damned respect from you! You’re meant to be the Admiral of the Cadian Defence Fleet, and yet you bicker and snipe like a spoiled child! Enough I say, enough!”

There was a flutter of applause from various lords, and nods of assent from others. Blaire lay on the floor, nursing his bruised chin, his eyes furious and moist. He stared up, bilious thoughts churning through his mind, and Creed stared back daring him to challenge her once more.

Second passed, the air alive with violent potential.

Blaire looked away.

“This slight will not be forgotten, Lady-Castellan, but I yield…”

She held out her gloved hand to aid the stricken Admiral, who waived her away and rose messily himself. He retrieved his chair and sat sullenly, his hands steepled before his face, his eyes wet with restrained anger. The impunity of the Lady-Castellan clearly galled him.

Creed’s gaze hung on the Admiral momentarily, before she sighed and continued.

“A near 70% chance that the Imperium is besieged is unacceptable to me, it is abhorrent. I am the Master of Cadia’s armies yes, but I am also a defender of the Emperor’s realm. I cannot stand by while this veil cuts us off from the wider Empire. We must aid the Empire if we can, and even if there is no war, we cannot remain in isolation. Cadia will suffer for her solitary status. We must contact the Imperium, but not leave Cadia undefended ”

“So what will you do Lady-Castellan?” asked Olnixx “We cannot do both!”

“My Lords, we can, and we will”

There was a general murmur as the room broke into conversation. Such a thing had never been suggested before. It seemed so simple, but the Cadian mindset tended toward binaries and a world-view of black and white. Constant war with the forces of the Eye had demanded as much. To become flexible was simply not in the Cadian mindset.

The adjudicator raised his hands and asked for silence once more as Creed continued.

“I will take a third of our forces from across the Naval, Army, Mechanised and Mechanicum divisions and make all speed for Haylie’s Point.” Haylie’s Point was a well know refuelling and refit point, a small three-planet system near Cadia that most Imperial Expeditions went through. It was physically closer to Cadia than any other Imperial Domain, and like Terra had been severed from contact. “From there, my fleet will needle its way across each system and bastion, recruiting and amassing forces where I can. I will need the Mechanicum’s expertise in creating some method of communication and linking for each world we find. I will build a grand force from what I can find. I will invoke the Right of Conscription and create a force to forge toward Terra”

Gasps went up from a select few in the chamber, mainly the more hard-line and traditionalists. An aged women in the finery of a High Ecclesiarch raised an elaborate sceptre in query. A veil of silver and red covered her face, and a hajib of crimson and golden scales pooled around her slight frame. She was the head of the Church upon Cadia, and her words carried great weight.

“How will you do this Lady-Castellan? The Right of Conscription is a Holy Order. How will you enforce it? Only the Church can grant such a request!”

“I will take the Conscriptus Mandate with me, that is what will grant me authority”

More gasps arose from the gathering: The Conscriptus Mandate was a holy tome, a silver leafed book allowing the bearer to call men and women to arms in the name of the Emperor in a Holy Crusade. All major military bodies in the Imperium possessed one and each was utterly unique. They were utterly precious and usually remained on the home worlds of the Imperium’s finest military institutions. Signed with the Blood of the Emperor himself, they were Holy Relics, well-defended and revered by many. To have one removed and carried across the void was almost heretical. The High Ecclesiarch went completely pale under her robes.

“You assume much Lady-Castellan, the Mandate is one of our greatest treasures…we cannot allow it to leave Cadia! To even suggest such a thing is to spit on the Emperor’s Law itself”

Shouts came from the traditionalists in concurrence with the High Ecclesiarch, however many more were now silent, weighing the new possibility. Creed raised her hands for quiet once more.

“And to stand by and do nothing while the Emperor’s Realm falls is to not? I understand your concerns, High Ecclesiarch, and I applaud you for your passion and will. But I need the Mandate, I need to build this crusade. I need to relink Terra and Cadia. We need to do all we can, and tradition cannot stop our cause”

Olnixx stood suddenly, his mechanical bulk drawing the attention of the room. He placed his metallic hand upon his chest and bowed shallowly.

“The Mechanicum concurs with the Lady-Castellan. We vote in favour of her taking the Mandate!”

The mousy scrivener Peesby rose to his feet meekly, nodding, and straightening his glasses.

“I too agree with the Lady-Castellan. It is a highly unusual request, but these are unusual times. The Mandate should be taken to Terra.”

The High Ecclesiarch stared aghast as more and more Lords and Ladies rose in favour of Creed’s plan. The Astropaths, the Navigator Houses, The High Generals, they all stood united finally. An iron-clad plan led by Cadia’s favoured daughter was all they required to forge ahead. Creed looked to each of them, fierce pride and thanks in her eyes. This was the Cadia she knew and loved, the Cadia she had lived to defend.

Soon, only she and Admiral Blaire remained seated.

Creed looked to them, no malice in her eyes and held her hands out to them.

“Admiral, your Ladyship, please help me. I would rather not take the Mandate without your blessing. Please, stand with us…”

Moments passed.

Finally Blaire stood, glacially and without hury, before unpinning a golden badge from his lapel and casting it onto the table. It twinkled faintly in the light, its detailed form sumptuous and well-made. Cadia was depicted upon it, and the symbolism was clear.

“This will be my last vote in this so called council. I stand against you Creed, you and your plans…The Cadian Gate can ill afford to send her ships on some needless quest to Terra. I vote against this motion, for what it is worth, and I take my leave. A vote under duress is no vote at all...find yourself another Admiral for I am done with you fools”

Blaire turned briskly and stalked from the chamber, all eyes following him, some in shock, others in vindication. He pushed open the great doors and slammed them behind him, leaving chamber in stunned silence.

The adjudicator whispered under his breath, whilst the remaining Lords turned their attention to the High Ecclesiarch. She looked defiant under the scrutiny, until Creed once again addressed her.

“My Lady...please, I know no one is more dedicated to His Holiness than yourself, but does the God-Emperor himself not teach that as He protects, then so too must we protect Him. There is too much at risk not to act. I implore you, please help us.”

Creed held out her hand, one so used to violence but now offered in peace.

The High Ecclesiarch remained silent for several moments, her thoughts her own, weighing the need to act against decades of ingrained tradition and religious protocol. Some would say that in that moment she would receive a divine thought, a gentle nudge from beyond, but such things weaken the character and importance of this woman and in reality, her own will asserted itself for the good of all mankind.

“Very well Lady-Castellan, the Mandate travels with you under one condition. You must allow my Chambers Militant to travel with you to secure it. I would be remiss in my duties to leave it unguarded by The Faith”

Creed nodded, a warm smile shining from her face.

“That is more than acceptable my Lady, thank you. God-Emperor Bless You! And your chambers militant are most welcome upon this crusade”

A feeling of purpose infused the chamber, one that united these otherwise disparate individuals and showed them the true path. That had always been one of Amanda Creed’s greatest strengths: the ability to unify the disparate strands of humanity into a cohesive singularity. It had been a trait her Father nurtured in her from a young age, the ability to see the strength in any situation and wield it for the betterment of the whole. An excited hubbub rippled around the table. There was so much to plan, so much to do. Genuine hope gripped them, the first that had been felt in the longest time.

It only left one question: who would govern Cadia in Creed’s absence. Who would take the mantle of Castellan?

There was only ever one obvious answer.

Creed turned to the head of the table, bowing to the great throne and then turned her attention to the Old Man.

“Father...you have given so much already in your long life, and I have no right to ask you for anything else. But we need you, I need you. Take the mantle of Castellan, lead the defence of the Gate in my stead. Will you do this?”

A slow, steady smile spread across the Old man’s face, and with visible effort he hefted himself shakily to his feet. The Adjudicator wrapped his arm around the Old Man’s chest, helping him rise, supporting his old friend as he had for a lifetime. In another time he had been a Sergeant in the Astra Militarum, but now he was the Adjudicator, the Old Man’s confidant and keeper of tradition.

His name was Jarran Kell, and he supported the Old man now as he had done for his whole life.

The Old Man drew an elegant sabre from his belt and raised it to his wrinkled brow. He closed his eyes and in a voice hoary with age and experience, a voice that had demanded loyalty and dedication from all who had heard it, a voice leaden with power and certainly uttered an oath to his daughter, and to his world.

“By your words and by this blade, I will. I will take this burden from you, Long may Cadia stand!”

Amanda Creed embraced her father, tears in her eyes, as cheers and applause filled the chamber. She pulled away, fixing him with a loving glance and mouthed a silent thank you.

“I love you Mandy, now go and find the Throneworld, for me and for Cadia” whispered the ancient Ursarkar E. Creed, “and don’t be gone long”

Words cannot properly convey the literature you're bringing to life. Why you're not working with GW this instant is beyond me. You've taken on this ambitious story that few others would dare attempt and crafted a masterpiece. This is truly the pinnacle of fan-fiction and I honestly hope other aspiring fan authors will read this story.

I can honestly say that reading this has changed my approach entirely. Anything I write wouldn't dare be this ambitious but it is subject to my own comparison to your quality of work.

This is one of those once in a life time reads that so many will return to read again. When I'm done reading what's done now I'll eventually return to read it all over again.

How is it I am reading this for free? This is one of the best things I have read in years! Keep it up!

Guys, you are much too kind, thank you

I'm not usually big on fan-service, but I've updated the initial post with the next section and some of you may be happy to see who it is in regards to

I wanna make a kickstarter to pay you to write about my army!




Or just to get this published....

The loading bay resonated with the sound of human and industrial activity, a bustling, noisy din that dizzied the senses and shocked the unprepared. Staccato hammer blows mingled with marching, booted feet, great whirs of drills and saws juxtaposed the shouts and demands of sweating workers, and all around a great, ceaseless drone of humming machinery and energy discharge. Sparks rained from above casting lunatic shadows across the great metal walls, and an oppressive artificial heat suffused the air. It is a scene played out across dozens of similar bays across the world, each one a hive of preparation and precision.

Squat, brutish drop ships filled the bay, angular and box-like, their sides dripping with condensation and steam. Colossal chains and fuelling cables linked the ships to unseen machinery in the upper reaches of the artificial chasm, the wires and metallic tendons vibrating with restrained energy. They were like great, hulking sea-beasts, their bays yawning open like terrible maws, ready to swallow the lives of the men and women who would use them. Engines purred wetly, a throaty rumble akin to a great predatory cat. Too imagine these brutes flying is fanciful, but fly they will, swollen with troops and warriors from the planet of their birth. They will flock to monstrous starships prowling in orbit, crawling across the edges of the world’s atmosphere like mountains put to the void, a flock of young racing for the safety of their mother.

Grieves didn’t like drop ships. In all honesty Grieves didn’t like any form of space craft. Claustrophobic monoliths prone to accidents, mishaps and all kinds of warp-borne horrors, Grieves had seen enough space-borne terror to last several lifetimes. The moment you surrendered your future to the mechanical menaces was the moment you signed your fate away to the uncaring whims of a heartless galaxy. He always said in his less guarded, more inebriated moments that the day The Emperor invented a way for men to march across the stars without the need for the mechanical brutes would be the happiest day of his life. Until that day he would scowl and knuckle under in service to the Guard and the Emperor and climb aboard the iron leviathans when commanded to do so.

He ran his hand through his silver, cropped hair and sighed at the sight of so much gathered force. Grieves was old, very old, approach his eightieth year of life, and each of those harsh, war-filled years showed on his ruddy face. Wrinkled, pitted by shrapnel scars, and tanned through exposure to dozens of sons across dozens of worlds, Grieves was the very definition of the word haggard. He appeared eternally tired, as if the weights of the world would break him at any given moment. But for all his curmudgeonly scowling he was a damn fine soldier, absolutely loyal to the Throne and to the Guard. His abilities in war and steely will had seen him rise through the ranks of the Imperial Guard until through decades of battle and bloodshed.

He had tangled with Greenskins on Igriit, a bitter, snow covered world that froze the bones and bit the skin. He remembered the colossal barbarian aliens blitzing through the ice and wind, hammering into the Imperial lines with suicidal abandon. He had duelled Thrumiir Pirates, vile cancerous aliens who preyed on shipping lanes and colonies for the spinal fluids of their human victims. The day they had cracked the aliens main command dock had been the day Grieves had been promoted to staff-sergeant.

He still suffered nightmares after the clashes with Eldar Reavers on Skoljja IV, a protectorate of the Wolves of Fenris. He remembered the screams in the sweaty dark, the cackling sadism of the aliens and the more terrifying howls of the Astartes. He had lost his left hand in that battle, an alien splinter grenade bursting above him and shredding his arm. After the campaign, High Command saw fit to graft a mechanical replacement to allow him to continue serving. The matte black device was skeletal and alien, and it still twitched involuntarily from time to time.

Grieves had seen much in his time, and his exemplary record saw him elevated to the highest ranks of Cadia’s military structure: The Kasrkin, the best of the best and defenders of the Homeworld and the Gate. He would serve twenty years in this illustrious unit, fighting heretics and terrors from beyond the Eye, guarding Cadia against all who would see her fall.

He would say goodbye to many of his friends and comrades, seeing hundreds die in a bitter war that would seemingly never end. It weighed on him, the loss and the sorrow, but he refused to let it break him. He would endure to honour the memory of all who fell. He saved as many as he could in wartime and gave thanks to the God-Emperor in moments of peace, what few that ever occurred.

It was this dedication that would draw the attention of the Lady-Castellan herself.

He remembered that day, when high-command summoned him to Central HQ. The vast cathedral-like structure had daunted him more than any alien berserker or heretic lunatic, and to stand in its shadow made him feel like the smallest creature in the universe. When he was summoned he had been surprised to find the Lady-Castellan waiting for him.

“I’ve been watching you Grieves, your record is exemplary”

“Thank you, ma’am! I live to serve the Throne”

She smiled at his obvious nervousness.

“I’ve noticed a trend however. I always find your units at the forefront, at the most intense battles. I have verified testimonies that you have saved over 600 of your fellow soldiers. They call you a hero.”

Grieves swallowed hard at the word hero.

“I’m just a soldier ma’am; I’m just here to do my part”

Creed has nodded, as if confirming something she already knew, and held out her hand.

“Sergeant, you have always done your part, and now I must ask more of you. You are what Cadian’s aspire to be, and now I and the homeworld must ask more of you. I wish you to join the Strongshield Task Forces, we could use a man of your compassion and drive out there, in the great dark taking the light with you. We could use a hero as your comrades say”

The Strongshields; a covert, almost mythical unit. An elite within an elite. There were many within the Astra Militarum who claimed they didn’t exist, just a fanciful battlefield story to inspire troops and scare the enemy. A band of heroic soldiers travelling the length and breadth of the Imperial Realm pushing back enemies wherever they found them, taking the most dangerous missions and tasks, and taking their orders form the Imperium's masters themselves. If the stories were to be believed of course.

But they did exist.

They were real.

And just like that, Creed had tasked Grieves with forming a new Task Force, the 642nd such unit Cadia had ever formed.

Grieves accepted without a second thought.

Grieves travelled the length and breadth of Cadia and the gate worlds forming his team, but they are tales for another time.

Maybe one day I shall tell you of them.

But for now, Grieves considered the drop ships with ill ease. He still did not know what the mission was, although he had his suspicions. All the communiqué from command had stated was that the 642nd was to muster and double time it to the waiting fleet above. Orders would follow when they arrived.

Grieves hated space travel, but he hated not knowing their purpose even more.

“You thinking what I’m thinking Boss?”

Grieves turned to his second in command, Corporal Candroth, who wore the knowing smirk that so infuriated the upper echelons but enamoured her to the rank and file. She was in her late twenties, wiry and tough, and every inch the Cadian Soldier. Her hair sat under a black bandana and her violet eyes burned furiously with mischief.

Grieves nodded.

“If you’re thinking that we’re in for a potential world of hurt wherever we are headed, then yes you are indeed.”

“It’ll be nothing we can’t handle sir, you know we can handle it.”

Grieves smiled at her confidence, confidence he needed to hear right now. He turned fully to his troops who had gathered in a staggered formation behind him, all packed and ready to leave.

There was Candroth, his second and trusted corporal, Private Buseer, the squad sniper and eternal pessimist, Private First-Class Chiasson, a joker and if bunk scuttlebutt was to be believed, a serial Casanova. Hulking behind him was Specialist Kay, the squad heavy weapons specialist, his heavy brow knitted in uneasiness and his uniform straining to hold his bulk.

Shadowing him was old tracker W’aitou, or Waitout as the squad had nicknamed him for his penchant of sleeping outdoors as often as possible. The elderly hunter was fgrom the Cadian outback, and was all wiry limbs and nervous twitches, ill at ease whenever not in the great outdoors. Nearby gathered troopers Ch’ild and Uhuine, good naturedly bickering over some bet that had gone awry the night before.

The squad chaplain, Preacher Tih shook his head like a bemused parent at their antics as Medic Vent checked his medical gear for the sixteenth time in the last hour.

A bunch of misfits to be sure, thought Grieves not for the first time, but some of the best soldiers that Grieves had ever served with.

He cleared his throat for their attention, which they gave without hesitation.

“Right you lot, into the ship. I want your gear stowed and your seats taken ready for dust-off in five! No shenanigans, no excuses! Get in and get stowed!”

Chiasson raised his hand, a sarcastic smirk marring his handsome features.

“We know the mission yet Sarge? I don’t much like this not knowing what’s going to be shooting at us.”

Grieves scowled at the private and smirked.

“Yes Chiasson, but I like that stupid look of confusion you get when you don’t know something. High Command thinks it’s funny.”

The squad laugh, even scowling Kay raises a smile. Chiasson raised his hands in good natured defeat.

“Now enough questions and get in the ships, orders are waiting for us up above.”

That and much, much more Grieves thought as he turned into the yawning mouth of the drop ship.

My god, it's back. How did I not know it was back.

The 642nd, YYYAAAASSSSS!!!!!!!!

After this whole series in concluded... Would there be a possibility that you could tackle the War in Heaven and what transpired in those events? I know it's a whole other dimension in itself but it honestly feels like you're the only capable author to take on such a task.

Thanks for humoring me.

The night came alive with light as dozens of starships lit their engines and cut their ponderous path away from their homeworld. Leviathans of steel and iron turned with dizzying slowness and grace, green-sided mountains cut form the bedrock of the earth and cast up into the heavens, their miles-long structures splitting the void like assassin’s blades. Their internal structures groaned and curved under the immense forces being pressed upon them, but like all weapons of the Imperium of Man, they were built to endure and soon a mighty flotilla sailed away from the blue haze of Cadia and into the starless black beyond. The ships that remained changed their orbit in a stately dance of gravity and geometry, ensuring that nothing would approached Cadia unheeded. The bid farewell to their fellows with machine-calls and binary transmission, and the leaving fleet responded in kind.

Ships of myriad stripe formed the fleet, each swollen with thousands of souls, crews of hardy men and women who knew their craft as star-farers well. Graceful, blade-like Dauntless Frigates armoured in grey and gold, prowled as sharks ahead of the body of the fleet, shoals of smaller Cobra Destroyers covering their flanks and bellies like youngsters flocking to a mother. Behind them lumbered the great cruisers and battleships of the new crusade, artifices so colossal and gravity-defying that they would never know the kiss of an atmosphere, the pull of a planet’s crust. They bore names of high renown and proud lineage: The Hammer of Midnight, Shield of Sophia, Istudia Rex, The Lament of Bethlehem. Every one worthy of great tales and sagas in their own right, but the tale they would craft as one fleet would go on to live in legend.

Amongst them came vessels of a stranger stripe, ships not usually seen in crusade fleets but bringing their might to bear in the service of a common goal. A great swollen beast of red iron and numerous pronged antennae stalked at the rear of the fleet, a monstrous whale of metal forged from crimson plate and armour of crushing volume, a great obsidian cog emblazoned upon its staggering hull. Dubbed Futility of Descartes, it was the flagship of the Mechanicum contingent of the crusade fleet, Magos Olnixx bringing much of his power and influence to bear to aid in this new mission. Several disjointed and unique vessels clustered near it, bizarre and powerful constructs of the Tech Priests, great gun-boats and research vessels, no two similar and none identical.

Larger still were the troop carriers of the Imperial Guard, barrel-shaped and slab-sided monoliths heavy with fighting men and women. Their hulls were green-hued and daubed with mile-high depictions of goddesses from ancient Cadian myth. They cast monstrous shadows over their kin as they burned by, but even they were dwarfed a pair of black vessels that crawled ponderously behind the main fleet. Smooth-sided and tall as mountain ranges, the two featureless monoliths carried the Titan contingent of the crusade fleet. Within their beetle-hulls crouched the Warlord Titans Horn of Disporia and The Cassandra, great walking cathedrals of war and destruction. Their Princeps had immediately volunteered their mounts when Creed had called for aid, and the great blue-hulled leviathans slept dreaming of glories to come.

Flocking before the grim Titan carriers were the smaller, crenulated carriers of the Knightly Houses. Three houses had answered the crusade call, Houses Blackscale, Fotheringham and Hassemach. Usually sentinels to Cadia’s safety, the Houses were keen to join this glorious crusade, to push back the darkness and set foot upon Terra’s holy soil. Their disparate banners and iconography seemed to strain to outdo their kin.

At the head of the wondrous armada burned a Grand Battleship in hues of silver and gold. Its prow was blunt and eagle stamped, its hull carved equally through loving artifice and bitter warfare, its weapons enough to level continents and reduce cities to ashen waste. It spanned miles of steel and killing iron, and boasted a cities worth of lives and matter. This was the flagship of the new crusade, the figurehead of a mission of hope and reclamation. Its name was The Soul of Cadia, and it is here that Castellan Creed had planted her flag.

Creed herself stood on the mighty vessels bridge, her hands resting on the command podium as about her the crew enacted her will with clipped efficiency and urgency. She smiled softly, the excitement at her purpose and finally moving forward filling her with hope. She hadn’t been off Cadia for over fifteen years, and the promise of new encounters and righteous purpose sang in her soul. She knew their goal was righteous, their mission for glory of the Imperium, and there was not even a flicker of doubt in her steely gaze. She looked ahead into the great viewport of The Soul of Cadia, into the rushing black before her, and knew it was good.

Deep within the Soul of Cadia, Grieves ensured his squad was bunked and battened down, and lay back upon his bunk. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the occasional tremors of the ship. He hated space travel, but where the Emperor and his Commander sent him he would go. Despite his oncoming travel sickness, his thoughts went to the mission and the cause for which his troops had been chosen. He was admittedly giddy at the prospect of seeing the Sol System and Terra, and having the chance to fight for a cause greater than himself filled him with a muted joy. His troopers cajoled and joked about him, their easy camaraderie and familial bond evident to all. He allowed himself an imperceptible smile. Yes, he thought, this is good.

The lights faded in the sky in stuttering winks, like starlight fading. As a third of the mighty Cadian fleet blazed off on this so-called New Crusade, Blaire gazed up in the sky with barely restrained disgust. He stood upon the palatial balcony of his family retreat, a sumptuous mansion situated in the heart of Cadia’s Blechart Forest. He gripped the wooden railing before him, his gaze fixed on the pinkish sky. Footsteps approached from behind him and he knew it would be his manservant Agador. A respectful silence settled, and when Blaire finally spoke it was with a voice of haughty command.

“That is them away Agador”

“Yes sir, the New Crusade has left the general fleet”

Blaire sneered.

“Damn foolish waste of resources. Damn waste of ships. MY ships”

“Yes sir”

Another pregnant pause, before Blaire turned with a flourish. His manservant was dressed as always, in an older style of naval uniform, all blue lines and white lapels. His dark ruddy skin was traced with fine lines of circuitry and his eyes were crystalline augmetics, glacial blue and unblinking. Blaire’s voice suddenly lowered.

“Did you issue the communiques Agador?”

“Yes my Lord”

A cruel smile split the noble’s face. Agador stared forward, not focussing on his malicious master. It was easier to enact his will when he didn't focus on him.

“Excellent. If they think I’m going to let my world go without a fight, they have another damn thing coming…”

House Blackscale, eh? So the loyalist dogs survive!

The air was liquid thick, mired in corruption and heavy with the stink of natural decay. It was an assault on the sense, pricking the eyes with acidic moisture and the tongue with a taste that was altogether too sour and sickly to be natural. The smell was obesely pungent, bringing to mind roiling, gory fat left in the sun and old wood and dirt left in a bath of human remains.

Visibility was a laughable concept, all signs of recognition hidden beneath a cancerous mist that squatted heavily and obscenely over the landscape. A soupy marsh greeted running feet, gruel-like and plant-laden, part faecal swamp and trailing, vegetative innards. It seemed to grip and pull at any who dared enter, desperate for the warmth and company of a warm, living body. Things swam in the murk, things better not seen and mercifully hidden by the stinking clamour that surrounded them.

Things buzzed and hummed in the mist, the suggestions of fleeting insects and hideous winged clades flitting here and there, clacking and whining in their petty wars and quests for survival. The low noises were maddening, seeming to coalesce into bitter words and childish laughter.

Nothing could be discerned above the mist, only a whispish, sickly light shone through. In no way did it illuminate the hidden surroundings, serving only to deepening the labyrinth fogbank that squatted here. The impressions of trees hove into view, indistinct and plagued, their heinous, cloying scent marking their location surer than eyes could discern.

He ran through the mire, survival instincts thrumming in his ears, his hearts beating more rapidly than ever before. Sweat sheened his face and utter panic burned in his eyes, which roved all about seeking escape from something in the mist. His beard was heavy with sickening moisture, snot and blood running freely over his mouth souring his taste and causing him to choke.

His armour was partially discarded and torn from his retreat through the murk, his upper torso naked and scarred from clawing limbs and panicked impacts with rotten trees. A single, crimson gauntlet hung from his arm, its surface sheened with black plant matter and his own blood. His partly armoured legs left great, sucking footprints in his wake which filled with liquid grime quickly, masking his frenzied sprint through the low-lying fog.
Every muscle in his over-developed body screamed for him to rest, to cease this shuddering activity and just lay down. His soul however begged him to run, to flee whatever darkened horror pursued him. The diseased, stunted soul within in quailed at his pursuer and drove scars of fear through his flesh. His body rebelled, an acidic spasm of pain causing him to trip, his face splashing hard into the fetid murk below. He wailed, an altogether pathetic sound, and crawled speedily to his feet, filthy water and dank viscera trailing off him in thick, bulbous runnels. His mind was white with fear, blind to all else except escape.

He felt hot breath on the back of his neck and burning eyes gazing into his rotten core.

He knew he stood little chance of escape.

But still he ran, his limbs pistoning with the enhanced strength that had been bred into him aeons ago. His legs, strong as they were, were heavy with lactic acid, which burned and cajoled him as he pushed his body over its tolerance.

So weak, something echoed in his mind, so old. Too long scheming and plotting. Too long covering your cowardice in a cloak of supposed divine intelligence. Something as broken and diseased as you does not deserve life.

Laughter echoed behind him, the sounds crawling through the mist and drilling into his mind. He wept openly, tears streaking over his bruised and battered face. His eyes were swollen with painful swellings, several of his teeth forcibly knocked from bleeding, broken gums. A deep heady gash marred his temples, and blood covered his face in a mask of scarlet liquid.

But the tears were not from the pain, monstrous though it was.

The tears were not those of exhaustion.

No, these were tears of fear.

Tears of terror.

Tears of a hunted animal knowing it cannot escape.

He wept as he stormed forward, terror lending his limbs strength he knew would fail him. And still the grim laughter of a hidden horror ever followed behind him.

Interesting... I'm assuming that it's a space marine, if chaos - especially with the too long scheming and plotting - a word bearer or maybe thousands sons with the reference to divine intelligence?

Look forward to see how this plays out. I rather enjoy cliff hangers.

The fogbank broke as he powered forward, the wisps of greenish sickly smog fading and trailing away, although their foul taste remained on the roof of his mouth and burned the back of his throat. Dislocation hammered at his stomach, and his mind reeled from the sudden open expanse.
The marsh underneath became a hard patina of red rock and dust, savannah-warm and fine, kicking up a haze of particles as his heavy feet fell. He turned in his sprint, momentarily casting his eyes backwards and was shocked to see that the swamp and fog were no longer there, their sickly green was replaced by an endless expanse of clay dirt and desert. It ran glass-smooth in all directions and baked under an uncomfortable thick atmosphere.

The heat was oppressive and lead-heavy, and it beat down relentlessly from a cancerous red sun above. The sky was the lilac and yellow of healing bruises and was pocked with scatterings of bluish cloud which curled and festered high above. No rocks or cliffs, no grass or oasis marked the grand expanse, its titanic distance spinning madly forward toward a heat haze horizon.

The sunlight burned his skin and parched his throat, and his breathing became horse and parched. Dust whirled around him, granules of cutting dirt filling the air as his armoured footfalls crushed by. It clung to his sweat-stained skin, matted his beard and wounds, wriggled into his eyes and mouth. He coughed and gagged, spitting bloody and phlegm as he rushed forward.

He stumbled on his own footfalls, crashing down onto the warm dirt, the last rags of his upper armour clattering behind him and sticking like obelisks from the sandy detritus.

He lay momentarily, his hearts swelling painfully, his breath panther-wet and thick with fluid. He wept pitiably like a beaten child, the sound pitiful and wretched. He clawed his way forward in the dirt, the will to survive still raging in his ruined body, his arms pulling him forward like a drowning swimmer. Dirt covered his body like a second-skin, cracking and scabbing as he moved and pulled himself across the blazing sands. His finger dug, leaving narrow runnels as he pulled his not insubstantial weight forward. His nails were blackened with the effort.

His muscles yearned to lay still, to cease their movement. They seemed to whisper to him, to beg him to stop, to urge him to abandon the urge to continue moving forward.

But as they muttered to him, he realised the whisper came from elsewhere.

He raised his head, covered in blood, ruin and dirt, and saw an old woman standing several feet from him who had not been there before. She glowered at him, and rictus grin painting her face.

Recognition rankled at the back of his mind, but he could not make the leap to where he had seen her before.

She wore no clothes, her body a wrinkled, skeletal construct, her skin a deep brown like leathered hide. Lank hair hung in greying dreadlocks about her body, hanging like tattered vines from her skinny neck and head. Thick dirt and blood covered her lower legs and arms as if she had been crawling through fresh graves. Her stomach hung with a paunch and her breasts hung like over-swollen and rotten fruit over her tanned skin. She reeked of corruption and radiated a quiet malice quite at odds with her shrivelled body.

In her gnarled, spindly right hand she held a crooked stave, its form as beaten and bent as her. It rose two heads above her and about its length hung fetishes and beads, wire-wound trinkets and teeth hung with human hair. It swayed slightly in the wind, a cancerous tree holding to a dilapidated cliff.

Her left arm hung low next to her body and in its grasp sat a flinty, blackened knife scored with runes and old viscera. He recognised the weapon, a soul-deep recollection, but could not say from where, his memory deadened by his fear. He instinctively pulled away from the blade, his soul shrivelling before it. He clambered to his feet, his body a filthy wreck, and took stumbling steps away from the ancient woman.

She took a step forward as if to pursue, and lifted her face to the sky. Her face was heavy with lines and sagging skin, pocked with freckles of black and errant hairs of wiry white. Her eyes were saucers of black on her haggard face, great ovals of swallowing dark that glittered with terrible mischief. She grinned at him, her teeth rotten and fractured and her gums green with cancer and mistreatment.

She approached, each step slow and methodical and he quailed before her.

“Leave me be witch!” he bellowed, the power in his voice shattered by how it trembled “come no closer!”

She did not reply, but her deaths head grin widened to a comically wide degree. It kept widening, her checks tearing and weeping blackened matter to the ground.

With a sickening crack her mouth opened like a ruined python, wider than it had any business being, and black stringy corruption bubbled for her mouth in a wet, heavy torrent.

Mocking laughter and screaming filled the air as her wrinkled body ruptured and burst, spilling a monstrous darkness that vomited toward him with the speed of panic. Its undulating mass bubbled with thousands of obscene eyes which all focused on him, each mad with hunger and ageless malice.

He screamed and ran, sprinting back in the direction he had come, tears spilling form his eyes as the corrupting blackness stalked behind him to the sound of mocking, giddy laughter.

A torrent of dust was kicked up in his wake, the stinging grains filling the air like a swarm of angry insects defending their hive. It rose high, high into the bruised sky, forming a pillar of ashen vapour with the clouds above, an edifice of dirt and sand that swallowed distance in a voracious gulp. It surrounded and swallowed him, solid walls of particulate matter that hid the world from view and forced him to flee blind. He swept his broad arms before him as he ran, his frenzied efforts doing nothing but swirling the maddened dust around him. He was a drowning man in a sea of sand, coughing and tearing his lungs in his mad bid to surface.

And suddenly it was gone.

He fell, a panicked gasp escaping him as the ground suddenly gave way. The dust did not follow and he fell through pitch blackness. It was heavy like velvet and swallowed his fear and disorientation in gluttonous thirst. He thrashed in the air, kicking and screaming at this latest cruelty. He closed his eyes to spare them the screaming passing of the malicious wind, and begged to anything that would hear him to end the ceaseless torment.

With a sudden smack of meat upon metal he slammed into the ground with the force of a hammer blow. His vision swam, his body protested at the violence it suffered, and he passed into the blessed welcoming embrace of unconsciousness.


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Shapes swam in the dark, slipping through the black warmth with graceful strokes of deep sea predators. He reached for them but his arms were stunted and heavy, unable to move in the oily black that swallowed him.

He heard voices in the liquid weight, vibrations and the impressions of words bubbling around him. They seemed to coalesce in shivering utterances, laughing and cajoling quietly or from a great distance away. When he focussed on them they would scatter, tiny minnows fleeing before a cumbersome filter feeder, slipping through the too wide net of his perception. He was certain he recognised the whispers, and he was beyond certain they were talking about him.

Through the tarry distance he could discern a light, golden and faint, but increasing in potency. He tried to swim towards its warmth but his body was a leaden anchor abandoned at sea. He tried to scream, to bellow for help but thick, dark mucus filled his throat and lungs, weighing him down further. He would have panicked if not for the reassuring numbness that covered him. He wanted to sleep, he was so tired (had he been running?), he wanted to let whatever matter enveloped him bear him away to an eternal peace (no no no, he wanted live!)

The light came closer, and its form sharpened as it approached. A great King in Yellow hovered above him, a majestic crown of glittering hoarfrost sitting above a cowled face that promised madness to those who looked upon it. Shifting robes of grimy jaundice hung from a writhing body that undulated obscenely with uncontrolled motion. The Yellow King hung above him as systems orbit stars, and it raised a great hand to him in offering. The skin was mottled and shockingly pink, rubbery and pliant like cephalopod flesh. The hand was not a hand in the traditional sense, but a tightly wound nest of rheumy tentacles that gestured and writhed horrifically.

A great voice bubbled from within the tattered, yellowed hood, and he winced under its power. The voice, if indeed something so dense and staggering could ever be described as so, pierced his thoughts like a hammer through glass.

Who treads upon my realm little one? Who disturbs my slumber?

The figure seemed to swell, and distort, the voice filling with colossal mirth and earth shaking dissent.

A warmling from above? A fleshly tribute for consumption?

Fear shot through him as he felt hunger emanate from the great hood. Hunger that had not been addressed in millennia.

Such fine sweetmeats the above sends to me? Such a bounteous feast to sit upon my court. But I smell the intentions of another upon you.

The hood hung before him, its depths swallowing and utterly without end. He could see the suggestions of squirming shapes and grinding teeth within and the site shattered any courage remaining in his wretched body. A great snuffing boom from the depthless folds, a monstrous predator sniffing a carrion bounty. Laughter echoed form far away, and the voice throbbed in calm understanding.

Ah, you are not for me…Raum has you now…

The name sent a shiver of recognition up his spine, and with that recognition came panicked terror. He suddenly wanted to be away from this place, he wanted to escape. He wanted to live. He thrashed and yelled, he pulled at the pulling thickness around him, weeping in furious desire as his body shocked itself into action. The King in Yellow laughed above him, its laughter as thunder claps from above and it called out into the black, again and again.

Raum…Raum, your prize is here!

He kicked and screamed at the shuddering gravity of the Yellow King, pushing his hands upward, straining to grip anything that might help him, begging to surface from this bleak ocean. He pushed, and rose and thrashed and finally he rose above the waves with the laughter of a heartless, ageless king echoing in his ears.

He surfaced.

He opened his eyes and screamed.

The waking world was naught but pain and agony.

Oh god. Spooky scary!

It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of a Living God... do you have the yellow sign?

Dull agony greeted him as he opened his eyes, a relentless hum of aches and vicious pains that ran through the entirety of his body. He lay face down against textured metal, cold and harsh and covered in a loose patina of sand and dirt, one of his arms lying painfully underneath him at an unnatural angle. He gritted his teeth as he pushed himself with his remaining hand, the movement eliciting a hissed breath of fresh pain. He rolled with trembling effort onto his back, thudding against the ground with a meaty smack. He lay there, his chest hiking rapidly, his face sheened with effort and exertion. He closed his eyes, desperate for his breath and heart to slow, trying to regain control of his own body from the stabbing pain that dominated his nerves.

When at last he opened his eyes, he noticed once more that he was somewhere new: a dark metallic corridor, low-ceilinged and seemingly ancient. The roof was textured links of iron, like a chain-link fence, and beyond in the dark he could make out old wiring and machinery. Stuttering light coughed from above, a sputtering staccato of electronic pulses, and pained his eyes when he focussed on it.

He pushed himself into a slovenly seat, his lower back protesting at the movement. He looked at his mangled right hand knowing that the bones within were severely bent and broken. His enhanced biology already burned through arm, trying to heal the damage done, and it throbbed with deep purple bruising and running strings of broken blood vessels. The hand twitched spasmodically, its nerve endings alight with random, pained impulses and movement. He tried to brace it against his body, but the mangled bones within resisted and after several agonising minutes he relented and let it hang limply and uselessly at his side.

Rising with great difficulty and little grace, the beaten warrior limped slowly down the metallic corridor, his left hand held out against the wall for balance. The tunnel was dark despite the random sputter of lights from above, and his eyes strained to discern detail as he progressed. From what he could see, great violence had once ran through this place: bullet holes and gouges hacked into walls, dried stains of scarlet and black running in streaks up and about the walls, discarded, moulding armour and weapons left to lie where they fell. He could not make out colours in the dull monochrome of light, but the discarded plates of armour and mail tugged at his memory, forcing him to face a truth he did not know yet.

He had been here before.

He walked on, mentally noting all he saw. The corridor twisted several times, and at some points broke into crossroads or rose up in steep, spiralling steps. It felt like the interior of a starship, but he knew instinctively on some level that that was not correct. How he knew this he wasn’t sure, but the thought brought him no comfort as he passed under a broad metallic arch stamped with a fading icon resembling a human skull surrounded by a sharp toothed cog.

He had walked these halls.

He passed under the arch and into a broad industrial space, by far the largest room he had been in since he first woke. A monstrous slab or iron wiring and glass dominated the centre of the room, reaching high up into the roof and deep down beneath the grated floor, a hemisphere of dark metals and machinery that swallowed the space it resided in. Huge cables and piping crept from the machine into the walls and adjoining devices, and complicated dials and control panels hung around I like acorns from an oak. The machine sat dead and silent, although it’s glowering presence burned quietly in the dark, a silent mass threatening to awaken at the slightest provocation.

He knew this, he knew it all.

He approached the machine, fear and pain suddenly forgotten in the face of his curiosity. He limped painfully over the cabling laid upon the floor and placed his good hand upon the cold iron. A gentle thrumming vibrated within, and the metal was covered in a thick layer of dust from long periods of misuse. Above the central hatch and display sat a raised iron plate stamped with writing and he rubbed his hand over it, removing decades of grime in broad strokes. Much of the revealed engraving appeared to be gibberish, archaic symbols and formula linked by lines and skeletal schemata, but in the centre sat a name in thick, cursive writing. A name, the name of the vessel he currently stood in.

Corinthian

Revelation dawned and realisation flowed. He did know this place, he had been here before. He suddenly knew who he was.

And with realisation of identity came memory of how he came to be here, and of what pursued him.

A heavy presence droned behind him, and a curdling voice, somewhere between an aching whisper and wet animal growl, flowed over him like spoiled ink, filling his ears with scalding pressure.

“And so we return here Deceiver, we return to where you killed me…”

He turned around, terror anew in his eyes and faced his pursuer.

Cliffhanger!

 Benny Badmen wrote:
After this whole series in concluded... Would there be a possibility that you could tackle the War in Heaven and what transpired in those events? I know it's a whole other dimension in itself but it honestly feels like you're the only capable author to take on such a task.

Thanks for humoring me.

Thank you I'll see what's in the pipeline

Oob. I'd like that.

The creatures of the warp are almost impossible for ungifted masses of life to describe . Those without some degree of second-sight or intuition simply cannot process the various grotesqueries and abominations that dwell within the shifting tides of the realm beyond our own. Some pencil words such as daemon, angel, nether-beast, neverborn, but even these terms are pitifully lacking in what the denizens of the warp actually are.

Most minds will simply process the image of these creatures into what their mind fears the most, whatever demented and darkened thoughts squat in the realm of their own subconscious. To that end it is a self-fulfilling cycle as the beasts of the warp appear as horned and monstrous revenants, mutations fuelled by mankind’s own madness. Thus do we grow to fear them, and thusly does this fear amplify their horror.

What squatted before him was perhaps the closest his damaged mind could compose when faced finally with his pursuer. It rose a head above him, its form skittish and ever-changing, like a damaged film reel or burnt and scratched pict. It hurt his head to gaze upon the thing, but at the same time he could not pull his wide, terrified eyes of its gross magnetism.

No human shape could be discerned among its mass, no reassuring imprint of humanisation to coddle the mind with familiarity. It was a solid mass of blubbery, bubbling blackness, like cooked fat left on a spit for much too long and left to rot. It strained and bled against its own confining existence, sores and open wounds forming instantly and closing just as quickly, gibbering mouths and amorphous swellings rippling across its furious hide. It rose up, a mountain of crisped, steaming flesh, its peak topped with a crown of jagged, pale antlers and crooked horns. They were soaked in gory matter and stank of swamplands and natural decay, vines of viscera dripping lazily and thickly in vomitus runnels. A haze of buzzing flies and moths circled the crown, flitting like wayward thoughts around its grotesque, swollen head, forming a swarming halo of ceaseless activity above it.

Myriad wincing eyes coated the things blackened flesh, too many too count and far too many to ever hide from, and they roved wildly and without focus around the metallic chamber. Only a single central eye focused on him, a wide saucer-like orb of sickly yellow veined with scarlet and orange fractures. A black, starless slit split the eye in half and within dwelled a darkened madness, a pitiless void that swallowed any desire for hope under a suffocating pall of total nothingness. The black-pinned orb burned into him, pinning him to the spot as a bright light freezes the deer before impact.
Its bulbous, cancerous weight sat on a nest of broken insectoid legs and animal limbs, dozens and dozens aligned in a lunatic basket weave. They twitched and bled under the obese weight, greasy fly hairs and tumours scarring their length, palsied stutters shuddering through them in a dying tremble, a last gasp for life before sinking beneath the waves. A pool of rotten matter seeped from the monstrosity, a sodden pool of viscous matter oozing with the worst corruption, its surface sheened with rainbow reflections of a gluttonous oil slick. Obscene tentacles, great ropes of sinewy muscle and blubber writhed lazily through the liquid, pulsing gently in a gross mimicry of heart function. A heinous smell billowed from the creature, a burning acidity that sat at the back of the throat and caused the legs to tremble.

It was grotesque in every sense of the word.

Of course dear reader, this was not the creature’s true form. No human mind, no matter how advanced, save maybe that of mankind’s Emperor (beloved by all) can truly see the daemon for what it is. He is however severed from this plain and his thoughts are hidden to us. But for the purposes of our tale, the terrified prey’s perception shall suffice.

The prey stood transfixed, every instinct screaming to escape, to flee, to hide but the mind knowing that this was the end. This was the confrontation that would end his flight. His voice trembled as his throat remembered its function, a stammer of fear underpinning his words.

“I…I know you”

The voice bubbled forth form the void once more, filling the chamber as burning grease fills a bowl. It ran over his skin, forcing him to tremble and gag.

Indeed Deciever, we have met before. Many, many times. Many, many lifetimes ago.

“What is it you want from me daemon?”

Wet laughter burbled forth.

You know what we want, Deceiver. You know why we pursue you. We can see the architecture of your fractured mind. How broken it is, how small it is. How afraid you are.

False bravado filled his trembling voice. He tried to hold himself up straighter, but pain forced him to hunch once more.

“I am an Astartes monster, fear is an unknown land for me”

Callous, scarring laughter boomed through the chamber, the hideous mass shivering in mocking delight. Tears welled in the eyes of the prey, knowing his bluff had not worked.

An Astartes in body you are, Deceiver, but too long have you been in the depths of our realm. Too long have you supped at the teat of the blessed expanse. Such things come with a price. You know fear, you know it intimately.

The mass swelled above him, filling the small chamber with cloying shadow, making him shrink before its gaze.

Those you once called brother have courage, they can look our divinity in the face and not shirk from it. They are more than you ever were or will ever be. You are a small petty man, so wrapped up in the illusion of your own power that you forgot the very things that made you powerful.

The great coiling limbs shot forward like pythons and seized him by his waste. He barked in fear, smacking at them with his broken hands, struggling against their constricting power. More and more vomited from within the beast, wrapping around him, tightening and squeezing him as a spider captures the fly.

You know fear because you are not Astartes, not anymore. You are a pitiful non-thing, playing with power you never deserved and you never understood. You are a broken thing, a mewling new-born waiting to die. You’ve toyed with things beyond your ken and have burned away what divinity gave you.

He struggled, oh how he struggled, but the horrific crushing thing continued its assault. He felt ribs crack and blood ooze beneath him. He gasped a plea, utterly pathetic and demeaning.

“Please…please Raum, don’t do this…I can help you…please, I beg you, anything”

The tentacles pulled the writhing figure toward the great eye at their centre, its remorseless slit pupil boring into him. A grating, spiteful chuckle rippled through the beast, a sick glee suffusing its gurgling voice.

So you do know me, little man. Then you should know why we are doing this, you should know why begging will do you no good. You pathetic waste of matter. You know why we are the one who needs to end your existence.

He mewled as the eye gazed into him, seeing the mind that blazed behind it. His sanity fled as the endless void beyond swallowed him.

You killed us Erebus, you stuck your filthy little knife in our back and ended us. You betrayed your brother, your student. And why? To further your petty goals. We do not need you pathetic mortals anymore, but the powers above and below knew that I must be the one to end you.

With a sickening crack, Erebus’s body broke, his bones and muscles rupturing, his insides bursting from his wounds and scattering messily across the already slick floor. Intestines and fluid filled bags of meat sloshed in mad patterns across the floor and lay bleeding and steaming in a gross pile. Blood coated the room as he ruptured, and he died alone and unremembered in a dark room in the maddened mind of a vengeful monster. The creature let his remains land messily, triumph suffusing its form and before it faded back into the shadows of the warp it left the steaming corpse of its prey with one final whisper.

That was for Argel Tal…

The room faded from reality, burning away as ashes on a cold wind. And with it faded Erebus, Bearer of the Word and self-proclaimed Architect of the Great Heresy, to be forgotten utterly and missed by no one.

Glad Erebus finally got it!

Couple of bits of feedback, I think there's a small typo:

"They are more than you ever where or will ever be" I think it should be 'were' not 'where'

Also I'm not sure I like the

"Of course dear reader...." part. It's like you've broken the 4th wall and are suddenly a person telling this story, rather then the story telling itself if that makes sense. I think that's fine if that had been the same all the way through, but to me it seems like a weird sideways move from the story and how it's been told until this point.

I feel like I'm sometimes the only 1 leaving feedback like this! I hope it doesn't bother you. Like I've said before I really enjoy reading it and couldn't do it myself. But if you'd rather I didn't leave these comments let me know or drop me a PM and I'll stop! You're writing this for you and sharing it with us so do what you please!

TommyBs wrote:
Glad Erebus finally got it!

Couple of bits of feedback, I think there's a small typo:

"They are more than you ever where or will ever be" I think it should be 'were' not 'where'

Also I'm not sure I like the

"Of course dear reader...." part. It's like you've broken the 4th wall and are suddenly a person telling this story, rather then the story telling itself if that makes sense. I think that's fine if that had been the same all the way through, but to me it seems like a weird sideways move from the story and how it's been told until this point.

I feel like I'm sometimes the only 1 leaving feedback like this! I hope it doesn't bother you. Like I've said before I really enjoy reading it and couldn't do it myself. But if you'd rather I didn't leave these comments let me know or drop me a PM and I'll stop! You're writing this for you and sharing it with us so do what you please!

Thanks for the grammar check, sorted!

And I like going past the fourth wall sometimes, just thought I'd try something new. Will bear that in mind in future.

The sanctum was cool, surprisingly chill for what lay beyond the bounds of its great portal. Gentle wisps of vapour rose from the great blackened wall from the touch of the chill air, and if one focused they would discern the emotions and faces of the long past in the insubstantial vapours.

The portal itself yawned immensely above, a great half-oval forged from warm unyielding metal. Graceful filigree lined its surface, gentle curves and harsh lines bisecting and blurring into a great pattern of dizzying complexity. No single image lay in these carvings, and each individuals own bias and perception brought forth images and patterns unique to them. Some saw green worlds and pastoral sunrises, others bloody battle and the cackling of a bloody handed god.

Still others saw the patterns for what they truly were: a cage, bars to trammel a furious beast at the heart of creation. A dam against bloodlust that would threaten all if ever let loose of its own accord.

Two figures stood before the grand portal, dwarfed by its immensity although being gracefully tall themselves. They were alike in form: lithe, willowy, clean pale limbs and noble, gentle features.

One was marginally taller, her eyes a deep and warm jade and her pale, almost silver hair worn loose about her gently sloping shoulders. She was garbed in silver and bronze robes of gossamer silks and glacial chains that clung to her as mist clings to the forests on a winter’s dawn. A determination put tension upon her usually soft features, a hardening of the soul for a challenge ahead.

Her companion radiated trepidation in a quiet smoulder, his shorter form garbed in curved plates of deepest forest green. He stood stock straight, rigid against the gentle cold in the air, his face obscured by a death mask of gold and crimson, an armoured Wight of monstrous scarlet eyes and sleek, killing mandibles. He came armed and armoured in juxtaposition to his ally, across his back lay a killing blade Mau’mauktahaar in his tongue, meaning The-Necessary-Death-To-Spare-The-Living. At his waste hung sleek, organic weapons, monomolecular catapults crafted with love and care many centuries before. They were Au’shabta and Au’Shinnui, The-Sisters-That-Judge-The-Unworthy.

Finally in his right hand he hefted a heavy and dark spear, a killing length several heads taller than him topped with a broad flat head of sharpened wraithbone and polyplasty. It was Ob’novimastr’dei, a cursed name among his kind, its literal meaning being That-Which-Kills-With-The-Greatest-Unkindness. It was a potent weapon of dark repute and stunning power.

He had brought it for a very specific reason.

Silence hung between the pair. It was a silence heavy with tension, like rain water gathering upon sodden clothes, and it drew out until the warrior could not tolerate it further. His voice, although harsh and clipped, flowed like golden wine and lilted with a sing-song cadence, their native tongue like honey and starlight.

“Are you certain this is the only course of action Ju’daai? I do not need to be blessed with your sight to see you are wary of moving forward.”

Ju’daai smiled softly, her features opening as a flower to the morn, and considered her companion. Her voice was silver bells within gentle snowfall, white and shining under soft sunlight.

“Just because I cannot avoid this path, Ulnaan Alnathian, does not mean I cannot feel trepidation at the course it takes. Such a thing is only natural given the circumstance”

Her companion scowled, an ugly expression for such a graceful face.

“You willingly put your life on the line and endanger your good standing with this madness. And you pull me like a maelstrom to it also…”

Ju’daai turned to face Ulnaan head on, her robes brushing the floor lightly. The swaying fabric disturbed the vapours coating the floor and they danced around her legs gracefully. She titled her head as a bird might.

“Isn’t that what you do every time you don that armour my friend? Willingly put your life on the line? This is no different. This is for the good of the Craftworld, the good of our people. I can feel that more surely than I have felt anything before.”

Ulnaan nodded, his helm dipping slightly.

“Then I am with you, I trust your judgement. You will forgive me my worries though: going against the will of our betters sits uneasily with me”

Ju’daai placed a hand gently on her comrade’s shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring.

“And I am grateful to you my friend, I know this was not the path you were set upon”

“It is the path I find myself on now”

She nodded her thanks, and moved slowly toward the great portal, the mists parting before her like waves before a skimming vessel. She knew this is what she must do, she knew her path must go to this uncharted territory, but still tension gripped her in its uncaring coils.

The vision she had seen, the horror she had felt: she had no frame of reference to process such things. total and utter war with the young race, the death of a god, a quieting of the realm beyond, none amongst her kind, not even the oldest of them had any experience of such things.

She had communed with the long passed and now-gone-but-still-present, the essence of those saved since the long flight from She Who Thirsts. They were sorrowful and full of vengeance, unable to see back to a point before the birth of their end. Their path now pointed to the red domain of revenge, and could help her not in her quest.

There was one event, one doom that had befallen the Children of Isha once before that would give her some indication of how to proceed, and she had petitioned her kith and kin to journey from the Craftworld and make the lonely sojourn to the Black Library, that lonesome, occult domain, to research and learn beyond the dances and stories of her youth. She had been swiftly rebuked, such things they deemed were long at rest and should not be disturbed. They told her to focus and commune and soon the answers would come.

So she focussed.

She communed.

And the answer did come, but not an answer her peers would ever assuage to.

There was one individual, one thing within the Craftworld that had been present during the past cataclysm she yearned to know. One physical link to a past now shrouded in so much decoration. It squatted at the heart of the world-ship, redolent in its quiet, suffocating fury, and to approach such a thing would test both her and links to her fellows.

At the heart of the world-ship was an Avatar of Kaela Mensha Khaine: a physical shard of a long perished god, a creature from the birth of her race. A smouldering reminder of the Children of Isha’s bloody past, a creature that demanded blood for its aid.

She knew that she needed to commune with this being, she needed to peer through its eyes and view the events she sought.

She needed to look back to when the ancient ancestors of the Eldar fought the unloving and unfeeling, their Gods strode beside them and a war burned through Heaven itself.

She placed her hands upon the portal, unsurprised to feel that it was warm to the touch. She turned to Ulnaan once more, a sadness and acceptance lining her flawless features, and spoke her final request.

“You know that once I am alone with it, no one else may enter. I cannot risk another soul becoming embroiled in the communion lest they sever the link and doom us all”

Ulnaan nodded his understanding.

“No one will pass these gates whilst I stand here Ju’daai. Not even our own kin. I will bar the way and keep you safe.”

“And if I come back not myself…”

Ulnaan’s gaze did not falter.

“Then I promise it will be swift.”

She turned once more to the warm portal, noticing its temperature increasing steadily. She closed her jade eyes and took a deep breath. This was not the breath that brings life, the sha’ishai, or the breath that focusses the soul, sha’alhaam.

This was the final breath, the sha’maugta, the breath of the traveller laying down after their travels.

She knew this might be the end of her, in fact she was almost certain her path ended here. But she needed the answers. She needed them to save her people.

She forced the doors open which opened with little resistance, and a breath of furnace heat welcomed her into darkness. A smouldering, heavy form filled the space with its trembling presence and she walked forward, a singly flake of dying snow flitting into the warm mouth of a hungry, terrible beast.

The door closed silently behind here, vapour fleeing from its colossal form, and Ulnaan turned his back to it, crouching into a stance of impending violence, taking Ob’novimastr’dei in both hands and awaited the coming retribution of their kin.

I'm really enjoying the story! As a necron fan, I'm excited to (hopefully) get a glimpse of the war in heaven as well!

All was blackness within the sanctum.

No hint of light, no sliver of illumination dwelt within.

The darkness was liquid thick, clinging to her limbs petulantly as she moved slowly forward, oily runnels slipping from her in a remorseless grip. It was swallowing, suffocating, a caul of coal-ash obscurity making the breath catch in her throat as she advanced. The air tasted of smoke, of old, smouldering ash. It tasted of homes burnt in a killing blaze of fury.

It tasted of death.

Panic threatened to overwhelm her. Her eyes scanned for something solid, something to anchor her to the real world. She searched for a distant shore in the ocean of black she had foolishly sailed into.

How could she have done this?

What was she thinking?

This was madness.

She turned frantically on the spot, swatting imagined phantoms from her body, her breath hiking in panic. She mewled in horror at the vast blackness engulfing her, its unfeeling, uncaring expanse pressing in against the shuddering flame of her mind. Complete and utter cosmic dread seized upon her and she sank to her knees with tears in her eyes, defeated and discarded by the heartless, cold black.

She lay there, crumpled into herself, weeping gently.

She had been a fool to attempt this.

She wasn’t strong enough.

Only the strongest could enter this place, and even they died in the process.

She wasn’t strong enough.

Yes you are

The thought came unbidden in a voice that was not her own, illuminating her immediate surroundings, a spotlight of soothing sunlight against her soul. She raised her head, her voice trembling in the oppressive black, no echo lending her words the suggestion of space.

“Who…who is there?”

She sounded small, smaller than she had ever felt before.

You must move forward

She blinked in surprise as the light increased. It was not her eyes that perceived it, for such mundane senses were useless in this place. It was her soul that sense it, her sight beyond simple perception that registered the beacon of hope.

She rose unsteadily to her feet, rising to her full height. She closed her eyes and took a calming breath, forcing her body into a state of balance. She stood for what felt like hours, feeling the breath within her slow and her heartbeat enter a steady, calm rhythm.

Now move forward

She took her first step forward, and then another. Her limbs moved with clarity, no longer mired in the tar-like quagmire. She moved with her eyes closed, allowing her soul to guide her, a shining, crystalline raptor sailing high above the beleaguered vessel of her spirit, guiding her path through troubled waters.

And then she beheld it. Indistinct and hazy at first, but thickening and warping like broth. It squatted before her, swallowing her perception gluttonously and she could not help but perceive it.

Before her burned a black flame. It seemed restrained, trammelled, pained and lessened by this petty existence. It hurt to focus upon it, like nettles pricking the subtle form of her soul. It bled malice and rage into the surrounding air, redolent with fury but bound and tied to this small reality.
She perceived it.

And it perceived her.

It promised a painful end unless she freed it. It swore to consume everything she was unless she bowed to its will.

It seemed desperate, feebly pathetic from what it once was.

It raged impotently at her.

She pitied it, and that stoked its anger even more.

She knew what she must do.

She raised her hands before her, twinkling white like snowfall, and placed them upon the flame. It reached out hungrily like a needy child, furious and desperate to end its lonely existence.

The flames seized upon her, burying into her flesh.

She opened her eyes and screamed.

Ju’daai ceased to be Ju’daai.

She was no longer herself.

She was no longer she.

She was me.


I open my eyes

I open my eyes and remember what I am. I am strong.

My name is Aldaeu of the House of Beil Ta’hann and I am a warrior.

I stand on a broad, wide field of ashen sand and glass, the horizon billowing with smoke and scattered souls. There is no colour to this world, it is dry and dead like the skin of a desert corpse. Its lustre has been stolen by war, drained by misery and the crushing of hope. It offends me that such mindless desecration can happen.

I am clothed in the trappings of my calling: armour crafted in the star-forges of the makers, glacially white and numinous, ghostly and opaque in the correct light, rainbow bursts of colour when in shadow. It holds me tight, hugging my muscular form as a lover or mother might, protecting me, girding me against the storm. Gemstones of lilac and aqua colour its breast and bands of golden-green hearthsteel lock tight around my limbs.

Swathed around it is chain-links and robes of deepest green, a foliage of war silks that flap from my body in the winds that flow past me. A clasp is mounted upon my shoulder, an eye, the Eye of Isha, our mother. It stares out watching for danger, reminding me that she is watching. Upon my brow sits a noble, sloped helm, its visage forged to convey the countenance of my Lord Asuryan, noble and full of justified wrath. It is a visage to strike fear into the hearts of those who oppose us.

In my fists I carry a two-handed blade, tall as myself then half again. The hilt is banded in deep green wrapping and coiler with silvered wire. A thin pommel of pale crystal mimics its razor point. I name it Asha’valuti, the Envy of Vaul, for it is a beauteous blade and one that the great Smith of Heaven would surely wish to own. I hold it upon my shoulder, its considerable length flashing in the low light. Its body is etched with flowing vines of emerald green and precious gems, drawn in flowing thorny vines and heavenly serpents, and its edge is fine enough to sheer the soul from the body. I give it respect and it in turn respects me. It is my closest ally in the battles we have fought together.

Around me stand my brothers and sisters, tens of thousands of us, arrayed as I am in the colours and cauls of glorious battle. We sing to the heavens, Gods do we sing. It is a stirring sound, a sonorous flowing wave of audible fury and passion that infuses our very beings. The sounds shake and rumble, challenging the makers above to ignore us. It is akin to standing amid the waves of a great ocean as it thunders to the shore, threatening to overwhelm me in it currents. I am sorely tempted to allow it.

We are strong, we are young. We have passion in our breasts and the blood of the gods in our veins.

We are new-borns on the tapestry of infinity. The Makers knew their craft when they forged us in the heat of their wisdom. Such pride do we feel.

The sound of our song sweeps back for many leagues, the green and white of our horde spreading back farther than the eye can see. We are arrayed to defend a galaxy that is both new and beautiful to us, one that we would gladly give our lives to defend.

Crisp, clean banners of silk and shining silver snap at our back, adorned with the images of hope and glory. Thousands of them fan in the breeze above us, like serpents of white and silver and gold, flowing in the air in an endless, graceful dance.

The skies above us buckle and heave, black sordid clouds rupturing amid green flashes of lightning and soulfire. A grand vista of tortured skies and splitting energy roils as the terrible depths of some black ocean, a maddened churn of broad, etheric disarray. It is the antithesis of the dead land below, always in motion, constantly evolving with cosmic violence.

A battle rages up there, a localised cataclysm between forces beyond our youthful understanding, a war fought with fire and fury, with soul and sword. The chariots of the makers duel in the skies beyond with the ghastly crypt-ships of the eternal foe, the hateful deathless. The ones we were born to lay low.

The slaves of the Yngir, the ones that live within death, the damned, the pitiable, the horrific, the lost.

They call themselves The Necrontyr. Or at least they once did.

We call them The Enemy.

They march toward us now, a vast swathe of cold metallic horror gathering in a silent horde. Countless, hollow eyes glare at us from unfeeling skulls, burning with the worst kind of soul sickness imaginable. They too wield blades and weapons, but theirs are not forged of starlight and glory, but of stellar death and entropy. Curdling unlight smoulders around them, thick spuming flashes of necrotic energies hanging like mourning veils rank with aged corruption and grave dirt.

They shuffle forward on piston limbs, a ceaseless skeletal dirge that kicks up a swallowing wall of dust in their wake, grains of ash and grey dirt clinging to their wasted limbs like robes of bleak mourning. They make no sound as they move save for the sound of their monotonous gait, no impassioned song or stirring battle cries, they are a silent unfeeling legion, like funerary statues given motion, grim shadows in the twilight realms of sepulchral wraiths, grim, unnerving sentinels of a dead, uncaring universe. They bring with them complete and total dread, an ending of all things living and vital.

They are anathema to us

No joy, no love or desire for experience colour these horrors. Simply crushing, black finality and death. They are morose and implacable, driven to the destruction of all else to maintain a horrific status quo. They are everything we are not.

They come within range of their monstrous weapons, and a blaze of emerald energy stitches across the expanse between our hordes. Brothers and sisters die, their song warping into pained and shocking screams. We respond in kind, our weapons singing a silver song of death and deliverance. Several of the front rank of the silver horrors fall, their gormless skulls dented and sliced, their empty ribcages burst and sparking. Some have the audacity to climb back to their wretched feet and limp toward us, their clacking mouths working wordlessly in dumb hatred.

The lines draw closer, more weapons crack and whine. I make out more details as the silent Necrontyr draw nearer: flashing corpse light and glimmering tokens of loyalty, wires and drives, leering ghoulish fangs and chains. Our song swells, we know what is coming.

A silent command sounds like a clarion horn.

I sing till my throat is raw. I grip Asha’valuti so tightly my knuckles lose their lustre. My souls shines with righteous fury.

As one we charge. Countless feet moving in unison to one destiny. Banners snap in the breeze like whips. A swell of battle cries and shouts echo.

Al Asuryan, al ahib Asuryan!

The sound is glorious.

We crash like the waves of the ocean against a silent shore.

Nice! Haven't checked this read in a while.

Amazing! I can't wait for the next installment.

Amazing. You manage to capture the point of view of each race and army so well. I look forward to seeing you write orks. I would also love to see you write from Kharn's point of view, if you could find a way to make it more than "Kill! Burn! Maim!"

Wow, I just read all this thread in a few days Your work is amazing, in my opinion you are meant to be a professional writer. Your book inspires me to write my Skitarii Legion story with more details and epicness that I intended at first, I'll see if I can manage that. Can't wait for the next part, but take all the time you need.

My muscles burn with ceaseless, furious motion. My bones ache from the impacts that ring against my blade. My chest heaves with the strain of ceaseless movement and tears stream from my eyes as the wind whips against them.
I adore these feelings. They tell me I am alive and still moving, and life is the greatest victory of all.

The melee around me is brutality, a tapestry of organised chaos and bloodshed on a dizzying scale, an appalling din of screams and weighty strikes of blade upon flesh. We are winning, of that I am certain, for there are several thousand more of us than our Necrontyr foes, but they are making us pay for each footfall of earth with our blood and our souls. The Children of Isha, my kin push our foes back with our fury and glory, but still the demure ranks of the unliving resist.

Their defiance drives me to greater fury.

I have already laid low two score of my enemies, leaving their artificial carcasses steaming in the mud behind me, and yet there are countless more to slay.

I spin heavily, swinging Asha’valuti in one hand, allowing its solid weight to carry me in a controlled rotation. Its edge glows faintly orange as it cuts the air, and the space before it screams as it seems to part the very fabric of reality. My spin slices through the legs of two Necrontyr, their heavy metallic bodies collapsing in a confusion of grasping silver limbs and expressionless stupidity. It would be almost comical if I didn’t hate them so.

They splash into the mud, dropping their blades, clawing madly toward me in the moronic machine gait. With a turning of my arm, Asha’valuti pulls me into a jump, sailing lightly over my defeated foes. Whilst airborne, I bring both my hands on Asha’valut’I’s grip, and use its momentum in a downward swing, decapitating both the mutilated horrors beneath me, sparks of green corpse light fountaining from their neck stumps. They wail then in their deaths, the sound that of driving steel scraping against old bone, of funerary stone scraping against a blade edge.

I used to shudder at that sound, it used to plague my sleep.

I have grown accustomed to it now. It is a reward for their defeat.

I land nimbly, my feet sinking slightly into the gory mud beneath me, and bring Asha’valuti over my head in a defensive stance.

My eyes rove, seeking my next target among the swirling density of warring bodies. I do not need to look long.

A great silvered monster rises from the scrum, easily twice my height, carrying a great staff topped with a curved lambent blade. It smoulders in the low light, and spiralling sparks of unlight drip from its killing edge. Its wielder is no less horrifying: a cadaverous construct leaden with armour plating and iconography of a lost time. Ragged, mouldering robes cover its lower body, the clothes of the mourner left untended and its head is a rictus nightmare, a deathmask carved in precious metals then left to rot in an abused tomb.

It smiles maliciously, or at least my mind projects such emotions onto it, before it barrels toward me, shouldering past its siblings in a mad scramble to face me. One of my kin steps into its path, her spear shining with frost-fire and a righteous song on her lips.

I call out even as I realise the futility in such an act.

The monster barely breaks stride as it pummels her down with the pommel of its weapon. Despite the din of war around me I hear the bones in her face give in a moist, sickening crack. She falls, blood flowing from a broken nose, her hands flying to her face in a defensive gut reaction. Before she can react further the giant stamps on her head with its heavy iron-shod talons, relishing her struggle. Her head cracks spilling its contents like an over swollen fruit and she moves no more. I utter a gasp of disgust as the monster gallops toward me, its victim already forgotten.

Such dishonourable death fills me with fury and I bellow as I too charge. I slash out furiously, cutting through embattled Necrontyr in my advance, suddenly driven to avenge such hateful, wanton loss. Four of their number die before I clash with my foe, but each death is nowhere near enough for what I have witnessed.

My feet come to a practiced halt, sliding slightly in the murk beneath me, and Asha’valuti screams in sympathy as I bring it down in a heavy slash fuelled by my own momentum. The corpse blade of my enemy rises up in a counter strike, and an eruption of flames and sparks is birthed as both blades meet. The impact is staggering, my arms protest at the intense weight, but still I stand, still I push back. My teeth clench and my eyes shine in fury. When I lost my helm I cannot say, but the rightness of facing my foe with my face open to them is intoxicating. Spittle foams at the edges of my mouth as I hiss a whisper of malice.

“I am you death monster, you will pay for what you have done this day”

Nothingness dribbles from the throat of my foe, no cough of hate or cry of retribution. Just relentless silence, and that stabs at me all the more. Its hateful eyes are alight with corpse-fire and although I know it is impossible, I swear the thing enjoys my fury.

Our blades slide from one another, a sharp ring of metal resounding in the air, before both impact again and again. I weave to the side, bringing Asha’valuti round and again, letting its weight and thirst for victory pull me. My foe is not my match in terms of speed, it moves with the idiot slowness of all its kind, but it can weather the punishment and unlike me will never grow tired. It knows it can weather my assault. It knows my living body and soul are my weakness.
It is anathema, a creature built only to hate and destroy. I cannot allow it to live.

More blows are traded, Asha’valuti glowing white hot from the strikes, and my breathing becomes more ragged. Several times I stagger against others in the swirling melee, too caught up in their own battles to intervene. The great metal beast pummels at me with piston-like efficiency, its blows sounding a staccato bell toll over the din of the battle. I have scored a dozen wounds upon it, a dozen rents, cuts and holes in its armoured shell, but still it comes on.
I need to end this quickly, before the thing’s sheer relentlessness ends me.

Asha’valuti spins a figure of eight around me, deflecting two more strikes, before slashing downward in a dazzling riposte. I aim deliberately for the creature’s weapon now, no longer thinking to strike at it. My focus becomes the hateful blade striking at me. My opponent notices my change in tactic and responds in kind, drawing a stronger defence and focusing on the spiralling path of my blade. Its tireless mind begins to formulate new patters and strategies to overcome my change in play.

This is their undoing: routine, patterns, logic.

That is their weakness.

I draw Asha’valuti in low before swinging it in an upward slash. I let go of the hilt completely, allowing my blade to sail straight upward, its blade catching what little light there is in the sky. The Necrontyr behemoth’s head snaps upwards, its attention focussed on my blade as I knew it would be.

My hands snap to my waist and I draw a pair of needle daggers, and dive upward, my blades aimed at the things neck. It notices too late and drops its weapon in a bid to stop me. My daggers slice into the wire and synthetic sinew of its neck, and I pull with all my weight backward. It’s like wrestling a mountain, but it staggers forward, metal talons gouging into my arms in protest. I scream as the meat my upper arms is shredded, blood splashing against my pale armour and robes, and yet still I pull. With a shriek, Asha’valuti plummets downward and stabs point-downward into the monsters spine, parting metal and wire before burying itself deep into the ground still imbedded in the monsters lower spine.

It goes rigid beneath my assault, its claws opening in a sudden mimicry of pain, its mouth chewing silently in imagined agony before the hateful light bleeds from its eyes. Its monstrous form sags forward, held upright by my blade.

I am victorious.

I fall then from its grip, landing roughly in the mud, my arms bleeding from were it gripped me. I suck in a cold, pained breath, in agony but beyond thankful to be alive. I rise shakily to my feet, using the still standing corpse of my foe as support. I hold my arms, wrapping myself up in pain, trying to focus my mind against the thudding pound of my own heart. Blood drips in thick heavy lines down my body and I am dizzy from the pain.

It is only then that I notice the silence.

My kin have stopped their warring, all eyes turned to the sky. I too follow their gaze, drinking in the sights of the battlefield, my pain momentarily forgotten.

The Nectrontyr are fleeing, a sudden rout against our fury. The retreat in a similar fashion to everything they do: silently, implacably and in perfect uniformity.

My kin cheer and rally to our banners. Some approach me, eager to help me, eager to leap back into the fray.

Light dawns faintly above us.

It is then I realise this is no retreat.

The skies above are glowing, gradually growing brighter. Something massive pushes against the skin of the cloud cover, something great and burning. A great booming as the air is rent precedes it, and the already abused clouds part slowly as a monstrous ellipse of blackened stone pushes through.

Fires rage across its ancient surface, great rents from which water, energy and smoke billow. Its form is humbling in its immensity and as it breaks the cloud cover it casts a deep shadow over the battlefield. Its form is perfectly circular and curved, its sides adorned with spiralling script-work and detailing, now afire from the battles above. It rotates serenely as it falls, leaving trailing contours of smoke in its wake.

It is a Seed-Ship, A chariot of the Makers, a vessel of ancient design and immense power. Inside it will be a coterie of our creators and the sight of it crashing fills me with dread. Sparks of blue vomit from its engines, its crew inside warring with its inevitable descent. I will it silently to survive, for the miraculous technologies to reawaken and carry the ship upward once more.

The blackened vessel lists over the retreating horde of Nectrontyr, passing over them in a languid curve. Its immensity gives the illusion of stately slowness, but we know that it must be moving at a maddening speed. It is terrifyingly close to the ground now, so much so that many of my kin look away. And although it is several thousand leagues away, its vastness paints its agony in dizzying detail.

I do not look away. I must witness this.

Blue flames suddenly cough from the belly of the ship, and its descent is staggeringly halted. It begins to tip upward, achingly slow, and soon the grinding roar of its descent is replaced with the resounding hum of its rise. The ground below blackens and warps as the sheer thrust of the ship reasserts itself. A cheer ripples through my kin as the Maker ship begins to rise again. I feel a smile split my face as the ship rises alongside my hopes.

Our joy is short lived.

A thin whip crack of lilac energy pierces the clouds from above, the power pushing the cloud cover back in circular shockwaves and the very air screaming at its passing. The beam slices clean through the ship, eliciting an explosion of immense proportions from the exit wound. Another beam screams from above, stabbing another enormous circular wound in the heavens and piercing the Seed-Ship lower down. The engines rupture, and soon the Maker’s chariot plummets once more, its form groaning deafeningly as it falls. It impacts with the earth, causing me to stagger as the ground trembles below me.

Several of my kin fall from their feet, others stagger, but all eyes remain on the stately and painful death of the Seed-Ship.

It seems to stand for a moment, like some colossal tower wrought from blackened stone, defying its own death with its immensity, before the inevitable collapse begins. Its bulk sails downward, faster and faster, a dirging bow wave splitting before its fall. Smoke and flame billow upward in an aching curve, marking the passing of its fall like calligraphy in the sky.

But the ancient ship never gets the chance to fall fully..

Another screaming line of energy tears from above, impacting with the ship and causing it to detonate apocalyptically, a sphere of flaming clouds billowing rapidly. A bubble of luminous force ripples outward, like air pockets on water, an ever expanding wall of furious energy. The winds of the detonation hit us, a raging torrent of heat and detritus scything through our ranks. Some die, others scramble for cover, many face the oncoming wind with implacably.
We all feel the soul sickness however, the sudden loss.

We more than any of the maker’s children are tied to them, and we feel their death acutely. Tears bud at my eyes and I weep unashamedly for the loss we have just witnessed. There would have been dozens of makers aboard the stricken vessel, and we hate the enemy for their reckless malice.

Eyes turn upward as a new glow suffuses the sky, and the killer of our creators descends.

It is a being of glass and angles, of reflective planes and unending geometry. Its shape is pyramidal in only the loosest sense, and whenever a grasp of its lines and angles is obtained, they twist and mould into new even more complex arrangements. It is both beauteous and horrific. Parts of its crystalline structure bud from it and float in a chilling mockery of gravity, before bleeding back into the whole once more. It is every piece of geometry and logic ever conceived given terrible glassy form and thrust into the skies.

And at its heart burns a sphere of perfect ruby, a burning, bloody eye that looks upon our horde and shines in sadistic mirth. It’s glassy, angular form twists and warps around this eye, seemingly both immense and humble, maddeningly huge and shockingly intimate all at once. It glides slowly above the Necrontyr, a regal deity shining above its subjects. The metallic hordes below raise their hands in supplication at the maddened thing above them and a chilling rasping chorus sounds from their time-ravaged throats.

One of their Gods has chosen to march with its children.

It is the very thing we were bred to challenge and rise against.

They name it C’tan, a Star God.

We name it Yngir, the Eaters of Life, the Utter-Dread.

Our ranks break into a charge once more, a scream of fury blistering form our throats. I pull Asha’valuti from my slain foe and run with abandon, my arms protesting at the sudden movement. My head swims from the pain and the heady calls of my people's rage. All thoughts of self preservation are cast aside in a desire to come to grips with the slayer of our makers. The Necrontyr charge also and a great clarion call rises from their reflective god. It builds in intensity, a piercing shriek that warps reality and sheers sanity.

The God begins to scream in kind, not the honest blood-scream of fury or even of fear. It is a scream at existence, a lunatic din at the utter madness of reality, a shriek at the injustices of a life that one is forced to endure. It screams and screams without end. The air before it blisters and steams, coiling and curdling in upon itself as this mad God pulls something archaic and horrific from within, and with a sound like the universe ending it unleashes its power upon us.

A scything beam of screaming energy bursts form the Yngir, a shining tapestry of unlight that blinds any who looks upon it and stains the very air with its passing, striking our charging masses with all the intensity it used to lay low the Maker’s ship. The ground erupts in fire and agony and I am thrown from my feet. I fly through the air leaving a trail of blood and broken armour as I sail, and when I hit the ground all is black.

Consciousness leaves me to the sound of metallic marching feet and the screams of a mad God killing my kin.

Nice War in Heaven scene! Is that the Outsider?

I feel a pull in the velvet black around me.

Something is shaking me, shaking my arm like a serpent strangling its prey.

There is the dull memory of pain, a throb of bitter red amidst the calming dark.

I don’t want to awaken. To awaken is to invite misery and agony in once again.

Better to sink into this black. Better to cease and relent to the swallowing void around me.

Sink.

Drown.

No Pain.

Nothing.

No…

No.

NO!

That is not who I am.

I am alive.

I am awake.

Sensation returns to me in a too bright flood, overlapped with an overwhelming ringing that scrapes against my skull. I try to focus, my eyes swimming in liquid lunacy, the lights and shapes too much for my waking mind to comprehend. Someone is hovering over me, a muddied shape I cannot discern clearly. They grip my arm firmly, trying to illicit a response. They shake me and a muffled dirge escapes their throat.

I bark in pain as they grip my arm, and the pain brings sudden clarity, the world snapping into glacial focus. There is smoke and flame, and the sounds of screams and furious battle covers me like a heavy caul. The sky buckles and heaves above me, too many colours bleeding all at once in the heavens.

Vast shapes streak through the tortured skies: ships and beings of immense power dual unseen in the murky depths above. Flashes of power and violence billow up there, the unseen impressions of titanic death burning in a battle that shatters sanity and faith. The burning afterimages sting my eyes, forcing me to look away, to look into the face of the figure next to me.

One of my kindred stands above me, concern painting his noble features. Like me his face is long and considered, slanted and naturally symmetrical, although the colour is a shocking pale white and splashed with a horizontal blitzing of red. Blood, I do not know if it is his or some other poor souls. His eyes are bordering on wildness, although a steely control descends once I waken. He is attired like me, in curved, ivory armour and swathed in robes of jet and jade. Blood coats his left side and a buzzing sword is gripped in his right hand.

He speaks my name, concern painting his features.

I know his name.

It swims from my throbbing mind, a painful recollection I struggle to cement. Geshuul, his name is Geshuul Ashwritten. I find my voice, and it is hoarse from screaming.

“Geshuul, brother, what has happened?”

A scream of lunatic dread pierces the veil, causing us both to grit our teeth in pain. I feel hot liquid in my ears and bile in my throat. The world briefly shines a shocking white and a deep throb of erupting flame billows just out of sight.

Geshuul refocuses upon me, his voice steely despite the horror around us.

“The Yngir brother, it fell upon us. We were being slaughtered, butchered. The Far-Sighted called for aid, she called to Heaven! And Heaven responded! Look!”

He gestures around, and my eyes follow his hand.

The sight steals the breath from me.

Two armies still duel in the smoke and mud. One is a glorious rabble of wraithbone and gemstones, singing in a thousand, thousand sonorous, pure voices. They wield blades of captured starlight and crystal, marching under banners of myriad colours and shapes. Light on their feet and moving with the liquid poise of graceful dancers, the sight makes my heart sing.

The other is the gutted hollow of the charnel house given will. Shadowed metallic horrors clothed in sorrow and tattered robes, monotonously driven forward into the melee, soulless thirst burning in gormless eye sockets. They fight in disturbing silence, the only sound they make the crunch and tear of butchery.

But above them sail colossal ships of the most aching beauty and nobility. From the skies and churning cloud cover descends fleets of our vessels, gracefully suspended in the air, mocking gravity with their power. Hulls of luminous blue and green shine and glitter in the murk, great sails cut from the stuff of stars rise majestically to the skies above, whilst terrible, magnificent weapons hove like fins from the sides of these graceful sky predators.

The rain destruction on our enemies: beams of energised death briefly linking the barrels of fluted weapons to their rapidly atomised targets. Explosions of smoke and star-fire erupt where the gaze of the great ships fall, and more and more push from the cover above. The enemy is in disarray at the relentless assault.

Their God, that foul crystalline monster, still hangs above them; its reflective flanks stained an angry, brittle red. Its form stutters and warps rapidly, the sudden appearance of our grand fleet angering it beyond measure, and its angering flowing over its geometry like a virulent plague. It’s keening lament rises in pitch and another dazzling beam of stellar-death blasts from it, smoting a graceful sky-chariot apart. Dozens of burning, flailing bodies fall from the wrecked ship, falling amidst a trailing hail of sundered wraithbone and crystal-sail. The hull of the vessel groans as it splits, its midsection tearing like wet tree bark.

A single spark falls through the wreckage, approaching the ground in a lazy, calm descent. As it approaches the ground it casts a numinous glow around it, a halo of too-bright illumination soothing and too terrifying to comprehend. It flits like a leaf on a shallow breeze, in no rush to reach the ground. It approaches myself and Geshuul, and I am shamed to admit that I quail before its divine light.

Gentle feet clothed in white bone shoes lightly kiss the earth, with so little force that the mud below does not move. Strong, supple legs rise up to a torso clothed in glittering white armour and sumptuous blue robes the colour of a winter’s day.
A pair of muscled arms, clothed in bands of white gold and wraithbone carry a grand spear, twice the height of any of my kin, crowned with a blade of glass-like crystal. Rainbows twinkle gently around the head of the great weapon, drinking in and refracting the light around it in a dazzling display.

A cloak of deep blue hangs from graceful shoulders, its fabric woven from the very void itself. Stars twinkle and shine in that thick blackness, the web and weave of reality cloaking its bearer in stunning power.

And above it all is the most beautiful and terrifying face I have ever laid eyes upon. Utterly symmetrical and without flaw, the skin is alabaster to the point of albinism, the hair straight and golden as the dawn, and the eyes are unblinking and utterly dark, a blue only seen in the deepest of oceans and nebula. A gentle frown creases the face, and to face it is to stare into the face of creation itself.

Tears flow freely at the perfection before me, and though my body screams for me to look away my muscles refuse to turn. My heart wishes only to prostrate myself before such might and beauty, but my coherence has fled and I stare open mouthed at the statuesque figure before me and weep. The blue upon blue eyes turn to consider me, only for a moment, and at that point I know true divinity and true and utter dread.

Wreckage from the ship rains about us, fire and flotsam from the death of the stricken ship, but none dare approach the divine being before us. His very presence pushes aside the danger and bathes the world in a haze of stellar warmth.
We all know his name.

Asuryan, The Phoenix King and Lord of the Pantheon looks upon me. The God of All-Things stares deep into me with his blue-upon-blue eyes and in a dreadful voice that is all voices speaks…

“You…you do not belong here young Farseer…”

Ju’daai opened her eyes.

She found herself as she had ever been: lithe, whole, clothed in gossamer silks and the trappings of her order, her skin supple and pale as milk. She sat cross-legged upon white sand facing a mighty blue ocean, with warm sunlight pouring from a sky of the warmest blue. The sand beneath her held a soft heat, comforting beneath her hands and legs, pliant beneath her resting body. A faint breeze picked at her hair, bearing with it the faint scent of kelp and ocean salts. She could hear the sounds of aquatic birds off in the distance, a gentle song underpinning the tranquillity around her. No cloud tarnished the sky and no brutal foam skimmed across the watery expanse, just complete and unsullied peace.

A paradise in all respects.

She closed her eyes and smiled, not remembering how she had come to be here, but not overly worried by the fact. Faced with this scene of quiet tranquillity, her concerns with the metaphysical faded.

“I often come here to consider my place in the scheme of things. It grants me perspective”

The voice was cultured and without malice, deep and sonorous, like coal gently burning. And although it had come unannounced, she was not surprised by it.

Ju’daai turned to consider the speaker who sat similarly to her, facing out into the infinite ocean in tranquil repose. A noble, handsome face framed by long locks of golden hair, and within a pair of the bluest eyes she had ever seen. The speaker radiated quiet power and utter authority, but she felt to malice or aggression from him. His robes and armour were sumptuous, and before him lay a grand and heavily ornate spear resting in the warm sands.

“It is a beautiful place, perhaps the most beautiful I have seen”

The Speaker nodded at her comment, the ghost of a smile misting across his face. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, letting the gentle breeze and the smell of salt and sand dance about them. The Speaker chose to break the silence then.

“Do you know who I am?”

The answer coalesced in Ju’daai’s mind, the memory of another painting her knowledge.

“You are the memory of Asuryan, The Phoenix King. You are a shade from a time long past”

Again, Asuryan nodded and smiled, satisfied with her answer. Another silence fell between them then, the sound of the ocean breeze swelling to fill the quiet. Ju’daai brushed silver hair from her face before speaking once more.

“I am surprised however that you knew of my presence. Surely you are nought but a memory?”

Asuryan, closed his blue-upon-blue eyes and breathed in deeply, considering his answer.

“The memory of a God is a strange thing Young Farseer. It possesses a will of its own. It can act as a gate for the God itself, a pocket of your reality to coalesce within. Your path is one of narrow linearity, hurtling through time in one direction. My path is as this ocean before us. Vast, unending, with unknown depths and waves. To gaze upon us is to stamp our image irreversibly into the very fabric of time itself. If I am indeed just a memory, then I suspect I am the most potent memory you will ever encounter”

A hint of concern lined Ju’daai’s brow suddenly.

“So…are you The Phoenix King himself?”

Again, Asuryan considered his answer.

“Perhaps…I do not know. Such a funny, trifling thing: to know not the nature of ones exisence It is a pleasing conundrum. One I have considered many times in this place. I see far beyond the bounds of this moment, into times hither and beyond. Yet I cannot change them beyond my own destruction. Not very Godlike, wouldn’t you agree? I am everywhere and I know everything, but I am doomed to die all the same.”

Ju’daai was silent, considering the Speaker’s words. Before she could respond he spoke again.

“However, I see the design that led you here etched in your soul. I am not the one you were expecting, which is fortunate for you I feel. You sought answers from the deep past, when my children were more abundant, when we straddled the stars as a force of nature itself. You seek answers to many questions, perhaps even more”

Ju’daai nodded fiercely, memories of her quest surfacing as near-drowned, gasping for breath.

“Our extinction comes my Lord, at the hands of ones we never expected. The heavens have been turned upside-down by the death of a God. The Primordial Annihilator grows bold and I feel our last days are dawning.”

“These things are known to me Young One, even beyond the pale of death I see these events spiral ever-onward. Be that I was there to aid you in your time of need. I placed a veil between you and us, between parent and child, and I think that it will prove to be both our undoing. I will be consumed by She-Who-Is-Yet-Unborn-But-Thirsting, but these things I know.”

Ju’daai wiped a tear from her eye, allowing the sea breeze to cool the sting there. A slight tremor entered her voice.

“Please Lord, tell me what to do, how can we survive this? You see all and know all, this I am certain. Can you help us? I don’t want to see my people die. I came seeking another, your brother, but to speak with you is an even greater opportunity”

Asuryan rose smoothly to his feet, gently dusting the sand from his robes. He turned to Ju’daai and offered her his hand. She felt dwarfed by his staggering height and stature. He inclined his head, and fixed her with his blue-upon-blue eyes.

“Walk with me…”

She took the God’s hand and suddenly they were somewhere else.

She stood beside him on a smoking, ruined battlefield, death stretching out around them for miles upon miles. She was surrounded by warriors, both of her own species and the hated Necrontyr and the sheer span of the battle stole her breath.

They all stood in glacial stillness, frozen in this particular moment in time. She could see the bright energies of weapon fire tearing the air asunder, suddenly frozen like a distant star. She glimpses swarms of shuriken and glassy needles suspended in mid-air, their killing edges reflecting off the dim light. Droplets of blood hung motionless, expressions of fury and pain locked in an icy repose, the violence caught in a singular instant in time. It was eerily silent, like a painting, haunting in its perfection.

The Eldar wore armour and wielded weapons of an archaic nature, ancient in comparison to the modern conveniences she was used to. In their frozen state she could pick out the exquisite detailing on everything the carried, the supple curves of armour, silken, almost translucent weave of their cloth, the love and duty in the sharpness of their blades. They were perfect, furious statues caught in moments of dizzying glory and despair.
The Necrons were as they always were: implacable, emotionless, utterly terrifying. Their stillness did nothing to quell the unease at their wretched existence. A violet light bathed them, and soon Ju’daai’s eyes drifted upward, above the warring hordes.

She choked back the urge to vomit, but only just.

In the sky hung a horror beyond mortal words: a colossal, crystalline shape of maddened geometry and star-death. Random shapes carved from silvered crystal surrounded a core of pulsing, reddened madness, and she knew that in movement the thing would be even more terrifying.

It pulsed a sickly red in the air, it’s fury cutting through even this artificial stillness. The hideous thing hung above the Necron hordes like a grim, cursed talisman and wherever its ill light shone, ruin would follow. It pained her to look at it for too long, and she turned bleary-eyed to Asuryan once more.

“I know this place…but I don’t know how”

The Phoenix King turned to her, the perfection of his face mired slightly by the ill light of the monster in the sky.

“This is where you found me, and this is how you will find me again”

Ju’daai frowned.

“I don’t know what that means…this isn’t even your memory.”

Asuryan smiled indulgently, nodding slightly.

“Observant young one, but it is how you will find me nonetheless”

He turned to the hated thing in the sky once more, gripping his spear two-handed, and conviction painting his features. He took a step forward and suddenly the world was in motion once more. Ju’daai yelped as the swirling melee around her exploded into furious life, a hurricane of blood and bodies. None seemed to notice her as they enacted their fury upon each other, but still she fell, staggered by the monstrous violence. She covered her ears as shrieks of sky-bound craft roared overhead, dumping ordnance and explosives on the duelling lines. Her body ached as shockwaves rippled outward, and massive, barely understood shapes above rent the sky with hideous power.

But her eyes were locked on Asuryan as he ran toward the thing in the sky.

The creature noticed the God, and a gut-bleeding wail erupted from it, cracking the very fabric of reality around and slaying dozens who fought beneath it. A putrid light of violet energy curdled into being before it, before a solid beam of destructive energy thundered from the hated core toward the bounding figure of Asuryan. Ju’daai called out instinctively, but this was the past, and she could have no effect upon it.

He brought he spear around in a twinkling curve, its glittering head redolent with thunderous power, and with singular grace Asuryan struck the beam of energy. The point of impact detonated with the fury of a singularity, the godlike powers warping and buckling into one another. Hundreds died immediately in the blast, Necron and Eldar alike, and the air hummed and blurred with vile toxic smoke. Chains of lightning and flame billowed outward, and Ju’daai shielded her eyes from the wall of force and ash.

Asuryan powered through it all, his glittering armour and flowing robes smouldering and smoking, but otherwise unscathed. He leapt, his muscular legs hurling him skyward, spear thrust out before him. Like a comet he thundered upward, his beatific light shining above the swirling rout below.

The monstrous form in the sky shrieked in sudden terror, its form warping into sheets of colossal glass and spines of sharpened blades, all twirling and orbiting around its pitiless, crimson eye in a bid to fend off its approaching enemy. More energy bled from it, before it vomited forth another burst of killing light. The spear impacted, cutting through the beam, shattering its slaying power and erupting into a sphere of explosive fire.

Asuryan drove his weapon onward through the fire, shattering glassy, metallic hide and the unnatural vortexes that made up the Star God’s being. Its wail turned into a cutting shriek of fury and madness, and with one final thrust the great spear struck the crimson orb at the heart of the beast.

The shrieking stopped, suddenly silent.

Time stood still, Ju’daai held her breath.

The warring hordes turned skyward.

One final roar of victory sounded in the sky as Asuryan yanked his spear from the corpse of the C’tan, and the hideous creature erupted into a near ceaseless fountain of rank gore. Bloody rain saturated the battlefield below, and the Eldar horde roared their approval to their lord. A keening lament was taken up by the Nectrontyr host and they fell back with all the cold efficiency their masters had built into them. The Eldar harried them as they retreated, and whilst many fell to their blades many more slipped into the spaces between realities that the grim machines commanded.

The bloody field was won. The cost had been thousands of lives, but still the field was won.

Asuryan floated downward to the roars and cheers of his children, his ascent eerily slow and serene. Light shone from him in a warming haze, and Ju’daai ran through the cheering mass to reach him. Her words were tinted with awe.

“You killed it! That was…that was beautiful”

Asuryan nodded to her, the gesture unnoticed by the overjoyed throng, and he fixed her with his blue-upon-blue eyes.

“Another of the Yngir fell to my hands. A task, sadly, beyond the power of mortals. This is why we were created Young One, to destroy the things that you could not. That is our function”

Ju’daai frowned at his words, the idea not sitting well with her.

“Wait…function? I do not understand”

Asuryan smiled sadly, his attention drifting behind her, his blue-upon-blue eyes focussing elsewhere.

“No you do not…but you will”

A pained roar exploded behind her, and Ju’daai spun, her robes twirling like cold mist.

A single warrior hobbled forward out of the crowd, his face bloody and his side rent with a deep, monstrous wound. He wears star-forged armour, dented and pock-marked by battle, its many gemstones and embellishments lost under a sheen of wet gore. His green robes are scoured and torn, barely hanging onto him in scraps. The Eye of Isha hangs from his shoulders, brutally dented and rent, blood dripping from it like tears. A shattered, broken spear drags behind him, grasped in shaking fists broken beyond recognition. His voice was wracked with an exhausting rage, and blood drips freely from his throat.

“ASURYAN! YOU HAD NO RIGHT”

Asuryan speaks to Ju’daai although his lips move not.

“His name is Aldaeu of the House of Beil Ta’han. This is why you found me through him”

Ju’daai stared in mounting horror as the furious warrior approached.

“THE KILL WAS MINE! YOU HAD NO RIGHT! THE DEATH OF THE YNGIR SHOULD HAVE BEEN MINE!”

His voice warped and deepened, and soon his words were lost in the incoherent bellow of volcanic fury. Smoke and sparks bled from the warrior’s mouth, and he screamed as his insides burned. Skin smouldered and burned, crisping and melting from him in rank loops of fatty liquid. He swelled, his body growing and cracking in blackened majesty. Magma-tinged armour slid gorily from crisp skin, and dark chains and blades burst from bone.

Fire rippled freely around the approaching warrior, a walking inferno that pained the eyes and mind alike. Gore sizzled and fat crisped away, and soon what had been a damaged warrior was now a monstrously tall figure swathed in black armour and fiery robes. A tall crown of many horns rose above its head, and armour of blackened steel and drake-hide covered its quivering muscles. A blade, blacker than even the pitiless void sat in its left fist and its right was a palsied talon dripping with an endless rain of fresh gore. Its body trembled and quaked with barely-restrained fury, and smoke and bilious flame sparked from seams in its armour and flesh.

But its face is what truly terrified Ju’daai, for it was without any hint or trace of mercy or compassion, nor even a flicker of understanding or desire. It was a grimacing metal scar of relentless hatred and aggression pinned by blazing eyes of depthless fury, dripping malice and blood in equal measure. Looking upon it tightened Ju’daai’s stomach and forced her to her knees.

The trembling, damaged beast raised its blackened weapon in challenge and roared its petulant defiance to the skies.

“THE HONOUR WAS MINE ASURYAN! YOU HAD NO RIGHT!”

Ju’daai quailed, as did the horde around her. Asuryan took a step forward, his spear hanging loosely in his grip. He turned one last time to her, a look of sorrow marring his blue-upon-blue eyes.

“Now watch, Young One. Watch as my brother kills me and plants the seeds of your salvation.”

The burning eldritch horror stood tall above the Phoenix King, smoke billowing like a cloak of ashen sorrow and sparks pooling as rain around its armoured, taloned feet. Rage radiated form it in a physical wave of heat, and the gathered masses backed physically away from the pair of deities, confusion and fear painting their sculpted features. If ever a manifestation of raw hatred had ever existed, it was eclipsed by the thing that towered over them.

Asuryan raised his spear in salute to the grim being before him, and his voice betrayed no hint of unease, just power and easy command.

“Hail oh Kaela Mensha, what brings you to this battlefield?”

The smouldering terror lowered its high-crowned head low, standing face to face with the Phoenix King, its eyes burning with the churning heart of a bilious star. Its breath was furnace heat and fury, and it’s voice was the sound of thick iron being bent and sundered by rage.

“All battlefields are mine by right, Phoenix King” spiteful sarcasm dripped from the horror’s use of Asuryan’s title and a steadily increasing mania underpinned its words, “And that victory you claimed there was not yours to claim. It was mine, it should have been mine”

Asuryan closed his eyes, the ghost of an indulgent smile drifting across his face.

“We have discussed this before Brother. We slay the Yngir wherever we may find them, but it is not your sole purview in this realm.”

“THE THING WAS MINE TO SLAY! MINE!”

A juddering wave of force accompanied the words, toppling many who stood behind the Phoenix King, and spittle formed of magma dribbled from the raging things cracked, metallic lips, dripping lazily to smoulder on the muddy ground. Asuryan stood against the tirade, and when he next spoke it was directly into the mind of his raging foe.

Brother, we have spoken of this. I understand your desire to assuage the stain in your honour, allowing the Bringer of Night to flee, but you cannot slay its siblings alone. It is not your place.

“Do not seek to understand my motives, oh High King…I have marked the Yngir for death, every last one of them. They are mine to destroy, to unmake, to rend, to tear, to devour. And you took what is mine”

For the first time in the exchange Asuryan frowned and took a step back, his legs naturally flowing into a defensive stance. This discussion had happened many times before and could only end one way.

The burning monster noticed and an ugly smile split its burning visage, cracking like the churning insides of the world they stood upon. When Asuryan spoke again, his voice was icy, utter control bereft of emotion, a cold fury to counter the wild fire before him.

“Brother, I am your King, and I will brook this insolence no longer. Return to the tasks you have been appointed and do not press me.”

A cackle escaped the iron throat of the Bloody-Handed, the sound akin to the crackling of a pyre fire, and it seemed to swell with malicious intent.

“You would fight me Phoenix King? You wish to test your might against mine? To stake your claim”

“Do not do this Khaine, it will not achieve what you hope…”

The Phoenix King stood en garde, his spear held in both hands. His hair stirred in the breeze and his blue-upon-blue eyes burned with an intensity to match the war god before him. Khaine stood shuddering before him, the only sound the crackling of the flames that surrounded him and the gentle groaning of it’s armour as it strained around the fury of the Bloody-Handed ones existence.

Silence hung in that moment, the only sound the barely audible moan of the wind’s mourning.

Ju’daai held her breath, pressed into the throng of the unaware warriors surrounding her. She blinked as a voice coalesced in her mind, the voice of Asuryan.

This is the moment that much changes Young one, and also where much might yet be changed. The shore you stand upon is one where I and my kind are dead, extinct, consumed. However in this place, the means of your salvation may yet still exist. Know this world by its name: Llawduwiau’col – it is where you might change your fate. Now behold.

The silence was shattered as Khaine raised his midnight blade and struck out at the Phoenix King with a roar that was the end of civilisations and hope.



They traded blows at a speed no mortal could ever hope to attain, each clashing of their divine blades striking lightning and blackened sparks into the air. Each strike rang with the mournful din of a funeral bell, each glaring smote the sound of Vaul’s hammer upon iron. The horde of warriors flowed around the battle, unable to tear their eyes away from the spectacle unfolding before them. Ju’daai was pulled along with the throng, unable to fight the pull and push of so many. She was a castaway upon an ocean of panicked people.

Asuryan was poise and grace itself, always defending, always flowing around his enemies blows. His spear left contrails of crystal light in its wake, and if not for the fury of the duel could be considered both beautiful and graceful. Whenever he did strike it was with the pole of his spear or the flat of the blade, never to kill or maim, but simple to push back. He had no desire to slay his opponent, only to halt him.

Khaine had no such compulsion; he drove forward like the rage of his species given form. His blade hove in jagged lines and twists, the air crisping at its assault. It wailed as it struck, the scream of uncounted millions slain and many times more yet to feel the cut of hot steel. His blows possessed the power of worlds and the heaviness of a singularity, but still Asuryan stood before it.

Complete, soul-swallowing rage against total and complete control and skill. This battle could rage for infinity and never abate.

Suddenly Khaine cut across and to the left of Asuryan, missing him completely and cutting into the ranks of gathered warriors staring aghast at what was transpiring. Twelve died upon contact with the blade immediately, their bodies sliced in twain, with many more burning as a wave of hate-borne flame consumed them. Khaine struck left and right, raining blows upon both the Phoenix King and the Eldar around him. Dozens fell in bloody chunks, and soon screams of both fear and dismay filled the air.

Panic broke out, and the hordes of warriors tried to fall back before the fury of the War God. Hundreds died as he vented, no longer aware of who fell before him, caring only that someone suffered for his rage. Asuryan’s implacable expression faltered and concern broke across his face, and his defence became more desperate, his spear pulling in wider and wider curves to try and spare the people around him.

Khaine bellowed and raged incoherently, stamping, kicking and hacking into the throng. His bloody fist struck out, tearing the heads from those who could not flee fast enough, his blackened blade now more a club of thick blood and abused meat. Fire followed in his wake, setting ablaze the air and surrounding ground, consuming many and maiming more. He was a blizzard of barbarity, claiming lives in a mounting display of butchery and callous malice.

Then it happened.

A female warrior clothed in bone-white armour and a flowing headdress ceased her flight and turned, the only one of her kin to do so. Fury stitched her noble features, enough to match even the hideous murder-god before her and she brought to bear a great blackened fighting star, curved and elegant in its perfection. She screamed fury at the War God and hurled herself forward in defence of the Phoenix King.

Khaine roared in fathomless rage and struck out toward her, his blade leaving a trail of weeping gore in its path.

Asuryan saw this, and moved his body to fend off the blow. His spear spun in his grip but would not be fast enough, so he pushed his own hand before the falling black of Khaine’s weapon.

Archaic blade met divine flesh, and Asuryan let out a howl of anguish as the wailing doom of Khaine’s blade parted his hand from his arm. Power exploded in sheets of furious, divine light from the sundered limb and Khaine was hurled back by the force of it, leaving rages of armour and clots of burning matter in his wake. He landed heavily, his armoured bulk crushing several panicked warriors behind him with a sickening wet crack.

Several ranks of Eldar fell at the explosive impact, including Ju’daai, floored by the release of such force. They toppled and feel, screaming and in confusion.

The nameless female warrior lay broken on the ground, slain by the impact, her spine bent back and limbs useless. Her jade eyes stared blankly into the skies, devoid of life.

Asuryan stood shuddering, gripping his sundered limb. His armoured hand lay curled like a spider on the muddy ground, shockingly crimson blood flowing from it. He looked with fury upon the prone form of Khaine, who writhed weakly beneath his shadow. The War Gods form was burned and melted beyond all recognition, iron armour bubbling and cracking like clay. His spiteful visage was cracked and bleeding magma, which pooled beneath him, steaming the gore of his victims who lay there.

The horror chuckled cruelly in its agony, a black, formless mirth wracking its abused form.

As the gathered army rose again to its feet, several leaning heavily on weapons or wrapping arms around comrades, Asuryan raised his spear shakily, pointing the blade at the fallen avatar of battle.

“You have gone to far this time Kaela Mensha. You will answer for the lives you have taken this day. There will be a reckoning for this, I swear.”

Light burst from the spear and consumed both the Gods in its potency, the furious Phoenix King and the Laughing Lord of Murder. Those closest covered the eyes from the glare, and when finally it relented they were gone.
The horde stood listless and uncertain, a pall of sorrow hanging above them. They began to gather their dead and march southward, no songs sung and no victory banners raised. The Eldar had won a victory here, but you would be hard pressed to find any joy.

All that remained of the battle was the churned bloody mud, the burning remains of fallen starships and the curled armoured hand of the Phoenix King upon the muddy battlefield, forgotten.

Ju’daai saw this as the world began to melt around her, the memory no longer of this place.

Realisation struck.

She opened her eyes.

[In Will Farrell voice] I believe the Emperor was killed when Darth Vader threw him down a shaft. No, wait that's the wrong aged, space monarch

When they eventually found Ulnaan Alnathian, he was as he had been when the great doors behind him had closed: crouched low, his knees almost touching the pale, misty floor. Both hands held the mighty blackened form of Ob’novimastr’dei, its point close to the floor, its metallic length rising to just behind And below his shoulder. Behind his furious helm his eyes were closed, and he breathed slowly and deliberately, meditating on the moment to come. He was as a statue in a gallery, unmoving, upshifting and utterly at peace.

He did not require his sight to know who approached, the clatter and march of their feet being like a tumult of rain on a metal roof. He smiled, although they did not see it behind the grimace of his warhelm.

“And so at last you find me, honoured students”

He opened his eyes to behold those who would intrude upon his watch. There were seven of them in total, all fanning out to surround the wayward Autarch, trading concerned glances like the flitting of insects on a breeze, their movements disturbing the mist that pooled above the floor of the chamber.

Five wore curved plate similar to Ulnaan, although where his was elaborate in its form and carving, theirs was demure and devoid of ornamentation. Their armour was identically white with swirls of orange and red, and a pictogram of a red, winged serpent rose on their shoulders. They went helmless, and their faces were painted with concern and confusion, each looking uneasily to the other. These were the Guardians of the Craftworld, not true warriors but citizen militia, their unease a product of their path.

Four of them carried long, fluted blades that shimmered and crackled in the low light, whilst the last of them carried a black, glossy firearm, long and tapered, humming quietly in his grip. The weapon was capable of spitting thousands of razor sharp monomolecular discs at dizzying speeds in the time it took breath to leave the body. All were capable of inflicting gross harm and dismemberment.

Compared to Ulnaan, they were toys in the hands of babes.

Ulnaan drew his gaze to the final two figures that stood just behind the gathered warriors. One was clothed in yellow and golden robes and wore a tall helm, ornate and swollen in design, and their silken belt hung with numerous crystalline tools and pouches. They moved in svelte grace like a feline.

A Bonesinger: one of the Craftworld’s many builders and artisans, here no doubt to seal the portal behind him.

The final figure was a haggard ancient Eldar that Ulnaan recognised immediately, as would anyone who had been born upon the Craftworld. Clothed in shimmering blue and black robes of sumptuous fur-lined material, he was the head of Ju’daai’s order and defacto leader of the Craftworld’s council. His hair hung in long, thick braids of grey and white, and thin whiskers of silver drooped low below his chin, putting one in mind of a catfish. His eyes were an intense auburn that burned with arrogant fury and his brow creased his tanned, smooth face in a manner most unbecoming of a child of Isha.

He was Ermach Uldritch, Primary Farseer of the Craftworld and First Song of the Council. Where he spoke the Craftworld listened, and his advice was ignored only by the brave or foolhardy. As to which Ju’daai was Ulnaan was still unsure, but his course was set and he would see it to the end.

It was to him that Ulnaan spoke with forced levity.

“So lauded Ermach, you bring children to bring me to heel now? An impressive host you have gathered”

The Farseer sneered at Ulnaan’s tone, and his voice was one that was used to having its demands met, its commands obeyed.

“You’ve brought this on yourself Autarch! Do not delay us any further, tell us where she is and there will be no need for reparations”

“You know fine well where she is Farseer” Ulnaan retorted lightly, “I assume that is why I find you here before me now.”

Ermach took a furious few steps forward, shouldering past one of the Guardians before him. His robes billowed around him in his sudden movement. His every movement was aggressive arrogance, without restraint or meekness. Ulnaan had always respected the Farseer’s wisdom, but had loathed his haughty, derisive attitude.

“She was not to enter the Avatar Sanctum. I told her implicitly the dangers of such folly. How could you allow her to do this?”

Ulnaan laughed then, his spear dipping slightly. There was no malice in his tone, simply genuine puzzlement, like a parent to a wayward child.

“Nobody allows Ju’daai to do anything, honoured one. She is a force of nature, and to try hold or bar her way is as to try and catch the wind with ones hands. I could no sooner stop her than you could the passing of the universe itself. You knew this when you first took her under your wing.”

Ermach glowered at the Autarch, while his companions shifted uneasily at the exchange.

“She has endangered us all, and you are complicit in her crimes. You have no right to wear the trappings of the Aspects whilst you do this.”

Ulnaan nodded.

“I am complicit yes. She believes that what she does is for the betterment of our people and I stand by her. I have never known her judgment to be wrong, and I could not assuage my conscience if I stood by and let her face this peril alone. This is my path, and I shall walk it to its end.”

The Farseer beckoned for the Bonesinger to approach, who did so with great trepidation, the lenses of their helm never leaving the crouching Autarch. A female voice drifted from the helm, like warm milk and honey.

“If it pleases my Lord Autarch, I need to seal the portal, lest the power inside tries to escape.”

In one graceful, fluid movement, Ulnaan raised the tip of the spear in a sudden flourish to point toward the Farseer and his coterie. The Bonesinger stopped in her tracks, visibly shaking.

“I’m afraid, my Lady Bonesinger, I cannot allow that. No one may enter the sanctum while Ju’daai works and no one shall bar her way when she is ready to return. If the worst is to come then on my honour I will end it, but no one may interfere with this duty”

The Farseer’s face reddened, his fists shaking in frustration, and he pointed harshly toward Ulnaan.

“We do not have time for this! Move him aside! Autarch, do not stand against us.”

Ulnaan smiled as the Guardian’s rushed toward him, swords raised and looks of consternation beneath the façade of fury.

The first reached him, her sword slashing down in a furious charge, her poise near perfect and her strike almost flawless. Ulnaan was impressed. He swayed to the left as a reed in the wind and swung Ob’novimastr’dei in a broad loop, pulling her legs from under her with the haft of his spear. She went down hard, toppling face first, and with a quick spin he smacked the back of her head with the pommel of his weapon, knocking her out and leaving her drooling on the floor.

The second and third warriors came at him together, their superior numbers bolstering their confidence. Both tried to flank him in a pincer, bringing their blades in low in a bid to present him with too many targets. Ulnaan saw the feint, and twirled on one leg, bringing his spear close to his body and turning it loosely to present the flat of the blade to his opponents. He brought it round sharply like a paddle, the heavy mass cracking into the side of the second warrior and smashing him bodily into the second in a jumble of limbs and armour plates.

With a casual flick, he launched both off the flat and hard onto the floor. The struck the floor badly and with a clumsy, audible crack, both lying bruised and unable to rise, fragments of broken armour scattered about them.

The fourth did not run at him head-on, seeing the ruin of his cohorts and thinking better of it. He circled the Autarch, panic painted on his features as the ancient warrior circled in kind. He looked to his partner with the firearm, who was unwilling to fire with another Guardian so near to his target. He held his blade before him stiffly, the blade shaking from his anxiety. They paced around each other for many breaths, summing up the potential of the other.
Ulnaan’s smile could be heard in his voice.

“I have taught each and every Guardian on this Craftworld the path of the warrior, young student, including you. Some of those students have been exceptional and have become opponents I would pause for breath before drawing my steel against…”

Ulnaan stormed heavily forward suddenly, a flash of armour and robes, spinning Ob’novimastr’dei one-handed above his head. His opponents eyes and sword went up to meet the spear, and Ulnaan took full advantage of the distraction by driving his mailed fist fully into the young Guardian’s face. Blood spurted from his broken nose and the young warrior dropped his sword as he went down. He lay mewling on the floor, cradling his broken face.

“…You sadly, are not one of them”

The final Guardian yelped frantically and depressed the handle of his catapult, the weapon spitting dozens of razor-thin discs in a blizzard toward the Autarch. Ulnaan turned fully to face the oncoming storm of projectiles, and brought his armoured arm up before his face like a shield. The discs cracked and smashed against his armour, leaving tracer thin lines in its polished form, but none penetrating the venerable suit.

Ulnaan hurled himself forward with a roar, his spear pointing outward haft-first, driving the flat pommel into the stomach of the young warrior. The armour cracked and winded the Guardian, pushing him to the ground sucking for air, and a quick swish of the pommel to the side of his head stole consciousness from him in a resounding crack.

The melee last no more than a minute, and yet the Autarch left all five Guardians mewling or dazed on the ground. He stood glacially still, no exertion shaking him, and turned his helm to face the Farseer.

Ermach now stood alone, the Bonesinger wisely choosing to flee before the controlled fury of the Autarch, and his rage physically shook his aged body. Ulnaan flourished his weapon once more and adopted the crouched stance once more. The tip of the spear hung low and pointed toward the Farseer. The smile never left his voice.

“You will need to bring many, many more warriors to dislodge me honoured one. Do not force this issue”

The pressure in the air changed, suddenly becoming heavy, and Ulnaan could see the gathering of mist around the feet of Ermach. The Farseer’s eyes blazed with a sickly light, and his voice seem to ring with swarming dissonance of many.

“Stand aside Autarch. I am the Will of the Craftworld and the Will of the Craftworld be done”

Ulnaan knew what was coming and sprung forward, his spear singing as he brought it up in a flashing burst of speed. The Farseer raised his hands, now crackling with glacial flame, his mind like a million, million blades unsheathed and thirsty. Ancient wraithbone met crackling energy in a starburst of lilac sparks, and both Farseer and Autarch lurched in recoil from the blow.

Before either could attack again, a deep, monstrous boom sounded behind them and hurled them both to the floor in a clumsy tumble of mist and limbs. Ulnaan’s head met the floor sharply and his helm skittered free from his head. His vision swam as an intense heat suddenly bathed the chamber.

The great doors opened, yawning wider and wider like the maw of a great serpent who seeks to devour the world. Intense, raging air rippled outward, chasing away the mist on the floor and casting everything in an orange, hazy glow. Sparks and ash drifted in the air, fleeing some great tumult of flame within, falling like smouldering snow to smoke and wither on the wraithbone chamber floor.

A single figure walked serenely from the dark sanctum, her flowing blue robes fanning about her like great wings, and her hair billowing as a starburst halo. Sand and mud stained her dainty feet and in her hands she carried the broken length of an ancient spear. Her face was one of beatific calm and serenity and her eyes shined with confidence and purpose.

She looked to the scattered figures before, before her eyes locked with the crumpled form of Ulnaan. She smiled warmly as their eyes met, and as the great portal behind her closed she whispered only to him.

“I was right”

I've got to say that I'm loving the story and I've been following it for a long while now. I love that you're exploring such obscure parts of the fluff too. I do have a couple of (hopefully) constructive criticisms from a writing style point of view though. The use of the present tense in the first Eldar battle scene is really effective at building up tension and engaging the reader. However I noticed with the introduction of Khaine you mix the tenses a little bit and I found it a bit odd. I think it makes more sense to just stick with either the past or the present tense in a single narrative thread.

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

A single warrior hobbled forward out of the crowd, his face bloody and his side rent with a deep, monstrous wound. He wears star-forged armour, dented and pock-marked by battle...

Asuryan speaks to Ju’daai although his lips move not...

Ju’daai stared in mounting horror as the furious warrior approached.

The second thing I've noticed a few times is that you sometimes repeat certain words. I've highlighted the passage in the part of the story but I've noticed it before. I don't know if it's just a case of proof-reading or what but I thought I'd point out that it is quite noticable sometimes!

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:


Behind his furious helm his eyes were closed,

The final figure was a furious ancient Eldar that Ulnaan recognised immediately... His eyes were a furious auburn that burned with arrogant fury and his brow creased his tanned, smooth face in a manner most unbecoming of a child of Isha.

Please do take this as a sign of how much I enjoy and appreciate your work that I want to give feedback!

 master of asgard wrote:
I've got to say that I'm loving the story and I've been following it for a long while now. I love that you're exploring such obscure parts of the fluff too. I do have a couple of (hopefully) constructive criticisms from a writing style point of view though. The use of the present tense in the first Eldar battle scene is really effective at building up tension and engaging the reader. However I noticed with the introduction of Khaine you mix the tenses a little bit and I found it a bit odd. I think it makes more sense to just stick with either the past or the present tense in a single narrative thread.

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

A single warrior hobbled forward out of the crowd, his face bloody and his side rent with a deep, monstrous wound. He wears star-forged armour, dented and pock-marked by battle...

Asuryan speaks to Ju’daai although his lips move not...

Ju’daai stared in mounting horror as the furious warrior approached.

The second thing I've noticed a few times is that you sometimes repeat certain words. I've highlighted the passage in the part of the story but I've noticed it before. I don't know if it's just a case of proof-reading or what but I thought I'd point out that it is quite noticable sometimes!

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:


Behind his furious helm his eyes were closed,

The final figure was a furious ancient Eldar that Ulnaan recognised immediately... His eyes were a furious auburn that burned with arrogant fury and his brow creased his tanned, smooth face in a manner most unbecoming of a child of Isha.

Please do take this as a sign of how much I enjoy and appreciate your work that I want to give feedback!

Thanks for taking the time to read this.

To answer your feedback, the changing of perspective is quite deliberate. I was wanting to experiment with time and the perception switching (as Ju'daai finds herself in the past, and Asuryan in the future, etc) - I was hoping to imbalance the reader and provide that sense of disattachment that Ju'daai would be feeling as well. I quite like the effect, but get it might be quite galling for others.

As per the repetition, hands up, did not notice I was repeating myself so much. It's fixed now.

Thanks again for reading, hope you enjoy and stick with it.

Hey folks, i hope you're all well

As you've probably realised from my lack of activity over the last while, I've made the difficult desicion to cease updating The Death of the Emperor. It's been a hard choice to make as I love what you've all helped me craft here, and I love how you guys have embraced myself and the story.

The reasons are twofold:

First, it seems Games Workshop are actually starting to push the story forward, what with the fall of Cadia, the birth of Ynnead and the ressurection of Guilliman. I love the 40K setting and I have no wish to counter the new lore coming out (plus I'm hoovering up these new stories with aplomb)

Secondly, with much prodding from my fiance, I've decided to leave the relative safe-waters of fan fiction and begin crafting my own stories away from the bosom of 40K. It's time to put my big boy boots on and begin crafting my own fiction instead of dwelling within someone elses.

Dakka is where i cut my teeth on prose and writing, and you guys are like family. But it's time to move on and if anyone ever tells you that writing fan-fiction is easy, you tell them where to go!

So thanks again guys, see you on the flipside, and maybe I'll have a new scifi/horror epic for you all to read

Love you all and thanks again!

Thanks for all the magic Dark Lord.

Sad to see you leave this, but happy to hear you're forging ahead 'on your own', as it were!

Good luck, and don't forget us little people when you're rich and famous!