I'm planning on writing a pretty long story about the corruption of the Death Guard and their Legion's role in the Heresy and the 1st Black Crusade. In a couple years, when Games Workshop finally gets around to writing about why the Death Guard turned traitor, this will all be contradicted and stuff but I felt like writing this anyway.

Prologue
His father was not here to save him now. He fell to his knees, coughing up thick mucous and blood. His bloated form was dying, its a prolonged death throes a last biting insult to Mortarion. Thick pustules doted his armor and flesh. Bile oozed from cracks in the ceramite. All around him, his Legion was suffering the same fate. Soon the Death Lord would finally succumb.

"Father..." he groaned, reaching out into the polluted air. His hand was swollen and deformed; the flesh, having been stretched to its limit, had burst open. Maggots and worms swarmed the wound, feeding on the decay. "Please... father..."

My son, answered, a caring yet distant voice. Mortarion had seldom spent much time with the Emperor, neglected in favor of more deserving Primarches such as Sanguinus and Horus, yet he could tell that was not his voice. I can save you.

The ship was crowded with the dying. Thousands of Astartes, their armor bloated and bodies corrupted, lay against bulkheads or on cold steel floors. They moaned and writhed, longing for death. It was too much to bear. Mortarion couldn't let his Legion end like this; he couldn't end like this.

"Save us," Mortarion said. "Save... me."

Of course, my son the voice said. Mortarion could hear the pleasure in its voice. How could it take joy in this? But I will not do the work for you as the Emperor did. You will have to suffer.

"I have already suffered enough!" the Primarch shouted, given a temporary boost of strength from his rage. It didn't last. Once again he was coughing and hacking. His gut burst open and his intestines unwound, spilling out through broken armor plates and onto the grated floor. Along with them fell clumps of gore and decay. He collapsed, finally dying. "My... Legion has... already suffered enough."

I understand this. The negligence of your Emperor and brothers has cost you greatly. However, your suffering has been without purpose; until now. You must do as you have always done. You must draw strength from pain. You must draw endurance from punishment. And now, with my assistance, you must draw immortality from decay.

The Death Lord spat, "Who are you?"

Whilst you are known as the Death Lord, I am the Master of Pestilence and the Lord of Decay; Nurgleth. Will you accept my assistance?

Mortarion's flesh was peeling off now. Clumps of oozy, pale skin fell to the floor. Armor was rusting off. He tried to crawl forwards to the voice but his limbs refused to obey. The Death Lord was back on the mountain top, waiting to be felled by the Overlord of Barbarus. It was clear now; he was going to be saved again.

"Yes," Mortarion answered, his voice deep and guttural. "Yes. Nurgleth... I accept. Please.... save me."

Finally. I was waiting around, eating chocolate, and someone goes, and writes an amazing new story on the Death Guard, my favorite legion, and my first army. I really like the intro, gives me a feel of what happened. Great job, keep up the good work!

Ty for the comment!

Chapter One
The Deliverance of the Death Guard

Sergeant Cleon roared in pain, unable to do much else. His body, swollen with noxious fluids and festering disease, was bloated to unimaginable proportions and crushing against his armor. This virus had made a mockery of the Death Guard's legendary endurance, forcing them to come to terms with their morality.

"We have earned our fate," he groaned, speaking to anyone within earshot. Cleon could barely see, the decay having bubbled up within his helmet and obscured his vision. He wondered how many other Legionnaires lay nearby, dying just as he did. "This is our punishment." It pained him to speak. "We should've never turned against the Emperor. We have earned our fate."

He grabbed at his helmet with crumbling hands and slowly unlatched it. Rust had jammed the mechanisms, keeping it from deattaching from the rest of his armor. Desperately, Cleon attempted to at least disconnect it from his black carapace. It wouldn't work. Cleon was trapped within; buried alive.

"No," answered a aged voice. Though corrupted and weak, he could tell it was Arsenius. "We... were right... We were... al-always... right. If we must... die... so be it."

"Help," someone moaned, oblivious to the conversation. They repeated it with more strength. "Help!" Cleon was pained greatly as he realized who it was; Phokas. Phokas had scarcely been a full-fledged Astartes for a month. The Sergeant had always regarded Phokas as a son-like figure, someone to mentor in the ways of the Legion. His youth and vitality had always stuck out among the cold hearted, stoic Death Guard. Now, in his diseased state, he finally seemed to fit in. "Help!"

A cold breeze blew in. Cleon brushed it off as a figment of his imagination; there was no wind within the Endurance. With the breeze came a strange, subtle whispering. It invaded his thoughts and tore into his mind, promising escape. He couldn't comprehend what was going on anymore. The virus intensified. His body was failing. The whispering grew louder and stronger. Cleon wondered if anyone else could hear it.

The Sergeant barely understood it. He would have to suffer. He would have to draw strength from pain. He would have to obey. The spilling filth within his helmet briefly receded, allowing Cleon a glimpse outside. A strange, thick wind of green and brown swarming with flies was sweeping through the ship. All around him the Death Guard were embracing the wind and standing up.

"I accept," he whispered, in a voice too shallow to be heard. "I accept."

At that moment, Cleon was wracked with a sudden and horrific pain. As opposed to the slow, grinding and gnawing feel of the Destroyer Hive he was instead hit with a stabbing sensation. It first struck in his gut, followed by his throat and chest. Cleon screamed. His voice was deep and thick with a horrible 'sloshing' feel to it. With each area where the pain hit, it slowly faded and was replaced with numbness.

Cleon stopped screaming and simply went limp, staring at the rusted ceiling. Pustules were growing on the steel. Flies swarmed in all directions. Horrible fungi and mold grew from every crack and imperfection without the ship. He couldn't feel anything. There was no sensation whatsoever; it was as if every nerve in his body had finally died. This was painlessness.

"Am I alive?" Cleon asked. It wasn't his voice; it was far too guttural and throaty. He hadn't even felt his lips move. "Is this death?"

Someone stepped in front of his prone form and stood over him, gazing down. As Cleon looked closer, he became horrified. It was something that used to be a Death Guard Legionnaire; he could tell from the unpainted ceramite. It was bloated and swollen with hidiously unnatural proportions. The ceramite was encrusted with filth and decay. Thick slime was oozing from joints in the armor. A sharp horn, similar to 1st Captain Typhoon's, had stabbed out from the Legionnaire's forehead. The figure bent down and held out his hand.

"No, Sergeant," answered Phokas. "We're more than alive. We're free."

Cleon reluctantly grabbed Phokas' hand and was hoisted to his feet. He looked around throughout the hallway and was horrified. Phokas was not alone in his diseased state; every other Death Guard insight was either just as corrupted or worse. Pyrrhus, one of his men, was scarcely humanoid. His helmetless face was adorned with a crown of three massive horns. One of his arms had mutated into a oozing tentacle. Most horrifically of all, the ceramite covering his stomach had burst open and his intestines were drooping out loosely.

"What happened?" he said.

"We've been saved," said a commanding voice from the shadows.

Cleon looked over and saw 1st Captain Calas Typhoon.

It was hard to tell it was still the 1st Captain. Like the others, he was swollen and hideous with bizarre proportions and a generally inhuman appearance. Horns protruded from portions of his armor, having somehow grown inside of him and stabbed through the ceramite. Two rows of what looked like hives for Terran insects grew on his back, swarming with flies and surrounded by a thick cloud of disease.

"1st Captain Typhoon," Cleon said, falling to his knees. His joints were rigid and the movement felt unnatural. "I thought you were aboard the Terminus Est. What happened to you?"

"Nothing more than what has afflicted you," the Captain said. His voice was still the same has it had been before, oddly unfazed by the virus. "From now on you will refer to me as 1st Captain Typhus. It is a better fitting name. And I have ventured on this ship to assist my Legion and my Primarch."

Cleon looked down at himself, forcing his stiff neck to move. He was sickened. The Destroyer Plague had left him just as bloated and deformed as the rest of them. His helmet, a solely Death Guard model reminiscent of a Terran gas mask, was now oddly fitting.

"We're mutants," stammered Cleon. "We're mutants and heretics."

"No," Typhus boomed. "They are the heretics. In their ignorance they refuse to even acknowledge the powers that have just now saved us. The Emperor was wrong, as he has always been. Do you regret your decision, Sergeant?"

"No," said Cleon. "I don't."

"Do you regret being pulled back from the brink? Do you regret being saved?"

"No."

"Do you regret acting as the Death Guard always have? Do you regret not taking injury but strength from punishment?"

"No. I regret nothing."

"Good. Then you understand that though our choice was not without consequences, it was still right," said Typhus. "Death Guard! Go to Hanger 10! Our Legion lives and the Death Lord shall inform us on our next course of actions!"

Despite all that had happened, the Death Guard immediately went into formation and began silently marching to Hanger 10. Typhus grinned under his helmet, seeing that his work was accomplished. They stepped simultaneously at a slow pace, seemingly unfazed by their own half-dead state. Typhus was reminded on the undead hoards of Barbarus.





The Death Guard convened at Hanger 10. Every Astartes aboard the Endurance, almost eleven thousand, was in attendance. Hanger 10 was just as blighted as the Astartes that it had help. The walls were covered in rust and mold. Massive organic sores grew and bled steaming puss. Dead Servitors and housecarls littered the floor, having not survived the Destroyer Plague long enough to be saved by the mysterious wind.

Cleon saw the Deathshroud at the front of the assembly. They had always looked bulky and barrel chested before but now they looked like hideous giants. Their highly artificed Terminator armor was even more corrupted than the rest of the Death Guard's, acting as a host to a whole slew of diseases, fungi and molds. They still wore their signature hoods, which were now left tattered and stained.

As the Deathshroud never strayed more than 49 paces from Mortarion, Cleon pondered where the Death Lord was. He scanned the room and found his Battle Brothers doing the same. As they did so, a buzzing sound began to fill the room. It grew louder and louder as more flies swarmed in from all directions. They crawled from cracks, vents and eventhe Death Guard's own bodies. It was unclear where they were going, though the majority were accumulating in a massive cold at the center of the ceiling.

The cloud of flies slowly began to lower, approaching the floor. When Cleon squinted he saw what resembled a massive humanoid form within it. He told himself that was impossible; there was no way measly, Terran insects could do that.

Upon reaching the floor, the swarm of flies dispersed. In its wake was Mortarion, standing tall and triumphantly. The Primarch had always been an intimidating and commanding presence but now he was even more so.

He looked massive, taller and more muscular than ever before. That was the only constant that could be discerned from his form; surrounded by a constant miasma of disease, his appearance was unclear at best. At times he looked bloated and malformed much like the other Death Guard but from other angles he was still gaunt and even skeletal. His hood was drawn up and all that could be seen from his face was a large, brass rebreather.

His armor had been devastated by the plague and was mostly rusted away, but a loose arrangement of ceramite plates still protected the Death Lord. Ripped cloth hung from his body, the tattered remnants of his hood. Overall his appearance embodied decay.

"My sons," Mortarion said. His deep voice was supplemented by the buzzing of thousands of insects. "Much has passed. Our Legion has faced its greatest challenge yet. Where others would've fallen prey to their own weakness and found only death, we survived. Not only that, but we have thrived. We are greater than ever before, immune from pain and above death. As I said many years ago on Terra when I first set my sights on you, you are my unbroken blades. You are my Death Guard. Now that name has more meaning than ever before."

The Legion watched in awe, stirred greatly by Mortarion's words. Any regret or despair had been washed away from Cleon, replaced with a new found ambition and a desire to further the Primarch's cause. This was not the end of the Death Guard; it was only the beginning.

"Our Primarch speaks the truth," said Typhus, stepping alongside the Death Lord. "With our newly found strength, we shall march on the Imperium. Cities will be razed and planets destroyed. Entire solar systems will cower before our wrath. As the Warmaster has proclaimed, the galaxy will burn! Nothing can stop us now! Now to your posts, men! We have a galaxy to claim!"

Someone in the crowd echoed, "Let the galaxy burn!" Other Legionnaires joined on, their blood lust fanned by the Primarch and 1st Captain. "Let the galaxy burn!" Cleon joined in. "Let the galaxy burn!" They spoke those statements with a strong vindication, knowing them to be the truth. The full wrath of the Traitor Legions would be unleashed. "Let the galaxy burn!"

LoneLictor, I have only read three parts, and I love this story all ready! Gives me a feel of what really happened, and how Typhus was born. Along with the other Death Guard, too. You know, it's almost like Papa Nurgle made this happen. I start rebuilding my Death Guard, and I get to read a great piece of fiction. The Death Guard seem to accept that they are Traitors, and now hate the Imperium.

Again, ty for the comment! I really appreciate you taking the time to read this. Hopefully I'll be able to write a new entry today.

For a moment time and space seemed to rend apart as a gaping hole in reality ripped open on the western fringe of the Ultima Segmentum. Inside the hole was a swirling void of purple and red tides, spilling out in the material word. With it came a bilious cloud of noxious fums and swarming insects that could be briefly be glimpsed from dozens of light years away. As the hole ripped further into reality, the Death Guard fleet emerged.

Five Capital Ships, the equivilant of the Imperial Navy's Grand Cruisers, came speeding out. Their blackened halls were swarming with fungus and mold. Massive prows were armed to the teeth with the best that the Mechanicum could supply. Following the Capital Ships came about fifthteen Battle Barges and a slew of assorted Strike Crafts, Frigates and Supply Haulers. Each was equally corrupted and clearly seething with disease.

The Death Guard came out of the Warp just galactic west of the Maelstrom, a massive blight on reality where the Material and the Immaterial merged. A large Ultramarine detachment, consisting of approximately two thousand Marines aboard four Battle Barges, had been tasked with guarding it. The Emperor himself had declared that spots like the Maelstrom and the Eye of Terror were threats to the stability of the Imperium that needed to be watched carefully.

Cleon and his men stood guard at the main bridge of the Endurance alongside three other squads. The bridge was massive, a whole three stories of pilots, adepts and servitors. Most of the poor souls working the controls were skeletons draped with decaying flesh and dripping with slime. At the forefront of the bridge was the 1st Captain, a beacon of authority. Mortarion had disappeared to his quarters and left Typhus as acting Commander of the Death Guard.

Typhus clearly enjoyed his new found authority. He stood as tall as he could in his hunched Terminator armor, hands behind his back. Most of the flies that swarmed the insect hives of his armor were at rest, content to simply feed on the thick layer of decay that covered the ceramite and adamantium.

Cleon's squad, consisting of ten Legionnaires, stood guard over the northern entrance to the bridge. Pyrrhus and Arsenius, the two most veteran Battle Brothers of the squad, were armed with meltaguns while the majority of other squadmates were armed with basic bolters. Cleon himself held a shimmering power mace in one hand and an archaic plasma pistol within the other. The plasma pistol had been forged on Terra itself in the Hysclusen Mountains.

The door made a mechanical hiss and released steam as it opened. Cleon's squad focused all weapons on the figure within the doorway. It was Sergeant Vitus, a Legionnaire of the 1st Company. He wore swollen Terminator that was bursting around his shoulders and gut.

Vitus silently held up a Warror-Lodge Medallion, displaying his allegiance to the Warmaster. Several months ago, before the Destroyer Plague had come, the first Death Guard members to break their oaths to the Imperium were the lodge members. It was said that the Warmaster himself had been a lodge member, albeit of the Sons of Horus sect.

The Legionnaires simultaneously stepped aside and let Vitus through. He passed them without acknowledgement and approached a decaying spiral staircase. It was unusually large, intended to accommodate even Dreadnoughts. Vitus slowly climbed upwards, his ceramite boots clanking against the steel with each ponderous step upwards; the sound echoed in the disturbingly silent quarters.

"Vitus," said Typhus without even looking back at his Sergeant. As a psyker he was host to many sorcerous powers, including a mysterious sixth sense that let him peer into the warp and see things he would normally be blind to. "What news do you have?"

"The Ultramarines are contacting us, 1st Captain. They demand we explain our unexpected presence," Vitus answered.

"Ah, of course," Typhus said. "An unfortunate consequence of our rather bold entrance. The Ultramarines have always held a guise of superiority, even now when treating us, one of their Brother Legions, as though they were our superior."

"What shall we do?" asked Vitus.

Typhus spat, "Do not speak unless spoken to, worm. There is a reason why I hold such a superior rank to yours." The 1st Captain turned towards one the undead crew members. "Open a channel with the Ultramarines."

The skeleton pressed a quick combination of buttons and flicked a switch. An audio unit began to blare static, but a stern voice cut through it. "This is Commander Lucanus of the Ultramarines 26th Grand Company. The Emperor has ordered your Legion to further advance the Great Crusade in Segmentum Obscurus. Furthermore, a Legion is explicitly required to alert all nearby Imperial forces before making a Warp jump to the area. Explain yourselves."

"Greetings Commander Lucanus, I am 1st Captain Calas Typhoon of the Death Guard," said Typhus, leaning in closely to the audio unit. "I apologize for the confusion and can assure you that this is all a misunderstanding."

"1st Captain Typhoon?" half asked half stated Lucanus. "I am honored by your presence."

"You flatter me, Commander Lucanus. The honor is all mine," Typhus said. "I bring with me grim news. However, our comm. channel is sadly helpless against prying ears. We must discuss these pressing matters in person."

Update! I love this part, and cannot wait to see what Typhus will do...

I demand...

Once again, ty for the comments!

"Very well," answered Lucanus. "I can assure you my Battle Barge, the Quintus, is one of the most secure warships in the galaxy. If you need so, I can send you my personal Thunderhawk for transportation."

Typhus paused in thought before finally replying, "I have reason to believe that the Ultramarine fleet has been compromised by Xenos. In fact, I am taking a gamble just to speak to you now. I am only willing to meet aboard the Endurance. Enter through Hanger 9."

"By insulting the security of my fleet you insult my honor, Captain Typhoon," said Lucanus.

"The galaxy is on the brink and we don't have time for such petty things as honor and pride," Typhus said as quickly as possible.

"Very well. If what you say is true than such precautions may be necessary. I shall meet you aboard the Endurance, taking only my personal Thunderhawk and my retinue. You can expect my arrival in three hours."

"Excellent," said Typhus. "Now, with the assistance of the Ultramarines, I believe this threat van be vanquished. I must cut the comm. channel now for it likely they have already heard too much."

Typhus flicked a switch and the audio unit was once again blaring static. The skeleton pressed a combination of keys and the static faded into silence. Typhus turned towards Vitus.

"Have your squad, Cleon's squad and Iulius' squad muster in Hanger 9," the 1st Captain ordered. "Put the ship on full alert and inform Captain Priscus of the Third Great Company that he shall be in Command during my leave."





Cleon stood in Hanger 9 with his squad in formation, watching for any signs of approaching ships. After the Destroyer Plague he was seemingly immune from things like fatigue or pain. The whispering had obviously done more than simply cure them of it.

"How are we going to deal with the Ultramarines?" asked Sergeant Iulius, his voice hissing and wet.

One of Vitus' Terminators turned toward the Sergeant and answered, "As we have every threat we've encountered. They will no doubt be eliminated with extreme prejudice."

"They are still our brothers," said Cleon adamantly. "I could turn my sword towards the scheming bureaucrats or treacherous guardsmen, but not my brothers."

Aelius, one of Cleon's most respected Legionnaires, joined the conversation and said, "Agreed. I could not kill another Astartes."

"Oh, but you already have," Vitus said. "We virus bombed Istvaan III, slaughtering thousands of our so called brothers within a few bloody seconds. The only difference now is that you have to do it in person."

"Besides, they are no longer our brothers. When they failed to join the Warmaster, instead standing by their false emperor, their fates were sealed," said Phokas.

"Well, well," Vitus said, approaching Phokas and patting him on the shoulder with a bulky gauntlet. "Little Phokas here is smarter than he looks."




Chapter Two
Behind the Whispers

Commander Lucanus, like most Astartes, was tall and intimidating with an uncanny appearance. Due to a combination of genetic implants and the black carapace under his skin, he held an inhuman quality that was difficult to put one's finger on. He sat near the back of his Thunderhawk, Ultramarian Justice, surrounded by his cadre of Honour Guards. Their 'Axes of Ultramar,' hummed faintly, a testament to the energy shields that surrounded them.

The Grand Company Champion and Ancient flanked Lucanus directly. A vibrant blue standard, the Banner of 26th Grand Company, was held up proudly by the Ancient. Meanwhile the Grand Company Champion clutched a shimmering power sword and expertly crafted combat blade. Around them hovered three additional Honour Guards, equipped with the standard 'Axes of Ultramar,' bolters, frag grenades and krak grenades. If there truly was a Xenos threat as dire as the one Typhoon described, Lucanus' retinue could handle it.

The Thunderhawk had been blinded by radiating warp storms from the Maelstrom at the beginning of the journey and was dependent on the Endurance for directions as a result. They had been barely to receive any communications. Briefly the Quintus had attempted to contact them, but the message had been left garbled and incomprehensible.

"Commander," said one of the pilots. His voice was monotone and low as the result of augmentations from the Mechanicum. "The Quintus is attempting to open a channel with us again."

"Let them," said Lucanus, standing up from his seat and walking over to the audio unit. "Quintus, this is Commander Lucanus? Do you read me?"

"Traitors..." The message was interrupted by static. "Eisenstein... De... Guar-ar... fled to.. entire Legi... traitor..." Finally a massive burst of static completely cut off the message, but one last word managed to get through. "Chaos..."

"What the throne was that?" the Commander demanded. "Open up another channel with them! Open up another channel!"

"I'm sorry Commander, but warp storms are interfering with the electronics. Opening up another channel while the storms subsist is impossible."

"We're approaching the Endurance now. Expect to dock shortly," said the copilot.

Out through the cockpit only swirling purple and red could be seen. The storms briefly flickered and Lucanus caught a true glimpse of the Endurance. The hall was blackened and rusted, seething with mold and decay. Hideous green tentacles reached off the surface and claws in all directions. Strange, warp spawned flies swarmed all around, feeding on the filth. Frozen crystals of slime hung from the turrets and prow. Lucanus had never seen something so corrupted and nauseating in his entire life.

"Turn around," he said, his voice oddly stoic. "Turn around now."

Even closer now, he could see through the transparent hanger shield. Bloated creatures were swarming the deck. The floor was littered with corpses. Massive pustules grew from the walls and ceiling.

"I'm sorry Commander, but we have too much momentum. Even if we put our back thrusters on their maximum strength we'd still enter the Hanger, albeit extremely slowly."

Lucanus turned back towards the Honour Guard within the ship and gave a single order.

"Ready yourselves for combat."

"Mortarion!" shouted Typhus, slammed his fist on the door again. "Mortarion!"

It was apparent that, assuming anyone was even inside, he wasn't going to get in this way. Typhus gestured towards the door with his hand, palm open. Slowly but surely he began to tug on the powers of the Immaterium. It had been a long time since he summoned on any of sorcerous powers. He exulted in it, treating the warp as an old friend. The door blew off its hinges and distinguished to rust midair.

Much like the rest of the Endurance, Mortarion's quarters were filthy. They were also dark, any light sources having long been destroyed. At this point the walls were completely covered in a thick layer of fungus and slime. Flies buzzed loudly, swirling in all directions. Horrible little creatures that Typhus recognized as Nurglings were spawning in bubbling patches of ooze.

The Primarch's desk had rusted into chunks of decaying metal that littered the floor. His bunk sagged, barely able to remain standing with the gnawing disease. Mortarion himself reclined in a slime encrusted chair. His face was blank of any expression as he stared out into space.

"Mortarion," Typhus said, slowly approaching. The floor squelched as he stepped, tearing into the silence. A Nurgling cackled and hid behind a swollen pustule. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes, Calas," Mortarion said. "I can hear you only too well."

"The nearby detachment of Ultramarines have demanded an explanation for our presence," said Typhus. "I've tricked their Commander into a trap."

Mortarion lazily turned towards Typhus. His glowing red eyes focused on the 1st Captain from the darkness of his hood.

"You recovered very quickly from the plague. In fact, according to some, you barely suffered at all. When we were granted release, you seemed oddly enthusiastic, as though our transformation had been to your liking." His voice was weak and quiet, but an edge of strength to it. "Tell me, Calas, what role did you have in this?"

"I do-don't understand-d, my Lord," Typhus stammered. "I was simply overjoyed that we had survived."

"I'm not a fool, Calas. Or Typhus, that's what you preferred to be called now, after the Terran disease. You led us into this. You slaughtered the Navigators and took control of the entire fleet. Answer me."

Typhus took a back from Mortarion's throne and glanced behind himself nervously. A massive crowd of flies and Nurglings was accumulating silently. He wanted to flee now and escape the Death Lord's piercing stare.

"As, I-I said, I don't understand, my Lord."

Mortarion slowly stood up. His tattered hood billowed in the pestilent wind of the Endurance. Nurglings fled at the sight of his wrath as he slowly approached. Where he stepped the decay seemed to spread, engulfing everything. Metal rusted away and pustules sprouted in its stead. He grabbed Typhus by the throat with a massive, venom dripping, claw.

"Get your hands off me! I am the 1st Captain and Herald of Nurgle!" Typhus instinctively shouted.

He soon regretted it.

"Nurgle," repeated Mortarion. "Perhaps you mean Nurgleth, the Master of Pestilence and Lord of Decay." He tightened his grip. Ceramite busted under Mortarion's iron grip. "Is that what you mean? Tell me Typhus, is that what you mean? Perhaps if you weren't so prideful about your standing that might've not slipped out and I would've let you lived. Pride always was a problem with you."

"It... wasn't... for me," Typhus gasped out, barely able to speak under the pressure. "I... did it... for... us... the Death... Guard... It was... always... our... fate to... join... Nurgle."

Mortarion briefly relinquished his grip and hissed, "Enlighten me as to why it was always our fate, Typhus."

"I always served him," Typhus said between gasps for air. "Even before I was even recruited. He matched us perfectly. He believed in endurance and behaving stoically, never compromising or surrendering. He was the epitome of taking strength from weakness. And so were you and all of us. The Emperor never understood us, and as Horus explained well enough to you, would eventually betray us in favor of his newly built bureaucracy."

Before Mortarion could reply, Typhus' communcations unit buzzed. "My Lord, The Ultramarines are arriving at Hanger 9, as expected," said Vitus.

"May I leave, my Lord?" asked the Herald of Nurgle. "I have matters to attend."

"Get out of my sight," bellowed Mortarion.

Great new parts! I can almost imagine the horrified faces of the Ultramarines. Can't wait for another part!

As always, thanks for reading/commenting.

Cleon watched as the Thunderhawk came screeching in, reverse thrusters blaring. The vibrant, crisp blue of the aircraft was a sharp contrast to the Endurance. As it came in, it began to fire. A row of Hellstrike missiles came blaring out, blasting into the deck. Shards of burnt metal were sent flying in all directions. One of Vitus' Terminators was utterly obliterated, while four of Iulius' men and only one of Cleon's were also slaughtered. The majority of the blasts were absorbed by the filth aboard the ship, splattering slime and bile on anything nearby.

Two lascannons fired, disintegrating another Astartes. Heavy bolters sprayed the hanger with shells. The Thunderhawk Cannon itself shot, filling the room with smoke and debris. Sprouting flames, barely able to survive the moisture, fed ravenously on the massive clumps of mold. Cleon charged through the smoke in the direction of the vehicle. He raised his plasma pistol and fired twice, but was unable to see whether or not it hit.

He estimated at least half of the Legionnaires within the hanger had been slain and maybe more. The Thunderhawk, continued blazing in, unable to slow down or land. A bulky wing obscured by the smoke clipped Cleon, knocking him to the floor. He fell onto his back and instinctively shot the steel with his pistol, burning a sizable whole through. Exposed, smoking circuitry sparked and buzzed.

Finally the Thunderhawk slammed into the hanger wall with a triumphant explosion. The sluggish Death Guard began advancing on the wreckage, weapons drawn. A broken hatch popped open and an Ultramarine in shining artificer armor with a bolt pistol, adamantine mantle and shining power sword came charging out, followed by a cadre of Honour Guards. The battle had begun.





They were Astartes. Lucanus couldn't believe it. These horrible, disease swollen, warp tainted creatures were Astartes. He had told himself they were Xenos, but up close it was undeniable now. The Commander leapt from the wreckage and swung his power sword at the nearest one, a Legionnaire in bursting power armor with hideous claws for arms. His sword cleaved through the creature's gut, spilling out a nauseating stew of intestines, gore, decay and viscera.

"Kill them all!" he ordered as he kicked the corpse away.

In some sort of dark miracle the Legionnaire stood back up, somehow still alive. Lucanus stomped on its chest, holding it down, and decapitated it to finish it off. While he did so, he was attacked from the side by a barrage of bolter fire. The bolts knocked him back, denting against his armor but luckily failing to penetrate. Another rotting Marine came at him, brandishing a dripping combat knife and bolter.

The bolter barked twice, sending two blazing rockets at him. Though the first shot missed him, at such close ranges the second was easily able to break through his armor. It cracked and shattered ceramite, plunging into his belly. Lucanus grunted in pain and clutched the wound. As he did so, the combat knife came at him.

The Commander was barely able to knock it out of the way with his sword arm. As he did so he brought his bolter pistol up, pressing it directly against the Legionnaire's forehead before firing. The Legionnaire stumbled back in a daze, evidently crippled by the shot. Before Lucanus could bring his weapons up to face the next foe, a Terminator gripping a power mace two handed came charging at him.

The Death Guard were already intimidating, but seeing the monstrous creature before him put the Commander's training to the test. For a moment he almost faltered and fled, but his Astartes training immediately kicked in. While the Terminator ran towards him he grabbed a krak grenade from his belt and chucked it at the enemy. The explosion of shrapnel left the Terminator stumbling and caught off guard, which was just the opportunity Lucanus needed. He ran at the creature, slashing crazily with his sword. He slit its throat, stomach and thigh in a desperate attempt to bring the already injured Legionnaire down.

Instead it raised its mace above its head, preparing to strike Lucanus down. In desperation he cleaved off one of its arms, but it still managed to hold the weapon up. Lucanus finally impaled the Terminator through the ribs, taking all of his strength to penetrate the ceramite even with his sword's biting aura of energy. Despite it all, the Terminator began to lower the mace.

The Grand Company Champion leapt in, cutting off the Terminator's remaining arm with his honour blade and stabbing his combat blade through the Terminator's weak throat joint. It howled as it tumbled over backwards, the falling mace just barely missing Lucanus' skull. Finally, with a sick gurgling noise, the monstrosity died. Lucanus sighed with relief, only to look up and see another wave of Death Guard heading towards him.




Cleon moved as fast as he could in his swollen, half-dead state, pressing his 'new' body to the limit. The Honour Guard before him was faster, the more artful of the duelists, but lacked Cleon's durability. Twice the Ultramarine cleaved through the Legionnaire with little to no results.

The Guard deftly swung his axe as Cleon's waist, attempting to bisect him. Cleon brought his sword down to block it only for the axe to swirl around the parry and continue on its lethal course. He quickly sidestepped, just barely avoiding the loss of his legs. With his weapon extended into the air besides Cleon, the Guard was unable to defend himself. Cleon immediately brought his sword up and swung at the Ultramarine's throat as hard as he could. It took all of his strength to do so, knowing full well that beneath that helm was another Battle Brother.

At the last moment his swing weakened, the Sergeant unable to deal with the implications of killing one of his Brothers. The Ultramarine, in his devout loyalty to the Imperium, felt no such remorse. As Cleon's sword arm slowed, the Guard brought up his bolt pistol and shot the Death Guard through the ribs, directly into his heart.

Cleon gasped out and tumbled over backwards, unprepared for the blow. He lay on the floor, arms splayed and body tensed with the towering Honour Guard above him. The Honour Guard turned his attention towards another Legionnaire, leaving the apparently dead Cleon where he laid.

The Sergeant had no blood to bleed. Only pus came from the wound. His heart had been useless since the Destroyer Plague, a purely ceremonial reminder of his old body. Now that it was gone, Cleon felt no physical difference. Psychologically however, he was raging. An Ultramarine had tried to kill him. A loyalist had tried to kill him. The Imperium had tried to kill him. Cleon no longer felt any semblance of brotherhood for the Honour Guard, only contempt.

He forced himself back up. The Honour Guard noticed him and shot again. At a longer range than before, the bolt deflected off his corrupt armor. Cleon steadied himself on his feet and charged, powersword blazing.

The Honour Guard fired his bolt pistol again. Once again it deflected off of the ceramite. He took a step back in an attempt to delay the charge and shot once more. This time the bolt managed to penetrate Cleon's armor but with little affect. The Death Guard was gaining momentum, now coming at him even faster. His wounds were oozing pale white pus that glimmered in dim flames that consuming the wrecked hanger.

The Honour Guard fired one last time before Cleon reached him. Cleon swung his sword at the Guard's head with no restraint. Though the Guard managed to duck under the first attack, he wasn't prepared for the second. Cleon's plasma pistol fired, sending a green bolt of energy into the Guard. It blew open his chest, passing through the ancient power armor with ease, and came out of the Guard's back before exploding against a bulkhead. The Guard silently succumbed to his wounds.




Lucanus fought like a man possessed. Though it had dawned on him that, with no chance of escape from the Endurance, this would be his last stand, he was determined to make a mark on the Death Guard forces. He was unable to determine how many of the corrupted Legionnaires he had truly slain, as many that should've normally been dead were able to stand up and keep fighting for some time. He, the Champion and a basic Honour Guard had been cornered against a smoldering piece of wreckage, fighting for their lives. The other Honour Guards had been slain and the Ancient had disappeared, likely dead as well. Losing the Grand Company's standard was a huge blow to their honour, something they would not soon forget.

He dodged under a combat knife and knocked away a meltagun fixed on his head. It fired as he hit it, burning a glowing hole through the wreckage. A Terminator hissed and tried to crush him with a powerfist but he swung around the blow and loped through the traitor's wrist, severing his gauntlet. Enraged the Terminator swung a combi-bolter at him and opened fire. The twin barrels glowed as a barrage of shells were sent in Lucanus' direction.

One bolt after another slammed into his chest. Most of them failed to break through his armor but a large portion managed to. Lucanus was bleeding badly. His lungs were failing after one too many wounds. Each breath was a horrible labor. He wasn't getting enough oxygen and was losing too much blood. Still, he kept on fighting.

Desperately he aimed his bolter pistol and shot the Terminator in the helmet. Though the bolts failed to penetrate his armor and would've likely failed to kill him even if they did, the shots briefly blinded him. The Terminator took an instinctively step back and swung his combi-bolter sideways to bring it up in a defensive position.

"Get back!" shouted a commanding voice from far off in the hanger. Every Legionnaire took up defensive posistions and slowly retreated. The voice sounded oddly familiar to Lucanus. "Leave the loyalists for me!"

The Ultramarines took advantage of the retreat, firing on and stabbing at them. They still stayed together and near cover, knowing full well the Death Guard packed enough fire power to likely blow them to pieces at that very moment.

Through the smoke came a towering figure. Like the other Death Guard in Terminator armor it was massive, beyond even remotely human proportions. A single horn protruded from its forehead. Two rows of strange hives grew on its sloped back. In its hands it held a massive, glowing scythe that dripped with steaming venom.

"Commander Lucanus!" the figure cried out in an uncannily human voice considering its twisted form. "We finally meet in person!"

"Typhoon," growled Lucanus.

He and his men opened fired with their bolter pistols, as three weapons blazing at once. Every shot failed to wound the 1st Captain, either deflecting off of his armor or becoming harmlessly embedded in his diseased body. Lucanus' weapon ran out of ammo and he let it drop to the floor, taking up a two handed grip with his sword.

"No, I am no longer Typhoon," the 1st Captain said. "I am Typhus, the Plague Lord and I am your doom!"

He swung his corrupted scythe at the Company Champion, putting all of his weight into the blow. The Champion tried to duck under it but wasn't fast enough. The 1st Captain's scythe cleaved through his neck, decapitating him instantaneously; his head tumbled to the floor. The Honour Guard cried out, "For the Emperor!" and jabbed at Typhus with his axe, only for it to become embedded in his diseased bulk.

Typhus laughed harshly and let go of the scythe with his left arm to hold it in a one handed grip. He extended his free palm towards the Honour Guard and whispered incomprehensible chants and long forgotten incantations, summoning on some invisible power. The Honour Guard aged thousands of years within seconds, his armor rusting out and his flesh decaying. He screeched in pain, clutching at his face with eroding hands. Soon all that was left was a collapsed skeleton.

Lucanus leapt back, retreating into the ruins of the Thunderhawk. He held his sword defensively and nervously glanced behind himself. If he could ambush Typhus in here there was a slim possibility he could slay the so-called 'Plague Lord.'

"Your turn!" howled Typhus with sadistic glee, coming in after him. "Come now, I thought us Astartes are supposed to be fearless! Why hide like a frightened sheep?"

The insides of the Thunderhawk were dark save a few small, flickering fires. Most of the metal had caved in, leaving it claustrophobic and almost maze-like. He could hear Typhus' heavy foot steps as the 1st Captain approached.

Typhus came around a corner, brandishing his lethal scythe. He immediately swung it at Lucanus without discretion. Luckily Lucanus managed to duck under the savage blow, but lost his footing in the process. He stumbled back and found himself cornered against a wall of blackened metal. The Commander desperately lunged at Typhus, only to be hit by a horrible stabbing pain.

He looked down and saw the scythe embedded into his gut, staining his innards with its hideous venom. The pain was worse than Lucanus had ever felt before. He dropped his powersword and slumped to his knees, still impaled on the scythe's blade. After many tense seconds Typhus finally pulled it free and let Lucanus fall limp.

As he succumbed to the poison, he felt something indescribable. Having been in complete control of his body throughout his existence, he had never shared it with another consciousness and never knew how it felt; until now. He screamed, trying to mentally fight it off as it took control. It was beating him back and torturing him, taking hold of more and more of his body as it advanced.




Typhus looked on, puzzled, as Lucanus slowly stood up. The Commander examined his wounds not with fear or misery, but with a simple disdain. He then turned towards the 1st Captain and extended his hand.

Typhus, he said, his voice inhuman. It is a pleasure to meet a mortal so esteemed as yourself.

Awesome! Can't wait to see who Lucanus is...

[not part of story]Ty for the comment. This is a short entry, but Lucanus' new identity will be revealed.[/not part of story]

Typhus cautiously stepped back, gesturing to Lucanus as he did. The Ultramarine was lifted into the air and pinned against the sagging walls of the Thunderhawk by an invisible force. Strangely enough, Lucanus chuckled darkly.

Typhus, he said. Is this how you treat another servant of the Great Corrupter?

"I am no servant," growled Typhus. He focused on the Warp, applying more force to Lucanus. The Ultramarine's armor began to buckle in, unable to stand to pressure. "What are you?"

How would I put it in your words?, Lucanus pondered aloud. He was eerily calm. On Barbarus, your people would've referred to me as a spirit. This ship is seething with us. We spawn from the decay and enter through the Warp, independent from the rules of your material realm.

"I sensed a foreign presence aboard but assumed it was simply radiating warp essence from the corruption. How did you possess Lucanus?"

Very good; most men would simply assume I was Lucanus, rather than a foreign entity. I'm impressed to see a mortal like you with that sort of knowledge, especially within the ranks of the Astartes. Now please, let me down. This body is... frail. Until I can shape it to something more of my liking, I doubt it can withstand much more punishment.

"How did you possess him? I will not ask you again."

Your Manreaper. During the treacherous warp voyage, the Manreapers aboard the ship were dipped in the filth seeping from the decay throne, enabling them to absorb the essence of some of the Daemons that swarmed there. It was a gift was the Great Corrupter himself. I'm surprised you aren't more grateful, considering he took personal notice of you. While you butchering that poor Lucanus I was miraculously able to escape the weapon. Typhus relinquished his crushing grip. The daemon possessed Ultramarine fell to the floor, but managed to land on his feet. He took his first step in his new body and paused, seemingly savoring it. You mortals take your world greatly for granted.

"Is there a name I should refer to you by?" said Typhus with an air of disdain.

You can still refer to me as Lucanus. I've come to already like his body, despite its many faults; the name would be a fitting tribute to him.

Nice! So, is the Daemon a follower of Nurgle?

Sorry to pester you, but is there any chance of an update soon?

Ogryn wrote:Sorry to pester you, but is there any chance of an update soon?

I know the feeling.

Sorry, I've been on vacation, but don't worry I'll write soon. I've been meaning to but I've been distracted.

Cleon and the other Death Guard waited outside of the wreck apprehensively. After Typhus' initial shouting and the sounds of a scuffle, all noise had ceased as far as they were aware. The possibility of the 1st Captain's death was a terrible concept for the Death Guard. Mortarion was a reclusive, shadowy figure and Typhus had often led in his Primarch's stead, frequently serving as the unofficial commander of the Death Guard.

"If the 1st Captain fails to emerge in five minutes," Cleon said. "We go in."

"Agreed," said Vitus.

Cleon heard faint footsteps and craned his swollen neck, focusing his aim on the Thunderhawk's hatch. The footsteps grew louder and stronger, accompanied by the buzzing of insects. Though Cleon wanted to believe it was Typhus and let his guard down, he was far too disciplined for that. The ship was swarming with flies and they didn't always herald the appearance of the Plague Lord.

Finally, Typhus stepped out of the shadows. Cleon sighed in relief, though the sound that came from his mouth was throaty and uneven. Following Typhus was Lucanus; his armor was badly damaged. Pale, blood stained and slime encrusted wounds shown through a variety of cuts and holes in his armor. He had removed his helmet, revealing an even paler face of even complexion. With short cropped blonde hair and blue eyes he had the average appearance of an Ultramarine but there was something uncanny about his appearance.

All weapons were immediately fixed on Lucanus. Shockingly, Typhus was gestured the 'at ease' hand signal and stood alongside him. Lucanus brushed a gauntlet through his hair, surveying the diseased soldiers before him.

Greetings Warriors of the Death Guard, he began, bowing as low as was capable within his power armor. You have all gone through a great turmoil, as you can likely tell. Caught in the throes of the Destroyer Plague, one of the deadliest Warp Poxes imaginable, you pledged yourself to an unknown entity to save yourselves. That is what I am here to discuss.

"This is madness!" shouted Vitus, storming forward until he was face to face with Lucanus. He activated his power sword and hovered it before the Commander's neck. Lucanus stared on fearlessly. "We do not listen to Ultramarines!"

Lucanus rested a firm hand on Vitus' shoulder and smiled, showing his perfect, white teeth. Vitus, my son, I understand your frustration and confusion. But do not worry, I am no Ultramarine. Now please, put the weapon down. I can help the Death Guard so much.

"No," Vitus said stoically. "Get your hands off of me."

I believe you misunderstand me when I politely asked you to put the weapon down, said Lucanus softly. It was not a request.

He shoved a ceramite fist into Vitus' belly, pushing through the doughy mash. Vitus immediately swung the powersword, but Lucanus easily ducked under it. Still pressing his arm further into Vitus, he summoned on a strangle pulse of energy. Momentarily Lucanus was illuminated by a flare of green light.

Vitus began to scream. His mass expanded even further, crushing up against his ceramite. As it did so, filth began to bubble up. It came up through cracks and holes, surging in all directions. Vitus tumbled over backwards, thrashing. The rest of the Death Guard watched on in horror.

Just as easily as Nurgle can give strength, Lucanus said darkly. He can take it away. How does it feel to draw only suffering from the disease that consumes your form?

His gut, unable to handle the pressure, burst. Intestines blew out, sprawling in all directions. Vitus tried to speak but only made sick gurgling sounds as the filth now doubt washed through his throat.

It hurts, doesn't it?

One of Vitus' terminators stepped forward. Based on his powerfist and heavy flamer, Cleon recognized him as Tiberus. Tiberus looked relatively uncorrupted, as his armor was still tightly sealed.

"Stop," ordered Tiberus.

I admire your bravery, however-

"Lucanus, release him him," interrupted Typhus. "This doesn't accomplish anything."

Very well. The filth stopped bubbling up, switching to a stagnate state. It slowly began to dissipate, showing Vitus' mutilated form beneath. The entity you swore yourselves to is something the Emperor has incessantly preached the impossibility of; a God. To be more specific, a Warp entity. The Immaterium, as it sometimes called, is swarming with more life than humanity could possibly imagine. Powered by emotion and belief, the warp entities have grown stronger with each passing millennial as intelligent life forms multiplied and grew, taking hold of the galaxy.

Some of the entities, more commonly known as Daemons by your race, grew excessively powerful via gaining a monopoly on one form or spectrum of emotion and feeding off of it. They dominate other Daemons and conquer massive patches of the Immaterium, even reaching into the Material realm as well. One of those entities is known as Nurgle or Nurg-leth, the Lord of Decay and the Master of Pestilence.

Nurgle represents despair, but also determination. He, as you have done, gains resilience from punishment and strength from pain. From a small child's vaccination to an entire army's relentless pain endurance program, Nurgle's influence is everywhere. However, you Astartes are the first mortals to have earned the direct blessing of Nurgle. There will be many more to come.

The Decay Lord is not the only warp entity who has taken interest in humanity. There are many others; Khorne the Blood God who is already seducing Angron to his cult of wrath, the Dark Prince Slaanesh with her newly gained Emperor's Children, and Tzeentch the Deceiver, a selfish Daemon seeking control of all things material and immaterial with his newly found champion, Magnus. Other Legions have turned not to a single entity, but to the Warp as a whole. The Iron Warriors, Alpha Legion and Sons of Horus view Daemons as a valuable ally, and indeed they are. The Warmaster himself has preached to the power of the Warp and the unimaginable gains.

The galaxy is yours for the taking. Empowered by the Warp, you will not fail.

Nice new part. I really like how this story is progressing.

Ty for the comment. New entry within the next 36 hours.

This is awesome... But I believe the Death Guard 1st Captain's name was Typhon, not Typhoon. Regardless, now that's out of the way, this is very good.

Any more coming soon?

More more more!!!

Your writing style reminds me of my own. Nevertheless, i quite enjoyed it.

Sir, this is one epic story. xD

Don't worry, the story will continue! New entry today!

Also, I can confirm that there will be an entry because I've developed a horrific stomach ailment. It means that I'm stuck home with nothing to do but videogames and write and also that I can relate to the Death Guard.

Chapter Three
Prophecies

Lucanus' proclamation spread like a wild fire through the Legion. The Death Lord didn't care. Nothing Lucanus had said Mortarion didn't already know.

He refused to leave his quarters, the revelation too horrible in its implications to bear. He, a Primarch no less, had been manipulated and enslaved by a Daemon thought not to exist. The Great Crusade was over and the Twilight of Humanity had begun.

Mortarion went over his face with his razor sharp claws. Strangely compelled, he stabbed his talons into his skin as hard as he could and dragged downwards, slowly tearing it away. Pus began to trickle from the wounds and Mortarion tore his hand away, disgusted. He grabbed the Lantern, a custom built energy pistol said to fire with the strength of a sun. It may have been the only weapon capable of killing him.

Hovering the weapon before his face, Mortarion closed his eyes.




Cleon marched with what remained of his squad towards Hanger 12, where they would board Dreadclaw Drop Pods in preparation for the upcoming battle. He was seized with a strange dizziness and a feeling best described as a gradual detachment from the world. The Plague Marine tried to suppress it, pushing it away and justifying as a symptom of his transformation. It would soon fade, as all pain or blight did.

It didn't. As he walked it only grew worse. He soon struggled to keep up with his squad. Fear began to wash over him. Was he losing the favor of Nurgle? Would he end up like Vitus?

Pain flared all over his body. Cleon screamed and his legs buckled. He collapsed to the filth encrusted deck and slipped into unconsciousness.

He was caught in the tides of a great ocean. The water was thick and murky. Upon closer examination it was a swirling mass of thousands of tadpole like creatures. Horrified, Cleon tried to swim away. The creatures held him back, tugging on his form from all angles. He was beginning to sink. Cleon closed his eyes.

Upon opening them, he was back on the Thunderhawk Levistus, soaring over Ullanor. The sky was glowing with a rainbow of colors, an Aurora Borealis caused by the pollution from the Mechanicum's smoke belching war machines. Astartes from a multitude of Legions marched across the desolate plains, entire continents having been flattened in preparation for the upcoming battle.

Ullanor faded away and Cleon found himself inside a labyrinth system of darkened hallways and chambers. Though thoroughly corrupted like the Endurance, it was not seething with decay but with life. Red and pink tentacles clawed out from cracks. Metal was contorted into screaming faces. Strange, bright purple gusts of winds drifted throughout the air.

A tall figure in black Terminator armor adorned with trophies was screaming. His helmetless face was contorted with rage. A red top knot rose from his forehead. He was charging into a crowd of Custodes and tearing them apart with his glowing power claw and shimmering sword. Upon slaughtering them all, he made his way to a twisted corpse. It was a mangled mass of melted ceramite and burnt flesh, with a single intact arm sticking out. The Terminator leaned down and removed a gauntlet from the arm, tears streaming down his face.

Upon blinking, Cleon found himself in a whole new place. He was back aboard the Endurance, but not in the hallway where he had collapsed. In front of him was Mortarion, holding a gun to his head.

"The Primarch!" shouted Cleon, waking up.

The dizziness was gone. He was back in the hallway, surrounded by his squad. They were staring down at him, their expressions hidden beneath rusting helmets and encrusted filth. Cleon shot up and began to run.

"I need to save the Primarch!" he yelled.





Mortarion lamented over his wasted life, wallowing in his sorrow. Everything had rotted away. He should have never accepted Nurgle. He should have died there with his Legion. At least then he would have retained some of his honor.

A Plague Marine charged in through the open doorway. He was standard in appearance for his Legion; bloated and corrupt with inhuman proportions and a gas mask like helmet. Mortarion didn't recognize him and didn't care.

"Mortarion, put down the weapon," ordered the Astartes. "I'm Sergeant Cleon of the 2nd Company. Put the weapon down."

"Leave me," the Death Lord snarled, still hovering the gun in front of his face.

"Put the weapon down," repeated Cleon, slowly approaching.

"Don't give me orders, scum. I am your Primarch, your superior."

"Not if you kill yourself. You'll just be another causality of the building conflict. Typhus will replace you and the Legion will march on," the Sergeant said. "Put the weapon down."

"Do you not see the depths our once great Legion has fallen to? We were supposed to be the strongest of both body and mind. We were supposed to be above sorrow, pain and blight. We were supposed to be the Death Guard," said Mortarion.

"And only now we truly are. Our transformation has given us unimaginable endurance and strength."

"I'm sure Typhus will enjoy your patriotism when he finally owns this Legion," spat Mortarion. "Of course, Typhus always owned the Death Guard. Only now, at the end, will it be official."

"This isn't the end; it's the beginning. If you think Typhus owns the Death Guard, then take it back."

Mortarion put down the Lantern.

Not enough, need MORE

Your style of writing is truly amazing. You've developed a cast of characters that each have surprising depth to them, even after only several installments of your tale. Vivid descriptions serve only to enhance an already incredible story. It is an honor to be among writers with your kind of talent. You, sir, have a very promising future!

Ty for the comment! I really appreciate it!

Typhus' chambers were vast and once lavishly decorated with marble pillars, velvet furniture and paintings of his accomplishments during the Crusade. It had seemed more fitting for the Emperor's Children than the pragmatic, straight forward Death Guard. In any case, the warp pox had left Typhus' quarters a twisted, decaying mockery of it's formerly beautiful state. Metal had rusted, wood had splintered and marble had crumbled. In its place came mold and slime.

Typhus stood at the center of a circle of Death Guard Librarians, their appearance seldom better than the First Captain's. Their psychic powers had amplified the disease's effects. At the top most point of the circle, instead of a Plague Marine, was Lucanus. Mold and pustules were beginning to grow from the cracks and joints of his royal blue power armor.

"We, Acolytes of the Pestilence Lord," said Typhus, beginning the ritual. "Call on him for guidance and clairvoyance." Musty, grey gas began to swirl around the Acolytes. Typhus concentrated on the Immaterium, leaving his mortal vessel. " We have done all as you commanded." The gas began to envelope the room. Nurglings crawled out from under floorboards and within decay, feeding off the radiating warp energy. Only a shard of Typhus was still connected to his body. He slowly pulled it free. "We require further orders."

Finally the Herald of Nurgle slipped free from his mortal body. He was suddenly soaring across the Immaterium, released from the constraints of his bloated and purulent form. This was where he belonged; this was the reward he sought.

Typhus slipped past Daemons and other slavering warp entities, easily dodging them. Despite the Council of Nikaea, Typhus had been honing his warp abilities since before the Heresy for some time. He continued soaring through the warp, looking for answers until he suddenly found himself before a creature unimaginably vast.

It was a massive gas or perhaps ooze that seemed to envelope all within reach. Thick grey, brown and green radiated as it floated within the Immaterium. But more than that, it seemed to seethe with an aura of despair, but also stubbornness and resilience. Typhus reared, back, horrified, and the entity extended a single tendril, minuscule compared to the scale of its body, towards him.

Something invaded his mind. Ideas not his interrupted his thoughts. Desperately, Typhus tried to escape but found himself enveloped. He screamed.

My son, the Heresy its nearing its end, said a voice within his head. All shall be hinged a single, pivotal moment. Everything must continue perfectly until then or all is lost. Typhus psychically attacked the nearest tendrils, focusing his mind on its dissolution. As soon as it was destroyed another two effortlessly grappled him. The loyalty of the Death Guard must be insured. The nearby Ultramarine detachment must be eliminated. The Death Lord must be tended to.

"What do you mean?" shouted the Herald of Nurgle, kicking and writhing in a vain attempt to break free.

Typhus my son, do you not recognize me?

With a flare of light, Typhus was hurled through the warp. Unable to control himself or halt his momentum, his efforts to slow his descend were in vain. An unimaginable pain stabbed into his neck.

A weaker man would've succumbed to the pain, dying from the sheer mental trauma. Despite his faults, Typhus was no weakling. He tensed his muscles, closed his eyes and endured. Upon opening them he was back in his body, still standing tall as though nothing had happened.

"What happened?" asked Kharyun, Chief Librarian of the 2nd Company and acting Commander in Ignatius' Grulgor's absence. Much like Typhus, he greatly his new found rank and powers after the warp pox. "What does he want?"

"The Ultramarines guarding the Maelstrom must be slain to the last man and our Legion's allegiance must be insured," answered Typhus. "That is all."





Mortarion marched through the hallways, the Deathshroud at his side. Plague Marines backed away and watched in awe.They swarmed at the sight of his presence, having heard no news of their Primarch since his speech many days ago. From a safe distance, Mortarion's retinue followed. It was made up of the remaining Great Company Commanders, Eridion, Kallimen, Iradio and Talmon. Notably Typhus was missing and the relatively low ranking Sergeant Cleon was standing in his stead.

Eridion, Commander of the 3rd, wore standard power armor and stood with a hunched posture. He was helmet, his slouching, rotten face exposed to the crew. A variety of tubes and mechanics hooked up to his flesh awkwardly. To the right of Eridion was the Commander of the 4th, Kallimen. With his swollen Terminator armor he seemed far taller than the rest. A massive horn, similar to Typhus' protruded from the forehead of his gas mask like helmet.

Commander Iradio of the 5th stood directly behind Eridion. His form was perhaps the most misshapen and inhuman of the group. His armor had buckled, exposing his thick, slimy flesh. The 5th Company was the most assault oriented of the Death Guard and their Commander fit them well with his rusting jump pack and glistening power sword.

Beside Iradio and behind Kallimen was Commander Talmon of the 6th, a quiet and relatively uncorrupted Legionnaire. His armor had held strong against the pox, retaining its shape and displaying little corruption save a massive horn jutting out from his right shoulder. Talmon's helmet was a standard model with no additional breathing apparatuses or security measures.

At the front of the four proud Commanders was Cleon, sword in hand.

Awesome job, LoneLictor!

Ty! I really appreciate you taking the time to read and comment on every entry, Ogyrn! If there's anything of yours, like another fic or a modelling blog that you want me to look at, tell me!

As the Librarians filtered out of Typhus' quarters, Typhus reached out and grabbed Lucanus' shoulder. "Lucanus, I need to tell you something."

"What?" asked Lucanus, turning to face the 1st Captain.

The last Librarian stepped out and Typhus slammed the door. He nervously scanned the room for any remaining persons before answering. "I spoke to... an entity... that may have been Nurgh-leth itself. It told me that I needed to tend to the Death Lord. What did it mean?"

"Give me the exact wording," said Lucanus, approaching a filth encrusted mirror in the corner of Typhus' chambers. He wiped away some of the slime with a royal blue gauntlet.

"'The Death Lord must be tended to.' That's what it said," Typhus said as Lucanus examined his reflection.




Continuing his march, Mortarion bellowed, "Proceed to Hanger 11! Have all fleets readied for war! Arm the Dreadclaws and man the battle stations!"




"Huh. That could be euphemism for killing him," Lucanus replied with disinterest. Continuing cleaning the mirror, he said, "You know, I really do like this form. Lucanus' corruption is a subtle inner one of the soul, rather than a blatant, physical one."

"You're talking about killing the Primarch!"

"So I am. You've talked about killing the Emperor and killing a Primarch is far less than that, unless you're talking about Horus."

"I joined the Death Guard to sway him and his Legion to my side, not to kill him!" shouted Typhus. "He's like my father!"

"Please Typhus," Lucanus said disdainfully. "You're more like his in your twisted relationship. He was always looking for a daddy after the Emperor discarded him. Sentimental weakling."




Mortarion and his retinue strolled into the hanger, surrounded by a now cheering crowd. The Death Lord raised his fist in triumph and the Plague Marines did the same. An infectious chant of, "Death to the False Emperor!" began to spread throughout the hanger.




"I can't kill him. He's a Primarch. He's Nurgh-leth's true champion," stammered Typhus, disregarding Lucanus' previous comment. "I can't."

"Is he Nurgle's champion?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who was Nurgle's first follower? Who led the Death Guard into the warp storm? Who was the earliest to be granted release and immortality from the disease? Who was given control of the Destroyer Plague?" asked Lucanus. "Maybe you were looking at this the wrong way. Maybe Mortarion was nothing more than a place holder that could be used to ensure the Death Guard's loyalty before the true leader stepped up."




"Death Guard!" boomed Mortarion, silencing the crowd. "The Mechanicum has taken complete control of Mars, providing us the perfect launching point for the attack on Terra! The Emperor's Children and Word Bearers have already arrived at Segmentum Solar with the World Eaters and Sons of Horus close behind! We even have reason to believe that our lost brothers, the Thousand Sons, have emerged from the Immaterium to assist in the upcoming battle!"




Typhus said, "You may have a point."

"Of course I do. But sadly, many of the Death Guard will not understand what must be done in the name of Nurgle. Mortarion's death cannot be too blatant. I suggest assaulting him during a major battle and claiming he was felled by enemy artillery. You could claim it was his dying wish for you to take his place. You could even make a martyr out of him."

Something knocked on Typhus' door. The Herald of Nurgle immediately brandished his Manreaper and resorted to a defensive position. "Who is it?" he hissed.

"Sergeant Vitus," answered a wet, slurping voice. "From the Endurance, Mortarion has called an assembly and demanded that the Death Guard fleet be readied for war. What shall the Terminus Est. do?"

"Do as he orders," grudgingly said Typhus. "Set course for within the Maelstrom. It's Nurgh-leth's will anyways."

"No, my Lord. We are advancing on Terra."




"The insignificant Ultramarine deployment can be ignored! The Segmentum's remaining petty defenses can be disregarded! Tonight we began our march towards the last true bastion of the Imperium; Terra. We cannot rest until it falls," declared Mortarion.

Death Guard cheered, overjoyed at the concept of finally entering true combat again. After being cramped aboard the corrupted Death Guard fleet for so long, they would finally breath in the fresh Terran air and feel the warm blood splatter on their flesh again.

"It will not be easy. The Emperor and his Custodians must be directly confronted. This will be the ultimate test of all our endurance and strength; failure brings only death. Death Guard, my unbroken blades, are you with me?"

The crowd's reply was singular. "DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!"

"Tonight we march on Terra!" shouted Mortarion, concluding his speech.

Exalted.

It gets better and better...Looking forward to where this leads!

More Death guard! I played a match with mine today. Great part, enjoy more...and hope Mortorian destroys Terra!

Awesome new part, can't wait to see what happens next.

Ty for the comments! Appreciated, as always. Hopefully there will be a new update sometime today.

Mortarion and his retinue surveyed the Death Guard. Thousands of Plague Marines amidst the Endurance alone refueled vehicles, loaded bolters, manned turrets as Sergeants, Commanders and Captains boomed orders. They worked tirelessly and unhaltingly, completely devoid of weakness or any other mortal flaws.

Cleon's squad approached their Sergeant. The veteran Arsenius, Commander of the Squad in their Sergeant's stead, addressed Cleon. "Orders, Sergeant?"

"The Land Raider Influensius requires maintenance," Cleon said. His mood greatly improved by the notice of his Primarch, he playfully added in, "And Phokas, don't try to weasel out of this one."

The Death Guard marched off automatously, Phokas ignoring the comment. Disturbingly enough, Cleon was reminded of ancient, rusting servitors by the squad rather than the honorable super soldiers they were. .

Sensing Cleon's thoughts, Mortarion leaned over to the Sergeant and quietly said, "It can be more distressing to witness the change in one's inferiors than oneself. Do not be alarmed Cleon, they are still the same men they were when first recruited into your squad."

"Thank you, my lord," Cleon said, barely able to comprehend that the Primarch himself was speaking to him. "How will our brother Legions respond to our... transcendent new form?"

"My brother Horus, despite his hubris, will be tolerant. He can be expected to understand, as with Konrad and perhaps Lorgar. Angron, Perturabo and Alpharius likely won't care in the slightest. Fulgrim and Magnus may look down on us, but that will be no different from the norm," answered Mortarion. "So long as Horus approves, none of the Legions can act against us."

"Thank you, my lord. That is a comforting though."

The door to the hanger burst open in a blast of flies and bile. Every Plague Marine immediately turned towards the explosion, bolters ready. As the cloud of flies began to recede, the force behind it was clear. Typhus charged through, Manreaper drawn. At his side was Lucanus, managing to keep pace with the 1st Captain yet displaying none of his aggression, simply boredom. "Mortarion!" shouted Typhus. The Death Lord turned towards the Herald of Nurgle and slowly approached, leaving Cleon behind. Both men met in the center of the room.

"What troubles you, my son?" asked Mortarion. Lucanus chuckled darkly at the comment for no apparent reason.

"You have ordered our fleet, including my Terminus Est., to head to Terra without my consultation!" Typhus growled. "We need to eliminate the Ultramarines first!"

Despite Typhus' increase in stature following the warp plague, Mortarion towered at least a half meter above Typhus. His glowing red eyes met Typhus' slit visor and the two simply stared, tension rising. Cleon drew his plasma pistol and cautiously focused it on Typhus. His arm shook, oddly enough, despite his complete physical control over his flawless new form.

"I am your Primarch," boomed Mortarion. "I do not require your approval, 1st Captain, to make decisions." Cleon's arm shook further. He was consumed by a strange, tingling feeling followed by a wave of nausea and dizziness. He could barely remain standing. "Rather, you require mine."

"That's funny, Mortarion. Things have never worked like that as far as I'm aware." He gestured towards Cleon with his scythe. Now the dizziness was unbearable. "You! Tell me, who are you and why Mortarion has woefully chosen you to act as my replacement?"

"Don't answer him," the Death Lord said. "Typhus, stand down. Return to the Terminus Est. and set course for Terra, lest I take it and your title from you."

That was the last thing Cleon heard. His eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp as he came crashing to the floor. "No," he mouthed before slipping into unconsciousness.

Cleon was back within the ocean of worms and filth. This time it was turbulent and cold. Waves crashed over his drowning form as he desperately tried to swim to safety. Decaying, grey hands reached up from the water. Their skin peeled back, revealing maggot infested muscle and cracking bone. They grabbed Cleon from all directions and dragged him into the depths. He closed his eyes.

Upon opening them, he was standing on top of a building. The roof was made of low quality, cracking concrete. In the distance, massive fires raged and explosions plumed. Screams could be heard. Two massive figures stood in front of each other. One was majestic and glorious with great, flowering wings and a beautiful face. His armor was made of the finest gold with a vibrant red heart carved into his shoulder. Overall, his form could be described in one word; Angelic. Opposite of the Angel was a muscular, bull like behemoth with red skin, yellow fangs, leathery wings and a great axe.

The Behemoth charged at the Angel, swing his axe madly. It nicked his golden armor but failed to land a killing blow. In response the Angel flapped his massive wings to disorient his opponent and sent a solid kick into his chest. The Behemoth tumbled backwards and the Angel stomped on his neck, preparing for the killing blow. Without warning, the Behemoth grabbed the Angel's foot and hurled him off the building.

The Angel's wings kicked into action, barely halting his descent. Before he could swoop back onto the building, the Behemoth began to fly as well. Both figure met in midair. Dodging under the Behemoth's axe, the Angel grabbed it's neck with both hands. Roaring in pain, the Behemoth's neck snapped. His lifeless body fell and the Angel held up his severed, bull-like head as a bloody trophy.

The vision faded away and Cleon found himself staring at a Plague Marine clutching a lascannon. He glanced through the scope and saw that the weapon was fixed on himself.

Cleon opened his eyes, screaming.

Awesome new post, can't wait to see what the vision is and who its about.

Chapter Four
As to feel the soft soil underfoot and hear the dying screams

An hour later, Typhus cautiously approached Mortarion's quarters. He inwardly noted that the Death Lord should replace his door and halted at the empty doorway. After taking a deep breath, he knocked on the wall.

"Come in," beckoned the Primarch, as expected

Persuading him would not be an easy task. Mortarion had become far more assertive and confident, an undesirable quality considering Typhus' situation. Furthermore, their last discussion had ended badly. Mortarion had stripped Typhus of his rank and declared he was no one within the Death Guard anymore. He had stopped short of outright killing Typhus, but if given time to think there was a chance he might do just that.

Mortarion was alone, his quarters having been converted into a war room. In the center was a hologram showing the Segmentum Solar. Papers and holodisks were scatted across the floor. Nurglings scampered to and fro, seemingly oblivious to the Primarch.

"It's Calas, my Lord," Typhus said. Adding in his first name was a calculated gambit. Earlier on in the history of the Death Guard, long before the Heresy, when Typhus and Mortarion held better relations they spoke on a first-name basis. Though Typhus still referred to the Death Lord as Mortarion, Mortarion frequently referred to him by his last-name or rank. "I was hoping we could have a civilized discussion. My temper may have prevented that when he spoke earlier, but I assure you that I have calmed." It pained him greatly to take the guise of humility and regret, but it was necessary.

"As I said, come in," said Mortarion, his voice devoid of emotion. Typhus briefly pondered if the Primarch's words were just as calculated and artificial as his, but dismissed the thought as he stepped inside.

Mortarion continued his work, feverishly writing out coordinates and battle plans. The Herald of Nurgle approached but kept a safe distance, aware of Mortarion's possible wrath. It was rare that he had ever struck out against any Death Guard, but when he had it had been horrifying.

"You were right that you are my superior and it is certainly not my place to give orders," Typhus began. "However, as your 1st Captain, it is my duty to offer council and my admittedly limited wisdom. In my opinion and the opinion of the Legion's Chief Librarians, it is unwise to immediately proceed to Terra. Nurgh-leth himself has given me the command to eliminate the Ultramarines stationed at the Maelstrom to the last man."

"He never gave me a similar command. As far as I'm aware, what he said extends only to you, not to my Legion. Best get to work, Housecarl Typhus."

Anger. Fury. Rage. Typhus had never felt this strongly in his life. He forced his temper back down, telling himself that this was just a test. Mortarion was trying to trick him into raging again. This was just a test. He laughed falsely.

"Yes, that is one way to interpret it," he said with false warmth. "However, I find myself unable to fulfill his demands myself. As another Acolyte of the Plague Lord, would you graciously lend your legion out to assist me? You said yourself that the Sons of Horus, Thousand Sons and World Eaters have not arrived yet, so it is not likely that we would be 'late' to Terra if we briefly stopped here." Mortarion did not respond, continuing his work. "I am at your mercy, my lord."

Conflict was raging within Mortarion. Typhus had manipulated him and disrespected him in front of his Legion. Now Typhus was barging into his quarters with feigned humility, as if he always had and always would respect Mortarion's authority. However, Mortarion had an instinctive friendliness and trust towards Typhus. He knew him better than any other, even his Brother Primarchs or his supposed father.

"Very well, Calas," Mortarion finally answered. "The entire Legion will be at your disposal for this task. Remember, the Ultramarines must be eliminated as soon as possible. You have one week."

As always, thank you for the comment. The next entry will have lots of violence and death. And the Death Guard fighting on Terra will be depicted within the story eventually, albeit later.

These are the type of things that make me happy. Amazing new parts, I like it when Cleon point his PP at Typhus.....

Amazing stuff LoneLictor, keep it up

Really awesome read man!
I also really enjoyed how you've made Cleon to Mortarion as Talos is to Kurze, makes a nice little parallel. Not sure whether it's intentional or not though!

Death Guards members have feelings?! Overall, really nice story. I like how you have managed to fleshen Mortarion and Typhus. Continue with your awesome work

Thank you for all the complements, they are very appreciated. There will be a new entry eventually. I have the plot and character arcs and stuff planned up, I'm just having a really hard time getting it to paper/my computer screen.

@Leetbix. It wasn't really intentional since I've only read the first 50 or so pages of Soul Hunter, but thanks for the complement and for reading. You know, I should really finish that book.

Subscribed sir!

Exalted!

Again, thanks! Without your comments, I would have no reason for posting this on DakkaDakka and would probably remove it. So again, thanks!

New entry within the next week. I usually get past my writer's block at least within a week.

There's only one word to describe your work.
Epic.

If you don't write for a living alredy, you might want to consider it.

Subscribed. Your work is really good. I eagerly await!!!

Now edited. TY for the comments!

Cleon awoke. He was lying in his quarters. As he stretched his limbs the filth encrusted floor squelched. He looked up and saw Phokas and Arsenius, the two Astartes he had known the best within his squad. It occurred to him that he had not spoken to them normally in some time.

"Cleon," said Phokas. "We feared you had died, Sergeant."

"Nonsense," grated the veteran Arsenius with an amused tone. "Cleon's far too dumb to die. It'd take an Imperator Titan just to slow him down."

"You flatter me," said Cleon weakly, still lying on his back. "How long have I been unconscious?"

"Longer than last time. My chronometer says an hour," Phokas said. "Sergeant, if I may ask, what happened when you last collapsed? You claimed that you needed to save the Primarch and when you returned you were at the head of the Grand Company Commanders."

"I caught a glimpse of... what may have been the future. I saw many things, including the Primarch in danger. And I acted on what I saw," the Sergeant answered. "Where is the rest of my squad? It looks like you two neophytes were the only ones loyal enough to actually wait by me."

"The title of neophyte may well apply to little Phokas, but I am a full blown Battle Brother of the Death Guard and have served us such for the past forty three years!" jokingly declared Arsenius, standing tall and putting his hand over his heart.

"Does my power armor mean nothing to you? Besides, how could you have served as a Battle Brother for forty three years without promotion?"

Cleon chuckled, relieved to see his Legion's old spirit back. He slowly bent his legs while grabbing onto his rusting bunk and pulled himself upright. With a brief shake of his head the remainder of the dizziness died away.

"Phokas, Arsenius, restrain yourselves. We're members of the Death Guard, not the Emperor's Children," he said with a smile. "Has anything occurred during my absense?"

"Yes, Sergeant," answered Phokas. "The Primarch has chosen to heed the 1st Captain's guidance. We're deploying on Xenthrex, where the Ultramarines have set up a sizable fortress, in twenty minutes. We were hoping you would awaken before then."





Commander Solius of the Ultramarines 27th Grand Company brushed his hair back and took a deep breath. Astartes were incapable of terror but they were certainly not incapable of fear. He was going against an entire Legion with only two thousand Astartes. Reboute Gulliman had once said, "A battle can never truly be won if the only objective is survival."

Rain was pouring down. Clouds blotted out any light from the two nearby stars, Xenith and Mercentile. Astartes waited atop guard towers, within turrets and behind barricades, making use of the fortress' full defensive capacities. The fortress itself resembled a massive rectangle with large, oval towers rising from the rounded corners. A massive, square like tower rose from the center of the rectangle. Beyond the fortress was a dark, rocky wasteland doted with craters, cliffs and fissures which were now pooling with water.

A radar blipped loudly. Every Astartes knew what this meant; the first Dreadclaws had been launched from the orbiting Death Guard cruisers. From his rooftop position on the center tower, Solius drew his powersword. All around him other Ultramarines readied their own weapons. Plasma guns hummed as they powered up. Bolters clicked as their safeties deactivated.

Solius pressed a small rune at the hilt of his power. It immediately came to life, glowing vibrantly. Moisture hissed as it came in contact with the radiating heat and steam rose from the weapon. The radar blipped again. The Death Guard were less than a minute away.

A dozen barrels poked out from the gun slits of the center complex. Reaching behind him, Solius turned on his jump pack. His command squad followed suit. The archaic motors hacked and coughed, spewing thick smoke.

The first Dreadclaw stabbed through the clouds with a bright red glow and slammed into the planet's surface, shattering rocks and kicking up a wave of dust and grit. Its bottom hatch opened up and a platform filled to the brim with corrupted Astartes steadily lowered to the ground. As they stepped out from underneath the Dreadclaw, the rain washed away their outer layer of filth, leaving them gleaming in the spotlights of the fortress.

The first shot was fired. A lascannon pierced through the bloated abdomen of a Plague Marine, disintegrating ceramite plating and diseased flesh with equal ease. The Death Guard fired back. An Ultramarine with a hole in his breastplate toppled off the guard rails of the north east tower, his armor immediately buckling in upon impact. The second Dreadclaw hit the ground forty feet north of the first and far closer to the wall. A third landed in the distance. Two more rained down directly next to eachother.

Solius raised his left fist, proudly holding up his plasma pistol, and leapt off the roof. His jump pack kicked into action, hurtling him over the remainder of the complex. The Command Squad followed suit, forming a V formation with Solius at the front. A frag missile with thick, mold growths barely missed the farthest left Ultramarine.

Too high on adrenaline to heed the danger, Solius fixed his plasma pistol on a Plague Terminator and squeezed the trigger; the tremendous recoil almost resulted in a catastrophic crash. The ancient weapon's barrel lit up with brilliant green light, as did the unfortunate Terminator. One of Astartes soaring besides Solius was suddenly struck by a krak grenade. It exploded upon impact, blowing open the Astartes' chest and disabling his jump pack. A wave of shrapnel stabbed into the rest of the squad.

Any semblance of a formation was lost. Ultramarines swerved and fell in all directions. Solius himself was propelled forward by the impact, towards a large squadron of Traitor Legionnaires. His training kicked into action; he deactivated his plasma pistol and jump pack to prevent the extremely sensitive and explosive machinery from detonating when he hit the ground. As Solius did this, he tucked his head into his chest and went into a roll.





Cleon charged out with his squad towards the fortress. Bolter fire from a dozen different Ultramarine positions rained down on the Death Guard, but it didn't matter. Most shots had little to no effect on the Plague Marines due to supreme endurance, power armor and immunity from pain. Cleon noticed a bolt embed itself in his chest and detonate harmlessly; he didn't even care.

"Fire on the southeast tower," he ordered calmly as he raised his bolter. His squad followed suit exactly, resembling factory servitors more than anything else. Ten bolters fired at once, unloading on a small Devastator Squad. Ultramarines flailed and ran as they desperately tried to avoid the onslaught of bolts. One tried to power up his plasma cannon only to be shot through the respirator of his helm. He toppled over backwards, bleeding badly. The plasma cannon overheated, detonating the turret's ammo stockpile. Soon the roof was ablaze.

A squad of jump pack equipped Ultramarines launched from the roof of the tower, firing off bolt and plasma pistols as they flew. "Concentrate fire on the Assault Marines," said Cleon, slamming a new belt of ammunition into his bolter. Due to their sheer speed, it was almost impossible to hit them. Pyrrhus, the most heavily mutated of Cleon's men, grabbed a krak grenade with an oozing tentacle and hurled it with all of his strength at the Ultramarines. The resulting explosion sent them all flying in different directions.

One of them went into a roll and slammed directly in front of the Plague Marines, mostly unharmed by the impact. Solius immediately stood up and decapitated one Death Guard with a stroke of his blade. Arsenius drew a chainsword and charged, only to have his leg cut off by a flourish of the Ultramarine's blade. Two other Assault Marines that had survived their respective crashes followed their Commander into combat, leaping into the ranks of Plague Marines with deadly agility.

Solius briefly turned his back on Cleon and the Sergeant lunged at him. He spun around at the last moment and barely managed to parry the attack. Solius reactivated his plasma pistol. Cleon pushed forward with his blade. Both Astartes careened over backwards, rolling down into a crater and away from their respective squads. A hard impact against a jutting rock caused Solius to lose his hold on his power sword and plasma pistol.

The Plague Marine Sergeant continued his descent until he finally reached the bottom of the crater. He slowly stood up, forcing his bulky limbs to move. Slime and pus leaked from a crack in his helmet. Cleon looked up to see Solius caught against a jagged piece of rockface and his weapons continuing down without him. Immediately Cleon was in action, charging uphill to snatch them away before the Ultramarine Commander had a chance to get them.

Solius jolted upright and drop kicked into Cleon with a speed that surprised even him. The Plague Marine, with his bloated form and unstable footing, tumbled over backwards. As he fell, he grabbed the Ultramarine's leg and they rolled to the bottom together, neither with the weapons. Lying on his back, Cleon grasped the handle of his powersword. Before he could draw it Solius grabbed it as well and pushed inward, desperate to keep it away from Cleon. The two Astartes struggled relentlessly.

As they fought, Arsenius army-crawled over the lip of the crater, holding his signature meltagun. He casually reloaded and cocked the weapon before focusing it on the two. "Cleon," he said in a deep, throaty voice. "Get away from the Ultramarine. I need a clear shot."

Now Solius needed to think fast. He was up against two of them. Even if he somehow killed the first one, the second would immediately shoot him. And then he noticed the plasma pistol strapped to Cleon's thigh hidden under a web of filth. Lightning flared in the distance and thunder boomed.

He reached out and grabbed the weapon with his right hand and swung it towards Cleon's face. As he did so, Cleon drew the sword. Solius deactivated the safety. Cleon knocked away the Ultramarine's left hand. Solius turned on the power cell. Cleon swung the weapon.

The Ultramarine's hand was cleanly removed at the wrist. Gore jetted from the bloody stump. And Solius screamed. The Traitor Legionnaire bent his leg up and kicked Solius squarely in the chest. The impact sent Solius sprawling onto his deactivated jet pack. Arsenius fired his meltagun, vaporizing Solius instantly.

This part was way to awesome to even care about any errors! Can't wait to see Cleon and Solius fight each other!

this was so good, i am now addicited to this story. give us all a great crhistmas present and upload the next instalment

subscribed, exalted and greatly enjoyed,

Thank you for the comments (as always)! I say that a lot, but I mean it. I also say that a lot, but I mean it. Anyways, I have edited it and added in the complete fight scene.

The part where they wrestle over the power sword and one is trying to hold it in the sheath while the other is trying to remove it was inspired by security footage from a court case where this murderer makes a grab for an officer's gun while in the holster. Pretty messed up stuff.

C&C appreciated!

Gooooooaaaaaal! I liked how the fight was quick paced (at least to me) I got really into it! But didn't Arsenius have his leg sliced off by Solius?

Shadexblu wrote:Gooooooaaaaaal! I liked how the fight was quick paced (at least to me) I got really into it! But didn't Arsenius have his leg sliced off by Solius?

Oops, I'll fix that. Thanks for pointing that out.

Really nice stuff! You should make a book

Thanks! Also, due to Christmas stuff, I will be unable to write for the next few days.

I heard that. Life is rough, innit? Excellent addition to the story. It has all the down-and-dirty fighting (no pun intended) that you would expect from a big battle. Looking forward to the conclusion of this chapter!

New entry. This one focuses a bit on Lucanus, both the Daemon and the Mortal.

The Land Raider Caecus Pugionem rocked and groaned unsteadily as it tore across the landscape. It's once spotless haul now festered with a thick layer of encrusted filth doted with the occasional throbbing mold entity or swollen pustule. The interior of the vehicle was even worse; the air was thick with a variety of poxes, noxious gases and other toxins sealed in by the thick ceramite and adamantium walls.

Inside stood 1st Captain Typhus, his form an overwhelming beacon of decay, flanked by Kharyun, Chief Librarian and Captain of the 2nd, and Florus, Chief Librarian of the 3rd. Near the back of the Caecus Pugionem was Lucanus. A host of skeletons draped in dead flesh and dripping with slime surrounded him, polishing and repairing his armor. The vibrant azure blue color scheme of the Ultramarines had been restored while its various cracks and imperfections had been filled in. A proud red cape had been fastened to his recently repaired backpack.

I can feel Lucanus' joy at his form's restoration. He considered that armor just as much a part of his body as any limb or organ, remarked the Daemon. In his current state, he takes anything he can get.

Typhus turned towards Lucanus and glared, his expression obvious despite his encasing suit of Terminator armor. "Pardon?"

You didn't think he just disappeared, did you? As long as I inhabit his form, he goes where I go. He raised his left arm and one of the skeletons turned it's attention towards a large hole in the ceramite oozing copious amounts of pus.

"I would prefer that you just got rid of him," said Typhus. "It's a risk letting him stay, especially with your influential position amongst the Death Guard."

I'm flattered that you would care so much about me, Lucanus spat. However, I know what I'm doing. You do not. Seventeen thousand long, long years has given me plenty of time to hone the art of possession.

"One minute to destination," announced a twisted creature at the forefront of the vehicle. It had once been a proud Tech Marine, but following Nurgle's intervention it had been fused by disease to the Caecus Pugionem. "Now within range of enemy artillery."

Finish up you damn things! Lucanus shouted at his undead slaves. Its a pity Nurgh-leth chose to leave them like this.

"Do not question the will of the Pestilence Lord," snapped Florus.

You don't know him like I do.

The Land Raider lurched violently as a bright light pierced the haul. Flames burst into existence. Chunks of rusting ceramite and solid decay rained down inside of the vehicle. The skeletons were sent reeling by the impact, slamming against bulkheads and shattering bones. Lucanus was flung backwards and toppled over into a puddle of slime, staining his perfect armor. Kharyun fell also, his bloated form collapsing onto a relatively clean patch of floor.

Losing his footing, Typhus scrambled frantically to remain upright. Before he could fall, Florus shot out a bulky hand and clamped onto Typhus' wrist, pulling him to his feet. A flaming skeleton attempted to claw its way out of the now open roof but collapsed into a pile of scorched bones. The daemon possessed Ultramarine grimaced and sloshed the puddle with an open hand, still lying on his back.

Just when I got cleaned up no less. Oh well, hopefully the rain will get most of it.

"Engines overheating," the Tech Marine driver announced. "Coolant tank likely damaged in blast."

"Then slow down!" Typhus shouted.

"Negative; brakes not responding. Approaching Ultramarine citadel."

Typhus grumbled and brandished his Manreaper. He slashed across one of the Caecus Pugionem's side hatchdoors, ripping it open in a flash of green light. Without hesitation he leapt out through the empty hatch and landed on the rough, rocky ground. Florus immediately followed, retaining his balance as well. Kharyun, with his relatively light weight standard power armor, went into a roll upon landing as opposed to simply stepping outside. Upon his escape the Caecus Pugionem was struck by a Multi-melta, reducing the front half of the Land Raider to slag.

Roaring praise to the Plague God, Typhus charged forwards towards the citadel. A squad of loyalist Neophytes attempted to halt him, launching a barrage of frag and krak grenades while opening fire with silenced bolter pistols; it had no effect. A stroke of his scythe immediately downed two of the Neophytes, bisecting one and decapitating another. One leapt forward and forced his chainsword into the abdominal joint of Typhus' corrupted armor. As the weapon grinded through the 1st Captain's chest it tore through flesh and organs until it was jammed by viscera.

Another Neophyte slashed across Typhus' arm and leg armor with little success, failing to even penetrate the rusting ceramite. The Scout Sergeant boldly attempted to stab the Plague Lord through the visor of his helmet. Cackling madly, he caught the chainsword with his free hand and turned it to dust with a mere thought. With his other hand he impaled the Neophyte who had managed to penetrate the armor, killing him instantly.

His corpse fell onto the Sergeant, knocking him onto his back. The instant he hit the ground Typhus stomped down on his head, breaking his skull and crushing his brain. With a quick prayer to the Emperor, the final Neophyte swung his chainsword at Typhus' face. The Herald of Nurgle extended his free hand and drew warp energy into it. As the Neophyte came closer, he released it. A stream of filth and decay rained down on the Loyalist, leaving him victim to a thousand diseases and plagues. Armaplas and ceramite plates rusted away. Teeth rotted. Eyes burst. Ears bled. Flesh melted. Entropy ruled.




I'm just fine, thank you! called out Lucanus from his prone position within the speeding Caecus Pugionem. Yeah, you guys can go on without me! I am definitely fine with this!

A blinding light and a piercing noise rocked the Land Raider. Sheer heat melted away all of the metal within a small radius. Lucanus' cape caught fire and the paintjob was burnt away from his lower armor. Biting wind and rain promptly put any fire out, leaving a billowing cloud of smoke and steam in its stead.

"Right track disabled," the Tech Marine said. "Coolant disabled. Brakes disabled. Engine overheating. Citadel nearing."

Lucanus stood up groggily and clutched a large mold structure extending from one of the few intact bulkheads. Glancing out a large hole, he saw that Astartes were rushing out of the way as the Caecus Pugionem barreled towards the citadel, somehow still mobile. A sound reminiscent of hail emerged as the vehicle became within range of a dozen bolter armed Ultramarines. Several shots worked their way through the gaping holes in the vehicle and exploded within the interior, kicking up filth and slime.

Tell me, are you afraid?

"Negative; an odd question."

Why not?

"Fear is a sign of weakness. Fear is a sign of failure to master one's emotions."

Why do you serve Nurgh-leth after what he has done to you? He has bound you to this vehicle which is now on the fast-track to hell.

"Nurgle represents the ultimate defiance of pain, weakness and death. If I must die to further the aims of his other Acolytes, so be it. This conversation is irrelevant."

I didn't expect such insight from a hopeless Tech Marine. How would you prefer to die?

"Honorably. This conversation is irrelevant."

You don't need to tell me that again. And I'll grant your wish.

Lucanus slowly worked his way to the front of the Land Raider, occasionally glancing out to see how much more time he had until the collision. Upon reaching the front he reached down and touched the Tech Marine's swollen mass, feeling the pustules and swollen flesh that held him fast to the slime coated machinery. Where his hand traveled the flesh began to glow with an odd, pale light and swell. Flies swarmed. Horrible growths jutted out from his form.

"Wa... Waahth are yooouu doi... ingg?" the creature slurred as his form mutated even further, ballooning in size and losing any remaining visage of humanity. "Teeheheh Caacus Pourgenium ish... fai... faling... Elsp ena... eeye you..."

Hideous hives of daemonic insects began to emerge from the rotting mass of flesh. The Tech Marine's mouth unhinged and ripped open, broken bones inadvertently flaying through skin. Teeth receded into his mouth, leaving only a deformed gaping hole in the middle of his face next to two terrified looking eyes. He gagged and screamed while a massive, spike adorned Destroyer Plague hive rose out from the hole. As what was once the Tech Marine writhed impotently, Lucanus leapt out the empty hatch door.

The Caecus Pugionem careened into the citadel. Despite the strength of the damaged Land Raider's front haul, the wall was stronger. Ceramite and adamantium sheets buckled in. The overheated engine exploded but did little beyond blow open the back compartment of the Land Raider. As the vehicle's momentum further crushed it up against the wall, the Tech Marine's form was compressed. It burst. An explosion of steaming bile dissolved whatever it touched, tearing into both metal and rock. Nearby Ultramarines fell to their knees screaming in pain and tearing at their melting armor and flesh. The insect hives tore open. A cloud of assorted insects, bugs and pests exploded into existence, burrowing through the wall and swarming onto any Ultramarine within sight.

One Astartes with a flamer managed to incinerate a large cluster of them, only to be attacked from behind and have his neck eaten within seconds. A Veteran Sergeant armed to the brim with krak grenades charged into the heart of the swarm and pulled the pin in an attempt to quell the pests. Massive artillery cannons punched holes in the swarm only for them to be filled within seconds.

All of the while Lucanus laid on the ground panting, limbs flailed out in all directions. At least two dozen Astartes had already been slaughtered by his spell and many more would die until it finally ended. Within the mortal form, chaos was accumulating. He fought down each mutation, desperate to keep his form. In the moment of severe weakness, the true Lucanus punched through.

"KILL ME!" he shouted to anyone within earshot, barely able to comprehend what was going on. His voice began to weaken. "Kill me!" Lucanus unholstered his plasma pistol and began to bring it towards his face. An invisible force was pushing it back. "Kill me." The pistol drew closer. "Kill.... me..." The Daemon was beginning to retake his form. "Ki-ki-kill...." Through sheer mental strength, Lucanus was still able to bring the pistol forward. "....me." It was almost there. "Ki-ka-ca.... ca...."

Now it was there; fixed on the bridge of his nose, centered perfectly between his eyes. Lucanus just had to pull the trigger now. His index finger was refusing to cooperate. He couldn't pull the trigger. Horrified, he realized that his entire left hand was paralyzed. Nevertheless, Lucanus was an Ultramarine and a true servant of the Emperor. He brought his right arm up and moved his index finger towards the trigger; this limb was starting to go dead as well.

Lucanus reached it. His left arm swerved as he pulled the trigger. A pulse of light exploded from the barrel and stabbed into his shoulder. His arm toppled off. Radiating heat scorched the right half of his face, lighting hair ablaze and taking off an ear and an eye. Chaos took control. Tentacles immediately exploded from the wounds. Lucanus was still holding down the trigger. The plasma pistol overheated. His left hand exploded. Molten plasma rained down onto his chest.

The Daemon's rage was powered by despair. He slammed into Lucanus' psychic essence, flaying and tormenting him as he forced him further back into the recesses of the mortal form. YOU WILL SUFFER, he promised. YOU WILL SUFFER.

Wow, Lucanus's Daemon is really PO'd right now...can't wait to see what fate awaits Lucanus himself.

Ty for the comment. Yeah, the Daemon is really pissed off. He's spent all this time working on Lucanus' body and now it's all fethed up.

That daemon's gonna be coming back with a vengeance!

I found out about this story today and from the minute i started reading it i did not stop until there was no more to read. You've got storytelling talent my friend, and you've got another hooked reader right here i will follow this story through and i'm really interested to find out what happens next! Keep writing brother!

New part. Ty for the comment, as always! It makes more sense if you've read The Flight of the Eisenstein. If not, click on the link and read the brief summary. Note, this entry is uneditted and incomplete. I will edit and complete it within the next thirty.... eight hours. Eight is a good number.

Chapter Five
Reunion

"Death to the False Emperor!" Kharyun bellowed as he followed Typhus in through the gaping hole in the wall. Both psykers were completely blinded by the buzzing swarm, only capable of sight using their warp powers.

Lucanus, whether intentionally or by accident, had torn open reality and the warp was spilling through. As the filth accumulated, Nurglings began to spawn. Soon even larger creatures were forming. Vaguely humanoid creatures of unnatural origin tore themselves free from bloated sores and puddles of slime. Much like the Death Guard they had bloated forms and rotting skin with sunken in, beedy eyes. Every one of them had a single horn jutting out from it's forehead and rusting primitive weapon in hand.

As the swarm intensified, horrendous abominations clawed free from the Immaterium. Their bodies resembled sore doted, disease swollen slugs and their faces were nothing short of a bundle of writhing tentacles with a mouth at the forefront. They moved on doublejointed limbs that ended in barbed claws and curved talons.

"By continuing inside," said Typhus as he kicked back one of the slobbering slug-beasts. "We'll have cut ourselves off from our forces."

"Most of the Ultramarines are already dead. We can handle ourselves," Kharyun said. "Just how powerful is Lucanus?"

"Evidently very. He is a useful, albeit... aggravating ally."

"My men don't like him. They see him as an Ultramarine still, and an arrogant, self absorbed one at that. Sometimes I agree with them."

They reached the edge of the swarm and found themselves in a place remniscent of the Endurance. Though thoroughly corrupted, it's origins and purpose were clear and it still seemed barely survivable. An Ultramarine was sprawled over in the tides of slime, moaning and hacking. Typhus approached the Ultramarine, rolling him onto his back and kneeling besides him.

"Ultramarine," the 1st Captain said. "Where is the radar facility, ammunition facility and acting Commander of this fortress?"

"Tra-traitor scum...."

"Where are they?" shouted Typhus, grabbing the Ultramarine by the collar of his armor and slamming the back of his head against the ground.

"Dead.... everything's dead..." He began to trail offer, muttering something incomprehensible when not gasping for breath. "...dead..."

"Yes, I know that. We'll start off with an easier question then. Who is your commanding officer?"

"Sarge... Sergeant Kindsin..."

"Good. Where is he?"

"Still... screaming...."

"I presume he is dead. Now, who is incharge of this fortress?"

"Captain Solius..."

"Good. Now, where is he?"

"...gone. Nof-nothing left of... of him."

"Good. Now, where is the radar facility?"

"Collapsed."

"Where is the ammunitions facility?"

"Down hall... left... left door down hall..."




Lucanus sensed something. He couldn't quite tell what it was in his dazed, energy deprived state. It was reminiscent of his birthplace but material. He hobbled towards it, mastering his newly mutated form. As he approached, he saw something. It wasn't a location; it was an entity. Something big was coming in. Smiling, Lucanus forced his body to move faster.




Typhus kicked open the door and launched a bolt of psychic energy inside. It pierced through one Astarte's abdomen and into a rack of frag missiles. The room was consumed in flames. A burning Ultramarine blindly charged out through the empty door way only to be scythed down by Typhus. Kharyun summoned on a wave of filth and watched it spill into the room, suffocating the flames and coating the scorched corpses. The two Sorcerers stepped inside and examined the devastation.

"Any remaining Ultramarines won't be a threat," Typhus said. "Besides, all of the turrets and shields are disabled. We can leave and orbitally bombard this place until nothing's left."

"The Death Lord will be pleased. We're ahead of schedule. The Ultramarine's organization has been shattered and their head quarters destroyed," said Kharyun.

"At this point, very little pleases Mortarion. He was opposed to eradicating the Ultramarines to begin with."

"Yes, I was witness to your earlier... argument with him," Kharyun cautiously stated.

"Appearances can be deceiving. No one can be sure where Mortarion's loyalty truly lies."

"Surely it is with his Legion?"

"In these dark times anything is possible."




It was taking shape now. Lucanus couldn't hold back his glee. For a moment he was even distracted from his own corrupted form and the screaming former Ultramarine Captain locked within his conscience. Slime and filth were beginning to recede to the center of the warp anomaly where the entity was arriving. Thick, grey gases swirled throughout the air with a mind of their own.

It appears I will have to edit and finish this entry later. Sorry.

New entry. This one has a main character (Lucanus, Typhus, Cleon or Mortarion) get his ass kicked. No, it's not who you expect. But not that guy. The other guy. You know, the one?

Typhus and Kharyun walked past a fallen Astartes and towards the buzzing, warp cursed insect swarm. It was receding now, but in the areas where the Warp still held sway it was stronger than ever. A hideously mutated Astartes limped towards it. His left arm and shoulder were completely missed, replaced by a bundle of dry, sore doted tentacles, as was his right hand. The paint had been scorched off of his ceramite torso and dozens of the boneless appendages focused on worming their way through chinks and cracks in the armor. Half of his face had been burnt away; especially lithe tentacles emerged from the flaking, dead skin.

Greetings! called the figure. It seems I have gone through another change of form. He smiled widely, tearing at the burnt flesh.

"1st Captain," said Kharyun, ignoring Lucanus. "Do you sense it?"

"Sense what?" Typhus asked.

"It! There's something inside!"

"Daemons, nothing more," said the 1st Captain with disdain. "You can expect such things when the Warp breaks into the material."

No, Lucanus said. That's why I'm here. There's someone inside.

"And what do you think that it might-" Typhus was cut off by a sudden flash of dull yet blinding brown light. A wave of slime exploded from the beacon of Warp energy and the swirling winds fluxed inward. As the warp disappeared, the silhouette of a massive figure could be seen. It was easily twice as tall as Typhus.

Kharyun dropped to his knees and bowed his head as best he could in his corrupted form much to the amusement of Lucanus. Both the Herald of Nurgle and Daemon Possessed Ultramarine remained standing tall, ready for whatever it might be. Finally the last remnants of the warp faded away, exposing the abomination.

Plague Marines were deformed, bloated and corrupted Astartes, blessed by Nurgle with the power of pestilence; this entity seemed like a horribly exaggerated one. Any armor covering its abdomen had been destroyed and it's swollen gut hung out. Something reminiscent of ceramite covered it's legs, right arm and back. In one arm it held a massive, rusting blade dangling with heavy chains and decayed trophies. From it's back rose strange, stalagmites of rotting bone and pus. The skin on it's left, bare arm had been pulled gaunt and was missing in some places, giving a clear view of the rotting, maggot infested muscle. On it's wrist was a strange, arcane contraption of tubes, vents and tarnished mechanics.

Worst of all was it's face. Though twisted and corrupted with disproportional eyes and needle thin fangs, there was still a glimmer of humanity. Its red pupils glowed in the dark night; bile oozed from its gaping maw. It chuckled darkly and took a step forward on a cloven hoof.

Ignatius Grulgor, Lucanus said. I've heard of you.

"Gra-grulgor," stammered a horrified Kharyun.

"Commander Grulgor of the 2nd!" boomed the Daemon Prince. Though his voice was grounded in the material, unlike Lucanus', it was no less intimidating. "Where is my company?"

"No," Typhus snapped, taking a step forward towards Grulgor. "It is no longer your company. In your absence, Librarian Kharyun was promoted. After your failure to eliminate Garro you were presumed dead. The psykers run this Legion now."

"Ah, 1st Captain Typhoon, I see that despite also gaining the favor of Nurgle you have retained your personality. Perhaps this was for the worse though," Grulgor said. "Stand down Typhoon; this is a matter between a Commander and his underling."

The two chosen of Nurgle stood deadly still, simply staring. Grulgor leaned down so that he was closer to Typhus and grinned, licking his rotting lips with a fat, slime oozing tongue but the 1st Captain remained stalwart.

"My name is Typhus."

Typhus suddenly swung his Manreaper in a deadly arc, moving around Grulgor's leg and stabbing him in the back of the knee. The scythe went in deep, piercing bone and leaving a gaping, pus oozing wound. Grulgor fell to his knees and was immediately punched in the face. Typhus' fist lit up with a pulse of decay, eroding Grulgor's skin and wracking muscle and bone. Ignoring the attack, Grulgor jabbed Typhus in the gut with the hilt of his massive blade, knocking him back. While Typhus stumbled, the Commander jerked upright and pummeled into him at full strength.

The Herald of Nurgle slammed into the rusting wall of the Ultramarine citadel. His scythe immediately dropped to the ground. Armor began to crack from the strain as Grulgor crushed him harder and harder against the steel. Desperate, Typhus launched a torrent of disease, but it had no effect on the already decayed blessed Grulgor.

"You don't intimidate me," snarled Grulgor. "I stared into the warp and the warp stared back. I've seen the tendrils of Nurgle and the hoards of Daemons. And you... you are nothing. All of your egotism and impotent rage adds up to nothing."

Typhus was breathing hard now, each breath rendered a hard, grating noise by his deformed throat and the vox unit of his armor. Grulgor was just giving him enough freedom so that he could squirm and nothing more. His armor was barely intact.

"You are a disgrace to the Death Guard name," he continued. "And I want you to die knowing that."

And that was when Lucanus spoke. Stop. Typhus is more useful to Nurgle alive than dead. Grulgor, release him. Grulgor took a step away from Typhus but stayed within arm's reach, watching him cautiously. Keep your damned rank and underlings for all I care, but let Typhus live.

"Very well."

As always an impressive read. Eager for more !!!

Ty for the comment. New entry coming up soon. I've noticed that the plotline of this story will kind of contradict the fluff, but It'll be like 85% the same. Only some details will be different.

Hey LoneLictor! Just read the whole thing through in one sitting. Colour me impressed - you certainly have a flair for the visceral and disgusting!

Don't sweat it if the storyline diverges from current fluff - it's your take on things that people want to read.

Thanks Necroagogo! Your post has reminded me that I should continue work on this story!

Mortarion's chambers were a mess. The already all-consuming filth, slime and mold now completely coated the room, leaving no surface untouched. They emitted warm gusts of poison and squelched when touched; Typhus was reminded of a diseased womb. Furthermore, much of Mortarion's personal possessions had been cleared out in favor of a holotable, vox communicators and data disks. The Death Lord seemed obsessed with the attack on Terra. "Probably for the better," Typhus muttered to himself as he stepped inside. Once again he noted that his Primarch should probably get a door.

"Yes, Typhus?" Mortarion said as he put in new coordinates to the holotable. The grainy image of the World Eaters fleet moved an inch closer to Terra. "Horus has already arrived within the Solar Segmentum and Angron is close behind. A combined force of Iron Warriors, Sons of Horus and Emperor's Children has overtaken Luna."

"Have you directly contacted the Warmaster yet, my Lord?" Typhus asked. Though he had meant to speak of Grulgor, he was aware that this was a far more pressing issue.

"No, only through binary code."

"Does he know of our new found allegiance to Nurgh-leth?"

"He doesn't."

The Herald of Nurgle grimaced beneath his helm. If Horus reacted badly it could put the whole Death Guard Legion in jeopardy, a risk he wasn't willing to take after all he had done. "Perhaps," delicately said Typhus. "It would be best if I spoke directly to him first, my Lord. As you know, I am a very persuasive speaker."

"Only too well," said Mortarion in a brief moment of honesty. "Nevertheless, I know my brother better than you ever will. I will speak to him, myself alone. Not you." He paused. "But that isn't why you came here. What's on your mind Typhus?"

"You no doubt have heard about the incident regarding Ignatius Grulgor and myself. I was hoping disciplinary action could be taken against Grulgor for violating the chain of command and a dozen other laws and rules within our Legion. Only the timely intervention of Lucanus stopped him from straight out executing me."

"He only did what everyone in the Legion has desired to do for the past several years," replied Mortarion with an uninterested tone. "You and him can work out this squabble yourselves. I have larger matters to deal with."

"Everything I have done has been in the best interest of this Legion!" Typhus shouted, enraged. "You cannot deny this! And we he returned unexpectedly after his humiliating defeat at the hands of Garro and demanded his rank back, you can expect how I would react."

"A larger portion of the crew of the Eisenstein remained loyal than expected. The odds were against him from the start. Furthermore, he's a fellow Acolyte of Nurgle. Grulgor is still the Captain of the 2nd until I declare otherwise."

"Very well, my lord," said Typhus, having already begun scheming as to how he would assassinate Grulgor and then shift the blame to someone. Perhaps he would accuse Kharyun; after all, the Librarian would have had a motive for it. "I suppose, I'll do as you've suggested and attempt to work it out peacefully with him."


Chapter Six
Paranoid

Lucanus laid down on the operating table, surrounded by a literal skeleton crew of undead Surgeons, Medics and Artificers. They systemically activated lasersaws and removed the tentacles, scorching them off one at a time. It was a long, steady process as the Daemon had demanded absolute perfection. Any of the undead creatures that so much as touched what little remaining untainted flesh the body still held was liquefied into a stinking puddle of pale ichor.

Meanwhile, other skeletons repaired and repainted his armor. Once the last mutations were removed they would turn their attention towards fitting him with bionic replacements for his wounds. As the skeletons worked, the Daemon simply relaxed. Periods of inactivity like this gave him more time to focus on what was left of the mortal hiding in the recesses of his brain.

Non-psychically attuned souls simply displayed as tiny lights in the vast realm of the Immaterium, making it difficult to see damage to them. There, a crippled child could easily be mistaken for the Lord-Commander of the Segmentum Solar himself. Nevertheless, with each piercing psychic blow Lucanus' light blinked. When it returned, it was always just a little dimmer than before. If the Daemon concentrated, he could hear its faint screams.




Cleon patrolled the massive swathes of undead, holding his bolt pistol loosely and keeping his sacred power sword sheathed. The skeletons disassembled the power armor of the deceased Ultramarines one by one, forcefully removing the corpses and loading the armor parts up into Rhinos and other transport units. Other members of his squad and by extension the entire Grand Company performed similar duties. Though exceedingly dull, it was necessary to keep the Legion running smoothly; the skeletons couldn't be trusted to operate efficiently by themselves.

Suddenly, Cleon heard a sharp, cracking noise. He turned to see an Ultramarine groggily forcing himself upright from a pile of corpses and punching a skeleton back. A second skeleton approached the Ultramarine and met a similar fate, his ribs and spine destroyed by the slash of a whirring chainsword. The Ultramarine noticed Cleon and launched into a mad charge.

The Death Guard reached for his power sword but was struck by a wave of dizziness and nausea. He felt for the sword's handle but was unable to grab it. Soon it was increasingly difficult to keep his balance. Cleon stumbled back as the Ultramarine neared. His eyes rolled in back in his head and his body went limp.

He was back in the ocean of filth. Hideous creatures were swimming in all directions. A tentacle faced slug grabbed him with a mutlijointed claw. Intestines in the water coiled around his flailing body and threatened to drag him down. A fatty tentacle scraped across the feet of his power armor and took hold of his ankle. He was too weak. He couldn't resist anymore.

Cleon plunged into the water.

And he saw the universe. All of existence stood there before him, everything that ever was and everything that every would be. Within it, was something horrifying. Even on the atomic level, he could see the decay take hold. It consumed with a patient hunger, knowing full well it would soon have the chance to devour all. Gradually, the decay ruined all.

His eyes opened. And he saw the chainsword sticking out of his gut, still grinding in further. It was draped with viscera and filth; giblets of gore had managed to jam themselves in the mechanics. It was barely still operational. With one hand the Ultramarine was shoving the weapon in while with the other he was fending off the skeletons. A quick kick broke one's pelvis and a punch shattered another's sternum.

Cleon immediately unsheathed his power sword and slashed at the loyalist. The shimmering blade easily passed through the chainsword and continued into the Ultramarine's thigh, where the weapon lodged itself after managing to penetrate a portion of power armor. He reared back and grunted in pain. That was all that the undead needed. A noticeably tall one latched onto the exhausts of his power armor and managed topple the ceramite behemoth. Others attacked from all angles, pounding on him with skeletal fists and biting at his joints like feral animations.

The Death Guard cautiously stood up, still dazed from the vision. He wrenched what was left of the chainsword out of his chest and tossed it to side. By all accounts he should have died. Even the insanely durable Plague Marines could seldom survive a dead on, penetrating hit like that. Cleon deliberately gripped his plasma pistol, slowly bringing it up towards the Ultramarine.

"Traitor!" the loyalist shouted as he struggled to fight back the swarming victims of Nurgle. His voice was seething with hatred. "Traitor!"

Cleon pulled the trigger, blasting a smoking hole through his chest. The loyalist growled incomprehensibly and tried to stand up one last time before falling limp. All around him the skeletons set to work disassembling his armor and removing any remnents of his corpse. Whoever he had been didn't matter. Now he was just another causality of what would become the greatest war in the Imperium's history.

NEW ENTRY! WOOOO! As always, ty for the comments. This is a pretty long one, at least I hope it is considering how damn long it took me to write it. I'm a slow writer I guess. Oh yeah, and does anyone remember the minor character Vitus? Probably not. Anyways he kinda has a role in this entry and a bigger role in the next one. Oh yeah, and Kharyun's in the next entry. He was even more minor than Vitus, so I'll probably reintroduce him.

Perhaps only forty of the loyalists still drew breath after the Death Guard’s previous assault, but they were prepared. Their small, Spartan complex was a metal rectangle with rounded corners and an enveloping layer of barbed wire, fences, improvised barricades and land mines surrounding it. Tiny bolters and, oddly enough, lasguns poked from dozens of gun slits; the fortress was also a housing area for serfs. In the absence of Astartes they had been equipped for the upcoming battle.

Cleon felt his wound, moving his ceramite glove across the uneven break in his armor. Occasionally bile would dribble out as it ‘healed,’ with layers of disease and rot growing where the flesh should’ve been. It occurred to Cleon that there was no pain; he wasn’t really feeling at all. He pressed into the wound hard with his index finger; it made a dark, squelching sound. There was no pain. I am a prisoner of my own corpse, he thought.

“Ready,” ordered Commander Grulgor over the Comm. System. “Approaching firing range. Let Havoc Squads and Vindicators proceed ahead. Over.”

Cleon moved his hand up and grasped one of the main breathing tubes connecting from his helmet to his chest. It subtly pulsated as it pumped fluids of unknown origins into his body. His grip tightened and he tore it open, watching the liquid gush out freely. At least seven more tubes still clung to his helmet anyways. A growth infested Vindicator rumbled past his squad, spewing thick grey smog from organic silos.

“Proceed with caution,” the Commander continued. “Approaching firing range.”

Cleon grasped his helmet itself and tugged; it was stuck. Frantically, he pulled the plug on his black carapace. The connection remained active. There had to be a way out; the Legionnaire sealed all air vents and set all power condoles to 100%; if he overheated it the black carapace would short out and he could manually disconnect. Acting with a sadistic mind of its own, the armor forced all vents open and activated emergency coolant protocols. There is no escape from my ceramite tomb.

“Sergeant,” hissed Arsenius, gesturing to the fortress ahead. But it wasn’t Arsenius; his loyal comrade and old friend was long dead. This horrible thing was another corpse, like himself, enslaved by Daemons and condemned to an eternity of war.

The first Vindicator reached the enemy. Hundreds of weak lasers and bolts were easily deflected by its impressive siege shield as it plowed towards the fortress wall. A landmine detonated underfoot, shredding treads to pieces. Even in its immobile state it was still a threat; the cannon open fired, blowing a massive hole in the wall. Crumbling pieces of masonry rained down in all directions along with the occasional corpse.

Another Vindicator roared up, only to be obliterated by a lucky shot from a lascannon. A third one had better luck, managed to fire directly into the corner of the building. The entire building reeled from the impact, worsening any existing wounds. An elite squad of melta armed Havocs rushed the front, reducing the adamantium door to slag in mere seconds.




"Excellent work," said Typhus, activating his own comm. unit. "Commander Grulgor, I will take it from here as the Death Lord commanded in the first place." The 1st Captain had chosen to somewhat exaggerate his recent conversation with Mortarion, preferring to say that his Primarch had officially declared Typhus' superiority to Grulgor. So far Grulgor had accepted it, but the tension between the two was still thick enough to cut a knife through. "Vitus, follow my lead."

Vitus nodded and gestured to his squad. Ever since Lucanus had chosen to demonstrate his Nurgle-blessed power on the Terminator, Vitus had never been the same. He had lost his ability to speak and likely large chunks of his brain as well to the surge of poison. Furthermore, he had become home to a variety of mutations. His right arm had become a bundle of oozing tentacles which he used to wield his power-mace with lethal proficiency. His intestines moved with a mind of their own, sometimes strangling opponents in battle. Lastly, the breather unit of his Terminator armor had twisted into a hideous gaping maw at the forefront of his helmet.

Typhus charged ahead as fast as he could with his bulky form. Soon he was under fire by a barrage of lasguns and bolters, with the occasional plasma gun or lascannon thrown in, but he successfully weaved through without serious injury. Vitus' squad faired similarly, with only one of the ten of them falling to the loyalists. The Herald of Nurgle pushed through a cluster of barbed wire and finally entered the fortress. It was heavily damaged; the lights had gone dark and massive chunks of walls, ceilings and floors were missing. Dust constantly rained down from the crumbling ceiling. Corpses crushed by debris littered the floor.

The first figure to attack Typhus wasn't in fact an Astartes, but a serf with a lasgun. Almost casually, he obliterated the mortal with a quick jolt of psychic energy. Continuing inside, he met a disorganized squad of actual Astartes. A quick sweep of his scythe immediately downed two. Before they could even retaliate, Vitus' Terminators caught up and were able to slaughter the remaining, disoriented Ultramarines with no resistance. Grinning beneath his helmet, the 1st Captain continued inside the building.

A group of fleeing serfs encountered them within the hallways, but failed to even touch the Astartes. One by one they fell, either through horrendous injury or simply contracting one of the thousands of plagues that resided within the Death Guard. Most of the Astartes were little challenge either, as they were separated from their squads and usually injured. After several minutes of slaughter, Typhus was interrupted by Grulgor's voice on the comm. system. "1st Captain Typhus, Devastator Squads within the northeast third floor are inflicting heavy damage."

"Then get rid of them," Typhus spat. He quickly added in, "Commander Grulgor."

"1st Captain, this is no time for petty squabbling. Our forces on the outside are being destroyed before being able to get within range."

"Understood; I will accept once again having to compensate for your failure, as I have done many times before." He cut off his comm. unit before Grulgor could respond. Turning towards the Terminators he said, "Four of you, follow me. Vitus, you take the rest and try to find the armory."




The Death Guard fired in unison as if to the beat of an unheard song. Cleon fired with them, still consumed by the absence of sensation. The knock back of a bolter, something that had once been so familiar to him, was gone. He had never thought he would miss that. As Neophyte he had even embarrassingly broken his nose when he fired a bolter too close to his face in melee. I have forsaken the Emperor. And this is his ultimate punishment to us, his everlasting justice. If we can no longer feel his righteousness, his glory, we shall no longer feel anything at all. All the while he and his squad kept firing, systematically butchering a dozen serfs clustered too closely to a hole in the wall.




The Terminators ascended through a narrow staircase, ignoring the raining dust and overall instability of the building, especially in their current situation of the third floor. At the end of the staircase was a bulky, metal door reinforced by ceramite bars. Without hesitation, Typhus fired on the door with a barrage of psychic entropy. It dissolved away and Typhus leapt inside, followed closely by the 1st two Terminators. A flamer open fired before he could even get a good look inside.

He was blinded by light. Despite lacking pain, he was vaguely aware that he was on fire. It set in; he was on fire! Blindly, Typhus swept back and forth with his scythe in a desperate attempt to save himself. A massive noise almost deafened him and his leg gave out. Evidently he had been shot by something. He concentrated on his second sight and his vision returned, albeit through the gaze of the warp rather than the material.

One of the Terminators who had also been lit ablaze was knocked back by a gleaming power weapon. He tumbled onto the already weak stairs, which caved in under his weight. Another hulking Terminator fell in with him. The Devastator with the flamer had been impaled on the broken blade of a power sword and was flailing wildly. One of the loyalists brought a plasma cannon towards Typhus. Typhus clamped onto the barrel of the plasma cannon and pushed it upwards as he felt for his scythe. Despite his massive daemonic strength, the weapon was seldom inches away from having the perfect shot at his forehead.

The loyalist began to charge the weapon and lean foreward, pressing down with all his weight on the weapon. Typhus immediately twisted his grip. Continuing forward with his momentum, the loyalist smashed into a wall and his plasma cannon detonated. Molten plasma poured over his form, liquefying metal and scorching flesh. He made a long, gurgling scream before finally succumbing to his wounds. Finally, there was a long silence.

Chapter 1, third line- Mortality. Overall really good writing. Keep it up!

Awesome writting! A big thank you to you good sir as this kept me very busy waiting for my delayed flight today at another abysmally boring airport. Cant wait to hear more!

New entry. Ty for the comments, as always.

Anyways, while editting it into the old entry (2 posts ago) I accidentally deleted the first three paragraphs. I think it still makes sense anyways, those paragraphs were just descriptive stuff. I'll add them back in later. Essentially all you missed was the description of the Death Guard preparing for/driving to/marching to war to finish off the Ultramarines.

LoneLictor! Awesome work, lovely writing and i think you've captured the feel of Nurgle. Please give me more! It's jaw dropping

I have always enjoyed your stories!!!Keep it up

New entry! As always, ty for the comments! This entry is currently unedited, but I will have it edited in 24 hours. I apologize in advance for the grammar and spelling errors.

The building quaked, loosening a chunk of ceiling. It crashed directly before Typhus, making the Plague Marine vividly aware that he had to escape. To die here, a causality of poor architecture, would not be an option. He was the Herald of Nurgle and he would survive.

Walking away wasn't an option. As such, he crawled. Typhus dragged himself across the room, each pull a momentous effort. Multiple times a charred and disfigured body blocked his way, forcing him to clamber over it. When he ultimately forced himself through the doorway, he was horrified at what he saw; the stairs had been devastated. At least five feet of stairs were absent, in their place a dark, unyielding chasm. With his increased stature getting over that would normally be difficult, but without the use of his legs he was hopeless.

He shook the thought. There was always hope, even if it came from despair and pain. If Nurgle willed it, so be it. Typhus flicked on his comm. system only to hear static. The flamer must've damaged his helmet. With no other choice, Typhus cautiously lowered himself down the stairs and towards the chasm.




Blood jetted from the headless serf's neck, his skull gripped in the knotted tentacles of the deformed giant before him. Vitus tightened his grip, destroying the head with a wet crunch, and turned towards his men. As they butchered the last of the loyalists, he made a quick hand gesture for them. The 1st Captain had failed to contact them within the past 15 minutes as protocol required. As soon as his Terminators were behind him, Vitus began racing down the corridor.

Webs of shallow cracks were appearing in the walls, steadily expanding as the building endured further bombardment from the Death Guard on the outside. Dead serfs were scattered throughout the complex with the occasional Astartes mixed in. Whereas most of the mortals seemed to have suffered grievous wounds from falling debris, the Astartes had died in actual combat; their corpses were missing limbs and punctured with bullet holes, a testament to their violent deaths. Such was the life of a Space Marine.

Advancing onward, they reached the stairwell to the 3rd floor. It creaked and moaned incessantly, swaying even during the breaks in the shelling. Vitus raised his left arm, signaling for the Terminators to hold their current position. The stairs didn't look like they could hold too much weight, meaning that he would go up alone. Even still, one misstep would certainly claim his life.




Typhus reached the gap. He admitted to himself that he hadn't expected this. Due to his high rank, he assumed that one of his men would've arrived and rescued him prior. He was reminded of the old Terran provide, "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself." He would just have to save himself. If it was the will of Nurgle, so be it. Typhus pulled forward as hard and as suddenly as he could, simultaneously pushing forward with his good leg.

As he slipped downwards, Typhus' arm shot out and he barely managed to snatch onto the edge of the chasm. He began to hoist himself upwards; that was when a massive crack appeared in the side of the chasm. Typhus let his arm go limp, becoming aware the attempting to pull himself out would only hasten his demise.




Vitus rounded a corner and saw a large, crumbling hole near the end of the stairs. Upon closer examination, two massive gauntlets could be seen barely clinging to its fragmenting edge. "Hello?" called a voice from within the chasm. "This is 1st Captain Typhus of the Death Guard! I'm more valuable to you alive than dead!" The deformed Terminator sprinted to the ledge as fast as he could, carefully avoiding stepping on any cracks or weak spots. Upon reaching Typhus, he clutched the wall with both arms and began coiling his intestines around the Captain. "Thank you Vitus!" he stammered. "I assure you, you will be rewarded greatly! Your loyalty and devotion in this time of need will not be forgotten."

The Terminator's entire form tensed as he slowly lifted Typhus, barely able to keep standing himself. As he lifted, he could've sworn he heard foot steps. "Hurry! Vitus, quickly!" Vitus tightened his grip on Typhus' shoulder joints and abdomen, worming his intestines into places where it was easier to hold. Now he could distinctly make out the foot steps, which were growing louder and closer. "As I've said earlier, you will be rewarded greatly, but for Nurgh-leth's sake hurry!"

An Ultramarine slowly rounded the corner. He was missing one arm, a gory stump in it's place. In his remaining hand he clutched a viscera choked chainsword, smeared with the blood of past kills. His distinct white helmet and the purity seals adorning his shining armor marked him as a Veteran of the Great Crusade. The Ultramarine clicked on his chainsword and immediately charged, shouting, "Courage and Honor!"

Unable to move, Vitus stood helplessly as he struck the first blow, rending his chainsaw through the thick ceramite of his backplate and through his torso. He looked down to see it sticking out from his exposed gut, grinding away into the air. The 1st Captain had to survive. Continuing his assault, the Veteran wrenched his chainsword free of the Plague Marine's gut and turned his attention towards his right arm, or rather the bundle of hideous tentacles that had replaced it. Putting all of his weight into the attack, he forced his chainsword against the tentacles, slowly but surely cutting through them. Thick, grey ichor that stunk of death gushed from the wounds, sloshing onto the Ultramarine's pristine armor.

Finally he cut through. Slipped forward and swayed over the small chasm, only holding on by one arm. What remained of his tentacles, no longer clutching to the wall, went on the attack. Like ravenous serpents they latched onto the face of the Veteran's helmet, attacking his respirator and optical units. The Veteran reared back and renewed the assault. Stepping out of reach of the tentacles, he hacked furiously at Vitus' remaining arm. The Tactical Dreadnought Armor held strong, but each swing brought it closer to breaking.

That didn't matter; he was but one of many Legionnaires, already equally dedicated to Nurgle and all equally ready to bring death to his enemies. The 1st Captain, the Herald of Nurgle, had to survive. And he would. In a burst of strength, Vitus hoisted Typhus out. Typhus fell limp on the side of the chasm, his leg falling out from under him. No longer focused on protecting his Commander, Vitus unleashed his full wrath on the Veteran. A jarring punch left him dazed and vulnerable to his creeping intestines. They snaked around his arm, crushing ceramite and snapping joints. Finally, he hurled the Ultramarine into the chasm.

Most of the noise from a gunshot is in fact from the expanding gases, though some comes from a small sonic boom from the bullet itself. Silencers are simply an extension of the barrel filled with tiny holes that the gas can silently escape through. If, for whatever reason, you drill the holes incorrectly, the gas can shoot out in any direction. With a strong enough gun, it could blow off your hand.

The Mk. V-1 Autocannon was a bulky weapon that fit firmly in Lucanus' new, artificial hands. A rusted chain attached to the weapon just before the barrel, wrapping around his right shoulder and then reattaching itself to the stock. A thin, slime encrusted bayonet protruded from beneath its slender barrel. Its shells were highly explosive, designed to penetrate the initial hall and then detonate within the intricate mechanics. A lucky shot could explode within the engine and send the entire vehicle up in flames.

Unfortunately, the Imperium had yet to design any weapons intended for use against Astartes.

But an improved Mk. V-1 Autocannon will work well enough. Lucanus drilled in the final silencer hole, leaving a thin cloud of metallic dust. Continuing on, he picked up large electrosaw. Over the past hundred years, the Mechanicum had steadily upgraded autocannons until the upgrades had replaced the actual weapon. Their religion kept them from cutting away the unused metal, leaving the autocannon mostly dead weight. With extreme precision, he slowly disassembled and cut into the weapon, carefully removing one tiny component at a time. He had commissioned a dozen Mk. V-1 Autocannons from the armory so that he would be able to experiment, determining which parts it needed and which parts it didn't. It was a laborious project, but Lucanus was patient. He had waited two thousand years alone just for this body that he used now. Nurgh-leth couldn't have given it to him immediately of course; he had to test his loyalty. The galaxy was extremely treacherous, as were the Daemons it had spawned.

His next project would involve the ammunition. Explosive shells were a useless endeavor against Astartes. They had a tendency to detonate impotently against the armor, doing little more scorch away a small portion of their Legion's colours. The fanciful Emperor's Children would be the only force hurt by that. Hollowpoint rounds were even worse. In combat, he'd seen thousands of them deflect helplessly off of armor. Solid slug rounds though, those were lethal. They could rip straight through a ceramite breast plate and still have enough force to stab through the genetically enhanced rib cage and straight through both hearts. As such, he had taken extremely detailed casts of the Mk. V-1 rounds; more ammo would be made, but as solid adamantium. Obviously Typhus would be opposed to the 'wastefulness,' but Typhus wasn't here.

And that led to the question, where was Typhus? By now the self proclaimed Herald of Nurgh-leth should've been there to make his usual rounds of plotting and scheming with Lucanus, usually against his latest rival within the Legion. Taking a break from his work, Lucanus stood up from his desk and stepped out into a corridor of the Terminus Est. He noticed a nearby Plague Marine, holding his bolter up against his bloated form as they normally did when on guard.

Excuse me, he said in his polite, regal voice. The original Lucanus had excellent vocal cords and he was sure to use them. Do you know of 1st Captain Typhus' current whereabouts?

"Sick bay," answered the Legionnaire, his voice dark and monotone.

Very funny, Lucanus hissed. Where is he, worm? I could kill you right here and right now if I so desired.

"Sick bay. The 1st Captain sustained serious wounds during the fighting."

Apologies, the Daemon said. With a flourish of his cape he made a sharp turn and continued down the hall. Several other Plague Marines marched by him, identical in posture and movement. Lucanus had come to suspect that Nurgle had been steadily rotting their brains away, just to insure their loyalty after all of the 'gifts' he had granted them. He had used similar tactics with his other cults, though none of them had been nearly as grand as this one. An entire Legion had fallen to him and the Sons of Horus might have too, if not for the mechanisms of Tzeentch. It didn't matter, as the Decay Lord would have his revenge eventually. Entropy was inevitable.

The corridor ended at a dark elevator. Stepping inside, Lucanus wiped away a layer of slime from a control panel and typed in his floor number. Tarnished doors clamped shut the elevator jolted downwards, throwing him off balance. He snapped onto the wall to keep standing and remained that way until the elevator jarringly stopped. A different set of tarnished doors opened and he stepped out, into the sickbay. It was dimmer than the rest of the ship, and mostly empty. Long rows of blood stained, slime encrusted vacant hospital beds stretched throughout the room. The occasional corpse could be seen, usually of an Astartes even Nurgle couldn't save. One was missing the entire right side of it's body, another drilled into by at least a hundred bullet holes.

In the far left corner of the room, Lucanus spotted a sign of movement in one of the beds. He warily approached, scanning the room for other nearby signs of movement. As he neared, he heard a weak voice. "Greetings, Lucanus. I expected that you would arrive eventually." Seemingly hundreds of IVs, tubes and wires were plugged into Typhus. Parts of his armor had been stripped away for surgery, revealing the rotted flesh. One of his legs was horribly mangled, with exposed bone and ripped muscle easily visible. "As you can see, I am regrettably not in peak physical condition at the moment."

I would expect more Legionnaires here, considering its their 1st Captain.

"Injury is not regarded well within the Death Guard. With our resistance, our resilience, comes a belief in the survival of the fittest. Failure is weakness and weakness is failure. As such, I am granted no respect until I recover. If I fail to do so, I shall be executed or, entombed with a Dreadnought and condemned to a fate worse than death. I have faith in Nurgh-leth that I will recover though."

Are there any favors you would request in your incapacitated state?

"The rank of 1st Captain is currently vacant. Sergeant Vitus is the 2nd in Command of my Company and as such is the candidate for promotion. Kill him."




Several hours later, with the first batch of ammunition completed, it would be the perfect opportunity to test out his weaponry. In the style of the Techno Barbarians of old, he had decided to name his weapon. Qui Putrescit seemed fitting. By now the weapon was at least half its former weight, even with the added mass of the adamantium solid-slug rounds. Furthermore, Lucanus had chosen to drastically sharpen and lengthen the bayonet incase the confrontation turned physical. Nevertheless, he was confident that he would win.

He knocked repeatedly on the door to Vitus' quarters. Sergeant Vitus of the 1st Company, this is... It occurred to him that he had no official rank within the Death Guard. He would have to request one later. ...Lucanus, acting on behalf of 1st Captain Typhus! Open the door or I'll kick it in!

The door immediately slid open. There stood hideous Vitus in the door way, his tentacles and intestines currently dragging across the floor. He made a low, snarling sound and beckoned for Lucanus to come inside. The Daemon casually stepped in and examined the room. It was a stark contrast of Typhus' quarters, little more than a concrete box with a rotted bunk in the corner. There was practically nothing. Sitting down atop what remained of the bunk, he ordered, Close the door. Vitus immediately complied. Now, as you can probably guess, this involves your heroic saving of the 1st Captain's life. You see, 1st Captain Typhus, or Typhus as I'm just going to call him, is a poor, demented soul. It would've been best for everyone if you had let him die. You didn't though.

Vitus tensed his tentacles and leapt at the Daemon, unhinging his toothy maw. Lucanus was faster. Qui Putrescit was immediately fixed on the Plague Marine; with one tap of the trigger he launched a barrage of solid rounds. The first hit Vitus hard in the side of the head, sending him recoiling back and taking out one of his eyes. A second blew through his breast plate with a sickening burst of fluid. Three more ripped through his shoulder, paralyzing his gun arm before he could shoot back. The final shot went through his forehead and he fell limp.

Lucanus let go of Qui Putrescit, letting it hang by the sling, and knelt down to examine the corpse. He carefully reached into each wound and plucked the bullet, reloading it back in the ammo case. Due to their adamantium nature, they could easily kill a mark without losing their shape. After collecting the last one, he removed a chainsaw and began cutting Vitus into multiple, small sized pieces, which he could load into small cases and carry away without suspicion. From there, he could throw those pieces into the engine's furnace. For all intents and purposes, Vitus would've simply disappeared. He would be presumed KIA and eventually forgotten by the Legion.

Lucanus is just plain awesome...

Typhus is a very smelly hole. Though I suppose that's why he's the bad guy.

As always, thanks for the comments. I'm glad that you guys have opinions on the characters; I've been trying to build Lucanus up as a psychotic badass and also Typhus up as a smelly badass/donkey-cave. This entry that I recently wrote seemed really long at the time, but now it doesn't seem quite so long. I think it's only 700 words. Oh well.

Cleon approached Mortarion’s quarters, summoned along with several other members of the Death Lord’s retinue. The Endurance was mostly empty at this point; each ponderous footstep echoed incessantly throughout the vacant ship. Most of the Plague Marines hid away in their quarters, Cleon included. Whenever summoned for guard duty, he simply relegated the task to one of his men, usually the loyal and energetic Phokas, and was able to remain secluded. That description didn’t fit Phokas anymore, of course. Now he was introverted and reserved, only speaking when ordered to. Conversations with him were impossible; the same could be said about any of the Legionnaires. Their humanity had been lost the instant the instant they had bargained with Nurgle, but only now was it truly apparent that they had also lost their souls.

Ignatius Grulgor was the first to arrive, already speaking to Mortarion. The two were the same height, though with Grulgor’s wings he looked taller. They easily dwarfed Cleon, being at least twice his size. Cleon stood near the corner of the room, remaining silent as to not intrude on their conversation. Even if he wanted to speak, he had nothing to say.

Other higher-ups soon arrived; Captain Eridion of the 3rd was one of the earliest . He hadn’t been wearing a helmet when he had caught the warp pox, now leaving his disfigured face easily visible. Captain Iradio of the 5th came close behind. Lastly came Talmon, Kallimen and Aetius, Captains of the 6th, 4th and newly rebuilt 7th companies. Normally Cleon would’ve been intimidated by an audience with such powerful figures within the Legion, but he felt nothing at their presence.

“We are entering warp travel. Segmentum Solar is estimated to be mere hours away,” announced Mortarion. “We’ll have arrived at Terra within the week. The area surrounding the Imperial Palace has already been secured by an assault led by Angron. The Warmaster and Perturabo have successfully brought in thousands of heavy war engines, including the dreaded Warmongers Elegit Manus and Mortem Ludicium. The galaxy is within our grasp.”

The Traitors were awed. It had always been known that they would triumph, but now that it was so close they could truly comprehend the magnitude of it. The Imperium was falling; a thousand years of order would end at the hands of the very soldiers that had secured it.

“Unfortunately, the Dark Angels, Space Wolves and Ultramarines are nearing Terra. A full on conflict between the Warmaster’s Legions and what remains of the Emperor’s would be of a scale never seen before and predicting the victor would surely be impossible. The Warmaster is not one to hinge his plans on chance; the Emperor must be eliminated before then, and it is as much our Legion’s responsibility as any other. When the palace walls are breached, we must immediately take the gap. We are perhaps the only Legion capable of enduring the combined forces of the Blood Angels, Imperial Fists, White Scars and Custodes long enough to secure the entrance of our brothers. Anything less will not be tolerated. If any of you fail in this sacred endeavor, you shall answer to the Warmaster himself. I assure you that he will not be amused. Is this understood?”

They all nodded as best as they could with deformed necks and rusting armor. “Excellent. Commander Grulgor will assume temporary control of the 1st Company in addition to his 2nd until Sergeant Vitus can be located. Captain Iradio, your 5th Company is the most mobile and as such will lead the assault. You shall be granted access to the Legion’s complete arsenal of bikes, jump packs and tanks. The rest of you will fill supporting roles, doing whatever is requested of you. I will remain aboard the Endurance, monitoring and organizing the Companies from above. Sergeant Cleon, you will as my eyes and ears, keeping tabs on every Death Guard activity planet side and advising me as to our next course of action. Is this understood?

Victory is within our grasp. On Istvaan V the galaxy was lit ablaze. Now, at the Emperor’s own home, its last vestige burns away.”

I am more intrigued on seeing what Mortarion will do with Typhus...Keep writing man!!!You are really good at it!

Found this from Necroagogo story :
Sleight of Hand - another tale of the Relictors
Which is outstanding too

LoneLictor, you write brilliantly. I have never been attracted to nurgle however you have bought personalities to the pus and filth. Your story telling is vivid, imaginative and your timing and feel for flow is excellent.

Moar please.

Oops - looks like I've missed a couple of updates! Gruesomely nice stuff throughout, although this in particular stood out for me:

LoneLictor wrote: There was always hope, even if it came from despair and pain.

That's a nicely-weighted and crafted line, right there. Kudos.

Thanks for all the comments, as always. They're much appreciated! And, now, you loyal readers you've stood by and tolerated the many, many errors I've made when writing, have a chance to have an impact on the story.

For you see, I've become crippled by a horrible bout of writer's block that I can't seem to shake using my normal methods (lots of caffeine, music that fits the mood of the story and locking myself in my room) so now I'm looking to you readers for suggestions and opinions which is something I probably should've done a long time ago.

So, what do you want? Do you want to focus more on certain characters? Do you want to focus less on certain characters? Do you want to focus more on certain events? Do you want to focus less on certain events? Do you want me to stop writing this on the grounds that I'm wasting everyone's time? Now's your chance to tell me because I'm desperate!

There needs to be more on Mortarion - lets see him in the thick of it!

How about introducing some interaction with more greater daemons - its a tough challenge but hey, have a crack!

Perhaps some insight into Nurgle's throneroom?

Or a sorceror moving through an imperial world unknown and tell the story of how a thriving city dies from disease with rapid conversion to nurgle unable to be contained by the arbites?

I'd like some Lucanus and Mortarion action.

Maybe some knowledge to who Lucanus is actually serving..

I want more fighting. The most interesting with your stories is how you describe battles. I'd like to see more of that.

megabambam wrote:I'd like some Lucanus and Mortarion action.

Maybe some knowledge to who Lucanus is actually serving..

This...

Loricatus Aurora wrote:There needs to be more on Mortarion - lets see him in the thick of it!

How about introducing some interaction with more greater daemons - its a tough challenge but hey, have a crack!

Perhaps some insight into Nurgle's throneroom?

Or a sorceror moving through an imperial world unknown and tell the story of how a thriving city dies from disease with rapid conversion to nurgle unable to be contained by the arbites?

Seconded. Verily.

Thank you one and all for the suggestions! I've started working on the next entry, which focuses mainly on Lucanus and Mortarion, as requested. Typhus is taking a backseat because of his injured state and Cleon will be hiding in his quarters scheming. It's gonna be pretty long so it'll probably be a little bit before I post it.

I love your fluff LL, I don't care if you go up against fluff from time to time, it's acceptable for me as fluff often seem to be "debatable" at best at certain occasions.

I have also reposted things about a certain Succubus, which caused me to post a viewer-discression-thingy.

NEW ENTRY! Jesus, this took me forever to write. Writing Terra was hard. I kept deleting everything and starting over. In the next 2 days there will be more stuff. Also, I suggest you look up Ignatius Grulgor on Lexicanum so you understand the part about the currents of the warp he was rescued from.


Chapter Seven
Shatterpoint


The Endurance burst into realspace with an explosion of pestilence and vermin. A dozen other Plague Ships followed closely. The Death Guard had reached the Solar Segmentum and they were not alone. Hundreds of other vessels dominated the skies, fortified with spikes and plastered with icons of eight pointed arrows and staring red eyes.

Mortarion flicked off the comm. switch and watched the Warmaster’s grainy holo image dissolve into static. The flies, normally incessantly active and buzzing, were dead silent, seemingly aware of the unease. Very slowly, the Death Lord stood up. He turned towards one of the many nameless Legionnaires that stalked the ship. “Private,” Mortarion said unusually softly, his voice wracked by pain. “ My conversation with the Warmaster has enlightened me. Alert the troops. Tonight, I shall lead them in battle.”




Terra was ablaze with the fires of war. It’s vast, continent wide city structures and space ports could be seen crumbling in the distance. The screams of the dead and the dying drowned out all other sounds, save those of the mightiest explosions and largest battles. Thousands of ships, from the smallest frigates to the physics defying capital ships, threatened to blot out the sun with their sheer bulk.

The greatest of the Emperor’s triumphs and the crowning jewel of the almighty Imperium was being destroyed and all that he could do was watch from his besieged palace.

Mortarion stepped into the Dreadclaw. For this battle he would not use his Thunderhawk; he didn’t want the comfort and safety of a controlled vessel. He wanted to be shot into the heart of the conflict to truly experience it. The Death Shroud silently filed in behind him, Manreapers in hand. Their blighted weapons would reap many souls tonight. A timer beeped, signaling the start of the countdown to launch.

5. Mortarion deliberately drew his own scythe, examining his reflection on the venom dripping metal. 4. The Dreadclaw shook uneasily as the Endurance jostled for a position in the crowded sky. 3. The magnetic locks disengaged. 2. A mechanical arm retracted from the Dreadclaw into the main vessel. 1. The final lock disengaged. 0. The thrusters kicked in.

The Dreadclaw shot into the atmosphere at thousands of miles per hour. It burst into flames, blackening metal and scorching away the molds and funguses that had previously threatened to envelope it. Flak from hundreds of anti aircraft turrets ricocheted off the Dreadclaw’s adsteel haul, leaving shallow dents where they struck. As the Dreadclaw neared planetside, the reverse thrusters activated.

It slammed into the cityscape, leaving a web of deep cracks where it struck the concrete. The Dreadclaw’s Deathwind weapon system activated, gunning into the crowds of fleeing civilians and struggling Astartes. Meanwhile, the central arms extended from the bulk of the drop pod, slowly opening it. Mortarion stepped out and surveyed his surroundings with grim satisfaction. They had landed in the midst of a fortified hab center swarming with Blood Angels. It was a claustrophobic hellhole of elegant spires, brick like habs and walkways. The roads were littered with corpses and rubble. In the distance, a Mars Pattern Reaver Titan could be seen plowing through a Manfactorum District.

With a stroke of his scythe he disemboweled three of the Angels. One attempted to swing a shimmering power fist at the Primarch, only to be decapitated mid-swing by one of the fearsome Death Shroud. A large squad of the loyalists charged towards them, chainswords blazing. Laughing madly, Mortarion impaled one of the pole of his scythe and kicking one back with the strength to send him flying ten feet into a concrete wall. Meanwhile, the Death Shroud systematically cut down another eight with brutal efficiency.

Reaching down, the Death Lord caught one by his neck and snapped his spine with ease. One Blood Angel attempted to attack his outstretched arm, but he easily dodged the attack and proceeded to bisect the Angel with his Manreaper. Desperate now, the loyalists began to back away, opening fire with bolters and boltpistols in an attempt to hold Mortarion and his Death Shroud back. It didn’t work.

“Fools! I am one with death!”

He blazed through the retreating Astartes, cutting them down before they could even react. Thousands of chainsword blows and bolts impacted his flesh, achieving nothing. His rotting form was immune to all but the strongest blows and he was fast enough to make sure those would never hit. A loyalist brought a glowing meltagun towards him. Almost casually the Death Lord skewered the loyalist through the chest with a lethal punch and kept on fighting.

Almost as quickly as the fight began it was over. Mortarion found himself standing atop a pile of corpses, completely along save for his silent Death Shroud. They were soaked in blood. Looking down, he found he was the same.

“Too easy,” he said. “I need a challenge. Perhaps we should seek out the Custodes; they would be worthy of my scythe.”

As he hiked through the carnage towards the sounds of a distant battle, he walked past a statue slightly larger than himself. It was the glamorized visage of a Space Marine, decorated with the golden icons of the Imperium, the Emperor and the Astartes. On its base there should’ve been the familiar quotes by the Emperor on the creation of the Space Marines. It was rare that the Emperor made public speaking appearances; when he did his words would always be recorded by thousands of scribes.

Battle damage had eroded most of the speech, save a single line. They will be untouched by plague or disease, no sickness will blight them. And Mortarion suddenly felt very weak.

“Death Shroud, I am leaving the battle. I will go back to the Dreadclaw and dock within the Terminus Est. There, I will kill 1st Captain Typhus. From the first day of your indoctrination hundreds of years ago, you have never left my side. But now you will.” He took a deep breath. “I must do this alone.”




2nd Librarian Kharyun, correct? asked Lucanus. Now that Typhus was a crippled shell of an Astartes waiting to die, he would need a new psychic. It was a real shame, considering the 1st Captain's potential. Given the proper circumstances he could've ended up as the new Master of the Legion as Lucanus had intended.

"Yes," answered Kharyun. "And I presume you're the Lucanus I've been hearing so much about."

Grinning sheepishly, the Daemon said, Guilty as charged. Making a good first impression was always important. I've heard that you're a talented psyker, and it appears so. At this very moment I can see your brilliant immaterial presence. It's rare to come across a mortal like you.

"Thank you. Now, why are you here?"

There are many other Daemons of Nurgle, some even greater than me, that seek entrance into the Material. Unfortunately, I am unable to bring them in. But you, Lucanus said. With my assistance, you could. What do you say?





Ignatius Grulgor glanced behind his back yet again. The claustrophobic engine corridors always unnerved him. Anyone could be hiding under grates or behind pipes, just waiting for the evidence they needed to kill him. "This isn't safe," he grumbled.

Neither were the swirling currents of the warp that he so mercifully rescued you from when the Plague One chose to leave for dead.

"What do you want now?"

Many things, the creature said. It was reminiscent of a hideous, humanoid vulture with vibrant blue feathers and beady red eyes. Where it stood the mold and slime shirked back, as if wounded by its sheer presence. The Changer of Ways expended much energy saving you, and for what? Let's begin with information. How has Mortarion been acting lately?

"He's determined, very determined. All he does is plan the assault on Terra. He's down there fighting right now."

That isn't useful in the slightest.

"It's all that I know!" Grulgor shouted, slamming his fist into a nearby rusted pipe. It burst open, spraying steam in all directions. "He's introverted; they all are. There's something wrong with them."

Very perceptive of you. He has been protecting you from ending up like them; the Plague One is worming into their minds. Be thankful for this. Now, what about Typhus?

"I did what you said and sent him up there, into the fortress. His leg and back were horribly injured in the fight and Nurgle isn't healing them. Nobody talks to him except Lucanus. Mortarion was going to replace him with Vitus, but he went missing."

Executed by Lucanus, no doubt. If you aren't careful, he'll start gunning for you. Now, what about Lucanus?

"You seem to know more about him than me. He always busy, always stalking through the ship and collecting supplies and talking to people. Mortarion doesn't like him; I don't think anyone does."

Good, good. Now, I have on more task for you and you shall have repaid your debt.

Oh this was excelent. I can not describe how much your wrok inspiers me, I would also use this chance to shamelessly invite people to read my own fluff, witch is linked below

Thanks for the comment, it's much appreciated. Also, feel free to advertise your fluff.

AWSOME!

Freakin awesome, when do we get more