Hello folks

I don't know if many of you will remember, but there was an old thread on Dakka Fiction called 'The Death of The Emperor' and was a hypothetical discussion on what woud occur after the Emperor died which eventually evolved into a full-blown fiction by myself. Many of you showered it with praise (which I'm massively grateful for) however upon rereading it I'm not entirely happy with the quality.

Being myself, I am unable to let such things stand - so here I am again, with the all new Death of The Emperor!

I'm going to rewrite the whole thing, in proper prose and without the obvious mistakes that are a bit glaring to me now.

So take a seat, and I hope you enjoy

Remember and subscribe for updates as well!

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PDF Links

Book One: Elegy

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The Death of the Emperor
Movement One – Elegy

Part I – The Beginning of the End
Part II – The Eye of Tranquillity
Part III – This Dark Night…
Part IV – Chaos Rising

Interlude – Legions Sundered

Part V – A Simple Citizen

Interlude – Watcher in the Rain

Part VI – Mars

Interlude – A Shadowed Scheme

Part VII – Ulgvig Stonecrow
Part VIII - Blood Storm

Interlude – Long Before All Was Lost...

Part IX - Victory on Hul'Shadaam

Interlude – Six Months Before

Part X - A Tale of Three Chapters: Son of Baal
Part XI - A Tale of Three Chapters: Son of Nocturne
Part XII - A Tale of Three Chapters: Son of Inwit
Part XIV - Redemption


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The Death of the Emperor
Movement Two – Threnody

Part I - Cadia

Interlude - The 642nd

Part II - ...For Your Sins
Part III - Et Factum est Bellum in Caelo
Part IV - Rage, All I Know is Rage...
Part V - Terminus Decree

The blessed few gathered closely to witness the death of their God, trading hushed and frantic whispers like merchants bartering their wares. Some spoke in tones of reverence, speaking of a divine order and the inevitability of the coming death, welcoming the events to come with zealous aplomb. Others jabbered in panic, hurling blame at anyone within earshot to cover their own sense of impending failure, fists clenched and aching with rage. Still some worked furiously to stem the tide of time: burning incense, raising hands, punching keys and staring through tear-stained eyes at cold glowing screens, battling the coming dark with every fibre of their being. Only one amongst them said nothing, standing impassively and stone-like before the corpse of his master, eyes fixed on the desiccated face of the one he had pledged to centuries ago.

The silent one stepped forward from the throng and approached the cadaverous throne, gazing into the hollowed eye sockets of the Lord of All. Had the eyes become darker? The lines on the brow deeper and more defined? Had the posture of his shrivelled master shifted these last few days? The silent one was sure of these things and drew his own grim conclusions. His order had always feared that this day would come, the day that the blessed wound on the side of the Corpse-God would reopen and spill sacred vitae upon its shining throne. The wound was a deep black crack just above the waist, pearls of shining ruby dripping out a steadily increasing rate pooling on the golden throne upon which the God sat.

The silent one raised his strong, scarred hands to his face and gripped the sides of the black sorrow mask he had worn these past four thousand years. He lifted it slowly, the leather gripping slightly to his face and neck. A hush gradually descended on the gathering, as the silent one dropped the blackened leather to the marble floor. He unbound the black rags wrapped around his upper arms, and pulled loose the torc of black mourning beads hanging from his neck. The beads fell rain-like to the marbled floor, tiny glass splashes echoing across the chamber. Now free of his funerary bonds, the giant, quiet figure fell hard to his knees and bowed low before the throne, tears stinging his opal-blue eyes. He sucked in a jagged breath and whispered:

“I am sorry...I am sorry we have failed you”

With a speed beyond any of the others gathered in the chamber, the silent one drew a long ceremonial dagger from a scabbard at his side, the blade patterned with swirling eagles and lightning bolts and more akin to short sword of the mortal world. The stunned crowd stumbled forward, crying out at the act but it was too late: the giant ran the blade through his own neck, severing his spine and snuffing his light out forever. His body slid forward and with a hard slap of flesh on stone, the silent one’s vigil ended.

A painful, charged silence descended on the remaining chosen. None of them had ever seen a Custodian die, many had assumed that such a thing was impossible. They were the sons of a God, wrought in flesh and gold, and as ageless and unending as the Great Mountain of Mars itself. One of their number, a Magos Biologis in robes of deepest crimson patterned with eldritch symbols of biology and chemical alchemy, stepped forward and placed his gnarled hands on the still-warm body. The act made the event real, confirming what his singular eye and multitude of dull optics could not, or would not, accept. This was the last sign, the final variable in the black equation. The Magos knew that this Custodian’s death at his own hands would not be last, it would repeated seven upon seven times and then the God would breath his last and leave this plane. His brothers and sisters began their tumultuous rabble again, wailing and keening like fleshling children, but the Magos knew all hope was gone.

Rising on ancient servos and bones that by all rights should have worn to powder long ago, the Magos stared at the face of the dying God-Emperor on his Golden Throne, and he despaired.

Subscribed.....awesome to have you back DLS

Seven upon seven: this was the number of deaths the Black Equation demanded, and this is what the Black Equation reaped.

Across the near-endless span of the Imperial Palace, Custodes ended their lives in a grim silent fashion. Most followed the trend set by the first, and drew their own blood with their own blades, falling were they had guarded for thousands of years, staining the holy ground of the Palace red with death. No explanation was forthcoming, and despite the impassioned pleas of those around them, the Custodes ran themselves through with painful precision. Some in their despair found more immediate, and more imaginative, ways to end their shame.

Within the deep generator vaults of the Western Palace, Custodian Vasily Graugh hurled his body into one of massive open-framed power conduits, his body blistering then burning into ash within seconds. The generator coughed and sputtered, showering the technicians and adepts gathered around it in super-heated gore, hysteria erupting as they clawed at their own melting flesh and robes.

Upon the Minaret of The Emperor’s site, Custodian Almeda of the Twenty Apostles cast down his ceremonial arms and plunged to his death miles below, his broken body leaving a small crater and stark bloody smear upon the domed base.

Gate-Commander Armia entered the Training Cages of the Custodian Barracks, leaving his weapons and armour on the training mats. Activating the bladed combat servitors, menacing arachnid constructs of sharpened edges and cruel intent, he removed the safety protocols and allowed the grim armatures to flay him alive like a slab of meat on a butcher’s bench.

Stranger still was Ulysses, the most ancient of his order, who simply lay on the floor of the Imperial Assembly, closed his amber eyes and stopped breathing, his sadness stilling his heart forever.

Smoke rose from several wings of the palace as Custodians turned guns and flame and in one explosive case grenades upon themselves. Panic swept through the menials and functionaries of the Imperial Machine, neither understanding nor comprehending the grim seppeku playing out before them, nor the purpose it was playing. These ancient guardians, the closest the God-Emperor had to sons since the death and dishonour of The Primarchs, surrendered their lives and their spirits to a force building within the Corpse of their divine Father. Those with the wit or ability to hear it noticed a steadily rising drone on the air, a morose bass note that permeated the foundations of the palace and increased with every death.

As the last Custodian laid down his life in silence, the dirge reached a peak, spiking into the minds of those sensitive enough to perceive it. And deep within the Imperial Dungeon, at the heart of not just the palace but the Imperium itself, a wizened corpse twitched and flexed as power beyond the ken of mortals rose within it.

He's baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack! DLS! DLS! DLS! Will the old 642 be making a (re)appearance in this one? Don't mind what happened to me last time, don't mind something happening again!

 Nuruhuine wrote:
He's baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack! DLS! DLS! DLS! Will the old 642 be making a (re)appearance in this one? Don't mind what happened to me last time, don't mind something happening again!

Oooooh! I'd like to see the 642 show up again in all their ass kicking glory.

An excellent read.

Great imagery and eloquently worded; complex enough to convey depth, but still reads like a graphic novel.

Very eager for future installments, I was a touch disappointed there were only two here! If that's my only critique of wanting more, I think you're in a fine place.

FM Argos

With a wet pop of soft bone in mould-ridden socket, the head of the Corpse-God twitched. Its palsied arms shuddered and strained, the sunken chest hiking as a sorrowful din escaped the dry, hollow throat. Dust that had remained untouched for centuries shifted and fell as the cadaverous Emperor stirred.

The arguments of the gathered adepts and lords faded to a charged silence as the Corpse-God writhed on his golden throne, the bulbous, worn head rising on a brittle neck to gaze upon its subjects with hollow eyes. Some fell to the floor in supplication, throwing their hands in the air at what they saw as the revival of their master. Others clasped their hands in wringing appeal, begging the animated cadaver for forgiveness, revealing sins that until this point they had expertly hidden. Still others cried daemon in terror and confusion, casting charms and totems before the throne, screaming for the banishment of whatever heinous intellect had infected the body of their Emperor.

Only the Magos saw what was truly happening.

While his old, rheumy eye perceived the horrific animation of the Corpse-God as the others did, his insect optics beheld the truth in the terror. Through anti-matter readings, multi-spectral analysers and Gellar-cartography the Magos saw the build-up of warp energy surrounding the corpse-god, the tell-tale signs of a Mass-Empyreal Implosion, a monstrous release of energy on both this plane and the next. The Corpse was not alive, it was now closer to death than ever before. The Magos turned from the throng, roughly grabbing the arm of his young apprentice who at that moment had been supplicating upon the marble floor. He pulled her to her feet and started marching with haste to the grand chamber doors, dragging her behind like wrathful parent.

Tripping on her flowing scarlet robes, the apprentice knew not why her Master was leaving the chamber, why he was turning his back on the revival of their God. She pulled against his iron grip, demanding an explanation.

“My Lord, where are we going? Stop, please! We need to be here! We need to…”

The Magos turned on her with a rare fury she had never seen before, his singular cataract ridden eye focusing on her confused face.

“REBUKE: Stupid Girl, I have taught you better than this! – EXPLANATION: Use your brain, this is no rapture or revival. We need to leave this chamber now!”

The Magos pulled her arm one last time and she capitulated, speeding her pace to keep up with her hooded Master. The shouting of the throng behind them could no longer be heard over the drone emanating from the mouth of the Emperor and she cast a quick and wary look behind her. Over the heads of the bickering mass, a grim marionette display was unfolding with necrotic slowness.

The corpse was physically vibrating now, and began to rise to its worn feet. Cables and catheters that had been forced into the flesh millennia before snapped and popped, spraying ancient effluent and machine oils over the gathered functionaries. They screamed as the liquids burned their eyes and seared their skin. The revenant-king continued to slowly move off the throne, its spinal and cranial implants tearing and falling to the floor, staining the ground with ancient, foul viscera. Meat tore and ancient organs spilled onto the golden housing of the Emperors former cradle, and the with the sound of an ancient tomb opening, the Emperor stood tall from his Throne. It raised its crooked arms in the air, dust and detritus falling like robes of dirt as they rose, and with an audible tear it opened its mouth as wide as a pythons.

The drone stopped.

Time stood still.

And then the God-Emperor of mankind exploded with the fury of a miniature sun.

The gathered dignitaries were the first to die, their souls and minds ripped from their bodies as a light brighter than any beheld before thundered through them, leaving nothing but burnt husks in its wake. The Magos saw all this, his optics failing and his eye searing open against the divine light. He seized the hand of his Apprentice and threw her to the floor, opening his robes and shielding her bodily with his mass. As the light hit their prone forms, emergency protocols in his mechanised body activated, coating him and his prone student in a thick energy-retardant foam. Designed to combat extreme temperatures and fusion meltdowns, the protocols had saved many an adept from fiery death.

It was nowhere near not enough.

The furious tide of energy tore through his body, blistering the foam shield and savaging the Magos’ exposed back. Binary terror escaped his mouth and his apprentice covered her eyes and screamed as the immense pressure thundered around them.

The palace shook and trembled, elegant towers that had withstood the many wars of Terra cracking and collapsing like blackened tinder. Men and women screamed and panicked, ignorant to the grand celestial event erupting from their home. Survival became tantamount in the chaos, and riots or panic erupted within and around the Holy Palace. The palace cracked, and warped, star-scrapers and Hives breaking and shifting like the continents of old.

Astropaths and Navigators screamed as energy beyond even their heightened perception grew in a sphere from the Imperial Dungeon. Some died with blood pouring from their eyes and ears, others went insane with the energies thundering through their minds. The sacrificial offerings of the Astronomicon chamber to a man and woman died in agony, their bodies’ combusting and their essence imploding into the Holy Light they helped maintain. The Astronomicon itself flared with an intensity not known since the days of the Great Crusade, ships and warp-borne entities for light-years around blinded by the sudden glut of psychic souls. The warp itself roiled and fought against the expanding light, its myriad predators squealing in terror as the golden light tore not only at the real world, but the non-realm of their home as well. The sphere grew rapidly, consuming the Warp around it in a frenzied, burning haste.

And just as quick as it began, it ended.

Istavael released the shuddering breath she had been holding and tentatively opened her eyes. She could smell burnt flesh and iron, and all around her fires burned like funeral pyres. Her body ached, her skin was raw and a faint ringing sounded at the back of her hearing. She felt a weight on her chest and pushed at it carefully, and as it fell to the side, the weight gave a wracking mechanical cough. She realised it was her master. She was on her knees at his side as quickly as her aching body would allow, placing her hands at the sides of his burnt face, tears stinging her eyes.

“My lord…My Lord are you still here. Don’t leave me please. I don’t know what to do”

The Magos’ cracked optics glowed faintly, and a rasping cough escaped his throat. Blood and burnt matter coated him entirely and the smell of rancid cooked meat permeated the air around him. Raising a shaking arm he placed a scarred and broken hand on his Apprentices pale cheek, and he spoke in a hoarse, mechanical whisper.

“REQUEST: Remember this. Remember what has occurred here…you need to take this news to Mars. You need to warn the…Fabricator-General. There will be War, unceasing War. And Mars must be ready.”

Istavael wept and nodded at the dying Magos,

“I will, I promise”

Laying his head back on the marble floor, the Magos let a cracked sigh escape his ancient lungs and closed his optics for the last time. His body was beyond repair.

“Thank you…thank you and be safe…my daughter”

And the Magos breathed his last.

As the young adept wept and cradled the dead body of her Father, the chamber around her burned, silent corpses and flames standing testament to the divine violence that had raged moments ago. Voices echoed from the chamber entrance, harsh torch line scanning the wreckage of what been the Imperial Throne room. Armoured boots thundered into the room as Astartes of the Imperial Fists thundered into the room, beams of light from the torch packs casting aside the gloom and smoke, scanning the room for the source of the recent commotion. All lights lay on the Golden plinth at the centre of the room: where once the Emperor had rested, lay now an ash covered crater of gold and rubble.

The Emperor and his Golden Throne were gone, and Mankind would never be the same again.

Brilliant. So far removed from what I was expecting, and I'm just amazed at how well you've handled the single most important event since Horus fell on Davin. Just mind blowing!

Yay more!

Eagerly awaiting future installments.

FM Argos

Excellent work

Ho. Lee. .
Also, SEANRON IS BACK!!

Why would the Custodes kill themselves?

They'd know that the Golden Throne stops Daemons from pouring out onto the surface of Terra. They'd defend the breach with their lives.

 Medium of Death wrote:
Why would the Custodes kill themselves?

They'd know that the Golden Throne stops Daemons from pouring out onto the surface of Terra. They'd defend the breach with their lives.

Shush...
Don't let logic get in the way of pure awesome!

although I'll admit that I didn't know that a Magos could have children (even Magos Biologis).
Maybe he meant daughter in a general sense? since he's a priest of the machine-god.

yeah I just assumed it was a term of affection, as though he regarded his apprentice as his child.

 Medium of Death wrote:
Why would the Custodes kill themselves?

They'd know that the Golden Throne stops Daemons from pouring out onto the surface of Terra. They'd defend the breach with their lives.

"Ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to do or die."

This is really cool!! Looking forward to the next post~!

Kara’shahr, Lustridden, The Stain on Honour, the Shame of Pythia felt the last strangled gasp of breath from the flayed wretch beneath it and purred in deep, dark satisfaction. It leant its lithe frame forward, an obscene tongue sliding from a fanged maw of too many angles and licked the skinless face of its latest expired plaything, tasting the viscera and fear that had built up there over its days of exquisite torture. The last frightened breath of the dead man was mixed with a heady feeling of satisfaction and overwhelming want, as the ruined body had emptied its seed in a bloody and unlovely fashion into the writhing creature mounted upon it. Kara’shahr straightened, the spines upon its back and shoulders stiffening, raising its four taloned arms above its head as if stretching to loosen muscle and bone. Its skin was a pale peach in colour, its long limbs and supple breasts coated in a thin sheen of acidic sweat. The physicality of its latest act was hugely gratifying for the Lustridden, and it revelled in the warmth spreading through its body. It kissed and stroked the cooling body beneath it as a lover cares for a wounded partner.

Kara’shahr however was no physical creature but a warpthing, a stain on the fabric of reality, and its movements was more of an elaborate show for the bound and frightened mortal creatures bound around the daemons personal hovel. It cast its multitude of eyes upon its waiting morsels and grinned with an expression that promised much pain.

In the Realm of the Gods, the hovel of the Lustridden lay on an expanse of guilt and torment, bordering a deep and pyrotechnic sea of desires best left unfulfilled. It was a small, rotten satellite realm crawling over the skin of the warp like a bloated, monstrous tick. The Warp was the domain of the four great powers, but even here heinous afterthoughts such as Kara’shahr could carve their own twisted province, a mocking and craven imitation of the glory of the Warp’s divine masters.

Rising from its place upon the steaming corpse, its legs and inner thighs stained with gore and bodily fluids, Kara’shahr approached the bound slaves in the manner of a gluttonous hunter. Licking its lipless mouth with a tongue too long and black to belong to any natural creature, the daemon ran its claws through the hair of a young Eldar maiden, her hair like spun silver, terror fogging her eyes and skewing her mouth. She whimpered as the creature pushed its face into the nape of her neck and drew a deep heady breath through its slit-like nostrils. She smelled of innocence and fear, abstinence and desire. It would enjoy coupling with this one, even more the prospect of flaying and breaking her during the act. Claws ran up the pale arms of the elfin maid to her bindings, the act slow and deliberate, better to drink in the emotion of the moment.
Then, just at the edge of hearing, there was a dull pounding, like an avalanche heard through thick walls. The daemon rose abruptly, its spines rising in threat, the Eldar girl suddenly forgotten. It turned from its morsels and stalked towards the boundaries of its hovel. It narrowed it multitude of eyes, the walls around it shifting and melting to allow their master to better perceive the source of the sound.
What it saw gave it pause for the first and last time in its rotten existence.

Across the Warp a wall of light and fire was spreading, tearing the chaotic life that called the infernal realm home apart in a wave of holy violence. An orb of brilliance was forming within the bitter realm and nothing could slow or stop its monstrous growth. Sholes of ether things were dragged into its colossal gravity, their screams and essence burning into nothingness as they were consumed. Larger, lumbering concepts battered at each other in their haste to escape, tearing the limbs from each other in a gruesome panic. But their fate would be the same as their smaller kin: the monstrous forms flayed piece by piece in an eruption of sheer radiance. Wherever the light touched, the Realm of the Gods was scoured and faded into an inky blackness, a painful order descending on wings of gilded gold.

Kara’shahr drank all this in before the light scoured its eyes and blinded the daemon for the remainder of its existence. It roared as the brightness consumed it and its domain, the creature being rendered into nothingness by the fury of a dying god. The grateful slave’s bodies were atomised, their souls being pulled from them in a torrent of energy, their pain finally over after years of horror and degradation. The great orb of light thundered ever outward into the warp, expanding and consuming everything around it.

And when it finally subsided, a black orb of calm lay within the realm of the Gods.

Spanning as wide as the Imperium’s Segmentum Solar, a dense sphere of reality had pushed its way into the Warp, corrupting the endless and boundless chaos within with order and physicality. Its central point had been the real space location of the human world Terra, and now an Eye of Tranquility squatted in the Godsrealm. No daemon could approach the hated cancerous ball of reality, no entity could bear to be near it: for the Warp around the central spar of Mankind’s realm was not becalmed, it was no longer there at all. Only the deathy or birth of a God could wound unreality so, and the Four Powers percieved.

The Warp had been torn and such an act could not go unpunished.

I really like the eye of tranquility idea. An opposite to the eye of terror.

Cool stuff here.

Oh my god-emperor its so COOL!

This is awesome. I've spent the last few days reading through the previous work (see link in OP) and just when I was feeling sad that it had ended, you've started writing again

Keep up the superb work. I'm hooked...

 Eggs wrote:
Keep up the superb work. I'm hooked...

Agreed. I keep coming back everyday hoping for the next installment.

Thanks guys glad you're enjoying the rewrite. It's good to know there's still a wee home at DakkaDakka for my ramblings

This is history, right here, right now!

I was so hoping you'd come back and revisit this.

Isn't Black Library recruiting right now? Just saying...

Please get a job in gw I want fluff in my books cool stories not like two lines!

Suicidal Custodes, the Emperor spontaneously combusts, the Eye of Tranquility is born... sounds like the perfect recipe for awesome

Despite the Ordos of the Inquisitions greatest efforts, there can be no denying that human kind is a psychically attuned species. When the ancestors of man were first coaxed from the oceans by now forgotten ancient creators, the new born species was set on a path that would lead to psychic awakening. Although the vast and innumerable hordes of mankind could never be described as psychically aware, a murmur of mental potential boils under the unknowing minds of the masses, sharing our hopes, dreams and fears.

Much like the brutally direct greenskins or the near-extinct Eldar, mankind has a communal tapestry of psychic awareness burning just beyond its own awareness. Although nowhere near a hive or group mind, the shared psychic consciousness of man has grown and increased in potential as humanity has crept its way across the inky night, and binds together the emotions and racial consciousness of the species, giving him strength and hope from the ether.

Millennia ago, this potential found a linchpin when a golden-eyed child was born in the ancient and green lands of Anatolia, and as this child grew from a boy to man, a man to an Emperor, an Emperor to a God the full impact of mankind’s potential was kept corralled and controlled. What right a single individual has to judge the psychic evolution of a species is of course a deeply tenuous and riven topic, but that debate is for another time and another place. Right now, as the God draws his final breath on the mortal plane, his death rings out and touches the species that he has tried so hard to save from itself.

For most, the death registers as merely a feeling of loss, a sudden onset of sadness that can neither be explained nor fought. For others, a feeling of acute rage settles and across human space murder and violence erupt from a seemingly unexplainable source. Dark impulses run wild as humans around the galaxy feel a lifting of the Emperor’s hand, and the whispers of the Dark Gods turn to seismic bellows. Many do not know why they feel as they do, they simply know that to feel any other way would be entirely against their basic humanity.

For those attuned to their talents, the death comes as a staggering and horrendous blow. Psykers stagger, blood flowing from their eyes and ears. Some convulse as energies held back for millennia are suddenly turned loose, others destroy and feast on their fellows in an orgy of power. A small number gird themselves against the torrent, and although weakened and physically damaged come through with an acute understanding of what mankind has lost.

On worlds uncounted, the factories and forges stop momentarily, the gears and smog of the Imperium stopping for the first time in millennia. Wars across the cosmos fought in the Imperium’s name cease and stutter as mankind’s armies’ reel from a blow they could not defend from. Ships deep within the warp are either lost to cosmic violence or vomited unceremoniously back into reality, with all ships in the area of Segmentum Solar suddenly finding themselves inexplicably back in real space. All is confusion and torment as the death of The Emperor takes a piece of mankind’s soul with him.

However, the worst is reserved for those of the Emperor’s bloodline: those blessed few who can draw their heritage directly from the chalice of the former Master of Mankind. His militant sons and grandsons feel the blow keenly, and many thousands are struck down with visions of death and light. They feel the loss and both lament and celebrate as is their want. Some are given hope, some are driven mad and some look to their birth world for the first time in living memory.

But an even rarer breed feels the loss the most keenly. To the common knowledge of the Imperium, the Emperor had no natural-born children. The Primarchs in their glory and damnation, although sons in mind and aspect, were not what could be considered as true children of the Emperor. However the Emperor had walked among his race for aeons, and in that time when the stars were aligned and the need arose, the God of Mankind would lie with his people and fruit would be borne. This fruit would be the true heirs of the divine, and each of them, anonymous and unknown fell to their knees in grief, knowing the loss more acutely than any other.

Allisa Traynor fell to her knees in the grip of panic and despair. She emptied the contents of her stomach onto the paving beneath her, steam rising from the bile into the cold air. People moved away from her, some gasped or pointed or laughed at the red headed woman who suddenly came crashing to a halt in the middle of a busy concourse. Others seemed to be in a similar state of disarray. Allisa gripped her stomach as more liquid forced its way out her throat. Tears stung her eyes and her breath came in short, foul-tasting gasps. She staggered to her feet, dizzy and disorientated as several hands reached for her. She swatted them away, crying and screaming, not realising that the hands meant her no harm. A sudden burst of noise behind her forced her around, and she only had time to cry out a name before the freighter smashed into her and everything went black.

The name she had called was Father.

This is really amazing. I cant wait to see what else there is,

 Eldarain wrote:
Isn't Black Library recruiting right now? Just saying...

Thanks for the heads up man, I'll be entering this asap. The Deathwatch is a bit outside my usual area of interest, but I'm looking forward to making something hopefully worth reading

Really enjoyed the original - look forwards to the new version (hoping for a few new twists!).

This story is fantastic you've made it so life like its as if i am there.
I hope there will be more about the Biological children of the Emperor.

Keep it up

Just spent the day reading through the other forum your posted DLS and wow Cannot wait for more. This is going to be epic.

Can't make a death of the Emprah story without the true Sensei, no sirrah.

Another painful spasm gripped his abdomen, quickly followed by an acidic surge of bile and liquid out his mouth and into the marble sink. Its previous clean and shining surface was now stained a viscous brown as The High Lord vomited the previous night’s Arturian Caviar and Kal’pay Rice into the drain. The pain had come on suddenly, and although it was starting to fade, The High Lord could not shake the feeling that something dire had occurred, something he could not quantify but felt like a shadow over his shoulder. He turned the enamel taps on and splashed his mouth and face with cold water, washing the sticky corruption from his lips.

Staring into his reflection, the High Lord wondered had he aged visibly. Thanks to decades of rejuvenation treatments and psychic-massage he appeared no more than forty Terran year’s standard, however his eyes gave away his age and how tired he was. He ran his wet hands through his black hair, pushing the lengthy mess into a tight ponytail. He gazed into his reflection, and the longer he looked the more certain he was that something terrible was about to occur.

There was a knock on his chamber door.

He gripped the basin, his breath catching in his throat.

“Who…Who is it?” he called, his throat cracking and robbing his voice of its usual authority.

“It’s Samuels my Lord”

The High Lord sighed in relief. Samuels had been his family’s man-servant for over a century, and was one of the few individuals in the whole damned Imperium who he almost trusted. Straightening up and fixing his dishevelled appearance, the High Lord walked briskly to the ornate doors of his personal chambers placing his hand upon the ebony surface. Complex and minute circuitry read the bio-data from his palm and registered every inch of his hand, allowing the hidden locks to disengage with a quiet hiss. The doors swung open gently on hydraulic suspensors, opening out the palatial and stately halls beyond.

Samuels stood at the door, looking equally dishevelled as his master. His lined, tanned face was sallow and clammy and his eyes had the look of man who had not slept well in days. He leaned heavily on the frame of the door as opposed to his usual straight-backed demeanour, a breach in servant protocol that the High Lord was sure to question later. Samuels bowed shallowly, and cleared his throat.

“My Lord, you have received summons for council. The other High Lords wish to speak with you”

The High Lord checked the platinum-edged chronometer on the wall – it was the middle of the night. A shiver of indignation ran up his spine at the thought of being summoned at this late an hour. The High Lord’s previous feeling of queasiness and unease was replaced immediately by his usual haughty demeanour.

“Which High Lords Samuel, do they not realise what time it is?”

Samuels shuffled uncomfortably, conscious of how furious and ill his Lord appeared “All of them my Lord”

The High Lord blinked as if not understanding: all of them? The High Lords hadn’t met or talked as a full council in centuries, there had never been a need. Proxies and administrators had always sufficed, sparing the most important individuals in the Imperium the tedium of running it. The High Lord gave his manservant a withering gaze, silently questioning what he had just heard. Samuels nervously nodded, and gestured for his Lord to follow him to the Council Chamber.

Relenting, the High Lord followed his shuffling manservant down the gilded halls of his personal manse. Built millennia ago into the upper edifices of the Imperial Hive, the manse was a testament to The High Lord’s status and power. They made their way through halls of polished white marble, lined with cracks of delicate gold and silver. The walls were heavy with suspensor held portraits and landscapes of the High Lords family and lands, each piece worth more than the average Imperial citizen would ever see in their lifetime. They passed rooms lavishly furnished with ornately carved wooden fixtures, sumptuous chaise lounges made from Eagle down and softened grox hide, floating chandeliers of clear crystal and fractal light patterns and elaborate marble busts of the High Lord’s many young concubines. Such things were a natural reward for a man of his station, and each reminder of his position calmed the fire in the High Lord’s belly.

They approached the heavy, automated doors of the Council Chamber, the High Lord waiving the lobotomised gun servitors built into the walls away with a casual gesture. He placed his hand against its surface, and quiet circuitry built into its heavy frame hissed and chattered as it identified him. The High Lord turned to Samuels and gestured with his eyes for his servant to leave. Samuels bowed and shuffled back down the corridor, holding his stomach in a sickly fashion. When The High Lord was certain he was alone, he pressed the silver ingot of his ring to the door.

The heavy adamantium doors rumbled on heavy gears as they slid into the ceiling, revealing the darkened chamber beyond. The Council Chamber was not a chamber for physical meetings, as the demands of Imperial Governance drew the various members of the High Council across the Segmentum. The chamber beyond was designed to allow near faster than light communication between the separated High Lords, a cunning (and near heretical) design of the previous Fabricator-General Othrock Morr before his tragic demise centuries before. The room was long and thin, with a low dark ceiling festooned with projectors, lenses and machinery. A low table was set into the floor, with a metallic throne at the head which The High Lord lowered himself into. The proximity of his spinal cord to the intricate circuitry of the throne activated the chamber and around the table, ghostly blue images crackled into focus. Eleven constructs of holographic light focussed their gaze on The High Lord and he suddenly quailed.

The other eleven High Lords of Terra sat in front of the colleague for the first time in centuries, and they looked grim. The High Lord cleared his throat:

“My Lords, how pleasant to see you this eve. I must admit, I am surprised you would disturb me at this late hour, I trust this issue is of the utmost importance?”

“Be silent” snapped the ghostly image of the High Master of Assassins, her death-mask robbed of none of its cold fury by digital translation. “There is news that requires our attention, without your snide barbs”

The High Lord bristled at the insult, his eyes lighting with anger. The High Master of Assassin’s was a constant loose flame among them and showed no respect. Before he could rise to the bait, the Paternoval Envoy of the Noble Navigators cut in.

“There has been a development…it appears The Emperor is dead”

The High Lord looked at the hunched, ancient figure of the Envoy as if he had been slapped.

“Dead? That’s absurd! What do you mean dead?”

A metallic croak escaped the hulking figure of the Fabricator-General of Mars, its deep robes barely hiding the gross implants and industrial machinery leeching like tumours from its wasted form. Its voice was like glass dragging across concrete and caused the gathered lords to flinch.

“Dead: No longer living. The Emperor has ceased to function on an organic level”

The High Lord narrowed his eyes at the always literal machine-thing, illiciting no reaction from the deep folds of its hood. He let an exasperated hiss escape his lips before clarifying, panic edging his voice.

“I mean what happened? How did he die? None of you seem particularly alarmed by this!”

The Inquisitorial Representative raised his hands in a calming gesture, his smooth shaved head and shining eyes both strikingly handsome and monstrously dangerous. He wore deep cushioned sleeping robes, evidently he too had been awoken with this news.

“We are alarmed my friend, however the needs of the Imperium outweigh any personal misgivings we may have. We have discussed our best course of action and only require your vote on the matter.”

The High Lord folded his arms across his chest, “and what, might I ask, is our best course of action?”

The Inquisitorial Representative leant forward, his eyes boring into the High Lord. He smiled slightly, revealing himself as the chief architect of whatever scheme the Council had agreed upon before answering:

“The Imperium at large cannot know the Emperor is dead…”

Just brilliant! I'm amazed at how naturally you're handling some of the least known aspects of the setting.

 Medium of Death wrote:
Why would the Custodes kill themselves?

They'd know that the Golden Throne stops Daemons from pouring out onto the surface of Terra. They'd defend the breach with their lives.

Right! But it is fan lore so it is what it is.

Cool idea though!

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:
Part Two (continued)
The High Lords
“The Imperium at large cannot know the Emperor is dead…”

CHILLS! EPIC!

this is great!
I need to hit myself in the head with a hammer to induce amnesia. that way I will forget about this until you are finished and return and read it completed

I mostly adore this, and I might go read the original, but you said that you weren't happy with it, so I have decided for now that I shouldn't read it. I love the whole high lords thing, and the Emprah obliterating part of the warp. What I don't love is the custodes all killing themselves, because they would have to protect the Emprah in his inevitable rebirth, since he is an immortal being. *pointed stare showing that this is what I think would happen* and also, after all the primarchs, spess marines and the custodes, there is no way there is anything femal that is biologically related to the Emprah. Sorry but there isn't, and I feel that she is only there for gender equality. If that is not the case, feel free to shoot me down.

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:
I mostly adore this, and I might go read the original, but you said that you weren't happy with it, so I have decided for now that I shouldn't read it. I love the whole high lords thing, and the Emprah obliterating part of the warp. What I don't love is the custodes all killing themselves, because they would have to protect the Emprah in his inevitable rebirth, since he is an immortal being. *pointed stare showing that this is what I think would happen* and also, after all the primarchs, spess marines and the custodes, there is no way there is anything femal that is biologically related to the Emprah. Sorry but there isn't, and I feel that she is only there for gender equality. If that is not the case, feel free to shoot me down.

Remember that this is fan fiction so it is open to some fresh ideas and different interpretations, loving this series so far but I may join you in the 'holding off on reading the original' but given it was what I assume was the base for this series, it must have at the very least been pretty darn good.

So far the story seems great! Love the political/spiritual implications of the emperor dying, however the custodes killing themselves seems a bit of a stretch, since they, above all, are supposed to have the strongest of wills and most steadfast faiths. Also the eye of tranquility part really confused me, did not understand the wording very well.

I generally dislike having to respond to posts mid-story as I like to let the story do the talking, however I feel I should make a few points and responses to some folk as there seems to be small amounts of confusion. First off, the issue with the Custodes. Some of you seem to assume that it was all of the Custodes who slew themselves. The text says:

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:
Seven upon seven: this was the number of deaths the Black Equation demanded, and this is what the Black Equation reaped.

Seven upon seven being seven squared, seven squared totals fourty nine (fifty, including the Custodian from the introduction) - There are generally considered to be 10,000 custodians at any one time so only a tiny fraction died. Also, I know Custodians are meant to be the most stoic and resolute of characters, however these are not normal deaths, something else is clearly going on. By the wording I've used it would suggest that such a thing is foretold: The chosen Custodians who died could not fight such a thing even if they wanted to.

Also, in regards to this:

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:
and also, after all the primarchs, spess marines and the custodes, there is no way there is anything femal that is biologically related to the Emprah. Sorry but there isn't, and I feel that she is only there for gender equality.

If we assume that The Emperor did indeed have biological children (which is still very much hinted at in the existing lore). The Emperor was born some time in the 8th millenium BC, roughly between the years 8000 B.C and 7000 B.C. Even if the Emperor had been born just before the beginning of the year 7000 B.C that would give a time-frame of 47,000 years before his death on the throne.

In that time it is reasonable to assume that he had natural children. These children would have grown and they in turn would have had children. And these children would go on and have children, and so on and so forth. It is a complete statistical anomaly to expect that in 47,000 years of descendants, there wouldn't be at least one female born from the process.

Hope that clears a few things up.

Truly awesome stuff here, a fine candidate for 40k end-times if I do say so myself.

Everyone's a critic huh? Folks, if you don't agree with the story being told, go write your own one instead. Keep up the great work DLS.

 Eggs wrote:
Everyone's a critic huh? Folks, if you don't agree with the story being told, go write your own one instead. Keep up the great work DLS.

^This. Exalted.

Personally, I'm not a fan of fan fiction as people who can actually write (not tell or think up, but actually write), well written stories tend to become real writers rather than posters. I've been a DM in many epic story driven DnD campaigns where I've impressed myself with my well crafted story worthy of a book, I wouldn't have been able to commit it to paper and lend it the same gravitas as it played out in person. I'm not sure why I started reading this, but I have to say I'm very impressed. I really enjoy how things are jumping around in a not disjointed fashion and how, despite the nature of the setting, nothing is overly over the top. Reading what has transpired so far, I find I'm very interested to see how certain characters or factions that have'nt shown up yet will be portrayed. You're doing an excellent job so far, keep up the good work.

kungfujew wrote:
Personally, I'm not a fan of fan fiction as people who can actually write (not tell or think up, but actually write), well written stories tend to become real writers rather than posters. I've been a DM in many epic story driven DnD campaigns where I've impressed myself with my well crafted story worthy of a book, I wouldn't have been able to commit it to paper and lend it the same gravitas as it played out in person. I'm not sure why I started reading this, but I have to say I'm very impressed. I really enjoy how things are jumping around in a not disjointed fashion and how, despite the nature of the setting, nothing is overly over the top. Reading what has transpired so far, I find I'm very interested to see how certain characters or factions that have'nt shown up yet will be portrayed. You're doing an excellent job so far, keep up the good work.

Given that that is the case, I'm curious as to how you find yourself in the "Fan Fiction" section of a website, commenting on a piece of fan fiction

The stones struck the floor with a soft clatter, like rain upon masonry, and revealed the same fate they had spoken of since she had begun: War with the young species’ was coming, but with which the tokens would not say. Only that the Monkeigh hordes would be the instigators, but not the direct cause of the bloodshed.

Ju’daai closed her sunlight green eyes and breathed deeply, the faint scent of flowers and mourning on the air of the Wraithbone chamber. The young seer had been scrying for many moons now, and the repetition of the message and its ambiguity was starting to wear on her. Her betters in the Seer Council had received similar divinations, and had requested the aid of the Witchmind Covens to stare into the abyss and try untangle the webs of misinformation from the true fates. Her coven had made its home within one of the great dorsal wings of the Craftworld, with their seclusion chambers seated right at its pinnacle. The chambers were lined with Wraithbone trees like spun glass, each a work of art beyond any member of the lesser species. The ground was coated in a light dew, a reactive substance that the mighty World Ship produced like tears. The Craftworld had been weeping more these days, and Ju’daai was certain the message in the tokens was the cause.

She gathered the light stones in her nimble fingers, raised them in line with her forehead and cast her mind into the streams of fate surrounding them. Clearing her thoughts, she allowed the heat from the Wraithbone to radiate from her hand to her arm, her arm to her heart, and from her heart to her mind. She felt tension in the air as fate began to coil itself like a serpent around her mind, and when it was at its most suffocating, she cast the stones to the floor again, already knowing the pattern that would be revealed.

The silver stone of Vaul’s Contest lay next to the Khainestone, a blood red orb that beat with grim potential: War. The gentle orbs of Isha and Kurnous lay shaded, aligned directly with the projection of war: the Gods true children would be thrust into this coming conflict. The angular, brittle stone of She-Who-Thirsts lay within the orbiting signs, and would usually signal the return of the Great Annihilator, however it was shadowed by several blank and patterned blindstone’s of Cegorach, concealing its true meaning. Death on a monstrous scale was stalking the Children of Isha, but its source was hidden either by design or something darker. Finally, the smallest stones, representing the Children born of other Gods and the Monkeigh, lay farthest from the others, but their orbit would soon be directly in contact with the stones of Isha and Kurnous. War with the young races was inevitable, but with who was unknown.

Ju’daai sighed deeply and prepared to begin the process again, bringing her perception back from the streams of fate into herself once more.
But something stopped her.

A faint hum on the edge of perception, like a voice spoken through water began to draw her attention. It grew slowly in intensity and tone, and the stones before her began to gently vibrate. Ju’daai slowly rose from her cross-legged position, her gossamer robes tracing their way like droplets down her lithe form, and cocked her head as if listening. The hum was becoming more insistent with each passing moment, and she strained her perception to find its source.

Its source revealed itself suddenly and with harsh violence.

A brilliant detonation of sound and light brought Ju’daai to her knees, a vibrating waveform of mournful sensation buffeted the chamber. She covered her eyes, but the images of starfire and death could not be denied. She tried to scream for help but no sound escaped her throat, the noise in her mind drowning out everything else. And just as quickly as it had begun it ended with a rush of displaced air, and Ju’daai collapsed onto the floor and into blackness.

Strong hands awoke her with a gentle push, and when Ju’daai opened her eyes two warriors stood above her, concern etched in their noble faces. They spoke quickly and urgently, concerned for her condition and what had occurred. Ju’daai couldn’t speak, her mind too sore and still reeling from the shock. She raised her hand to wipe her eyes and was stopped as she realised she held something. Within her hand was a stone she had never seen before, and one she did not remember picking up. It was pale blue and gold, patterned with circle flanked by another and bisected down the middle. Although she had never seen this stone before, she knew what the stone meant.

Their death would come at the hand of the youngest of the Galaxies children.

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:


Their death would come at the hand of the youngest of the Galaxies children.

Tau? That I would like to see.

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

 Eldarain wrote:
Isn't Black Library recruiting right now? Just saying...

Thanks for the heads up man, I'll be entering this asap. The Deathwatch is a bit outside my usual area of interest, but I'm looking forward to making something hopefully worth reading

No worries. Best of luck with your submission. You'll have to send me some first editions when you're the new rising star there though

 Archmagos_Amadeus wrote:


Given that that is the case, I'm curious as to how you find yourself in the "Fan Fiction" section of a website, commenting on a piece of fan fiction

I was actually on the main page and saw this in the popular threads at the top. I didn't realize it was a fan fiction until I saw the first part, decided to take a read since I was there already and now I'm hooked.

You never fail to impress, DLS. I knew I checked up on Dakka once in a while for a reason, turned out to be a damn good thing I do. Keep it up!

 King Pariah wrote:

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:


Their death would come at the hand of the youngest of the Galaxies children.

Tau? That I would like to see.

Seconded.

So pleased to have found this thread! Excellent stuff, loved it all so far, great ideas. If you stop writing abruptly we will know BL have scooped you up!

Pssst, in the old thread, where is it by now?

lliu wrote:
Pssst, in the old thread, where is it by now?

We're still super early, literally the first few days.

Good stuff. I like it.

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

lliu wrote:
Pssst, in the old thread, where is it by now?

We're still super early, literally the first few days.

Oh. I was thinking we were almost to the Tau part with the Eldar.

I think the whole thing is getting a little shake up so as to tie everything together more closely.

For the Segmentum Solar, and Terra in particular, the weeks following the death of the most benevolent God-Emperor of Mankind were fraught with silent wars and bloody shadow play, all at the hands of the High Lords of Terra. Having agreed that the Imperium at large could not know of the passing of the empire’s figurehead, they set into motion a series of dark plans and covert operations that would ensure mankind’s ignorance.

The High Lord of the Administratum identified several key figures which he labelled ‘Scopus Gnaritas’, those that had first-hand knowledge of the Emperor’s demise and needed to be contained immediately. This included the Imperial Fists Astartes who first entered the Imperial sanctum after the event, the Custodians of the Imperial Palace, a single priestess of the Mechanicum and the majority of the Astropathic contingent of the palace.

The Astartes were easy to placate. Strong of will and loyal to a fault they may be, The Fists were loath to allow Terra to devolve into chaos. A shadowed council between the Second Captain stationed on Terra and several of the High Lords at many points could have ended in violence, but ended in the agreement that the Fists must keep their confidence until the High Lords could put in place some method to stop the Imperium devolving into anarchy. The High Lords had bought themselves time with the Astartes, but a more permanent solution would need to be implemented down the line.

The Custodies were an entirely different proposition, the personal retinue of the Emperor taking the death incredibly harshly. All attempts at contact with the Custodians brought nothing but silence, the bodyguards sealing themselves away within the former chambers of the Golden Throne. Several attempts were made to breach the doors and face the Custodians face to face, and each time ended in violence and defeat for the High Lords. Eventually, the Fabricator-General and High-Lord of the Astra Militarum agreed to have the personal chambers sealed and vox-guarded until a time the High Lords could guarantee the Custodians silence. The grim and silent guardians made no attempt to leave the chambers, maintaining their silent vigil over the site of their master’s death, much to the relief of the Terran Council.

The Astropaths of the Palace were to meet a very different and much harsher fate. The High-Mistress of the Assassinorium took cruel and wicked pleasure in sending her servants to the farthest corners of the grand edifice and having them silenced permanently. The heinous Culexus Temple stalked the gilded halls, flaying the psychically gifted alive and draining their essence in a cruel warping of mortal hunger. The Vindicare, quiet and unmoving, guarded all possible escape routes for the Astropaths, gunning down men, women and children as the fled the grim pogrom. The Callidus, always adept at subterfuge and misdirection, infiltrated bolt-holes and hiding places, turning their fury on those who until that moment trusted that they were one of their own. And the Eversor, those beasts that should have been aborted at their inception, rampaged through the halls of the Imperial Domain, slaying any and all who fell upon their path. The golden chambers reeked with the smell of blood and terror as the High Lords ensured their truth was the only truth the Imperium would hear.

As for the Priestess of the Mechanicum, no sign could be found of her on Terra. Her trail ended at the fifteenth Imperial Sky Docks on the northern terraces of the Imperial Palace. Despite their best efforts, she had evaded all attempts at capture and successfully left Terra on her Father’s former ship, The Nostradamus. Collating trajectories, launch data and clearance levels, the High Lord of the Administratum projected her expected destination to be the primary forges of Mars, birth world of the Mechanicum. The Fabricator-General appeased his colleagues, the wayward priestess was evidently approaching Mars to inform him of events he was already aware of. He would grant her audience once she reached Mars, and he would ensure her knowledge died there…

Won't be updating til after the New Year folks, everyone have a nice holiday

AWWWW
you too

It was a millennia ago when a learned individual in the central span of the Europa Straits theorised that time itself is relative. The flow of time is like a wild river with numerous currents and eddies of different speeds and pulls. In this river both the massive and molecular are tied to its flow, and nothing barring the singular fury of a black hole can push against the tides. The current is different for everyone, and although the differences between individuals may be infinitesimal, the difference is still there giving form and function to the sub-atomic tapestry of our universe.

It is this physical flow of time which should have saved the Imperium from the Emperor’s death: the news should have taken months to reach the edge of the solar system, years to touch the borders of the Segmentum Solar, and millennia to touch the very edges of the Segmentum Obscurus. Generations would have passed in peace without the knowledge of their Master’s death, toiling away under the stars as they always have done, and many would never know at all, living as they always have in ignorance. This would have been doubly true due to the machinations of Terra’s High Lords, who schemed, plotted and murdered their way away from the truth of the Emperor’s demise. The Galaxy would have spun as it ever had in atomic grace and none the wiser.

However time does not apply to every aspect of the Universe, for behind the black tapestry of our reality lies a psionic cancer, a stain of unreality behind the eyes of every living creature. Time does not conform to any physical law in the maelstrom of the aether, and the Emperor’s demise registered across every corner of the infernal realm simultaneously. And though a celestial anomaly had spared the Segmentum Solar, the rest of the galaxy shuddered as the Warp bled through the veil to consume the servants of a deceased god.

And consume they did…

As always Seanron your writing makes mockery of my own.

O my god I love this

Another shrieker screamed over the trench, vapour billowing from its passage. It embedded itself just behind the trench line before detonating with a scream of destruction, causing the men and women of the Catachan XVII to collapse in agony, blood pouring from their ears and pressure triggering pain in the skulls. Sergeant Coln spat blood into the muddied floor of his company’s trench, straightening painfully as another shrieker corkscrewed wildly overhead.

His troops had been fighting the xenos for three weeks Terran standard now, and whilst casualties to the hated shrieker missiles had been thankfully few, it didn’t stop the alien filth from hurling the projectiles with wanton abandon into the Imperial trench lines, revelling in the mass delirium and panic they triggered. Coln cleared his throat, raised his chainsaber and called out to anyone who could still hear him.

“Eyes up people! You scared of a little noise? You waiting for the Commisar to come hold your hand? Get your elbows up on that lip line and send some noise back!”

His men and women, whom he had fought and bled with for years, reacted quickly and efficiently. They clambered up to the lips of the trench, lasrifles lining up in unison before unleashing a red stream of death that battered into the advancing enemy. Several of the xenos fell, their black-beetle armour cracking and the spines and blades they decorated everything in snapping and smashing as the Catachan XVII vented their fury. Still others powered on, speeding through the fusillade, wicked blades in their hands and alien curses on their tongues. Shriekers and mortars bellowed overhead as both sides struggled to chase the other from the muddy trench lines.

The sky above them, scarred and dirtied with the constant exchange of firepower, began to boil and shift unnoticed by the warring mortals below, and silently thousands of pairs of eyes bled into existence.

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

Almeda allowed himself a grim smile as the greenskin vessel broke apart on the screen, its bulk vaporised by the fury of the small Blood Angels fleet. Almeda and his kin had been pursuing the hulk through the sector for several days, bringing it to battle on several occasions, but finally they had struck the hammer blow that had spelled its end. His bridge crew applauded and gave thanks to the Emperor at the end of a campaign well fought. He heard heavy footsteps approaching him from behind as Baltar stood alongside his captain. Almeda nodded toward the screen.

“Tenacious aren’t they? Feels like we’ve been chasing them for weeks never mind days.”

Baltar laughed deeply, his voice a chesty baritone as he replied.

“But the chase has ended in victory captain, glory to the IX! Glory to the fleet!”

Baltar slapped his commander’s shoulder in good jest, and smiled warmly. The xenos had been slain, and the Emperor’s realm was a little safer. Almeda nodded in agreement.

“Glory indeed my friend, but not enough to go round I’ll wager. The aliens fled as soon as they dropped form the warp. It is unlike the greenskin not to stand and fight even in the direst of situations. I almost wish they had put up more of a fight.”

Baltar laughed again and was about to reprimand his oldest friend when the bridge alarms wailed into life. The crew ceased their celebrations as their instruments streamed data on a building warp presence off the ship’s bow. Almeda bellowed orders, the organised chaos on the bridge of his ship being played out across the Blood Angels fleet.

And just beyond mortal sight, a bubbling tumour of unreality began to form around the fleet, and those with the gift to hear it would swear they could hear screaming.

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

Gurlukh Maen, scourge of the Eastern Reach and Warlord of the Breakers of Bone, buried his blade into the belly of the screaming man and hefted the struggling victim up to meet his eye line. The mortal quailed before the fetid glory of the Warlord, his eyes wild with terror, before Maen extended his jaws and tore the wretch’s face from his bones with his teeth. He dropped the corpse roughly, savouring the taste of blood and gristle on his tongue. Human meat was a rare vintage, and the traitor Astartes revelled in it. His followers bellowed their approval and joined in the bloody feast set about them.

The Breakers of Bone had been slaying their way across a small planetary system for months now, ever since that coward Abaddon (a curse upon his name) had abandoned his own Black Crusade to return to the Eye. A higher calling and a deeper plan were the reasons given, but Gurlukh Maen suspected what he suspected about all of Horus’ bastard spawn: cowardice and incompetence.

So his war band had struck out on their own, killing and burning their way through the Emperor’s realm with reckless and malicious abandon. The Breaker’s seer, Ur’shunt of the Endless Eyes, had promised great things to Gurlukh and his reavers if they soaked the material realm in blood in the shadow of Abaddon’s failure.

Gurlukh had noticed that Ur’shunt had been peculiarly quiet during the fighting. Usually the sorcerer would espouse the names of the Five Hundred Damned and the Epistles of the Ever-lost whilst bathing in the blood of their victims, but his armoured and robed form stood hushed and still, and even the ethereal wisps of warp-things that shadowed the witch-kin’s movements seemed subdued. Shouldering his minions aside, Gurlukh approached his seer, ready to reprimand his lack of devotion to the slaughter when the sorcerer’s head snapped back and elicited a scream that was every scream Gurlukh had ever heard in his long, bloody existence.

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In life Ashan Ad’Amin had always been unlucky, seemingly his death had not changed this fact. The Cryptek threw aside yet another broken mortal body, the pile now filling the great grave-pit almost to bursting. Trying to isolate the essence of the mortal races soul receptacle and hollowing it for the inception of another was proving far more difficult than the ancient construct had first suspected. His work had been promising and endlessly interesting, but nothing solid or conclusive had come from the endless dissecting.

He signalled to his slaves to bring forth another mortal, a shivering, pale haired Eldar to his slab as he prepared his instruments for another round of tests. This would be the seven hundred thousandth such experiment Ashan had attempted, but he was never one to allow failure to dismay him. The Eldar wailed and spat, cursing his jailor with all the fury of Commoragh, but the venting fell on deaf ears. Ashan’s colossal minions forced the creature onto the monolithic slab, waiting silently for their master to begin his ruminations.

Ashan leaned over hi subject, their terror reflecting in the singular dark orb of his eye. His six arms whined and clicked into infeasible positions, each one wielding a device of monstrous pain or physical impossibility. He prepared to make the first incision, on the surface of the mortal’s eyes, when a dull moan filled the chamber. Raising his head, Ashan scanned the room and its myriad sub-dimensions for the source of the sound. His minions stood immobile and uncaring, but the sound of movement, flesh slithering across flesh began to echo about the Cryptek’s personal domain.

Moving away from his ministrations, Ashan stalked to the Body Pit, the noise growing louder as he approached. Leaning over, he opened his optics fully to the deep trough of bodies before him. A faint hiss escaped the dead, before a clawed hand erupted from the dead and seized the Necron by the neck…

I was wondering where you'd gone, then you come back with this huge amount of great material, keep up the good work!

Don't the Catachans have standard issue ear plugs?

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
Don't the Catachans have standard issue ear plugs?

Hmm, I thought most did.

 Asherian Command wrote:

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
Don't the Catachans have standard issue ear plugs?

Hmm, I thought most did.

You guys get hung up on the strangest things, honestly...

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

 Asherian Command wrote:

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
Don't the Catachans have standard issue ear plugs?

Hmm, I thought most did.

You guys get hung up on the strangest things, honestly...

When your enemy is using sound as a weapon, a little ear protection is warranted, yes?

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

 Asherian Command wrote:

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
Don't the Catachans have standard issue ear plugs?

Hmm, I thought most did.

You guys get hung up on the strangest things, honestly...

When your enemy is using sound as a weapon, a little ear protection is warranted, yes?

Well I am a game designer, I complain about the smallest things. Comes with the field really.

But Hopefully you continue writing this.

I wouldn't mind seeing a new take on the 40k lore.

*MIND EXPLODES* Oh my goodness i saved the old work on my ipad to read when i was at work, now i gotta save over it with this new awesome rewrite. My goodness man you are amazing! Keep it coming to fufill my anxiousness of seeing Magnus the Red "redeemed"

I don't quite get why the Emperor's servants would kill themselves after they killed the Emperor. And what's more, the Emperor can't talk.
But otherwise, good story.

 Xilvi wrote:
my anxiousness of seeing Magnus the Red "redeemed"

Text to speach webseries much? Amirite?

 KaptinBadrukk wrote:
I don't quite get why the Emperor's servants would kill themselves after they killed the Emperor. And what's more, the Emperor can't talk.
But otherwise, good story.

Its fear, fear of what might happen or them not doing their duty for their lord. Its basically depression for super humans. You did a bad job, I'll go kill myself. Or it is something more sinister.

People suddenly dying in the imperium, especially the custodes. It sounds like something bad

Been a bit swamped of late, update is nearly finished thanks guys for your kind word and patience

A Necron being killed by zombies... oh the irony

The grotesque eyes in the heavens began to weep, and wherever their tears landed matter flowed and boiled like hot wax. The barren trench lines below boiled and steamed as the sorrow from beyond the veil warped and melted the landscape in a deluge of daemonic rain. Man and xenos below suffered the same, skin and muscle sloughing from bone in gore-stained chunks, bloodying the mud and liquid below until the entire battlefield was a garish, gore-choked swamp. Sergeant Coln raised his blistered sword arm to the sky and attempted to sound a retreat to his troops even as they cooked and disintegrated around him. He closed his eyes and bellowed his fury to the sky, his throat filling with the unholy rain. His insides oozed and boiled, pouring from tears and rents in his body, dripping and bucketing to the slick ground beneath. When the infernal eyes finally ceased their weeping, nothing remained on the world except a barren ocean of gore-streaked matter and refuse.

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In space, there is no sound, only a glacial silence that all physical law must bow to. But the screams erupting from the rents in the ether were based in no law of known physics, and for the first time space was forced to suffer the mournful din. They battered and tore across the Imperial Fleet with in a mix of ravenous elation and dreadful terror. Almeda roared to his bridge crew, demanding they turn about and surge away from the hellish stellar wound, but no one could reply. The screams tore through brain matter and sliced through neurons, men, women and Astartes collapsing with their hands clasped over bloody ears and eyes. All sound was drowned out in the fury of the screams as Almeda turned his horrified gaze to the ships central viewport. The tear in space had formed a vast maw, miles upon miles of serrated and cracked fangs lining its maddening gums. The mouth opened wider and wider, sucking matter and light and leaving screams in their stead. The Blood Angel Captain fell to his knees as his fleet was swallowed by the infernal maw. It would not stop opening until it had consumed the whole system, leaving only blackness and emptiness in its wake.

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The body of Ur’shunt of the Endless Eyes cracked and swelled, his robes and armour exploding out like a shrapnel grenade, scoring rents and wounds in the armour of his comrades. The former Astartes body bubbled and tore as new limbs and tumorous growths burst from his mass. Gurlukh Maen roared to his followers to subdue the warping sorcerer as he raised his axe above his head, his minions turning weapons on their former comrade with all the precision and speed their former master had bred into them. Gunfire exploded into the fleshy mass, explosive rounds eliciting bloody gouges and roars from the mutating Space Marine. But still he grew, mouths and eyes and bristled fly-hair bursting from obscene folds and globs of tissue. Ropey tendrils of sinew burst from Ur’shunt, wrapping their slick lengths around his former brothers, pulling them closer to his blubbered form. Armour and weapons cracked broke as the tumorous stain on reality consumed the traitor Astartes, their mass adding to his in a perverted hunger. Blood and gristle spilled from Ur’shunt, his vile orifices eliciting moans of pleasure and agony in equal measure. Gurlukh Maen hacked and flayed, screaming curses to the Gods as he was forced back by the unholy mass. A fleshy vine snatched at his leg, and Maen crashed onto his back, his axe falling from his grip. Before he could right himself, Ur’shunt was upon him, the blob of growth crushing the ancient armour of its former master. Maen beat his fist at the wall of skin and muscle, and the last thing he would ever see was the folds of fat parting to reveal a hungry ravenous maw that seemed to smile before swallowing his head whole.

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The clawed fist gripped Ashan Ad’Amin by the head and squeezed like a piston of meat and bone. The Cryptek jerked backwards but the claw remained vice-like, squeezing Ashan’s head with a grim certainty. Necrodermix cracked and buckled under the strain, and a sharp snap rang through the chamber as Ashan’s sole optic cracked under the relentless grip.

The Cryptek’s sentinels leapt silently into action, metallic wardens pouncing on the arm and pulling it from their master. With a sickening tear, the arm broke and the claw released the Cryptek, who collapsed to the floor, limbs twitching and gibberish pouring from his lipless mouth. The body pit exploded outward as the bearer of the arm revealed itself, and if the Necron guardians still had the propensity to feel then they would have quailed at the sickening creature before.

The bodies of the pit were no longer individual sacks of dead meat, but had melded and roiled into one colossal worm like whole, their arms reaching out and pulling the thing forward. Slime and excrement oozed from seams and scars on the bodies, and a huge leering face had formed upon the stumped neck, malice shining in a set of oversized eyes, fangs wrought from snapped bones glittering in the slit of its mouth. A single, crooked horn sat regally upon its head and flies billowed about its form in a halo of filth and corruption. It centred its wretched gaze upon the attacking sentinels and laughed a gluttonous, liquid laugh:

METAL THINGS WITH SOULS OF SORROW I SEE. YOUR LITTLE TRICKS AND TRAPS CAN KEEP THE TRAPPINGS OF THE GRANDFATHER AT BAY NO LONGER.

The horrific monster hurled itself at the sentinels with a speed that belayed its grotesque mass, and the sounds of breaking metal and torn flesh filled the chamber, blood and flint streaking across the floor.

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When the revival protocols had done their work, Ashan Ad’Amin rose to his feet once more, and for the first time in his millennia-long existence, he was given pause. His chambers, once a place of clinical knowledge and refinement, was a charnel house. Blood and pus covered everything, flies and maggots crawled on every surface and the bodies of his once proud sentinels lay about the chamber, broken and rent beyond any kind of repair. Most of the chamber wall had been burned and torn away, and sticky viscera coated the impromptu entrance. The sounds of violence and shrill, monstrous squeals echoed from the cavernous hole. The Eldar subject that had lain on the operating slab lay there still, its guts opened to the air and foul insect-things breeding and cavorting in the wound. As to where the Eldar’s head was Ashan could not say.

The disarray in the Cryptek’s chambers should not have happened, he had laced the tomb with quantum shielding and warp-diffusers himself and any warp activity or incursion should have been halted. Something had changed, something in the wider universe beyond the Cryptek’s understanding. That was unacceptable, nothing in this world or the next should be beyond the deathless mind of Ashan Ad’Amin. He would understand this incursion. He would understand it and he would stop it. Wrapping his robes about himself, the Cryptek stalked into the gaping cavernous dark, intent on unravelling the darkness that had descended on his world.

I don't think catachan standard issue ear plugs will help anymore.

This may seem like a bias request, but please talk about cadians.

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:
This may seem like a bias request, but please talk about cadians.

Being on the doorstep of the Eye of Terror will probably guarantee them a few paragraphs.

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:
This may seem like a bias request, but please talk about cadians.

If this ends up being even remotely similar to our Dark Lord's original go at the end times, the Cadians will have their time in the sun.

 King Pariah wrote:

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:
This may seem like a bias request, but please talk about cadians.

If this ends up being even remotely similar to our Dark Lord's original go at the end times, the Cadians will have their time in the sun.

*Spotlight


But yeah That would be interesting to see. I am interested in seeing the differences between the two.

Fanfiction has three levels.

1. Terrible
2. Semigood
3. This Should Be Canon
4. I think you broke the system (Exists outside of the levels)

DarkLord Seanron and everything he writes is number 4 in a nut shell. its so awesome, that even canon has a hard time comparing to the amount of epic you can pump out in a paragraph.

Just doing some housekeeping to the thread before I post Part IV

Such events as previously described were not individual flukes or chance happenings, but a few in a tidal wave of horror and despair that was to pour from the throat of the Ether. Across real-space, the Warp pushed and tore at the fabric between realities, the fragile skin of defence once held firm by the Emperor now dead along with him. Like a monstrous, painful birth the denizens of the infernal plain tore from the womb of their maddened realm in a bid to consume and control the universe their Gods had always craved.

Entire worlds were lost as daemons burst into reality, setting their populations to the torch in the name of creatures too dark and labyrinth for mortals to truly comprehend. Humans in their billions turned on each other in mad butchery, some in panic, some in rage, and others in wanton desire. The Gods called out to the masses, and the masses answered with sword and flame and sin.

The Cardinal World of Gideon XII burned as an army of living flame marched across its surface in the name of the Lord of Fate. Noble spires and religious edifices to the Imperium of Man melted like hot wax as the fiery spectres laid siege to the temple world, its populace reduced to ash in the heat of a thousand hells.

The system of Pershal to a man went mad with anger, unleashing total war upon everyone and everything around them. Men, women and children stalked each other through the streets of cities, the plains of valleys, the corridors of starships carrying murder and ruin in their hands. From the steaming corpses and bloodied grounds rose red-hued horrors, carrion monsters of twisted sinew and blackened horns whom bellowed the glory of the Blood God before setting upon the survivors in an orgy of unescapable murder.

The grand fleet of the Rogue Trader Alexis Gurdain the Third found itself besieged from within when its Pleasure Barge vomited an unending train of daemonic filth and hedonism into its neighbour ships. Crews found themselves both embattled and enraptured by the svelte daemons assaulting them, equal parts lover, mother and destroyer. The crews died in droves, their killers cavorting and writhing obscenely in the bloody mayhem they had wrought. When every denizen of the ships were dead the Daemons led the ships to nearby worlds, beginning the rapture to the Dark Princess once more.

The Psychic Colleges on Uhuru became a cess pit of corruption, when the pupils who had been selected to lead a pilgrimage to Terra erupted into molten gore-streaked portals to the forested blightlands of the Grandfather. Wild forests of disease and decay crawled relentlessly from the formerly glittering spires, choking everything in their path in despair and detritus. In the wake of the choking fauna came millions upon millions of the Grandfather’s tallymen, pus slicked horns upon their brows and rusted, pitted bells in their fists. Palsied claws smote a funeral dirge as they marched over the broken bodies of the living, sacrificing the world to the Lord of Pestilences and securing Uhuru as an entrance to their master’s great garden.

Across the known realms of man it was as if Old Night had returned with vengeance and ruin in its blackened heart. The Agri-worlds of Agalypton festered and burned, the Holy Hives of Gallileo XVII toppled and cracked as titanic daemons of iron and flesh battered the glittering towers to the ground. The Almari and Havesford systems seethed with civil war stoked by the raging desires of man and daemon alike. Fleets burned, planets bled and the Imperium of Man rent itself in twain in the space of a few short bloody nights.

Yet even amidst the unrelenting horror, small victories were won. A guttering hope was still clung to by the survivors of the Emperor’s realm. For those of the Psyker gene with the will and strength to resist the dark gods, they stood to defend their brothers and sisters, casting the wretched filth back to the warp from whence they came. The Astartes of the White Scars, Salamanders and Iron Hands, some of the longest and most devoted of the Emperor’s disciples hurled back the forces of Chaos wherever they found them, defending their charges with their lives. The Holy Hive World of Juda would have boiled in blood if not for the stoic example set by their religious leaders and the guns of the Astra Militarum. Fleets of warships battered back the warp filth that spawned in the void, small pockets of victorious resistance in an otherwise grim tapestry. The Great Eye flared in the heavens and Chaos reaped a bloody toll across the void.

The men and women of the Cadian Gate, the one stable real-space route into the blasted Eye, girded itself for war. The flaring of the unholy realm could only mean the return of the dark hordes, and the soldiers and citizens of Cadia and its worlds steeled themselves against the oncoming tide.

They waited…

They watched…

But nothing came. The Eye was silent, raw and glutted with power, but silent. For within the eddies and currents, a new battle line was being drawn.

A battle line that would change the balances of power for millions.

The Despoiler, thrice-blessed by the Gods, watched the steaming pile of gore before him impassively as his minions went about their bloody business. The four seers pulled and tore at the meat, gibbering inanely to each other in a tongue that no mortal mind should comprehend let alone understand. Blood boiled and steam rose from the corpse as the carrion witches sought signs amid the ruined body. The leader of the coven, a twisted bloated creature by the name of Skalmiix, waived his blood-drenched claw to silence his brothers and fixed the Despoiler with a single, bloodshot eye. When it spoke, its brothers whispered in assent, the sound sending shivers down the spines of unborn children sectors away.

“The signs are clear Lord Abaddon. The Pretender is dead. How and why we cannot see, for the eyes of heaven are clouded. But the realm of the corpse-god is in retreat. Now is the time. Now is the time to strike”

Abaddon clenched his granite jaw, and stared straight into the maddened eye of the Seer, who looked away humbly in the face of the God’s chosen son. When he spoke, he spoke in a deep baritone, laced equally in old anger and arrogance.

“You have assured me of such victories before Skalmiix. Thirteen times I have ridden from the Eye with victory assured and thirteen times I have crawled back into the cesspool in defeat. Why should your words assure me of anything now?”

The seers squealed in fear at the Despoilers words, their chattering like the gnawing of vermin on a corpse. Skalmiix cracked his knuckles and barked for his brothers to silence themselves. The chamber went silent once more; the only sound the dripping of blood from the steaming corpse before them and the quiet hum of the vessel which housed it. Skalmiix arced his wizened neck to meet the Despoiler’s grim visage.

“The False Emperor is dead...this changes everything. The enemy have no defence, no contact, no protection. If we strike now, we can finish your father’s work and...”

“MY work seer...my work. Never forget that” snapped Abaddon, interrupting the seer. The coven winced at the sudden outburst. Composing himself quickly, the witch continued.

“Your work my Lord, you can storm the Cadian Gate and from there a swift march to the throne on Terra. You can fulfil your purpose in the eyes of the Gods. You can be king!”

The Despoiler had heard such promises from the witch coven before, but it never ceased to raise a wicked smile to his otherwise brutal face. The idea of him achieving what even his Father could not, dominion over the mortal masses of the broken Imperium, filled him with a rare joy. The long war had raged for centuries, far longer than Abaddon or any of his kin desired, and the chance to finally tear the throat from the bastard kingdom was something Abaddon desired greatly. Already his Legion celebrated the demise of their former master, revelling in the easy war to come. With the Gods behind him, Abaddon could not fail. The past failures of the so-called Black Crusades would pale in comparison to the utter victory he would taste when his Legions fell upon Terra proper.

“Very well seer. Summon your kin. Relay my words to the Legions. We will march on Terra, the Gates of Cadia shall fall and I will bathe in the blood of the weakling Imperium.”

The coven raised their voices and claws in praise of the Despoiler, before renting their fanaticism once more on the corpse before them. Turning from the grizzly display, The Despoiler left the ritual chamber and made his way to the bridge. He would bring war unimagined to the Imperium, and this time he would succeed. The Corpse-God was dead and the four great powers bowed to Abaddon, nothing would stop him this time, nothing.

The plot thickens.

Lol, faibaddon will lose, I'll hide a bane blade in his toilet and yell Tactical Genius across the galaxy just before it kills him.

But seriously, whether or not the cadia stuff was planned, thanks.

Learned scholars from across civilisations have wondered at the nature of the warp since time immemorial. Regardless of species, creed or beliefs, each have poured their intellect into diffusing the vast and endless mystery that is our sister realm. And although no mortal creature could ever have a true understanding, many half-truths have been speculated and proven over the slow march of millennia.

One such key truth known to all is that the arrow of time has no place of authority within the Warp. Time is fluid there, bending and sometimes breaking to the whims of the powers that dwell beyond. Storms and eddies of emotional potential turn time in on itself, slowing its passage one moment before hurling it forward with reckless abandon. On occasion, time is grappled like a viper and twisted in upon itself forming a quantum oroborous that no mind could comprehend or survive.

However, even this understanding is staggeringly limited to the truth of infernal realm, and only the act of dwelling within its runnels and peaks would allow the mind to truly comprehend how little meaning time has there. Although it had been mere weeks on Terra since the passing of the Emperor, and seemingly shorter still since his wider domain fell into anarchy. However within the Warp, and its gates at the Eye of Terror, the hordes within had longer still to prepare.

Messengers and black-winged servants bearing the golden eye of the Black Legion rode through the warp, bearing summons from their master, Abaddon: Favoured of the Gods, Breaker of Bloodlines, Imperial Ruin, and Despoiler of All. Within the Eye the news of the Emperor’s passing had been known for months, and in some cases years, and Abaddon sought to draw as much power to his force as possible for his inevitable march on Terra.

At the heart of the Screaming Divide, dozens of Black Legion servants lost their lives to the wild eddies and billowing currents of the ether as they brought summons to Sicarus and its sister-worlds. Its masters, the Word Bearers, had fallen into a frenzy of gracious fervour after the death of their creator and met with summons with an enthusiasm bordering on madness. Thousands of their twisted number boarded devotional warships, armour consecrated in the blood and tears of billions of slaves and singing praises to the pantheon of the victories to come. Silence fell however when an ancient and rusted monstrosity rose from the tortured waves of Sicarus’ northern oceans, regal in its horror and heinous power. A ship, grey of hull and forged in a time of wonders, rose from the oceans clad for battle and glory. A name was scribed in High Gothic upon its flanks: Fidelitas Lex. Not seen since the grim days of the Heresy, the ship thought slain rose like a Leviathan of the Deeps, its majesty not dimmed by the passing of millennia. The miraculous reappearance of the flagship of the Bearers of the Word meant only one thing: Lorgar, Father’s Bane, Architect of Blasphemy and The Sole True Believer had deigned to join his sons for the conquest to come. The bloated and ravenous fleet pushed form the Screaming Divide to marshal its power alongside its brothers in the Black Legion.

Under the bleeding skies of the Judas Expanse, the delegation from the Despoiler brought their demands to fructuous Legion of Fulgrim. The former Children of the Emperor, always untrusted by the descendants of Horus, were given an ultimatum: join the black Crusade to come or face the wrath of the new Emperor when he takes his throne. The Emperor’s Children, more so out of a desire for mayhem than any sense of loyalty or fear, abandoned their hovels and dens of sin in droves, amassing in numbers not seen in centuries. Pleasure barges, stately cruisers and skin-draped gunships swarmed like flies upon spoiled meat, ready to bring anarchy and sensation to the dull-witted pawns of the dead Emperor. Of their Father, no sign was seen as he wallowed in his own decadent misery within his colossal temple, caring not for the fate of his sons.

As any sense of central leadership had been shattered long ago, the heralds of the Despoiler sought the barbaric World Eaters wherever they could find them, and with every new finding inevitably came hostility and violence. Warbands from the Desolate Breach, the Blood Trench and the Tract Manic were brought to heel under ceramite boots, and soon the fleets of the Black Legion were bolstered by thousands of ravening devotees of the Blood God. Where no oaths could be secured, the Black Legion simply abducted whole companies through sorcery and trickery, locking the Berserkers away within the depthless holds of warships in preparation to be dropped onto unsuspecting enemies and worlds. Abaddon however was wise enough not to approach the Sire of the World Eaters for aid: to approach Angron, even for one as mighty as the Despoiler, was to invite death.

Upon the blighted soil of the Death Guards citadel world, the emissaries of the Warmaster came before Mortarion and his damned sons with promises of vengeance and slaughter. The Plague Lord, solemn and brooding, heard the offers and missives, but waived the sons of Horus away from his realm with the threat of death. The death of one father had fractured the psyche of Mortarion, the death of another seemingly breaking it completely. Several sons of Barbarus left the Plague Worlds with the Black Legion, however the greatest number remained with their master, content to wallow in miserable mourning with him.

Of the Alpha Legion, the scions of the Warmaster could find no sign. The garrison worlds that the sons of the hydra had haunted for decades were empty, the fortresses abandoned, their populaces gone. Abaddon raged biliously at the apparent cowardice of serpents, however his seer council knew that when the sons of Alpharius hid from sight, then all should tremble at the destruction they would bring. Whether that destruction would be on the head of the dying Imperium or the forces of Abaddon himself they could not say, as the Alpha Legion had always pursued their own sinuous agenda.

Failure was to meet the Black Legion again on both the Planet of the Sorcerors and the Iron Citadels of Medrengard, as both Legions declined to follow the Warmaster on his latest ‘folly’. The Sons of Magnus were as obtuse and secretive as ever with their liege lord not even deigning to leave his spire to address the delegation. The Iron Warriors home world, always a monstrous thing of turrets, fortresses and redoubts had been garrisoned to the point of madness. It was as if the grim sons or Perturabo were preparing for a war on their own doorstep, or they were defending something precious to them. Either way, the Black Legion could not count them as allies in the coming conquest. Neither could they count the Night Lords in their number, the masochistic monsters dwelling far beyond the reach of the Eye, and the messengers of the Despoiler.

From every corner of the wrap, the traitors flocked to the banner of Abaddon the Despoiler. Astartes that had borne their hatred since the dying days of the Great Crusade to comparative youngsters who had abandoned their vows of fealty in recent decades both heard the call to war and embraced it with a victory-starved fervour. The end of the Imperium was at hand and they would have their share of the glory.

The fleets of the fourteenth and final Black Crusade gathered at the Point of Translation, the beginning of the so-called Cadian Gate, ready to bring ruin and death to the holds of humanity. At the center of the vile, armoured hordes sat the throne of the Despoiler himself, the Planet Killer, flagship and figurehead of the Black Legion. His forces marshalled, Abaddon allowed himself a satisfied smile, and prepared to unleash his hordes once more upon the Universe. Soon he would take what was rightfully his, and his dream of the Imperium burning beneath his armoured boot would be attained

This dream would not be fulfilled…

The awesomeness continues. Epic and inspiring stuff.

Well, I'm just gonna' leave this here

My jaw is 1000 feet underground right now.

Failibaddon may fail no more.

lliu wrote:
My jaw is 1000 feet underground right now.

Failibaddon may fail no more.

Well he failed to get three primarchs.

 Asherian Command wrote:

lliu wrote:
My jaw is 1000 feet underground right now.

Failibaddon may fail no more.

Well he failed to get three primarchs.

And Purturabo seems worried about something. Which doesn't bode well.

 Mr Nobody wrote:

 Asherian Command wrote:

lliu wrote:
My jaw is 1000 feet underground right now.

Failibaddon may fail no more.

Well he failed to get three primarchs.

And Purturabo seems worried about something. Which doesn't bode well.

Or there is a party.

lliu wrote:
My jaw is 1000 feet underground right now.

Failibaddon may fail no more.

I think you need to re-read the end.

I'm sure not only is he going to fail again, but in a massively spectacular way that makes it a win.

He gets lost on the way to Cadia?

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
He gets lost on the way to Cadia?

Welll... Purturabo has Leman Russ and the Space Wolves are coming for Purturabo and the World of Iron. As for Failibaddon... Where's that darned GPS??? My lord, you fed it to your pet grox... Where is the astronavigator??? You killed him because you dropped your ice cream yesterday. Oh...

lliu wrote:

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
He gets lost on the way to Cadia?

Welll... Purturabo has Leman Russ and the Space Wolves are coming for Purturabo and the World of Iron. As for Failibaddon... Where's that darned GPS??? My lord, you fed it to your pet grox... Where is the astronavigator??? You killed him because you dropped your ice cream yesterday. Oh...

Shhhhh dude, spoilers

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

lliu wrote:

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
He gets lost on the way to Cadia?

Welll... Purturabo has Leman Russ and the Space Wolves are coming for Purturabo and the World of Iron. As for Failibaddon... Where's that darned GPS??? My lord, you fed it to your pet grox... Where is the astronavigator??? You killed him because you dropped your ice cream yesterday. Oh...

Shhhhh dude, spoilers

Sorry.

I seriously can't wait for the rest. Amazing.

 Shadow Captain Edithae wrote:
He gets lost on the way to Cadia?

Shouldn't trust Tzeench for directions....

At the throat of the Cadian Gate the fleets gathered as flies swarm to a bloated corpse, ready to descend and feed upon the red rotten flesh below. Surrounded by the howling fury of the Eye of Terror, the myriad ships huddled deep in the sole stable translation point that the Gate offered, a small pocket of calm in an ocean of bewildering madness. The Warp had been especially tumultuous these past weeks, furious channels of raw anger and despair billowing from deep trenches of abstract anarchy. Like the great waves of a typhoon, the ether boiled and crushed all in its wake, matter rendered down into particulate chaos under the relentless grinding of infinite lunacy. Already, several dozen vessels of the gathering fleets had been torn asunder by the capricious tides, and many had simply lost their way amongst the dense and labyrinth currents, forever doomed to sail the endless depths with no hope of rescue or redemption. However even these casualties could not dim the horrific magnificence of the martial powers arrayed here.

Ships of every tonnage and stripe had gathered, loosely formed at the commands of the Warmaster into Speartip ready to plunge forth and rend apart the throat of the dying Imperium. A dizzying array of colours and banners comprised the newest Black Fleet, forces drawn from the original Traitor Legions and many more from more recent inductees into the ways of the Gods. Monolithic cruisers painted in garish, luminous streaks of pink and red and adorned with miles upon miles of sutured flesh and golden ornamentation carried thousands of sensation-maddened Astartes of the Prince of Pleasure ready to cavort among the ruins and bodies of their enemies. Dominated by a grand-cruiser designated Succulence, the anarchic flotilla hovered haphazardly in the greater formation: maddened screams, inhuman snarls and senseless chattering filling the vox-channels between ships.

In stark contrast to the garish cohorts of the Emperor’s Children sat the patient and rotting hulls of Death Guard and their damned ilk. Although most had chosen to remain with their Father, a sizeable horde of plagued devotees gathered under Abaddon’s banner. Grim, silent slabs of iron and war drifted gently within the fleet, runnels of pus and frozen viscera dripping from rusted hulls, tracts of virulent foliage drifting dead and limp from metal, pitted scars. Centuries of damage and war wounds were displayed proudly, badges of martial achievement scabbing the hulls. The ships of the sons and daughters of Nurgle at first glance appeared weak and damaged beyond function, but heinous life and power coursed through them, hardened and armoured like frost-bitten muscle and iron sinew. The pestilent forces were dwarfed by their flagships, twin colossi dubbed Spiteborn and The Unbroken Advance, monstrous vessels wielding firepower enough to smother a world in atomic death.

Amid their larger brethren prowled gunships and frigates of deep crimson and black, hulls daubed in the bloods of slaughtered saints and blackened in the fires of unceasing conflict. The ships were in constant, palsied motion mirroring their crews: the insane and gore-hungry legions of the Blood God. Although smaller than their massive cohorts, the ships of the World Eaters and their frenzied kin were armed and armoured to a maddened degree. Weapons meant for larger vessels bristled from gunships, chains that could engulf cities hung from spines and blades of gargantuan scale and assault ramps, harpoon tubes and cannons honeycombed the hulls, all the better for allowing their twisted inhabitants the chance to grip their foes in a torrent of bloody melee. No form of leadership or order could be brought to the devotees of Khorne, however their presence was bolstered by an ancient iron behemoth named The Relentless, one of the few World Eater grand cruisers left in existence.

Shielding the rear of the fleet came the crimson and granite warships of the Word Bearers and their covens of slaves, mutants, lunatics and traitors. Each ship was not simply a weapon but also a monolithic temple and altar of devotion to the Gods of the tumultuous realm, palisades of gore-streaked marble and brass rising into ornate statues of blasphemous deities, great unceasing braziers of nuclear flame burning in caged displays of darkened metal, colossal stained glass windows of red, bone and black showing the rising of the Legion from serfdom to sainthood. Led by the glorious terror of the Fidelitas Lex, the Fleet of the Word outnumbered their sister ships three to one: a frenzied horde to lay waste to the broken Imperium.

Smaller but no less dangerous clusters of warships drifted amid the larger battlegroups, warbands of a thousand different origins clamouring for a chance at glory and wanton destruction. No uniformity existed between them, and they roved like rabid packs of dogs, hungry for the bloodshed and mayhem to come, snapping and barking at one another in agitation. Each boasted their own honour-roll of desecration and horror, and the swarm boasted several ships that had haunted the dreams of Imperial Navy men and women across the galaxy: The Redolent, Aura Demetria, The Sword of Golgotha, Weeping Sore, The Murder of Martyrs, Abyssal Sorrow: all strained to be first into the warzone and the attentions of the Warmaster and his Legions.

And at the center of the web of iron and death, squatting like a cancerous spider on a fetid nest dwelt the flagship, the throne of the Despoiler himself, the dreaded Planet Killer. Miles upon miles of reddened steel and iron hammered together with spite and purpose before being cast into the heavens like a mountain put to the void, the ship was incalculably ancient and powerful and proved time and again to be fitting throne for the Lord of the Black Legion. Further cementing its status was the ring of black-hulled escorts and deathships that surrounded it, all uniformly gilded and dangerous. The Black Fleet had always been an impressive and intimidating display, however Admiral Urkrathos had gathered a host worthy of even the glory days of the Old Crusade, with near a thousand ships flying the black banner alone. The entire fleet could easily drown systems in a torrent of fire and blood, and united there was no force in the physical universe that could oppose them. Scout ships and frigates had been dispatched, and data on the dispersion of the Imperial Defences of the Gate were fed back every minute to the vast murderous flotilla.

There would be no trickery this time, no sorcery or feints to blind the enemy and bring disarray, this would be a hammer strike to the Imperium’s skull, a thrust spear into its throat to sever the head and bleed the corpse dry. The time for nuance and grand strategy was over, the weakened Imperium awaited its deathblow, palsied and injured. All it required was the strike of the Despoiler’s hordes to bring complete victory. With his mortal forces arrayed and ready to bring ruin, Abaddon the Despoiler, Warmaster of Chaos, signalled the seers and summoners of the fleet to begin their work, to bolster the already terrifying force with the foot soldiers from beyond. The Gods bowed to Abaddon, and they would follow him on this final conquest.

The Unholy Host of the Despoiler would ride from the eye, and hell would follow with them.

a frenzied horde to lay waste to the broken Imperium.

You need to put a to here. Sorry I was reading through it and saw this. It happens to me too :(

Continue the great work here!

This is too awesome for words.

 Asherian Command wrote:

a frenzied horde to lay waste to the broken Imperium.

You need to put a to here. Sorry I was reading through it and saw this. It happens to me too :(

Continue the great work here!

This is too awesome for words.

Fixed

Ooooh, exciting stuff, can't wait for the actual invasion.

Not that I'm worried for the Imperium, I mean, Failbaddon couldn't actually beat the Cadians, could he?

Yeah, I'm just saying that yes, just yes.

Iron Warriors do not gather for nothing and magnus might see somthing coming.

Greater things are in motion?

Seated upon a throne of cold iron and colder stone, the Despoiler looked upon his mightiest work and was pleased. Spread upon the myriad screens and viewing ports before him lay a gathering of unimagined power and majesty. A fleet of ships, thousands in number, oathed and dedicated to his cause spread before him like an arrowhead of iron retribution, a veritable horde of sky-borne fury and destruction ready to be unleashed at a single command.

His command.

Easing his massive armoured form into the back of his throne, Abaddon sat like a furious God over his realm. The bridge of the Planet Killer was alive with activity: mortal and astartes both working to fulfil the will of the Despoiler. Bridge crew prepared weapons and transport systems, checking and re-checking key tolerances from around the gargantuan vessel. Warp-blessed mages and hereteks ran gnarled and twisted fingers across console banks, urging their charges to full power, coaxing the darkened machine-spirits within to release their secrets. Hulking Astartes in blackened plate staked the walkways and awnings of the massive chamber, ensuring the complete obedience of their mortal charges. Automated defence systems and clusters of weeping, pus encrusted eyes hung form the high chamber ceiling, watching and waiting for any sign of disloyalty. The atmosphere of the bridge was charged, a terrible storm waiting to be unleashed on the unwary. This scene would be played out across the fleet, with every ship poised to strike at the hated Imperium.

Over the tumult of the bridge, Abaddon heard the familiar click and static buzz of inter-suit communications. Flanking his throne were two monstrous shapes of black ceramite, hulking behemoths armed with ruin and crowned in burning ire and ivory horns. Through reddened lenses these two colossi watched for any threat to their master, metallic fists gripping weapons of a brutal mien. The Black Legion had ever boasted a great horde of Tactical Dreadnought Armour, and Abaddon had equipped his entire personal retinue in the imposing suits ready for the coming war. He knew that in the shadowed recesses of the chambers and throughout the ship his servants stood ready to enact his blessed will. The warrior to his right, a robust and chain-laden figure by the name of Huursk leaned toward the ear of his master, his baritone whisper rising just above the bass drone of his armours systems.

“He is here my Lord, no retinue. He requests permission to approach the bridge.”

Abaddon nodded shallowly, his face like soulless stone. Huursk rose again and the crackled clicking and buzz of internal communictions sent Abaddon’s order to the main chamber gates. From behind the regal throne the sound of grinding metal and released pressure sounded, followed by the familiar march of terminator sheathed feet, and among them almost like an afterthought a lighter and more considered footstep. The armoured tread ceased alongside Abaddon’s throne, his guard bolstered in the presence of their visitor. The Despoiler registered a soft golden glow in his peripheral vision, almost angelic in its beauty. It took all of his iron will not to turn and bask in the light, he had to appear strong in front of his minions and his guest. A voice, like a learned teacher and parent, patient, calm and without malice rose beside him.

“Would you not look upon me mighty Abaddon? Have you not the time to welcome your Uncle in person?”

Slowly craning his neck, Abaddon looked upon his visitor for the first time, his eyes narrowing as the light fully encompassed his vision. It took his mind several moments to process what it was seeing, the immediate impression being light and immense will. But as his eyes adjusted, Abaddon saw fully the figure before him, and had to resist the ingrained urge to drag himself from his throne and abase himself before the beauty of the figure before him.

Clad in ceremonial armour of gold and ruby the figure was tall and supple in form, the craftsmanship making the hulking terminators around it seem clumsy and ill-made. The grieves and shoulders were crafted with graceful flames and filigrees of Holy Scripture, each straining to contain the boundless energy of the figure within. About the visitor’s waist hung delicate, lantern-shaped braziers of brass and stained glass, gentle light and incense rising in light trails about the regal form. About his legs hung a ritual kilt of leather and parchment, inscribed with blessed names and acts of valour in the names of the Gods. The chest plate of the visitor was a thing of unmatched glory, worked into the form of an open book its pages etched in fine ruby and emerald. The metal from which it was crafted seemed to shift and dance before the eye, like a powerful fire coursed through its fabric. Around the angel’s shoulders hung a cloak of deepest red emblazoned again with the image of an open book and holy flames in finest ivory thread. In its mailed fist the regal giant carried a mace of deepest metal, taller than an astartes and crowned with spiked sphere that promised righteous murder with every strike. A warrior god in every aspect.

But nothing could compare to the visitor’s face.

Fighting his own urge to avert his gaze, the Despoiler took in his guest’s angelic visage and almost wept to know such perfection. The face was long and noble, proportioned perfectly so no single feature seemed out of place. A beatific smile was framed by a strong, noble jaw, clean shaven and perfect in its dimensions. A straight, regal nose spoke of a bloodline of excellence and noble countenance. The head was shorn of any hair, and upon it rose six regal horns of purest ivory, each curving gently to the centre, like a natural crown wrought in heathen times. The skin of the visitor shone a warm hue of burnished gold, liquid metal seemingly flowing through the veins beneath, lending a hint of barely restrained power to the giant. But his eyes are what truly made the figure godlike: two deepest pools of jet black, like portals into the deepest, darkest ocean Abaddon could imagine. To look too long into the twin abysses was to invite madness and death, but to look away was to know regret and sorrow at having lost such perfection. Cuneiform scripture was etched across the skin of the giant in red gold, the writing shifting and writhing as the muscles and skin beneath moved. Abaddon recognised the writing as auld Colchisian, language of the Holy Scripture, passed from the Gods to the realm of man.

Forcing himself into a shallow bow, Abaddon greeted his guest in as powerful a tone as he could muster.

“Greetings Lorgar, it has been many a moon since we have drawn blades together.”

Lorgar Aurelian, Seventeenth Son of a Dead Emperor and Lord of the Word and all it touches smiled warmly, ignoring his nephew’s failure to address him by his title. The Primarch of the Word Bearers had always been a patient and glorious figure, and his ascension to Daemonhood had dulled none of his regal majesty. He bowed indulgently, and returned the greeting.

“I thank you my Nephew, it is quite the wonder you have crafted here. A gathering befitting a true Warmaster.” Lorgar nodded toward the Despoiler, “The Sight of the Gods is upon this moment, and they see that it is good.”

Abaddon pulled his eyes from his luminous ally and returned his attention to the sprawl of ships and forces before him. It was a mighty host, perhaps the largest amassed since the ancient days of the Great Crusade and his Father’s revolt. Such a force would cast any foe before it, and these were just the Despoiler’s mortal forces. When they rode from the warp, the pacts that the Gods had promised Abaddon centuries before would be honoured and legions of warp spawn would follow in the fleet’s wake. The Despoiler allowed himself a bitter smile: victory would be his. Lorgar noted the smile and his silken voice gave Abaddon pause.

“Finally, we will bring the glorious truth to all of mankind. The Gods will have the victory that was writ long ago in the stars of the nether. They will tear down the false idols and bring truth to the universe once more.”

Abaddon’s face darkened at Lorgar’s mention of the Gods victory.

“The Emperor is dead Lorgar, there are no more enemies to bar our way. We will ride and butcher our way to the empty throne and then I will rule, as your Gods foretold. Victory for me is a victory for the powers beyond, but do not forget for who it is you fight.”

Locking eyes with the daemon Primarch, Abaddon noted a faint twitch in Lorgar’s smile. A cold pain twisted in his stomach as the Primarch replied:

“I have never forgotten who I fight for, Abaddon Horus Son, and the God’s will have Victory now and always…”

The sudden shrill cry of alarms filled the bridge as sensors detected massive energy fluxes building around the fleet. The Despoiler looked into the face of the Primarch as a clam smile spread across Lorgar’s angelic features:

“The God’s shall have victory over man, Despoiler, as for your victory…I cannot say…”

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The Warp around the Black Crusade buckled and boiled like a current passed through water. Vast waves of mortal terror buffeted the ships, torrents of despair and fury crashing against each other in a pyrotechnic display of non-colours. At the words of Lorgar the calm shallows the fleet had orbited became a furious tumult of raw power and aggression, ships colliding and splitting under the currents of the ether.

Several ships tried to drift from their formations to avoid rupturing upon each other, only to be met by a squall of blistering emotion that tore at their shielding and exposed their guts to the uncaring warp. Crackling contrails of ether-spawned lightening stabbed like blades of rapturous light into hulls, cracking and blistering were they made contact. A vortex of blood-hued anarchy spiralled within the fleet, rending battle groups and casting ships from time and space into a blackened nothing.

And out of the anarchy, the true armies of Chaos came.

A boiling tide of daemons rode the currents of the warp, colossal predators with carrion maws ready to swallow the ships of the Black Crusade whole. Twisted limbs bearing weapons of daemonic steel tore from the ether into the stranded vessels, monsters and horrors flooding the bulkheads and corridors in a tide of blood and madness. Astartes turned their weapons upon the invaders, surprise giving way to anger and fury. Daemon fought post-human in the darkened fleet, blood slicked the metallic corridors and walkways, fire erupted from ruptured hulls and true and total chaos gripped the gathered hordes.

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

Abaddon stared in disbelief at the chaotic spectacle unfolding before him. The Warp was tearing his fleet apart and daemons, whose loyalty should rightfully been his, were unmaking all he had built over painful months in a matter of minutes. He rose from his throne, his mouth working wordlessly in rage at the injustice he was witnessing. Already, the sounds of gunfire and slaughter could be heard within his vessel. The Despoilers bodyguard hefted their weapons in the direction of the main access corridor, with some even pointing their weapons at the Primarch in their midst. Abaddon turned his fury upon Lorgar spittle flying from his gnarled mouth in rage:

“What is this!? What have you done!? You dare stab me in the back when my triumph is at hand!?”

Pulling his blade from his scabbard, Abaddon held its point threateningly toward Lorgar, his every motion speaking of rank hostility.

“Your Gods have turned their back on me! Why Lorgar!? Tell me why!?”

The master of the Word Bearers smiled lightly, and mirth danced in his darkened eyes. He hefted his monstrous mace onto his shoulder easily, and in a tone belying the chaos unfolding around them addressed the Despoiler:

“The Long War is won Despoiler. We have no need for you and your kind anymore, beyond the cattle you so clearly are. This realm and the next was not meant to be ruled by the bastard-spawn of failed gods. It was meant for the True Pantheon. Your services…are no longer needed”

Tears of rage stained the Despoilers eyes as he raised Drach’nyen above his head and bellowed a challenge to the daemon Primarch. Reality rippled and split around the golden giant and creatures of a dark and terrible aspect flooded the bridge in a ceaseless torrent of bloody anarchy. The bodyguard of the Despoiler turned their weapons on the invaders, bullet and blade meeting livid, unholy flesh in battle.

Abaddon shouldered his way through the melee, his maddened fury intent on Lorgar. The Primarch swung his ancient crozius in broad, deliberate arcs decapitating and maiming even astartes in terminator plate. He turned his gaze to the approaching Warmaster, and laughed cruelly at his rage.

“Oh Ezekyle, how much like your father you are” Lorgar taunted, spinning his mace around his head and bringing it en guarde before his foe. “He, much like you, was a failure also…”

Daemon blade met blessed crozius in a shower of luminous sparks as the combatants clashed. Lorgar was all defence, contemptuously turning each blow away with ease. Abaddon was all fury, his sword and talon striking and blurring in a state of lunatic madness. More and more, the despoiler realised he was being toyed with, but his mind was not his own: unbound rage was his mistress now and he had no choice but to vent it onto his foe. Again and again he hacked at the Primarch, each time his frustration building. He spun the blade in a complex reversal, raising the blade above his shoulders and striking in a frenzied stab at his opponents head.

Lorgar, with a grace belying his size, slid his armoured wrist around the descending blade and gripped it in his gauntlet. The duel paused as Abaddon attempted to dislodge his weapon. Looking into the tear-streaked eyes of his opponent, Lorgar leant his serpentine mouth to the blade and whispered a single word in Colchisian.

With a sound of shattering glass and warped screams, Drach’nyen burst into unholy flame and power, destroying itself in indulgent fury and taking its former masters left arm with it.

Howling in agony, Ezekyle Abaddon fell to his knees, blood vomiting from the wound were his arm once was, coating the floor in a shower of gore. All around his men died as the servants of the dark Gods tore them apart in frenzied combat. Lorgar, seventeenth son of a dead emperor, stood above him triumphantly, crozius held aloft in a signal of victory. He looked upon the son of his brother and felt no mercy or loyalty of blood. He closed his eyes in glorious peace and spoke one final time as he brought his crozius down in a slow and deliberate arc.

“Your failures end now, Son of Horus.”

As the fleets burned and died around it, the Planet Killer was enveloped in a light brighter than any sun. Energy boiled and crackled from it as the mighty vessel rent itself in twain. Secondary explosions detonated along its length and with the sound of worlds ending and dreams dying, the flagship exploded taking her passengers with her.

:celebrations are heard across the imperium:


Yeah!

Nice work mate!

YAY! this soo needs to happen. And forever after when someone says chaos they will talk about DAEMONS rather than spikey marines!

Oh My God!!! So Lorgar is stronger than Abaddon? Isn't Lorgar the one who agreed to serve Abaddon?

Well, can't say I saw that coming! Once again, what I find most impressive about this is that you have the guts to make such drastic moves within the setting and the skill to pull it off! If someone had told me that there was a fan fiction in which the Emperor died, Abbadon was killed by Lorgar and [insert next epic plot twist here] I would have dismissed it out of hand, but here it is, and it is awesome!

This is awesome!

You are not a published new york times winning author is disquise?

Now I'm curious as to how the Iron Warriors are faring. I'm assuming they anticipated this hence why their fortress world is even more heavily fortified

But peturbo? He is a deamon prince but not tied to a god.
Will he side with sons or gods?

After 10k years to build though probbly make Cadia seem like a wooden hut with paper door.

 King Pariah wrote:
Now I'm curious as to how the Iron Warriors are faring. I'm assuming they anticipated this hence why their fortress world is even more heavily fortified

You could guess.

lliu wrote:

 King Pariah wrote:
Now I'm curious as to how the Iron Warriors are faring. I'm assuming they anticipated this hence why their fortress world is even more heavily fortified

If you would like to see why, I assume you should check one of my earlier posts.

Dude, please refrain from spoilers, not everyone read the old thread

lliu wrote:

 King Pariah wrote:
Now I'm curious as to how the Iron Warriors are faring. I'm assuming they anticipated this hence why their fortress world is even more heavily fortified

If you would like to see why, I assume you should check one of my earlier posts.

Spoilers much? Shesh.

Its like yelling at the top of your lungs! SPOILERS jesus dies at the end of the bible! Spoilers! He resurrects himself!

Its rude for those who don't know.

No I am not equating 40k to the bible.... or am I?

I did read the old thread way back when and I recall

However, things seem to be taking a different course in our Dark Lord's current rendition of the End of Times when compared to the old thread, so I'm not inclined to believe that

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

lliu wrote:

 King Pariah wrote:
Now I'm curious as to how the Iron Warriors are faring. I'm assuming they anticipated this hence why their fortress world is even more heavily fortified

You could guess.

Dude, please refrain from spoilers, not everyone read the old thread

Changed. Sorry.

 King Pariah wrote:
I did read the old thread way back when and I recall

Spoiler:

that the Space Wolves lay siege on the Iron Warriors and successfully get Leman Russ back and Perturabo gets whisked away by apparently the Emperor himself

However, things seem to be taking a different course in our Dark Lord's current rendition of the End of Times when compared to the old thread, so I'm not inclined to believe that

Spoiler:

the Space Wolves will be pulling that stunt again

Thank you for taking the time to spoiler this.

With a shuddering gasp, Allisa Traynor awoke to a needle sharp pain in her head and bright light in her eyes. She coughed to clear phlegm and congestion from her throat, her insides sore from abuse that she could not recall but felt all too keenly. Her vision swam, kaleidoscopic shapes flitting across her eyes and blurring the edges of her peripheral vision lending the world a maddened watercolour glaze. Her lungs wouldn't respond as they should, and a coil of panic tightened within her, worsening her delirium and pain. She could make out voices, just at the edge of her hearing. They spoke urgently and calmly, although what they were saying she could not make out. She felt hands grip her wrists and shoulders firmly, although not unkindly, and held her down in her coughing fit. Her body tensed again as her diaphragm forced the oxygen from her body and then all was black once more.

Allisa's eyes opened once more, slower and with less pain than before. She could not tell how long since she blacked out, only that the pain had subsided into a low hum prowling at the edge of her awareness. Her vision was still blurred, and she tried to raise her hand to wipe her eyes, but it would not respond: something was holding her wrist, tight and authoritative. She craned her neck groggily, a headache ever at the border of her senses. Through the liquid fog blurring her vision she could see that she was lying down clothed in a plain white robe, similar to those worn in hospitals or medicae centres. Although she could not make out the details of the room around her, she could see that it was similarly plain in colour, with silvers and whites making up the majority of the background. Above her was some form of silver shape that shone a soft light down upon her. The room smelt of antiseptics and artificial sterility, and a gentle hum permeated the air giving the impression of machinery working nearby. Allisa could just make out the form of cream bindings around her wrists bound to the rim of where she was lying, limiting her movement. Lying back down, exhaustion took her again, and once again the world went black.

When she next awoke, it was to the sound of a female voice singing gently. Soft and not at all unpleasant, the voice sang a well-known hymn: “The Emperor, He is my Chariot”. It was a lilting, light refrain and although Allisa was still unaware of where she was or how she had gotten there, the hymnal quietened the thrumming in her head. Allisa raised her head slowly, and this time her eyes swam into focus.

She was in a white sterile room, the walls tiled with green and cream squares. Along the walls were stacked shelves busy with medical paraphernalia and monitoring equipment, all neatly ordered and well maintained. The ceiling was similarly coloured, with pale white lumen strips built into shallow recesses, lending the room a sterile manufactured quality. At the centre of the ceiling and directly above Allisa was a silver domed aperture that radiated soft golden light and was responsible for the gentle hum that permeated the air. Several wires snaked and wound their way like ivy from the walls up into the device and although it gave no outward sign of danger or aggression, Allisa couldn’t help but pull away from it. She diverted her attention away from the dome and focused on the figure standing to the left of the room.

Dressed in a simple cream robe, the figure had her back to Allisa and was busying herself with a chart tacked to the wall of the room. She was humming quietly to herself whilst marking points on the chart and comparing them to a small data slate in her right hand. A white habit adorned the top of her head, and from the bottom edges of it could be seen red, thick curly hair. The woman in white was short, gentle and slim, and obviously very feminine. Allisa tried to speak to gain the woman’s attention but all that elicited from her dry throat was a cracked cough. The woman span on the spot in shock, dropping her data slate and throwing her hand to her chest in fright. She evidently had not expected Allisa to be awake let alone try and speak.

The woman’s face was round and lightly freckled, and her eyes were a warm green, like foliage in summer. Around her neck lay a silver chain that ended in a small medallion: a vertical rod wrapped in laurel wreathes and entwined in the facsimile of a snake. Allisa breathed in some relief, the woman was a Sister Hospilatier, which meant Allisa was in a hospital. There must have been an accident, that’s why she was in pain. She strained to speak again, but her throat failed her and she coughed hard. The Sister found herself again and moved quickly to Allisa’s side.

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Her voice was soft and reassuring, maternal in its kindness. She reached for a glass of water just outside Allisa’s immediate vision. Placing a hand gently under Allisa’s head, she helped her drink down the cool water. It was biting and refreshing, and her body greeted it like a desert wanderer at an oasis. The sister continued, “you’re not actually meant to be awake, so I hope you forgive me for being a little shocked.”

Allisa gave one last cough, and finally found her voice, “Where am I? What happened?” Her voice was like dried parchment, and her throat felt like it had not been used in years. She imagined sand rising in her breath as if from some ancient tomb. The gentle face above her winced slightly as the sister responded.

"You’re in Gallileo City Medicae Chapel…there was an accident you see. You were brought here immediately after.”

Allisa could not remember any accident, and when she tried to sift through her recent memories her headache worsened. She screwed her eyes shut and let out a breath of frustration.

“Was I hurt? I can’t move my arms or legs…”

The sister looked uncomfortable, and she allowed Allisa another sip of cool water. Although her voice was still kind and seemingly helpful, she was clearly unwilling to divulge further.

“I’m not really supposed to be speaking to you…under the circumstances. You should really be asleep. You weren’t meant to wake up until they got here”

A twinge of panic ran through Allisa, and a tremor entered her voice.

“Who are they? What’s going on? Answer me!!”

The sister looked to the door, then back at Allisa, her look of soft concern never leaving her face. She bit her lip lightly before speaking again, clearly keen to end the exchange.

“I’ve said too much. You should really be asleep, you need your strength for when they come. I’m really very sorry. Just try to relax. With all the confusion happening, you’re a bit on edge. I’ll help you relax”

Allisa felt the sister’s hand fumble with something behind her head, and before she could raise another objection there was a bright intense pain in the back of her skull. All went white as her brain fought against consciousness, before slipping back into the reassuring blackness of coma.


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When next Allisa awoke, she was somewhere else entirely. She was no longer lying down but sat in a cold steel chair before a similarly cold table. It was pristine and reflective, and only a small black microphone sphere sat at the centre of it. She could see and feel clearly now that she was restrained at the wrists by thick cream straps, the kind usually associated with infirmity of the mind. They did not cause her pain, but they did not allow movement either. This room was also pale, this time tiled in blue and white and one wall was dominated by a reflective pale mirror giving the illusion that room was far larger than it realistically was.

Her reflection made her gasp: where Allisa’s long, brown hair should have been now was a shorn scalp, shocking in its baldness - she looked like a convict or a victim of radiation sickness and the sight sickened her. Tears welled up in Allisa’s eyes as she craned her neck to take in the full horror of her reflection. A glint of metal made her freeze, and she realised something was attached to the back of her head, some spindled insect device that she could not fully see. The vision of it gave it weight and her neck ached under this foreign strain. What had they done to her? What was happening? She choked on a sob, about to call out for someone, anyone to help her when an automated door opened on the wall behind her. A pair of booted feet tread across the tiled floor to stand at the table in front of her, and she quailed at her visitors.

Arbites Officers, a pair of fully armoured and viscously armed Arbites stood in front of her impassively. Beetle-black and heavenly laden, violence radiated from them like Suns. One wore a riot helmet, a grim skull-like façade covering the face and leaving only their eyes visible, burning with a look of intense disgust at the manacled victim before them. The second went without helm, and with his straight noble features and slick blonde hair would have been considered handsome if not for the look of intense cruelty on his face. The helmeted officer waived his hand over the table tripping an invisible beam held there, and a pair of chairs similar to the one Allisa was bound to rose from the floor behind them. Seating themselves before her with an abrasive squeak of metal on ceramic, the helmeted officer sat with a callous slouch, eyes burning into her and forcing her to blush whilst the other smoothed his uniform and placed his hands on the table. Only then did Alissa notice the weighty documents held in the second Arbites’ hand. They sat in painful silence for many minutes before the bare-headed man spoke.

“Suspect is one Allisa Anne Traynor, Age twenty seven Terran standard. Preliminary interrogation to be held by myself, Arbite Investigator First Class Joshua Dougan and Arbite Enforcer third Class Amanda Riker.”

His voice was deep and liquid, like water flowing through a cavern deep below ground. His eyes were a cruel pale blue and they never left Allisa, even as he opened the files before him and spread them on the table. There were several grainy black and white photos amid the files, and he gestured to them as he spoke again.

“Ms Traynor, you stand accused of an act of terrorism and witchcraft on this the Emperor’s day of Spinreal 15th. You knowingly entered the centre of Gallileo City, seventh precinct and caused bodily and fatal harm to thirty eight of the Emperor’s subjects…”

Allisa felt a sudden sickness at the pit of her stomach. There must have been some kind of mistake. Her eyes scrolled the images laid below her and she gagged: bodies lay all around in the photos, many of them torn open and maimed in a most brutal fashion. A crater lay at the centre of many of the images, vehicles tossed aside and glass covering everything, with smoke bellowing from its sunken structure. It was as if a bomb had been set off at the heart of the pictures. He continued speaking, running down a list of fantastical acts that He accused Allisa of enacting: use of warpcraft, slaying of innocents through biomancy, consorting with powers most ruinous. Allisa held back a cry and pleaded with the officer’s before her.

“I don’t know what you mean…I’d never hurt anyone. Ever! Please, if you can just tell me what’s going on then…”

The first officer, the one with the grim helmet, slammed their hand hard on the table causing Allisa to flinch at the sudden violence. Whereas Allisa had assumed the figure to be a man, a female voice heavy with spite crackled from the voice box of the black armoured head.

“We have the proof right here Traynor, so don’t try and worm your way out of this. Your guilt has already been decided, we are here to ascertain whether you had any accomplices in your crime witch!”

The word witch hit Allisa like a mailed fist. It wasn’t just a derogatory insult thrown at her by the Arbites, the way she had said was loaded with meaning and literal spite. They believed fully that she was a witch.

“What…what do you mean witch? I am no witch”

The male officer leaned forward, his voice still like liquid gold.

“You are a piece of psyker filth, and these images attest to that” he gestured once more to the photos “You are guilty, that much is clear. You will be treated as such. However the severity of that treatment could be lightened based on your cooperation with our questions.”

Allisa lowered her eyes, tears forming on her lashes. She looked at the photos again, and this time at the centre of the crater she made out the hazy image of a person lying there, wrapped up in pain in a foetal position. She recognised this person, the long hair, and the tasteful clothes. The person in the photos was her. Why couldn’t she remember? What had happened? The investigator saw the recognition in her eyes and continued, this time gentler than before.

“I understand things may seem a bit hazy right now. For the continued safety of ourselves and every other human being in the city we have had to muzzle you” He gestured to the back of her head with his eyes “the process can have an effect with the formation of short term memories. You understand naturally. We simply want to know who your co-conspirators are and when they are going to strike again. Your fate will be merciful if you cooperate”

A bitter sob wracked Allisa at the accuisation, and a desperate panic gripped her voice as pleas of her innocence tumbled from her.

“There are no co-conspirators! I don’t know what you mean. I am no witch! Please, you have to understand, I have no part of plot! You need to believe me!”

The female Arbite rose suddenly and with a fast and brutal motion slapped Allisa hard across her face. She felt a tooth crack and blood leapt from her mouth to splatter across the tiled floor. Her vision rocked and a pain like fire wracked her face and neck. She could feel liquid run down her face and throat, and her tears turned from sorrow to genuine terror. The distorted voice of the female Arbite resounded again.

“Enough of your whimpering, Heathen! Tell us what we need to know or by the Emperor I will beat you black and blue right here! Understand!?”

The investigator placed his hand calmly on his colleagues shoulder, and she sat down grudgingly once more. Allisa’s breath came in short bloody gasps, fear overriding all other concerns. She ran her tongue across her teeth, trying to clear away the gore that matted there. The male sat forward again, twining his hands together and in a voice calmer than the situation dictated nodded solemnly.

“Let’s begin then”


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


This process continued for what seemed like hours. The male officer would ask questions, many of them simply reworded or deconstructed versions of ones he had asked previously. Sometimes he would ask questions in no way related to the interrogation, then quickly follow with another in the hope of tripping Allisa up. Allisa answered as best she could, however she could genuinely find no reason or memory that suggested she was part of these crimes.

Whenever she uttered an indication of her innocence, the female Arbite would answer with no words but violence. She had slapped Allisa several times, punched her twice in the stomach, cracked the back of her neck with her fist and at one point had broken Allisa’s wedding finger on her right hand. The digit sat awkwardly and blackened, and her whole hand burned from the mistreatment. She no longer cried at the abuse, her eyes were dry and empty of tears. The questions and pain continued for hours and hours, and Allisa felt that she would die before the end.


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

Investigator Dougan sat back in his chair, frustration etched in his usually calm demeanour. The broken and beaten woman before him had given them nothing except pitiful excuses and tears, and his throat was raw from the constant questioning. She sat now with her head hung low, a strangled gasp escaping her bruised and broken body, blood dripping in a staccato rhythm from her lips. He felt no pity for the witch, but several times he had to call Riker off. She was a mad dog with a spiteful temper, and a dead witch would be even less use to them than a quiet one. He focussed on the broken woman before him and breathed a long exasperated sigh:

“Very well Ms Traynor…your unwillingness to comply with our wishes is noted. This interview is over. We’ll let the Ordos handle you now”

He nodded to Riker who paced behind the prisoner. She reached roughly for the muzzle at the back of Traynor’s head, gripping the apparatus firmly and aggressively. With a slight adjustment and a whine of mechanical workings, the muzzle robbed the prisoner of consciousness once more. He breathed deeply and stretched as he rose from the small metal chair he had occupied since the beginning of the interrogation. Riker noted the time in small note book in her thigh pocket and gestured to cameras hidden in the walls to her colleagues outside to open the doors.

Walking side by side, the officers left the interrogation cell out into the wider corridors of Gallileo City Hospital. They walked silently for a few paces before Riker gave voice to her concerns.

“So, we found nothing from that witch except lies and frustration. Makes me sick to my back teeth.” She tightened her knuckles beneath her matt black armoured gloves “what are we going to do now?”

Dougan straightened as he walked, and smoothed the front of his uniform out of habit. He turned to face his colleague head on. He had never been comfortable with Riker’s habit of wearing her helm indoors, it was deeply unnerving which probably suited the Enforcer just fine.

“Everywhere was chaos that day, so we know for a fact that it was a coordinated effort to usurp Imperial law. She is the one psyker out of five dozen suspects we detained. I know she’s either the ring leader or very close to the top of whatever is happening here. I hate to say it, but it looks like we’ll need to bring the Ordos in on this. Let them shake down the Witch and her cronies”

Riker nodded solemnly. The Ordos of the Holy Inquisition had authority and jurisdiction across all of the Imperium, but no Arbite from the highest Judge to the lowest boot stomper on the streets like to release control to them. Riker reached for the communicator at her waist and nodded to her superior.

“I’ll make the call”


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Agony greeted Traynor as she awoke once more, and she sucked in air hard and fast as her body adjusted to wakefulness. Everywhere ached, her skin was alight with pain and her bones ground against one another with relentless friction. She was back in the hospital bed, but the room was dark now: the lumen strips lowered to give the illusion of night. She had not been cleaned since the interrogation, and blood matted on her skin and between her teeth, and her wrists were still strained under the restraints of leather bindings. She wanted to cry but found she had run out of tears long ago. She felt violated and abused and at that moment she could have wished for death. Judging by the throbbing ache of her bruised muscles it must have been many hours since the interrogation, but as to how long had passed she had could not guess.

Arching her neck gingerly, she saw she was once again alone. The door was closed and a faint light shone through its outline. A shadowed silhouette lay beyond it, a guard posted to ensure she remained where she was no doubt. Allisa pushed herself up by her elbows so she was partway sitting, needle-like stabs coating her spine and lower back. She was tempted to call out, to demand the guard come in and answer her questions but her throat was still raw from the questioning. No means of escape presented themselves, and Allisa swore quietly to herself. Maybe she could rock the bed to the side and get to the floor? Maybe she could slip her hands through her bindings, pain be damned!

Before she could enact any kind of scheme, there was a sudden commotion outside the door. Confused shadows bustled in the light, and a heavy thump banged against the door as a tremendous weight slammed into it before being lowered gently to the floor. The doorknob turned furtively and opened softly, eliciting no sound as it swung open, bathing the room in the gentle corridor light. A crumpled guard lay on the floor, his neck bent at an angle that no one could survive. The look on the dead man's face suggested that he neither expected or reacted to the blow that killed him. Allisa would have cried out but her breath was stolen by the guard’s assailant.

He was perhaps the tallest and broadest person Allisa had ever seen, and under a close fit bodyglove of deepest grey she could see the his overly muscular and grotesquely heightened physique. At his waist he wore a black belt, part metal and part fabric, hung with equipment pouches and holsters, the largest of which was empty. In his right hand he wielded a heavy, matte-black pistol of frightening weight and size, a bloated cylindrical attachment adorning its barrel. In the left, the giant carried a blackened blade, easily the length of Allisa’s arm. It dripped fresh blood on the floor, its violent purpose evidently having been fulfilled this night.

He approached her with a speed and silence surprising for his massive size, and pausing at the side of the bed he towered above Allisa like a goliath of pale marble. She shrank into the bed, terror gripping her afresh. Before she could whimper a plea for mercy his blade flashed twice rapidly and the restraints at her wrists and ankles were cut. Fear gave way to surprise as the giant looked quickly to the door. Footsteps were approaching, and his momentary pause gave Allisa a chance to see the intruder fully.

His thick jaw was lightly stubbled with black growth, and his head was shorn clean much like Allisa’s. She thought he could be thought of as darkly appealing, but his face possessed a peculiar gigantism that couldn’t be ignored. His eyes were a piercing sapphire and drank in the room in quick, sharp glances. Everything about him spoke of martial power from his stance to his grim face and eagle-quick gaze. When he spoke suddenly, it was in a baritone whisper that seemed drenched up from his core in deeply accented High Gothic which took Allisa aback. Sliding the pistol into its holster, He gestured with his large hand toward her, open palmed and inviting whilst his attention was fully on the door.

“Ms Traynor, come with me. Now!”

She shrank from the hand, appealing though the thought of potential escape was. Despite the horrors that had been inflicted on her by the Arbites, this giant, this weapon wrought in flesh was all the more terrifying still. She cleared her throat and whispered in as authoritative a voice as she could muster.

“Who…who are you?”

Before he could respond a shadow fell across the open door. Another guard, garbed in full Arbites riot armour entered the room to see where his colleague had gone. He paused at the door, taking in the sight before him: Allisa rising from the bed, her restraints cut, the dark giant standing protectively above her, and the broken corpse of his colleague at his feet. He was momentarily thrown by the scene, pausing for just a moment before reaching for his sidearm.

A moment was all the giant needed.

Allisa had never seen another creature move so fast and with such brutal intent, it was almost dizzying in its absurdity. The giant covered the short distance between himself and the guard faster than Allisa could blink, and in one fluid monstrous motion gripped the Arbite by the face with one of his oversized paws and with the knife stabbed with ruthless efficiency up through the mans throat into his brain. He held the full weight of the interloper in one muscled arm as it spasmed dumbly into death, the knife holding the head still as the body died. Only when the body had ceased moving did the giant lower it gently to the floor, pulling the knife slowly and grimly from the killing wound. The encounter had lasted no more than a few seconds, and Allisa blinked quickly as her brain tried to comprehend what she had just seen.

He turned to her once more, his face falling into shadow except his dagger-like sapphire eyes. There was almost something reptilian about his stare, a cold cunning that spoke both of patience and animalistic violence. He leant closer to her face and she could smell oils and unguents upon his skin. She realised that if he was going to hurt her then there was nothing she could do to stop him. She also realised that if he was indeed going to inflict pain upon her, he would have done it before now. Neither of these thoughts gave her comfort. She met his eyes completely, and in his low, rumbling whisper he said but one thing:

“I am Alpharius”

It is about time!

Excellent stuff, as always!

Ooooh! Plot twist! This wasn't in the old thread!

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:
“I am Alpharius”

Probably any old Alpha legionnaire then. Unless that's the real Alpharius (how can we be sure?) you've just used a played out meme. *Looks down at signature* Oh well.

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:
“I am Alpharius”

Probably any old Alpha legionnaire then. Unless that's the real Alpharius (how can we be sure?) you've just used a played out meme. *Looks down at signature* Oh well.

I'm sorry, what?

It's not a meme, it's a well-known Alpha Legion trait to identify as Alpharius to those not within the Legion. It's like their whole deal, one body many heads...

I know right?

Plus, it is a fairly amusing complaint given the user name of the poster!

Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:
“I am Alpharius”

Probably any old Alpha legionnaire then. Unless that's the real Alpharius (how can we be sure?) you've just used a played out meme. *Looks down at signature* Oh well.

I'm sorry, what?

It's not a meme, it's a well-known Alpha Legion trait to identify as Alpharius to those not within the Legion. It's like their whole deal, one body many heads...

Well, it's become meme-like in its overusage by fans in general. "A bit like just as planned" anyway, here's a link to a thread on that discussion, if you're interested. http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/0/637139.page

Alpharius wrote:I know right?

Plus, it is a fairly amusing complaint given the user name of the poster!

What did you think I meant when I said, *Looks down at signature*

Things are getting interesting.
:-)

Most excellent

Their flight from the hospital passed in a blur of muted greys and paranoid pauses, and as they exited into the cold air and driving rain Allisa Traynor sagged in exhaustion. Along with the giant Alpharius, she had ghosted through the corridors of the hospital, which was clothed in the blues and blacks of twilight, ever aware of the eyes that could potentially be watching her. Several times her rescuer had gestured for a halt with his oversized hands, waiting for some unseen enemy to move on whilst they waited in shadow. In those moments Allisa held her breath, afraid that even that small amount of sound would alert the whole Imperium to their presence. Only once did Alpharius leave her side, gesturing for her to crouch low at a turn into one of the buildings main concourses. He slunk forward as a panther stalks its prey and vanished into the deep shadows of the building. Several quiet minutes passed, and just as Allisa started to fear she had been abandoned Alpharius returned. He was cleaning something off his blackened dagger, Allisa suspected blood, as he took his place alongside her again. From there to the exit of the building was without event, but full of hellish tension.

The rain outside was like a current of power to Allisa, hitting her skin and refreshing her. She had not eaten or drunk since her abuse at the hands of the Arbites and the presence of so much water caused her stomach to moan loudly. She gripped her stomach in embarrassment, however Alpharius seemed not to notice. His eyes were fixed on the sprawling alleys and streets beyond, drinking in the view with his hawk-like gaze. The rainfall glistened on his head and skin, and clung greedily to his body glove but he was no more troubled by it than a mountain is to snow. He turned slightly to Allisa, and in his baritone whisper explained their advance.

“We’re out Ms Traynor but we are still not safe. Our first priority is to get you fit for our journey. I have stored supplies down this alley, stick close to me and stay quiet”

Allisa nodded her understanding and followed close behind Alpharius as he picked his way through the driving rain. The alley was grim and filthy, with blackened water streaming down the grey walls, dozens of dilapidated wires and cables rocking lazily in the breeze hung above them like the nest of some enormous arachnid. The ground was uneven and broken, cracks and potholes giving Allisa trouble as she advanced. Alpharius stepped perfectly in his feline prowl, never once losing his footing in the dreary, water-soaked place. Piles of refuse and rubbish crowded the alley, boxes weakened by hours of dirty rainfall lying upon black, shiny sacks that buzzed with insect activity. Allisa was thankful for the rain, as no doubt this place reeked of mould and old corruption.

Onward into the urban sprawl they stalked, light from windows & portholes high above reflecting and twisting in the driving water. They saw no others as they progressed, although Allisa had the distinct feeling that this was her rescuers doing. More than once she saw what appeared to be a slumped body piled into the rubbish around them, and she again shuddered at the horrific power her giant companion possessed. He eventually stopped his steady advance at metal grating built into the wall of an adjacent building, and with seemingly little effort on his part pulled the heavy mesh from its fixings and climbed into the new opening. Allisa clambered up into the space awkwardly, nearly falling as she entered the small dark space. Alpharius held his arm out to steady her descent, and she felt his muscular form through his bodyglove: tough, sinewed and heavy, like rocks bound together with tightened rope. She was grateful for the assistance, but could not keep the fear she held for him from her eyes. Ignoring her discomfort, Alpharius turned into the small alcove they found themselves in and gestured to a deep-green ceramite case pressed into the corner. It was void of decoration, save a small stylised ‘A’ wrapped in chains. Alpharius spoke again as he approached the box:

“We set this cache here for when we secured you. There are supplies enough to ensure your survival till we reach our destination”

Allisa moved slowly toward him as he opened the box and began methodically lifting equipment from the case. He raised a small medical pack from the depths, and turned to address her wounds. She sat stiffly on a mound of discarded clothing next to the box and allowed him to look over her. Opening the pack, Alpharius took bandages, anti-inflammatory cream and anti-viral wash and tended to the cuts on her head and lips. He did this in the silence of concentration.

“Are you a medic?” Allisa asked, more so to ward off the tension of the quiet room than out of genuine inquiry. The giant shook his head as he applied a thin strip of synth skin to her forehead.

“No. We are all trained in basic human biology and medical care. I am no apothecary.”

“By we you mean the Astartes don’t you?” Allisa asked, wincing as the ant-viral agents were applied to her lip. “You’re on of the Emperor’s Angels aren’t you?”

Alpharius’ eyes locked with her for a second, before he turned his attention to her ravaged hand. He cleaned blood from her knuckles and palm, and sprayed her hand with a cooling mist that numbed her pain. When he spoke again, there was the slightest hint of sadness in his words.

“There are no angels in the world Ms. Traynor” he whispered as he examined her skewed finger. “And no Emperor either”

The words struck her as very odd. From what Allisa knew of the Astartes, which was admittedly very little, she had always been given the impression that they were a proud and luminous lot, like young gods wrought from the skies themselves. This giant before her was clothed in shadows and sadness, not like the heroic figures the old holo-logs had portrayed the Emperor’s space marines as. She chose not to press the issue, not liking the uncertainty in her rescuers eyes. She briskly changed the subject, trying to sound light and grateful.

“So where are we going? I assume you’ve rescued me for some reason beyond my charming company?”

Alpharius did not answer, instead producing a small, thin rod made of leather. He brought it to her face and nodded toward her mouth.

“I am going to reset your finger. It is going to be painful. You should bite down on this”

Allisa placed the rod between her teeth, recoiling slightly at the artificial taste of it. Alpharius took her hand in his, her hands laughably small in his meaty paw and gripped her bent finger in his other hand. He nodded to her, his eyes fixed on hers and she nodded back. With a swift crack downward, he realigned her finger with the rest of her hand and the pain was sharp and relentless. She moaned in agony into the rod, breathing sharply at the sudden motion. They sat like that for several minutes while Allisa regained her breath, and the pain faded to a dull throb. Alpharius applied more of the medical spray, and bound her finger to a straight wooden torque with a thin roll of bandage. She let the rod fall from her mouth and sucked in the cold air. Alpharius turned from his ministrations back to the box and produced a foil-wrap block no larger than a small notebook. He handed this to her, and turning his attention back to the contents of the box spoke again.

“That’s a synthetic single-cell glucose compound designed to return energy to the body. I suggest you eat it all to recover your strength. You’ll need it”

At the mention of eating, Allisa’s hunger returned tenfold. Peeling the wrapper from the bar, she crammed it into her eager mouth quickly. It tasted massively sweet, like the old sugar bars she used to eat as a child. It was a heavenly taste to her hungry stomach, and she wolfed it down greedily. Alpharius passed her a small silver water bottle and this too she consumed with gusto. Full and hydrated, with her wounds tended, Allisa felt better than she had since this whole debacle had begun. Her rescuer turned to her once more, a small bodyglove in dark grey in his hands along with a gossamer cloak of pale reflective panels. He held them out to her and nodded.

“Change into these. We’ll be able to proceed with less attention.”

Allisa took the clothes from Alpharius, and before she could request he avert his eyes he rose and made his way to the grated entranced once more. He stood there, his eyes fixed on the driving rain, his hands hovering close to his weapons. He stood guard as she changed, never once glancing at her naked body. Allisa felt foolish, realising that this giant had higher concerns that a changing woman. The body glove fit snuggly and the cloak wrapped around her shoulders lightly, bending the dark and light around her in a near-optical illusion. She marvelled at its ingenuity as Alpharius approached once more.

“It’s called a Falsehood. It works by agitating the optic nerve of the viewer, forcing their eyes to take in the visual information around you but not on you”

Allisa compared the inner and outer fabrics with great curiosity, “so you’re saying I’m invisible?” she flourished the cloak like a bull fighter. Alpharius shook his shaven head.

“No, but others will not notice you if they are not looking for you”

Allisa was still eminently impressed, so much so that the danger of her predicament was momentarily forgotten. Alpharius turned back to the grating and gestured for her to follow. Pulling the hood of the cloak over her head, she queried Alpharius one last time.

“So where are you taking me? Why did you rescue me?”

Alpharius paused, his eyes narrowing, considering what to tell his mortal companion. He turned lightly, fixing Allisa with those Sapphire eyes and in a deep, steady whisper said:

“You are very important, Allisa Traynor, more important than you know. I am taking you to see my commander, he has need of you. We have need of you. There are things in motion that I cannot explain now, but know that all will become clear in time”

Allisa nodded and followed Alpharius into the torrent outside. The box and supplies burst into flame at an unseen command from the Astartes, rendering down into a blackened ash soon after. The way ahead was grey and covered, much like the future that Allisa Traynor found herself drawn to.

Great stuff, you once again deliver amazing work.

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:
I am taking you to see my commander, he has need of you.

So was it just any old Alpha legionnaire, 'cause Alpharius is his own primarch, last I recalled, so he would be commander of the Legion in its current state.

I was looking though this and saw the dates and thought:

"Man, Dakka's clock is broken. Oh wait..."

Glad you're back, DLS. I loved the first round and will get back to enjoying this one.

ZF-

Wow! I really love this! Much better than dot - jots.

This is insanely epic

The rain-choked streets of Gallileo City were thronged with crowds of people, wildly diverse in appearance, busying themselves with the act of living in a grim, uncaring universe. Bartermen implored the shuffling masses to show interest in their wares, the thrust and counterthrust of mercantile wordplay buzzing above their heads like gunfire on a field of battle. Regal noblemen and women strutted haughtily through the crowd, retinues of retainers and bodyguards elbowing aside the common masses who dared hold their regal betters back from their destination. Garishly dressed servants held billowing umbrellas and parasols of wild and varied designs over their masters, knowing that allow their charges to be sullied by the worlds greasy, filth-strained rain would spell death or dismemberment. Grey-faced administrators and workers shuffled along oblivious to their surroundings, either heading to the painful drudgery of their workplace or the blissful oblivion of their beds. Messenger birds and servo-skulls hovered and soared overhead, lending their binaric cackles and squeals to the chaotic hub-bub of the crowds below. Red-robed machine adepts stalked along on copper-tinged spider limbs, priests in white and gold reclined in suspensor-laden palanquins, doom-maddened flagellants screamed and beat themselves bloody in the ignorant mass as the broad tapestry of modern man went about his own business.

Through this crowd a peculiar pair stalked: the taller of the two was a giant to all around him, making even the hardiest and muscular guard seem as but a mewling child. He strode with purpose through the crowd, relying more on the sheer threat of his presence to part the faceless masses than his actual strength. Not that his strength would not have proven sufficient: the black and grey bodyglove the giant had wrapped himself in seemed to barely contain his heightened musculature. With roving eyes of the coldest sapphire, he cut his way through the throng like a ship through calm waters. Behind him came his companion, and anyone looking upon them would be forgiven for not noticing her. She followed close behind her giant companion, her form seeming to shimmer and bleed into her surroundings. Sometimes a mournful looking worker’s path would converge with hers, and they would stare momentarily shocked at the invasion of their personal space, only for the moment to immediately leave their memory and their life to continue of the path of drudgery that had been laid before them. She prowled through the crowd like a whiff of smoke, easily unnoticed and immediately forgettable.

The pair made their way steadily through the crowds as the rain thundered overhead, their ultimate destination being the cyclopean structure that dominated the end of the miles long concourse. Metallic and broad, with a main entrance that could swallow hundreds of men and women and still be hungry for more, the Gallileo City Space Elevator was the cities primary link to the atmospheric and orbital platforms above. From its squatting, iron form spring a series of scaffolds and cables, dizzying in their immensity that climbed straight up into the cities blackened skies, disappearing into the soot-ridden clouds above. Red running lights flashed sequentially up and down the length of the elevator, giving the machine a hellish lunatic glow as it ferried supplies and manpower between the ravenous city and the bloated shipyards above. Dwarfing the buildings and starscrapers around it, the Space Elevator was a maddened marvel of engineering brilliance. The giant and his partner picked their way through the human droves, their goal tantalisingly near. They need only make it to the atmospheric docks above without attracting the greater attention of the city, the city which blessedly seemed indifferent to their cause or presence.
But there were others in this city who watched the pair with a keen and sharp interest.

High above the roving populace below, perched on the slanted roof a water-clogged domicile The Watcher considered the pair below through the sterile green lenses of his weapon. Clothed in armour blacker than night and a heavy cloak of hydrophobic cloth, the helmeted head of the shadowy figure tracked the giant below with unerring accuracy. In his mailed fists he held a boxy firearm, grotesque in its proportions and mien, its barrel lengthened to give it superior range and its sights replaced with a gently-humming high powered scope. The gaping maw of the weapons barrel trailed the path of the companions below, never leaving them, never twitching in the blackened rain. The guns bearer was just as brutal as the weapon he wielded, taller than the giant below and considerably broader in his heavy-set, beetle armour. No insignia marked him, barring a device on his right shoulder which was hidden beneath his heavy cloak. His helm was worked into a smooth point, lending him an almost raptor-like aspect and a pair of emerald lenses shone in the dark, drinking in the scene below. He stood solid in the pouring rain, his poise and stance speaking of great power held in check until the right moment. In the distance he could hear the tell-tale sounds of lamenting sirens and tracked wheels grinding on tarmac.

The Watcher did not have much time.

Wow!

Pushing through the crowds Alyssa tried to remain close to the hulking form of her rescuer, however the sheer number of people threatened to separate her from him. He stood several feet taller than the people around them meaning he was always in sight, however the relentless drudgery of those around them continued to widen the gap between them. She wanted to call out, to shout for him to pause and allow her to catch up but she feared that giving his name voice would bring ruin upon them. Every person that milled past her be they egoless worker, homeless wretch or gaudily-dressed noble were no longer those that shared her home world, they were now potential enemies guised in the forms of her people. The suffocating panic that had greeted her when she first awoke quickly began to reassert its hold over her, and she had to physically stop to grip her chest. She couldn’t go back: she wouldn’t go back. She’d rather die than have her accusers torcher her once more for acts she could not lay claim to. Tears leapt to her eyes as panic exerted its will upon her.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder, and when she opened her eyes there was Alpharius once more. He towered above her, no longer in threat but in genuine concern. His large, scarred hand held her shoulder as if to reassure a child awoken from a nightmare and when he spoke in his deep, granite baritone his tone was noticeably softer.

“Ms Traynor, please keep up” he spoke quickly but without anger, his sapphire eyes fixed with concern. “There will be time to rest later. We must move before your pursuers find us, we must-”

His words were suddenly drowned out by the harsh scream of sirens and a blinding light that cast everything around them into parched monochrome. The people around them screamed and ran in all directions. Alpharius’ attention snapped behind her, and he raised his great arm to shield his eyes from the glare. Alyssa turned slowly, squinting into the glaring assault of white, her vision filled with bright light and indistinct shapes. Panic gave way to depthless fear as her eyes adjusted to the glare and a familiar, amplified voice called out from its source.

“Halt in the name of the Emperor, Witch!”

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The Watcher traced his scope back to the source of the blinding light and indiscriminate disorder and felt a twinge of annoyance at what he saw. The roving crowds had parted in terror before two squatting armoured vehicles painted a deep blue and striking yellow that rumbled forward on heavy wheels and half-tracks. Flashing white and red lights adorned the twin Taurox carriers and the Imperial Aquila emblazoned their armoured flanks in bold white stencils, their purpose and intent utterly clear: Arbites Armoured Carriers, coming in pursuit of their quarry.

Massive, high powered spotlights welded to their hulls pinned their pray in place, like the knife edged vision of a predator. The Watcher raised his gauntlet and clicked a small switch on the neck of his armour, opening a static-laden channel to his comrades elsewhere.

“Silence compromised. Force is authorised. Illuminate them"

He silenced the channel with another press, and rested his rifle back into his shoulder. The world was green and sterile through his scope, and its internal cogitator drew sharp lines and tolerances around each figure it hovered over. He brought the sights back over the giant below and its companion and held his breath in preparation for the shot to come.

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

A harsh female voice called out from the vehicles as they came to a heavy stop metres away from the duo caught in the stark spotlights.

“Surrender yourselves scum, drop your weapons and lie on the ground!”

Alpharius pulled Alyssa close to him, imposing his bulk between her and the armoured carriers, and his hands slid to the hilt of his weapons as the sides of the vehicles opened like mechanical beetle wings unfolding. Two teams of Arbites, resplendent in black glossy armour and armed with stocky pump-action riot guns marched in quickstep from the guts of their vehicles, forming twin curved lines before their prey. Ten blackened barrels aimed at the pair, fixing them in place like the eyes of hungry revenants, and as one the gathered enforcers racked their weapons and prepared to fire. A final figure swung from the open bay of the first Taurox, and marched confidently in the drizzle to stand in front of their men. Alyssa felt her stomach tighten as she recognised the figure immediately, the confident swagger, the tall broad lethality of a trained killer and the maddened spite in its eyes: Enforcer Riker, come to reclaim her prize. The leader of the Arbites raised her hand to her gorget, activating the loud-hailer built into her skull helm.

“Traynor! Whilst I would infinitely prefer to let my men fill your filthy hides with lead, I strongly advise you and your accomplice to lay down your arms.”

Alyssa quailed and gripped Alpharius’ arm till her knuckles appeared white. As strong and unearthly as he was, even she could see that he could not challenge eleven fully armed Arbites in open conflict. Alpharius stood completely motionless, his right hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade and his left keeping Alyssa from the aim of their foes. His eyes darted to and fro, taking in the situation and coming to the grim conclusion that even he could not fight them all and win, especially with the life of Alyssa in peril also. The rain hammered overhead, the sky mourning at the standoff, the water rattling a staccato dance off the hulls of the Arbites vehicles and their armour. Alpharius gritted his teeth as his grip tightened on his blade. He would need to run, he would need to grab Alyssa and hope that his body could take the punishment. He felt his small companion’s nails dig into his arm.

He would need to be quick.

The Watcher focused his attention through the scope, his armoured finger ghosting the secondary trigger built into the weapon. His target filled his vision, its bulky form dominating the viewfinder, maddened scrolls of targeting information snowing across the lens. He exhaled slowly as his finger depressed the trigger, and his weapon coughed silently as a single round rocketed toward his target.

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

Riker smiled wickedly behind the grill of her mask, and revelled in the cruelty she wielded as naturally as breathing. The fugitive and her accomplice were not going to surrender that much was clear, and she was glad of it: As soon as they made their move, her squad would gun them down without remorse or compromise. Her superiors had called for the capture of Traynor, but Riker didn’t care. A lot could happen on duty, and if she and her men were forced to defend themselves from the filthy heathen then so be it. She would serve the Imperium by adding another dead witch to the lists of the dead. She raised her armoured hand in the air and called out one final time.

“This is your final warning. Surrender or be destroyed!”

Alpharius tensed, his eyes alive with animal grace and turned fluidly, grabbing Alyssa by the waist and powered away from the surrounding Arbites.

Riker bellowed for her men to fire as she sliced the air with her arm.

The Arbites opened fire, their pump-action guns vomiting shrapnel and spiked pellets in a shower of sparks and burning pain. Most rode over the crouching giant slapping into parked vehicles and unfortunate innocents, but several scraped the back of the Astartes leaving deep, bloody gouges in his hide.

From above, a single solitary shell smacked into the lead Taurox, small automated claws activating in its flanks and burying themselves into the carrier’s armoured flank. Tiny fusion cells within whirred and chirped as they activated, forcing their contents into electronic overload. With a hiss and whine the shell exploded, tearing the front from the armoured vehicle and bathing the Arbites in flame and shrapnel. Several perished immediately, their backs raw and burned, cut to ribbons by flying metal. Others were saved by their body armour, and shifted painfully back to their feet as steam and smoke billowed from their slain transports. Alpharius turned painfully as he realised they had survived, and his eyes snapped upward at a new sound over the driving rain and licking flames.

With a shriek like a wounded hawk, a small black craft screeched through the air from the upper limits of the Space Elevator like an arrow from heaven. It furiously cut through the rain with a boom of displaced air, its nose pointed low toward the burning remains of the Taurox, its every angle and facet girded for war in the air. A pair of heavy rotary cannons slid from a hidden port within its beak and wound up with a scream of tortured metal. Golden tracers exploded from the cannons into the Arbites and the burning wreckage behind them, cutting the survivors to ribbons as the ship rocketed overhead, the deafening sound of shells through flesh and iron forcing Alyssa to cover her ears. As it passed, missile pods built into its flanks ejected small cluster bombs detonating on top of the Arbites position, furthering mauling the Enforcers. Several bystanders ran screaming from the scene, the crowds flowing in panic away from the combat. The craft banked sharply between the high rises around it and turned for another pass.

Alpharius rose shakily into a crouch above Alyssa, his back alight with burning needles: His physiology was built to withstand such injuries, but the pain was excruciating. Alyssa looked up at him, her eyes rimmed with frightened tears and her hands shaking from the fury of the assault. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and through the pain attempted to reassure her.

“Get up Ms Traynor, you’re not injured. We need to leave now-“

Alpharius’ head snapped to the side as shrapnel imbedded itself into the side of his head and neck. His body flew sideways away from its protective crouch over Alyssa and came to rest on the sodden concrete, blood flowing from an angry wound in his skull. Alyssa screamed after him, her first thought to ensure his safety when her attention was pulled back by the sound of booted feet scraping on the wet ground.

Alyssa turned to the smoke and fire, and from it came the grim image of Enforcer Riker limping steadily toward her. Her right leg was a mangled mess of blood and bone, and her entire right arm was severed at the elbow. Her armour was dented and torn, and blood dribbled from her wounds leaving a crimson trail from the ruined corpses of her vehicles. A smoking riot-gun was in her remaining hand, and its tip dragged on the ground as she relentlessly pulled herself forward on unsteady feet. Her helmet had been thrown off in the confusion, and her face was a scarred pit of gore and sinew, her blonde hair matted with blood and rain and her mouth dribbling viscera. By all accounts she should have been dead, however hate is a powerful reason to live and it radiated from her as she came forward. Her eyes burned with fury as she approached, and in a rattling choke she hissed at Alyssa.

“Witch…witch…WITCH!”

The heavy gun rose to point at Alyssa’s head as the wounded Enforcer came to an unsteady pause before her. It hung before Alyssa, like an abyss into the depths of hell, every torment and terror catalysed into a single length of cold metal. She closed her eyes in finality, and prayed to the Emperor as the moment froze in time. This was it, this is how she would die.

Riker gritted her broken and shattered teeth into a malformed imitation of a smile and in a liquid gurgle said “and thus is the fate of all enemies of the Emperor”

A gunshot rang out, and Riker’s bloody visage vanished in a cloud of atomised blood and bone. Lowering his rifle, the Watcher nodded softly, “Amen”

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

The craft returned to bank over the scene of carnage below, its engines adjusting to allow it to hover by the low roof of the adjacent building, a cloaked and armoured shadow leaping smoothly from it to the waiting belly of the ship. The engines then went from a throaty screech to a deep rumble as it descended toward the prone form of the giant and his companion. Turning in mid-air to present its rear hatch to the pair below, the ship idled inches from the ground, rain water and rubbish blowing in a circular orbit around the heavy ship. Its hull was a deep green/blue with silver and white trimmings and upon its flank was a stylised ‘A’ wrapped in pale chains and multi-headed serpents, and its weapons pods and guns dripped thick rain onto the concrete below.

Alyssa hovered over the prone form of Alpharius, covering his girth from the hovering ship. She peered through the rain and backdraft into the reddened guts of the ship and saw the hulking form of another Astartes leave the craft and marched through the tumult towards them. He was even broader than Alpharius, his bulk exaggerated further by his black, shell-like armour. His eyes were green gems in the dark, and his every move was that of a warrior god made manifest. His cloak billowed around him in the wind, and Allyssa noticed a silver, three headed serpent on his shoulder, a hydra of Old Earth. He towered above Alyssa and her fallen comrade, and in a voice deeper than the core of her world spoke in a machine rasp.

“Ms Traynor, you are safe now. Please come with me”

She rose shakily to her feet as the armoured giant knelt softly and hoisted his fallen brother onto his shoulder. Alpharius muttered painfully at the sudden movement, and his rescuer whispered something to his comrade just beyond Alyssa’s hearing. She followed close behind him into the gaping hold of the ship, and almost fell as the doors whirred shut and the vessel immediately banked into the air. She leant against the metallic wall and allowed her body to slide to the floor.

The armoured giant placed Alpharius onto a stretcher riveted to the wall of the ship, and opened a nearby panel filled with medical supplies. He knelt beside his comrade and began to tend to the vicious wound in his head. Alyssa was amazed at how similarly the two moved, and was intimately reminded of when Alpharius had tended to her own wounds. She sat on the cold iron floor across from them, and in an exhausted whisper that barely rose above the roar of the craft spoke to her second rescuer:

“Will…will he be alright?”

The armoured giant finished his ministrations silently, before rising to his feet and straightening fully. His armoured whined quietly as he raised his arms to his head and disengaged his helmet with a hiss of pressurised air. Placing his helm within the crook of his arm, he turned to consider Alyssa bear-headed. She was first of all taken by how similar he looked to Alpharius, the same pronounced facial features, the thickening of the brow and nose. Although where Alpharius was rugged and unshaven, this one was smooth and unadorned, his skin almost perfect in its paleness. A single tattoo ran underneath his eye, a stylised serpent in white and silver, and his eyes were a warm copper compared to Alpharius’ icy glare. She blushed under his scrutiny, his physicality shaming her into glancing away. When he spoke his voice was equally as deep as his brothers, although was possessed of a smoother more liquid quality.

“He shall live” he said, his eyes never leaving her, “it was unfortunate that he was injured at all, but he has lived through worse.”

Alyssa sighed in relief, and for the first time in what felt like days her body relaxed. Her head fell back gently against the vibrating hull and sleep threatened to overtake her. Through the fog of unconsciousness, she saw the giant place a cloak over her as she drifted off. She mumbled to him, who are you? - Not wanting to sleep before she knew his name. She did not know whether it was the urge to sleep or the exhaustion of her mind but his answer startled her before blackness took her. With a smile that boasted no malice or hidden motive, he spoke but one phrase:

“I am Alpharius”

And then Alyssa slept.

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

Fire and smoke billowed relentlessly into the sky, and the combination of multiple light sources and the driving rain gave the scene a psychotic random light. Investigator Dougan sucked the cold air between his teeth in exasperation, pulling his heavy storm coat around his body to keep out the driving torrent from above. His forces had arrived shortly after whatever violence had happened here, and teams of Arbites and PDF troopers scoured the wreckage for evidence. The bodies of Riker and her subordinates were lined up on the side of the road, wrapped in yellow body bags marked with Arbites tags and medical information. The fool, Dougan thought contemptuously, always needed to be first into the breach didn’t you?

He moved toward his personal command vehicle, a rhino carrier converted for Arbites use, and the line of bound individuals before it. Arbites enforcers were questioning the miserable wretches, shining torchlights into their eyes and sparing the rod to none. His lieutenant, a stocky, grim faced individual by the name of Bolton, saluted as Dougan approached, his lips pursing as they always did when he was the bearer of bad news. Dougan waved away the formalities and nodded to the lines of witnesses “so lieutenant, what’s the word? These sods any use?”
Bolton straightened his moustache with the palm of his hand, and responded in a clipped, professional snarl.

“Nearly none Commander. Several say witchcraft, others say Daemons from Hell itself. One even suggested that he willed this event into being, we’re taking him for screening shortly”

Dougan sighed and ran his hand through his wet hair, straightening in the rain. These past weeks had been utter chaos, and all the trash and detritus of the human race seemed to crawl from their gutters to make his life more difficult. What had triggered the relentless lunacy he could not say, but he was certain that Alyssa Traynor was somehow at the heart of it. He reached for his coat pocket and removed a small metal tin, from which he took a pain pill and slid it under his tongue. The rain always gave him a headache, and the massacre before him had worsened it. Seeing his commander’s obvious discomfort, Bolton coughed and continued.

“There is one promising route of enquiry sir. Several of the witnesses state the involvement of Astartes. Space Marines. Usually we would give no time to such claims, but the devastation here and the corroboration of the witnesses provides a compelling summation of our suspect’s whereabouts”

Dougan was about to reply when the temperature became cold, very, very cold. Pale steam and dry ice smoke began to seep across the ground behind him and Dougan swallowed painfully at the approach. The pain pills fell from his hand involuntarily, scattering across the rain-sodden ground below. Bolton stared past his commander in terror, and his trousers darkened visibly as his bladder emptied in fear. The sound of heavy metallic footfalls crunched behind Dougan, and the sound of swaying chains and rustling robes formed pictures in his mind of skinless ghouls and undead horrors clawing from the ground beneath to claim him. The slow, steady pulse of mechanised breathing apparatus hissed behind him and a voice like a dry, winter wind rose from above him.

“Compelling is indeed the word, Enforcer Bolton. I can attest to their validity. This act merely confirms suspicions I have held prior to your commander’s request for aid”

Dougan turned slowly, already knowing who would be standing before him but fearing it nonetheless. He craned his neck upward at the tall, robed figure aboe him and tears rolled down his face in complete terror. He attempted to speak, but his teeth chattered in the artificial cold radiating from the massive figure and his lungs seized into stillness at the immense horror of the creature before him. His eyes wouldn’t shut although he willed it, and when the voice spoke again in its glacial, jarring stillness a slow trickle of blood ran from his right ear.

“The Enemy has shown his hand Commander. There are traitor-Astartes abroad on your world, maybe even the entire sector and they mean to unmake all we in the Emperor’s light have made.” The hooded head lowered itself to Dougan’s height, the full maddening glare of its face in front of his “I am calling upon you and your men, your entire world to aid me in running down this menace. This is a glorious endeavour and you should be honoured.”

Snot ran from Dougan’s nose as he openly wept like a child, his hands shaking beyond his control. The witnesses and Arbites behind him mewled and wept also, with Bolton openly vomiting on the rain slicked tarmac. He stared at the dark monster before him, at how the rain became snow and ice as it fell around him and at the monstrous will the thing exuded. He could only nod in complete agreement.

“Yes…yes Inquisitor…whatever you need…”

I've never heard of inquisitors or frankly anything in 40k having that effect. Did it come from anywhere or was that masterpiece completely original?

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:
I've never heard of inquisitors or frankly anything in 40k having that effect. Did it come from anywhere or was that masterpiece completely original?

It would be an interesting interpretation of what kind of an effect a powerful pariah has on those in his immediate vicinity. If that is what he is.

Look at the text colour. That was no accident. I have a theory or two as to what it could be, but since I can't put a spoiler tag here on mobile I'll just watch with amusement

 Archmagos_Amadeus wrote:
Look at the text colour. That was no accident. I have a theory or two as to what it could be, but since I can't put a spoiler tag here on mobile I'll just watch with amusement

 King Pariah wrote:

 Archmagos_Amadeus wrote:
Look at the text colour. That was no accident. I have a theory or two as to what it could be, but since I can't put a spoiler tag here on mobile I'll just watch with amusement

Spoiler:

You're thinking Tzeentch, aren't you?

 Archmagos_Amadeus wrote:

 King Pariah wrote:

 Archmagos_Amadeus wrote:
Look at the text colour. That was no accident. I have a theory or two as to what it could be, but since I can't put a spoiler tag here on mobile I'll just watch with amusement

Spoiler:

You're thinking Tzeentch, aren't you?

Spoiler:

I'm thinking Cherubael. He played a major role in the last thread, and the clinking of chains plus the people's reaction SCREAMS Daemonhost. And possibly a Daemonhost taking an Inquisitor for a joyride

I like it

 CREEEEEEEEED wrote:
I've never heard of inquisitors or frankly anything in 40k having that effect. Did it come from anywhere or was that masterpiece completely original?

They're sick with fear.

Mars, the Red Planet.

Terra’s tortured sibling had always known despair. From its birth as a young fertile world to its eventual desolation at the hands of both physics and man, Mars has always been the bedfellow of strife. In the beginning it was a temperate paradise, when it and its sisters Venus and Terra were far closer together. Like a trio of blue sapphires, they sparkled in the primordial skies ready to birth and protect like on their glorious surfaces. Oceans clearer than glass and verdant green forests covered the red sands, and the skies spoke of peace and tranquillity in its easy existence. Ancient life gained a foothold on this Mother Mars, and soon simple organisms crawled from the oceans ready to take their first steps on the ladder of evolution. Had events been different, perhaps they would have become the dominant life forms in the Solar System, and avoided much of the torment and sorrow the galaxy at large now suffers. But it was not to be.

The cruelty of gravity and stellar radiation were to scour Mars of her beauty. The monstrous pull of both The Sun and her vengeful child Jupiter were to see the Red Planet pulled from its sisterly Orbit with the Earth and Venus and cast out into the stellar wilds. Her atmosphere was ravaged by Solar Winds, her face scarred and beaten by Radiation Storms and Firestorms. Whether out of jealousy or cosmic chance, the gravity fields of Jupiter and her offspring were to send millions upon millions of Asteroids into the path of the lonely planet. Far greater than any weapon mankind could devise, the hellish assault broke Mars in both body and soul. The forests burned, the oceans died and only red skies and bone deserts were left to mark the passing of her beauty.

But even in death, there is still the potential for rebirth. Creatures from the third planet found their way across the black void of space to bring life and light to Mars once more. Great machines gave birth to a second atmosphere, men and women raised families on the Red Sands and soon forests and air and life and laughter came to Mars once more. United with her sister Terra once more, an age of enlightenment and prosper settled on the once solitary world.

But soon, a cancer was to grow within her. Man is a superstitious and hateful creature, and soon his hate and low beliefs spilled onto the surface of both Mars and Terra. The newly founded Machine Cults of Mars birthed technological monsters in the image of their gods, and gave birth to an artificial intelligence as hateful and malicious as its parents. The Machines turned on their masters, and soon Mars was torn apart by atomic war. It boiled in the skies like a flaming coal, all life and progress of the red world scoured in the fires of industry and genocide.

The Machines were defeated, cast into a shadow they could never recover from alone. The survivors of Mars’ meagre population found their only solace in mysticism and dogma. The Machine Cults united out of necessity and formed the Mechanicum of Mars on the blasted sands of their home world. Decreeing that invention was the antithesis of all life, and only knowledge of the old ways would see them prosper again, this new Mechanicum would usher in millennia of black stagnation and holy war.

Then the Emperor came.

Golden of hue and mighty of aspect, the Emperor rode from his birth world and brought light and courage to the peoples of Mars once more. His glory forced the Mechanicum to bend the knee or be swept away in his jihad. The Lords of Mars supplicated and the Imperium of Man was born, the second stepping stone in its Empire secured. War would come again, at the hands of these same Martian Lords and the favoured son of the Emperor, but that is a tale for another time and another place and suffice to say that Mars stood on the brink once more, death at its door and its soul once again held to the uncaring winds of fate.

Now Mars is a bloated corpse barely worthy of the title of Throne of the Mechanicum. Her forges work ceaselessly, her population forced into an eternity of labour it cannot escape from. Her bones are old and sore, and her heart is full of misery and sorrow. The dark days of Old Night still linger in the machine shops and work rooms of the Red Planet, and the blood and sweat and bravery of billions is ground to powder under the unceasing yoke of the diseased Imperium of Man. Mars may yet have power, but for now she sleeps hoping for the day that death finally releases her.

She is not alone in this sorrow, for through her skies streaks a vessel carrying the catalyst of her future. In this small vessel, a young woman, a tech adept by the name Istavael travels to the Fornax Primus of Mars to bring grim tidings and mournful council to her lord the Fabricator General. Tears stain her face and sadness fills her heart. She has just recently lost a Father and a Master, and all she wishes for is the blackness to swallow her and end such misery. But she is unaware of the part she will play in Mars’ new future, or the cruel hand that destiny will play her. For we are all pawns to the uncaring whims of fate and physics and neither see any reason as to share their wants and thoughts with these so far beneath them.

But Istavael has a role to play, and whether in line with her own desires or not, the fate and face of Mars, and indeed the whole Imperium of Man, will change this day.

You should publish this.

Keep up the good work buddy, this is an awesome content.

You made me write here for the first time just to congratulate you!

Cheers!

If its published and keeps this standard I'd probbly buy it

 jhe90 wrote:
If its published and keeps this standard I'd probbly buy it

Wasn't that why DLS stopped posting before? Because he was working on publishing?

 pretre wrote:

 jhe90 wrote:
If its published and keeps this standard I'd probbly buy it

Wasn't that why DLS stopped posting before? Because he was working on publishing?

Don, t know.
I never read the first version so I cannot even make a estimated guess

+++information loadout, blessed be the machine+++
+++information to be sent+++
+++for eyes of the Fabricator General only+++

My Lord, blessings of the high mind upon you, may your metal never dull and your energy never wane.

As in line with your requests, I identified the landing-craft of Adept Lakshmi Istavael as it entered Hangar 118453-Alpha. It had come immediately from Terra judging by its noospheric ident and ghost trace. Istavael was accompanied by five Thallax Guardians (Antilles-class, third generation, Ultima forge-wrought) of her Father’s [subject: Magos-Cardinal Yuri Istavael – separate ident file included in upload] personal retinue.

I thought it interesting that Magos Istavael was not on board the craft. As to whether he remains on Terra or has travelled elsewhere I can only speculate. He is however not on Mars.

Adept Istavael upon arrival took the 133.54.688 Tramline to Ultima Forge. She has remained ensconced there since her arrival. As per your request, I have station vox and thermal thieves around Ultima Forge and also upon the main concourse routes leading to and from the forge. Istavael will not leave the Forge without your prior knowledge.

I understand that you mean to visit Istavael in person my Lord. May I offer you the services of my Thallax Cohorts Gemini and Brutus as holy escort on your journey?

I remain as ever your humble servant,

Praise be the Omnissiah

Adept-Third Class Hashu’ut Retram III

+++Upload ends+++
+++Blessed be+++

Hmm... Why is it yellow?

lliu wrote:
Hmm... Why is it yellow?

It's meant to be a data packet, and Dakka doesn't have Lime Green

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

lliu wrote:
Hmm... Why is it yellow?

It's meant to be a data packet, and Dakka doesn't have Lime Green

Oh. That was quite an eyesore. It was a great effect, though.

This writing is making me want to start an Alpha Legion army from scratch. I just ordered an Alpha Legion Contemptor because of this story.

DarthDiggler wrote:
This writing is making me want to start an Alpha Legion army from scratch. I just ordered an Alpha Legion Contemptor because of this story.

Oh wow, that's awesome dude Alpharius would be proud!

The inner sanctum of Ultima Forge was quiet and dark, completely at peace despite the turmoil of recent weeks. It was, as it had always been, a place of contemplation and knowledge, a temple of quiet meditation and inner revelations. The lumen globes of the massive dome were set low, giving the vast space the feel of some subterranean lake system, swallowing sound and replacing it with peace and silence. Traces of light gossamer circuitry covered the copper walls, tracers of energy running across their lengths in languid jolts. Several alcoves had been built into the great walls, housing everything from cylindrical generators, data storage systems, silent work benches and wooden shelves groaning under the accumulated weight of thousands of books and scrolls. Golden skinned drones, no bigger than small birds, hovered through the great space tending to the workings and care of the sanctum. At the apex of the dome was a smooth, colossal sphere of crystalline malachite, naturally formed and achingly beautiful. Gentle light shone through it, waves of pearlescent green light shimmering in the air, faint images and schematics forming in the liquid haze before fading like a trail of fireflies in the night.

At the centre of the chamber was a simple wooden work bench, its surface pitted and well used, fresh wood and metal shavings dusting its surface. It was forged of a deep oak, and although it appeared old and archaic in comparison to the rest of the chamber, it was clearly well-loved. Great works and ideas had been birthed at this bench, and faded scrolls of paper bearing lines and drawings were piled neatly to one side. A set of ancient but well maintained tools sat on a rack suspended above the workbench by graceful suspensor fields, and several tall benches lined it length. This simple object, in many ways the smallest and least important part of Ultima Forge, was the catalyst to many of the Forges greatest achievements. Ultima Forge was a shining golden beacon in the Martian Deserts, and its power and glory owed as much to the humble workbench as it did its master.

Built nearly four centuries ago by Magos Yuri Istavael, he had intended his forge to be as far removed as possible from the grim stagnation that had settled on the rest of his beloved Mars. It was to be a place of progress and hope, a lifeline to pull Mother Mars from the brink and back to her former glory. He had always been seen as a radical by the old guard of the Martian Clergy, and his desire to erect a new bastion of progress on the red sands met with conflict form the offset.

Istavael had locked horns with several senior Magi of the Mechanicum during its construction, including the Fabricator General himself, at the purpose and design of his inner forge, and also his expansionist, forward-thinking views. Many stated that his lack of adherence to accepted dogma and scripture was, at best, most unbecoming of a senior cleric of the Red Order, whilst several others stated outright that his desire to push invention and the unknown sciences was borderline heresy. Dissent was eventually cowed by what always silences arguments on Mars: the needs of the Imperial war machine. The senior Magi were drawn back to their own tasks demanded by the depthless hunger of the Imperium of Man, and the Fabricator General himself was pulled away by matters of State and Diplomacy. Istavael’s Forge was built, and soon it and its surrounding vassal tracts became known to many on Mars as The Aureus Harena: The Golden Sands.

Although life there was hard, as it is in all domains of the Imperium of Man, it was dignified and respectful, and it was said Magos Istavael cared not whether his people were lowly menials or High Cardinals of the Omnissiah, he viewed every individual and machine under his charge with great affection and respect. There were no slaves within Ultima Forge, simply brothers and sister united in a desire to forge a glorious future for mankind.

Of course these views were to bring conflict to Ultima Forge time and again even after its completion, their distance from Mechanicum Scripture being too much for some Martian Lords to take. Open war had been threatened by Magi of a more dogmatic cloth on numerous occasions, beings so blindly dominated by the Mechanicum’s self-stalling traditions that The Golden Sand’s message of hope and scientific progress was terrifying beyond compare. They sent missives and threats to Istavael and his inner circle, threatening to unleash righteous fire upon his heretical works. Requests were sent to the mighty Titan Legions and their Knight Houses by the furious magi to march on Ultima, but these were ignored by the commanders of the God-Machines: clergy politics being one of the many issues beneath such vaunted and powerful individuals. Several other beseeched the Fabricator-General himself to intervene, calling him to unleash the full might of Mars’ military to quash the unruly stain upon the Red Planet’s honour.

The Fabricator-General however had not risen to his esteemed position through only his mastery of the machine, but also a shrewd political mind quite unlike the majority his brethren.

Istavael was close to heresy in several respects, many of which privately sickened the High Lord of Mars, but much of his work had benefitted Mars and The Fabricator-General greatly, in particular its relations with wider Imperium: Istavael had the ear of several prominent lords of not only the Red Planet, but many off-world supporters as well. Istavael’s views had enamoured him to several of Terra’s noble courts, many vassal Forge Worlds of the Segmentum Solar, the Jovian Fleets and, if rumours were to be believed, the thanks and backing of Ultramar itself. Open conflict against Ultima Forge would reflect badly on the Fabricator-General, better to rise above the concerns of his minions and do nothing, allowing him to reap the benefits that Istavael brought.

Istavael would face a reckoning, not now but later, and not with the full fury of Mars’ armies. It would be quiet and dark, just as the Fabricator-General preferred. For the time being he would let Istavael and his ilk prosper.

Many of Mars’ recent great works began their gestation in the forges and work halls of Ultima: the grand solar array of Ganymede, the water recovery trench system of Isiah XI and the Radiation Nullifier Drone Network of Ultramar to name but a few. Many more had been aborted before they could blossom, their growth stunted and rejected by the dogmatic master of the Red Planet.

Istavael had developed a method of energy conservation that would allow the machine shops of the Astra Militarium to streamline construction of all energy-based weapons and equipment, and boasted a 99.986555% recurring success rate. They were safer, cleaner and more powerful. They would revolutionise the way the Imperium arms its troops and could save potentially millions of lives.

It was rejected out of hand by the Fabricator-General and his cronies, seemingly for veering too far off the blessed STC scriptures that all las-technology is derived, but mainly that the coffers of the Mechanicum would suffer as the weapons would require less maintenance and replacement.

The Lord of Ultima Forge also developed a seventh-generation adjustment to the Imperial Standard Gellar Array that allowed ships to weather the storms of the Warp as they travelled its hellish tracts. The simple adjustment would see a colossal drop in Gellar Failure rates and crew casualties, and see an increase in successful warp translations across the Imperium. It was cheap, efficient and simply required the replacement of the Gellar Vanes that generated the field.

The Mechanicum ousted the plans before they even left Mars, the replacement of existing blessed technology with a new, non-STC derived alternative was heretical in the extreme. The lives of the Imperial Navy mattered not in comparison to the approval of the Omissiah’s established dogma. The improvements never saw the light of day.

Istavael never let the repeated refusal from his masters stunt his desire to build a better Imperium, and he strived relentlessly to do what he could for his fellow man. For every failure or rejection, there was a quiet success that made his toiling worthwhile. But one challenge always eluded him, locked as it was behind millennia of superstition and denial.

Istavael had always desired to work upon The Golden Throne itself.

It had been known to the Magi of the Mechanicum for centuries that the Throne was failing. The blessed construct’s functions had been dying sequentially at a glacial pace, and when they ceased then so too would be the blessed Lord of all mankind. The Mechanicum had always maintained to the wider Imperium that the Throne was simply beyond their ability to repair, that they could only slow its gradual decline. The works of the Emperor they claimed were so complex as to render the Lords of Mars idiot children compared to the glorious perfection of the Throne’s function. They could no sooner heal the Golden Throne than they could stop the flow of the Universe itself.

The truth however is much darker.

The Mechanicum had not attempted to repair the Throne simply because they had chosen not to.

The Throne and its occupant has always been a strained subject among the upper echelons of the Machine Cults of Mars. Many view the Emperor as the Omnissiah, the Mechanicum’s God and Master, and as such anything made by his hand is sacred, and is therefore divine in its creation. To sully such a device with mortal hands was seen as tantamount to heresy.

A steadily increasing camp in the red order postulated that the Emperor was neither the Omnissiah nor the Mechanicum’s true master. They served simply to further the Red Planet’s own survival. To repair the throne would simply lengthen the bondage of the Red Planet to the whims of an uncaring and undeserving empire. Argument and counter-point raged in the cloisters of Mars’ forges, and no single view could gain dominance over the other, despite both coming to the same conclusion.

Istavael himself, as in all things, took a more radical view than his colleagues. He postulated that the Emperor was indeed the Omnissiah, the greatest and wisest being that mankind had ever sired. He also believed (unlike his fellow magi) that the Omnissiah acts through his servants, and therefore it was the Mechanicum’s innate duty to not only maintain the Throne but also repair its primary functions. He argued that whilst the works of the Emperor were complex in scope and labyrinth in design that they would not be beyond the combined knowledge of the Mechanicum if they simply left dogma in this instance and applied a new approach to the reparation of the Golden Throne. Istavael even offered to head the endeavour himself, so keen was he to see the Throne restored.

The Fabricator General, in his infinite wisdom, decreed that no work would be done upon the Throne. He stated that if the Emperor was indeed the Omnissiah, then surely he would exercise his power to save himself and the Throne.

The supporters of the Emperor were silenced, not wishing to countermand the Lord of Mars’ words or refute the divinity of the Emperor’s design. Their opponents smiled inwardly in their dark forges and hovels, elated that the matter had been stamped out in their favour. Istavael himself rose furious argument against such a blasé response, but was shouted down by the Fabricator-General. Istavael would attempt to bring the subject to the Magi time and again, but always to deafening denial from the established order.

Out of sheer frustration, Istavael would eventually move his household from Mars to Terra itself hoping to study the workings of the Throne in secret. Of course his ministrations would be too little too late, as the Emperor would perish as would Istavael in the holy fires of the His passing. His last words were to his daughter, the young adept Lakshmi, who he bid to make haste to Mars and inform his allies of the Emperor’s passing. He feared that the Lords of the Mechanicum would at best fall to disarray or at worst, make a play for the throne of mankind.

And so Lakshmi journeyed to her Father’s forge, and it is here we find her now. Seated on a bench of ancient wood, her small form wrapped in red robes is slumped heavily on her Father’s old workbench. Sorrow is heavy in her heart.

Her Father is dead, his dreams of a better future die with him.

Her Emperor is dead, his glory and holy power snuffed in an unthinkable end.

She knows what she must do, but she does not know where to begin. The task seems so beyond her as to be maddening. Her first action was to come here, where her Father taught her the ways of invention and industry. Where he stroked her crimson hair and read to her the stories of their order's former glory. Where he instilled in her his vision for a brighter future for mankind. Here is safe, here is happiness.

Here is where she will hide till the end of days.

Her sorrow is interrupted by a chiming in the air, and a genial, gentle voice in the noosphere. It is her Father’s second in command, Jermiah. His voice is soft and kind, much like her Father’s was before him.

“Lady Lakshmi, I do not mean to intrude. I know you have asked for solitude, but you have a visitor. The Fabricator General is here to see you. He states that it is urgent”

Lakshmi looked into the darkness above and wiped the tears from her eyes. She stood from the bench and straightened her robes. She sent an impulse through the noosphere, confirming that she had heard and understood Jermiah. If she was to enact her Father’s will, then there was no better place to start than with the Fabricator-General himself. Turning from her Father’s sanctum, Lakshmi Istavael, heir of Ultima Forged marched to meet the Lord of the Red Sands.

It would be a meeting that would spell change for Ultima Forge and Mars itself.

Wow... Just wow...

OK, my jaw is in Australia....

 jhe90 wrote:
OK, my jaw is in Australia....

I just got hit in the back with mine.

Hello? Anyone?

lliu wrote:
Hello? Anyone?

Shhhh... You can't rush genius.

 King Pariah wrote:

lliu wrote:
Hello? Anyone?

Shhhh... You can't rush genius.

True but once fed such good writing its only natural to want more.

In his long and illustrious two hundred and ninety three years of life, Jermiah Sol Miah had rarely felt anything approaching fear or intimidation. For most members of the Holy Mechanicum it was because such emotions had been stripped form them with mechanical coldness and efficiency. For Jermiah, it was a simply an air of confidence and faith in his purpose, a knowledge that his work and the work of those around them served a higher purpose. His position was one of security which Jermiah was eternally thankful for.

He had been blessed to be born into a proud, noble house of Mars that boasted wealth, status and the protection of Ultima Forge and its vassals, one of the most inventive and humanitarian of Mars mighty Forge-cities. Jermiah’s life had had its challenges and hurdles, much like any human born into these uncaring times, but he had always felt secure in his belief in his Forge, his Masters and the Omnissiah on his Golden Throne. As the Huskarlar of Ultima Forge, Jermiah had felt assured in his place and destiny in the regal halls and palatial machine-shops of the Golden Forge. Nothing could cow or diminish him in his duties, and he had always stood tall amongst the lords and ladies of the Martian Cult. His work was important, and his duties divine. Life for Jermiah was good.

All such feelings of blessing and security had immediately fled from him as he was dwarfed by the shadow of Ultima Forge’s latest guest. His ears thumped his heartbeat in a staccato hammering and fear and trepidation filled his lungs. The Fabricator-General was here, and Jermiah felt dwarfed as a moon is to its planetary parent.

The Fabricator-General had deigned to personally visit Ultima Forge under a banner of peace and inquiry as was his right, but every aspect of Mars’ preeminent Magus radiated aggression and techno-arcane horror. Well over nine feet in height, much of the hulking Lord’s body was swathed in robes of the deepest bloody red that ran over his solid form like heavy wine spilling from a table. His shoulders were monstrously broad, artificially widened to carry a heavy, humming generator that squatted from his spine like an obscene, mechanical tumour. Cable, wires and thick, lubricated piping snaked from the generator to delve into the deep folds of his red robes at multiple points, and wisps of smoke and electric corpse-light sparked and rose from exposed plating and joints in his vestments. He did not breath, having no need to thanks to his extensive augmentation, and stood like a monolith of ancient Terra, unbreakable and ageless. Almost completely stationary, except for his hands.

His hands were more akin to steel claws, razor-sharp and wickedly pointed; they clicked and spasmed in a palsied fit, in constant twitching motion despite the stillness of the overlord’s slab-like form. The robes splayed out across the floor below him, pooling like molten metal from a forge, but no amount of cloth or covering could hide his lack of human legs or the cold, metallic armatures that replaced them. Crowning the grim horror of his appearance was a deep ragged hood, a black scar that shadowed his face and kept his true visage in darkness. A single vertical slit of yellowed, sickly light shone from the deep hood, its intensity rising and falling like breath of ragged, diseased lungs. He stood like an arachnid woven of iron and spite, his body radiating power and dark knowledge that stained the surrounding air and noosphere with grim potential. Jermiah could swear that he could hear faint screams when he looked upon the Overlord of the Mechanicum.

Jermiah had learned from his master that the Fabricator-General’s name had once been Shaiaal al’ Shaiom, a name of grim repute among the higer echelons of Martian culture but his name, much like the rest of his humanity, had been worn away under the relentless yolk of the machine. Jermiah was secretly reviled by priests such as Shaiaal, and he pitied them their willingness to embrace mutilation and monstrosity in the name of their shared deity. But no amount of pity could overcome something so terrifyingly augmented as what stood before him.

His master, Lord-Magus Istavael, and his predecessors had embraced augmentation much like the Martian Hierarchy had done for millennia untold, however they had always shown a restraint that their counterparts in the other Forges sorely lacked. Istavael believed fervently that mankind and the machine should become one, but neither should usurp or dilute the other. He had believed in discreet augmentation and never diluting the human form with gross or monstrous surgery. This belief had flowed down into his servants and subjects and most if not all of Ultima Forges people could pass for a normal human despite their upgrades and abilities. Jermiah himself boasted many dozens of augments and artificial upgrades, but his form was still decidedly human. Compared to the hulking mass of the Fabricator-General, they appeared as two different species entirely.

Dwarfed in the shadow of the robed monster, Jermiah appeared slight and frail although he was anything but. His skeleton had been reinforced and rebuilt with Carbon-enforced steel, his skin boasted a discreet layer of pale ceramic plating and his muscles had been replaced with hardier and longer-lasting synthetic polymers. None of these could be divined from his outward appearance, which was that of dark-haired human male, skin dusky and slightly wrinkled around the eyes, no more than maybe fifty Terran Years in age. His eyes were the only notable difference from the human norm, being a solid liquid green that shone warmly like the sun through canopy. They had been replaced on his ninety first cycle, completing his transition from neophyte to Huscarl of Ultima Forge, a day he was infinitely proud of. His robes were clean and crisp, a brown over-cloak covering his red vestments, and his badge of trust and office was clipped to his collar, a golden star emblazoned with a ruby hawks head.

He gazed up at the cloaked, hulking overlord of Mars with his green eyes, and spoke in a proud, clipped tone that just hid his unease at his Martian Master’s presence.

“I have summoned young Lady Istavael to call upon you my Lord, she will be her momentarily. Would you care to inload from our Noospheric link whilst you wait? Perhaps take nourishment from our current?”

The great hood of the Fabricator-General inclined slightly toward Jermiah, and in a harsh, mechanical bark laced with static and the scrape of working parts croaked in response.

[RESPONSE] I require nothing from your noosphere, nor your circuit’s servant!
[REBUTTAL] Save your pleasantries for ones who still desire such things Huscarl. You and your master’s are more than aware of our opinions on your practices.
[RESPONSE] I will await your mistress here, preferably in silence!

Jermiah winced at the Lord of Mars’ inhuman screeching, which barely covered the sounds of mothers weeping and tried not to look at the juddering, palsied claws as they twitched erratically. Jermiah’s position was an outdated one by Martian standards, the position of Huscarl falling away to be replaced by Servitors and automated, virtual servants. Istavael had maintained the position as a mark of respect for his forebears and Jermiah was proud to serve. He was to see to his Master and his forge, and act as the mouth of House Istavael in all aspects of diplomacy. The Fabricator-General had made no secret of how foolish he had found such things. “An outmoded concept”, he had croaked on a previous visit to Ultima Forge, when his master had discussed the history of the Huscarl’s position “a pointless affection for days better left forgotten. Weak flesh in the place of mechanisation is foolish, automation would be the wiser choice.”

Lord Istavael had laughed such comments off, stating that the Mechanicum was labyrinth in its traditions and nuances, and such things should not come between such esteemed lords such as them. Shaiaal thought much differently, and catalogued Istavael’s eccentricities alongside a heavy list of potential heresies.

(Did Jermiah smell burning? Surely not…)

Shaiaal’s infinite displeasure covered much of Istavael’s works, the greatest of which being Ultima’s extensive Noospheric network, a near-invisible cloud of data and communication that seeped into every pore of the Forge, allowing instant understanding and communication between any who used it. Great swathes of the ancient Mechanicum had abandoned such research and communication after the Great Heresy, with its usage dwindling into nothingness over the boundless millennia. It was the product of invention and cooperation, and not based on a historical STC that the Mechanicum possessed, but a quasi-heretical modern STC designed during the Great Crusade. For this reason it had been widely deplored and demonised, especially by the Fabricator-General and his cronies. Istavael and his supporters had argued that the STC still lay on Mars, and although built after the great schism would still be beneficial and sacred if found. A thorough and expansive investigation would be needed to bring it back to the fore and Istavael offered to pour his own resources into the hunt, but the General and his ilk would have none of it. Better to be forgotten than remember and bring the Mechanicum low. Sometimes, they argued, ignorance was indeed bliss…

Jermiah shared his master’s frustrations at the Martian Overlord, but he knew his place and he held his tongue. The Fabricator-General was the rightly elected master of Mars, and his word was law on the Red Planet. By all accounts, the Fabricator-General was Jermiah’s master above all others. However, Lord Istavael had attempted to countermand Shaiaal on much, but always steered clear of outright conflict or division. His master was wise enough to avoid that which would bring ruin to his domain. Jermiah would have felt much more assured had Lord Istavael been here to greet the mechanical noble before him, but he had not returned from Terra with his daughter Lakshmi. She had arrived herself and had immediately ensconced herself within her Father’s inner-chambers, requesting no disturbances of any kind. It was not Jermiah’s place to question his lord or his daughter and their actions, but he did worry after these irregularities, especially after the recent outpourings of chaos that had gripped Mars seemingly from nowhere. A visit from the Lord of Mars himself confirmed to Jermiah that something was very, very wrong. The sound of war and screams lilted beyond hearing, and Jermiah winced at the ghosting sounds.

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps on metal stairs. He turned to the grand entrance way, a set of spiral stairs constructed of gold and platinum at its head leading into the great foyer, they twisted and moulded into the great edifice like capillaries and gave the great chamber an organic feel, like the inside of a colossal golden heart. Down these stairs came the lithe form of Lakshmi Istavael, robed in deep crimson and bracing white, bearing a staff of blackest obsidian. Crowning the staff was a golden eagle entwined in delicate ruby and emerald circuitry and it glowed with a soft reassuring light. This was her family’s badge of office, and whilst her Father was absent it allowed Lakshmi to speak with the authority of Ultima Forge. Her posture was tall and proud, and she moved with an ethereal grace almost as if she wasn’t touching the golden floor at all. But Jermiah could see something deep and sorrowful in her eyes, something broken that Jermiah desperately wished to fix. She was showing strength to cover some great hurt and Jermiah quailed at whatever could have laid the daughter of his Lord so low. Could she hear the screaming too?

She approached them with her head raised and expression neutral. When at last she stood before them, she raised the staff in a ceremonial greeting and spoke directly to the towering Fabricator-General.

“I thank you for your patience, Lord of the Red Sands and Black Skies. I am Lakshmi Istavael, daughter of Magus-Prioritix Yuri Istavael, Lord of Ultima-Forge and all its domains. I stand as Reagent in my Lord Father’s absence, and welcome you to our home. May your currents be strong and your knowledge be broad”

She bowed slightly before the Fabricator-General, her words seeming strong but underpinned by an emotion that only those close to her and her family would hear. Jermiah stood alongside her quietly bowing in unison with her, worry growing in his mind and the noise becoming louder. Shaiaal bowed shallowly in response before the scraping hack of his voice spilled from his metallic throat in response.

[GREETING] We observe your words and gestures Lakshmi Istavael and approve
[QUERY] Where is Lord Istavael? We greatly desired to converse with him

The depthless hood lowered and came closer to Lakshmi’s face, malice and hidden threat radiating from it in waves. Jermiah swore he could smell blood from the hulking monster. To her credit however, Lakshmi did not quail before the intimidating presence of Mars’ Master, and answered him in a strong, clear manner.

“I apologise for my Father’s absence Lord Fabricator. There has been…a development that means I must greet you. I assure you I can speak with his authority and the word of Ultima Forge.”

The Fabricator-General straightened, standing once again to his full, monolithic height. How like a revenant or wraith he looked thought Jermiah in his flowing, ragged robes and skeletal immensity. Jermiah had seen the Fabricator-General on numerous occasions, both from afar and in close council, but had never felt the palpable sense of dread that he felt now.

Something had changed.

Something was not as it should be.

Why could he hear the screams of the betrayed?

Lady Lakshmi continued to converse with the ragged wraith, although Jermiah could not hear the words: all he heard was blood pumping in his ears and the slowly rising screams of men, women and children. His vision was edged with fire, and voices that dripped with murder and massacre scraped across his spine. Dread settled on him, like a cowl of blackened smoke it hung, filled with betrayal and utter horror and Jermiah felt that his lungs may give out in fear. His eyes shut tight to drown out the thumping pain and bloody lights and he opened to them to Fabricator-General gesturing with his great talons.

[REQUEST] May we converse somewhere more private, Lady Istavael?

The great hooded head nodded toward Jermiah

[EXPLANATION] We feel there is much to discuss which requires the greatest confidence.

Lakshmi nodded graciously, and raised her arm to a set of silvered doors to the right of the entry hall. Beyond them were the private meeting halls and reclusiam of Ultima, rooms where dignitaries and Magi could meet and converse in privacy. The pair unhurriedly walked toward the great silver entrance conversing quietly, the doors sighing open on gentle suspensor fields. Jermiah wanted to cry out, to scream to his mistress to not go with the shadowed Lord of Mars. His loyalty to his house and master warred with his loyalty to Mars itself. Surely he was imagining danger where none existed. Surely the images of WAR AND FIRE AND BLOOD AND WAR AND FIRE AND BLOOD. His hands snapped to his ears as the pressure and sound became too much.

Jermiah’s eyes snapped open and his breath came in short, sharp gasps, sweat pouring from his head and soaking his heavy robes. The silver doors closed with a stately click of auto-locks and he was alone in the grand foyer once more. Losing sight of Lady Lakshmi and the dreaded Shaiaal triggered something within him: a need to act, a need to protect. Opening his mind to the surrounding noosphere, Jermiah sought out an ally. Through the particulate consensus of Ultima’s billions of minds, his will flew and tumbled and dived until he identified the bright blue spark of whom he sought. As he communed at a speed faster than light, Jermiah knew what he must do: He would not let anything happen to Lady Lakshmi, even if it meant going against the Master of Mars himself.

THIS IS WHAT WE ALL EXPECT!!! This is very good. Could be the best one yet. Hmmm... Could the Fabricator General be planning to kill the girl?

The Fabricator General is a Flayed One Lord hahaahahaha

But has he brought blood to the forge?


And is he under the will of somthing darker?

 jhe90 wrote:
But has he brought blood to the forge?


And is he under the will of somthing darker?

Could the Fabricator General be planning to kill her? It says that the FG would ensure that her message would end with the audience

lliu wrote:

 jhe90 wrote:
But has he brought blood to the forge?


And is he under the will of somthing darker?

Could the Fabricator General be planning to kill her? It says that the FG would ensure that her message would end with the audience

We are on a excellent cliff hanger as per the norm
Though will the loyal forge servent save the day?
However what can he do vs the bulk of mars most augmented and inhuman?

Ps was that your jaw just flying by at about mach 2?

Almost sounds like the loyal servant might be getting some temptations from a certain blood god.

The automated camera sees everything in the room. In life its central cogitator had been the brain and spinal system of a nameless dreg from the sumps of Mars Forge networks, scraping a life off waste and overflow, biting and hissing at its kin like rats in refuse. Its existence would have been short and brutal if the Mechanicum hadn’t reclaimed its wretched flesh and raised it into a higher, more esteemed form. Now it was but one of millions of security systems aligning Ultima Forge. Its twin ocular orbs watch the grand reclusiam with a tireless vigil, the world painted a faint emerald green and sketched with information and ceaseless calculation. It tilts its head in a slow steady sweep, drinking in the room ravenously, taking in everything the room has to show and feeding it back to the central mind of the grand forge. It is a singular nerve in a system spanning miles.

The room it guards is as golden and refined as the Forge that contains it, and its main wall is dominated by a trio of cyclopean stained glass windows. Built from armoured glass and stained gold, white and crimson, the windows depict a rolling scene of Ultima’s founding and eventual rise to glory. Its borders and rims are a strong Martian steel, coloured slightly red due to the over-oxidisation of Mars’ soils. The light of the sun pours in through the grand portals, lending the air a sacred, church-like demeanour. Artisans from across the galaxy would weep to see such a beauteous sight, and would cast down their tools in envy at the glorious glass construct. The room itself is palatial without being gaudy: the floor a black tiling of volcanic glass, the walls the warm gold of the Forge’s main material. On the walls hang data-banners, enormous depictions of Mars’ achievements wrought from crystalline information and holographic light, with the largest representing the noble lineage and character of Magus Istavael and his bloodline. At the centre of the room stands a heavy circular table, an Arthurian piece of heavy reddened wood and iron that could seat over a dozen dignitaries at any one time. At the table’s centre stands a marble and gold depiction of the Holy Aquila, it two heads screeching in victory, its wings unfurled in unbound flight and its talons seizing the flames of understanding in Promethean bravado.

Toward the table, the camera spies two figures approaching steadily and deep in conversation. The lead figure is one that the camera has seen many thousands of times: Lady Lakshmi Istavael. The camera detects elevated adrenal responses and a slight hazing of her Noospheric aura. It registers several indicators of high but repressed emotion, and detects several key stress points in her vocal processes. These things the camera sees and hears with no emotion, its job to simply feed such things back to those better equipped to understand.

Behind Lady Istavael comes someone the camera has never seen before, and it extends its consciousness to Mars’ central database to identify. The figure is large and swathed in shadow and mystery, and every identity check registers no response from the central servers. The cameras orb-like eyes whirr and buzz as the attempt to further focus on the stranger, its apparatus straining to divine any information of the tall, darkened figure. It has no presence in the noosphere, its aura being one of deadened emptiness, an informational wasteland of barren bones and decrepit winds. Its presence warps the information around it, the sheer weight and gravity of its being affecting everything around it. The hooded head turns slowly to the camera as Lady Istavael lights devotional candles upon the heavy table. Its gaze fixes the twin orbs in a deathless stare, and the cameras vision blurs. The meat and bone of its inner parts bubble and die as technologies older than the Imperium burn away its core, ensuring that what transpires in the great reclusiam goes unseen. With a mechanised sigh the camera dies never to see anything again.


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


Lakshmi lit the devotional candles arranged on the meeting table, a tradition among the Martian elite for visiting dignitaries. It was thought the flame of the candles represented the wellspring of knowledge that sprung form the union of man, which was the candle, and fire which was the machine. She lit them with a discreet taper she drew from her robes, and bowed lightly before the table. She heard the heavy whine of servos and gears as the Fabricator-General mirrored her movements, wincing at the sound of metal on metal. He rose to his full height once more, towering above Lakshmi like a Goliath. She gestured to the bench alighting the table, realising too late the ludicrousness of offering such a massive individual a wooden seat. The Fabricator shook his head and waived his massive talon in a dismissive gesture. Lakshmi nodded lightly and sat herself facing the Master of Mars. Clearing her throat, she began.

“Thank you for visiting our Forge, My Lord. I was hoping to visit you at Olympus Mons myself in a day’s time to meet with you”

The Fabricator inclined his head softly before responding.

[REASSURANCE] We understand, Lakshmi Istavael. We had heard word that you had returned alone from Terra, and wished to enquire as to the whereabouts of your Father. He has often been a friend to the Master Forge, and we were greatly concerned.

Although his voice lacked any emotion or tell, Lakshmi winced inside: her Father was no great supporter of the Fabricator-General or his cronies, and although he had tried to protect his daughter from the politicking of Mars she could not over hear his anger when Mars’ most preeminent Magus halted his plans. The cloying words made her shiver.

“I thank you for your concern, My Lord” she stated with a bow “however I bring ill tidings from Terra. Events have occurred which threaten Mars and her sons and daughters”

Shuffling closer, the great hood of the Fabricator bored straight into Lakshmi, its sickly yellow eyeslit casting a pale gout on her skin. She could feel him gazing into her, as if searching beyond her words. His voice crackled once more from his core, all static and clicks.

[QUERY] To what do you speak, young Lakshmi?
[STATEMENT] There is no trial that we cannot tackle. Mars is strong!

Lakshmi could feel tears burn the back of her eyes as she repeated the Mantra back to the Lord of Mars. She had had no time to mourn the recent events properly, her flight from Terra consuming her thoughts until she reached the safety of Ultima. To discuss them so soon weighed upon her heart. She cleared her throat, and closed her eyes.

“Sire…my Father is dead.”

She had expected some form of reaction, some subtle movement or sound to highlight the Fabricator’s surprise, yet none was forthcoming. The depthless hood remained fix on her, and his palsied talons continue to click in random motion. Seconds passed, and she opened her mouth to speak once more before the distorted voice crackled to life once more.

[CONDOLENCES] We are sorry for your loss.
[STATEMENT] You are now Ultima Forge’s new Master.
[QUERY] How did he expire, young one? We desire to know.

A tear ran down her cheek, her breath hitching in her chest. This moment would change Mars forever. The news that she brought could only bring trouble to her home world. She steeled herself for the Fabricator’s reaction, and in a voice riven with grief she whispered.

“He died in Holy Fire my Lord. The Emperor is dead…and he took my Father with him”

Again seconds passed, the only sound the lunatic whirr of gyros and mechanisms within the Fabricator’s robes. Lakshmi took several shuddering breaths, scanning the hood for any reaction. She wanted to cry out at his stillness, rage at the events and his seeming disinterest in them. She blinked in surprise when he spoke again, his voice noticeably quieter than before.

[QUERY] Who else have you told?

“No…no-one else my Lord, I thought to bring the news straight to you. There is so much to do, so many people to tell. Mars must know that the Omnissiah has passed. We must prepare…”

The great, dull talon raised sharply in a gesture of silence, Lakshmi caught off guard. Her breathing was painful, and the sheer solid stillness of the Fabricator filled her with dread. He straightened to his full height, and turned his horrific gaze to the stained windows. When he spoke again, it lacked the harshness of before and sounded almost human. Almost…

[QUERY] Are you sure you are the only one to bring this news to Mars? You did not take anyone else into confidence?

Lakshmi nodded her head, and gripped her robes. Tears had started to run freely from her eyes, and her vision appeared foggy. Wiping her eyes, she lifted her head to face the Fabricator-General fully, feeling his thoughts running through his darkened mind. When at last he spoke, her stomach quailed.

[CORRECTION] Mars will not be told anything, young Lakshmi.
[EXPLANATION] We know of what transpired in the Palace on Terra, and we see that it is good.
[ASSERTION] We cannot allow you to endanger the future of the Red Planet with your knowledge.

The right talon shot out and seized Lakshmi by the arm, the pressure unlike anything that she had ever felt before. The pain was monstrous, and she felt her muscles and skin bleed under the grip. She cried out sharply, and tried to pull away. A static laden croak escaped the hood of the Fabricator, and Lakshmi realised with terror that he was laughing at her pain. He fixed her once more with his gaze and with a hiss of releasing steam and pressure his face plate opened to reveal a ruined skull, its features scrawled in circuitry and stained with gore and foul-smelling lubricants. Its lower jaw was entirely missing, a mass of cables and piping snaking into the hole and down through the great robed body, coated in condensation and grease. In the wide, weeping sockets were a pair of all too human eyes, staring wild and bloodshot, the orbs pierced by a dozen needles and wires. They stared into Lakshmi with a hatred far beyond anything she had ever seen before. This was the face of the Mechanicum and its master. Its true face.

“Look now upon the future Lakshmi Istavael, a future that you will play no part in. We cannot have you endangering our position. You must die.”

The Fabricator raised his heavy claw and Lakshmi screamed for help.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

My money is on Jermiah coming in to save the day albeit at the cost of his own life... Or maybe soul.

I'm wondering the real intentions of the Fabricator... is he driven by chaos or just some yearning for Mars independence...

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

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

Most likely.

Just caught up, great stuff as ever!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop him! Stop him now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you seen enough?

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

We have seen enough Jermiah Sol Miah. Stand by.

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

Jermiah gripped Lakshmi and covered her eyes.

The Fabricators optics whined in focus at the form outside.

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

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

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

It was a truly mighty steed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mewling wretch…do you not realise…”

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

“I…AM…MARS!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glad you're enjoying it dude

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

Most excellent as always, worth the wait!

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

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

Awesome! Just awesome!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fabricator bristled at his colleagues tone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sandor raised his voice sharply at the mention of conspiracy.

“Does he know? How does he know?”

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

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

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

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

“His name, my Lord, is Uriah Jole…”

Very good, things are heating up on Terra!

This can only lead to trouble.

So will the grey knights open the terminus decree

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

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

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

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

lliu wrote:

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

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

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

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

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

The I AM MARS?

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

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

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

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

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

Then something changed.

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

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

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

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

Something was wrong. We just did not know what.

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

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

But there was no Why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These are grim times and no one gets what they deserve

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

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

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

These are grim times and no one gets what they deserve

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

lliu wrote:

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

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

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

These are grim times and no one gets what they deserve

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

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

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

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

 Paradigm wrote:

lliu wrote:

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

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

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

These are grim times and no one gets what they deserve

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantastic writing, the whole "you are very important" bit Alpharius said reminded me of terminator, just a little bit. As a small time fan fiction writer (not as skilled as this for setting a tone, by far) you made me want to write a novel with more things less fluff explores. The fact that a forum story inspired me at all is surprising to me, I mean, I didn't come in here looking for inspiration, but to see other examples of fan fiction. So far, this is incredible, I also really liked the space wolves part, especially where the executioners don't get the honorable deaths they strive for, but simply walk off, never to be heard of again.

So I'm quickly approaching the end of what I like to think of as the first movement in the new story. I'll then start on movement two with a quick recap and then firing straight into the new stuff. In the first part we've still got the following stories to go:

Blood Storm

The Weeping Stone

Victory on Hul'shadaam

A Tale of Three Chapters

and a fifth story.

The first is essentially what happens on Armageddon after the Emperor passes (it's going to get bloody, let me tell you). The Weeping Stone is a story totally set on Tallarn (cause the recent HH books from John French have really inspired me and I feel Tallarn should get a special mention). The third will be a Tau story which I'm keen to get going.

Part Four will be familiar to readers of the previous thread, and will be three seperate shorts from the points of view of The Salamanders, Imperial Fists and Blood Angels (the Blood Angels I am particularly looking forward to: hope you guys are ready for some genuinely gruesome body-horror!)

As for the fifth, I'm going to let you decide: what would you like to hear about at the end of movement One - any part of the universe, and the one I like the most, I'll use as the closer for Stanza One Let me know!!

Well, the Necrons have been conspicuous by absence so far. Don't know if that's because you have further plans for them down the line, but seeing as all this madness across the galaxy is largely warp-based at its core, having the close from the PoV of a Necron might be interesting. A) it would provide a brilliant contrast with all the heightened drama so far if the closing of the first Act was uncomprehending and devoid of emotion or sympathy (it's all Warp-based at its core, so the Necrons would be completely cut off from that), and B) if you want it to be a kind of closing summary, the Necrons with their tech are probably the best way to do that, as they could literally be surveying the whole galaxy as it descends into hell. The other option for that would be an Eldar Seer, but you've already done that.

Also, did a small bit of housekeeping on the Original Post, there's now a clickable contents section to get you to each story section quickly

+1 to Paradigm's suggestion. I will also add
C) It is time for the crons to go wake up the C'tan sleeping in the center of Mars

 keltikhoa wrote:
+1 to Paradigm's suggestion. I will also add
C) It is time for the crons to go wake up the C'tan sleeping in the center of Mars

I have plans for the Dragon of Mars, don't you worry

Oh! Is the we bit the Void Dragon controlling the Fabricator General?

Also, part 5 could be from the Dark Eldar point o view, as they watch on from the webway.

How are the Smurfs faring? Stuck on the wrong side of the galaxy, surrounded by Nids and Tau.
What do they do?
Will Sicarius overthrow Calgar?
Do the rest of the Primogenitors come back to their spiritual liege's aid? (God, you have no idea how painful writing that is!)
Or anything you have planned. Its all good.

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:
Also, did a small bit of housekeeping on the Original Post, there's now a clickable contents section to get you to each story section quickly

Awesome!

And, as always, thanks for sharing all of this with us!

These are real spoilers, so for people who haven't read the old thread, please don't click these open. As for the layout, I hope it will be something like this.












if this is too much spoiler, please let me know, Dark Lord Seanron.

Will any primarchs be making a return, this definitely seems like the wolf time, and if Vulkan decides to show up, it'd be kinda cool, as he would care about the civilians and maybe want to share the news of the Emperor passing away, maybe. Not too sure about his stance on that, but it'd be cool for him to show up.

Hmm I clicked them, interesting, I'll not break any spoilers but they mught have changed.

Second time round might take a new course.
Be interesting to see how grey knights, and others interact with new world.

The navigators too, smallish but vital, with no light house potentially.....

 jhe90 wrote:
Hmm I clicked them, interesting, I'll not break any spoilers but they might have changed.

Second time round might take a new course.
Be interesting to see how grey knights, and others interact with new world.

The navigators too, smallish but vital, with no light house potentially.....

Yes, I'd also like to see how the Inquisition deal with this...

Myrtle couldn’t sleep. She had been tossing and turning in her small cot for what felt like forever and yet she could not coax her small eyes into blackness. Something was keeping her awake.

She had called out to her Mother several times, but her tiny voice seemed swallowed by the cloying dark. It was like a black wall, keeping her form the rest of the world. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, she was five years old and knew it was just the light resting for the day. Her Father always said there was nothing in the dark that could hurt her. He would protect her as would her Mother.

Myrtle wasn’t afraid of the dark.

She was afraid of the thing standing in the corner of her room however.

She couldn’t see it clearly, her night-light not reaching it fully. It was tall, much taller than her, maybe even taller than her Father and facing toward the wall. It dripped on the floor, like a man just come in from a storm, and whatever liquid covered it pooled in the corner staining her carpet. It seemed shaggy, covered in long black hair like an animal left in the rain, but she couldn’t tell. It just stood there, like a filthy statue.

She closed her eyes several times tightly, hoping it would be gone when she opened them, but each time it remained. She had tried talking to it but no response. It just stood, facing the corner, its shaggy sodden back facing out toward her.

Myrtle closed her eyes and drew her blanket over her head. She whispered a quick prayer she had learned in nursery, and held her breath. She wished with all her might for the stranger to go away. He wasn’t meant to be here. She wished for her parents to enter the room and banish the thing away with the lights.

The pounding in her ears grew louder and louder until she thought she would burst. She inhaled suddenly with a deep gulp and lay there breathing, famished for air. She lowly laced her small fingers into the edge of her blanket and creeped her head over the edge.

The figure was gone. There was no longer a stain on the carpet, and whatever it was had vanished. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her Father, by far the smartest man she knew, always said that monsters and misfits were just the mind playing tricks on you. She was thrilled to see he was right.

Her small mouth was suddenly very dry, it was hard work banishing imaginary monsters, and she slid from her cot onto the carpet. Her bare feet wriggled and gripped at the soft purple carpeting, purple was her favourite colour, and padded gently to the door. She’d get herself a glass of water and then she could get to sleep.

She shuffled down the hall, the laminate and metal floor cold against the soles of her feet. The lumen lights were low, just enough to see the outlines of the doors in the hall, and she made her way to her family’s small kitchen. They didn’t have a large home, most people at this end of the Hive rarely did, but it was enough for their small, loving family. She walked into the small, square tiled room and lifted a plastic tumbler from the rack. She held it under the silvery sink and pressed the button for cold water. A stream of clear liquid trickled into the empty cup, filling the small room with the sound of dribbling water. After switching the tap off, she raised the cup up to her mouth and drank the water in greedy sips, cooling her throat and mouth. She immediately felt better. Wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her bed robe, he placed the cup back into the sink and padded into the hall once more.

She froze, something in the corner of her eye catching her off-guard. She turned slowly to the front door, her eyes widening in fear.

The figure was at the door, standing again with its back to her.

It seemed much taller than it had in her bedroom. It was covered in lank, dank fur from head to toe and it dripped with a foul smelling water. Indeed, the liquid seemed to pour from it, like it was standing in some unseen deluge. Its arms were long, reaching almost to its knees and both its feet and hands were disturbingly human. Black, cracked nails lined the hands, thick with filth and split painfully. Fly-like hair sprouted from the knuckles and festooned the neck and head of the stranger.

It turned slowly, its long nails tapping wickedly on the floor. Its head was that of a dog, albeit a dog that had had its skin sliced off messily and stitched back on in a haphazard fashion. Its mouth held no teeth, but instead more human-like fingers ending in blackened talons which wiggled obscenely as its air coursed around them. Long dank hair trailed from its crown to its chest, and upon its head sat two brown and twisted horns, sticky dark matter creeping like vines over them. It eyes were the worst however, utterly white with a pinprick of a black pupil fixed totally upon her. It held one of its arms bent to its chest, as if injured and its body shook with a deep, horrid breath.

Myrtle quailed, and felt her tiny feet fix to the floor. She wanted to run, to scream, to call for her Mother but her body would not respond. Her hands reached to cover her eyes and in a terrified whisper she called out to the figure.

“I’m not afraid of you! You’re not real! Get out of my house!”

Her hands rubbed her eyes furiously and yet each time she looked again it still stood there. It just stood there, maddeningly still, not reacting but never wavering is gaze from her. One of her feet slipped backward across the floor as her body jerked in fear and her movement caught its attention.

It opened its mouth, its angles all wrong and its finger-teeth curling and uncurling and screamed: a long, keening wale akin to a dying bird. Its mouth yawned wide and its body tensed as the endless noise poured from it. Saliva and mucus spilled form its throat in great sticky globs, and the relentless liquid that shed from it intensified. Myrtle screamed, adding her own sound to the cacophony. She spun on the spot and ran for her room, her tiny frame thumping noisily across the floor. She slammed her door shut and hurled her body into her bed, pulling the covers over her in a frenzy. They formed a cocoon around her, and with a child’s logic she assumed they would keep her safe.

She sat with the blankets wrapped up to her nose and stared at the door. Her heart thumped in her slight chest, and sweat beaded on her head. Her tiny hands clung painfully to her covers, holding them like a shield in front of her. She watched and waited, her breath held and her body tensed.

There was thump from outside.

And another.

And another.

Heavy footsteps made their way down the hallway, growing louder as the approached. There was no hurry in their stride and that terrified her all the more. They reached the door, all that separated her and the monster was a thin sheet of wood. They kept moving, the footsteps sounding from in the room. Her breath came in staccato panic, her eyes watering with terrified tears. She whispered her parents’ names over and over again, willing one of them to come save her. The footsteps thumped to the foot of her bed and paused in their relentless advance. She could her the thing breathing in the darkened room, but she could not see it. She mewled softly, salty tears running down her small cheeks. She hiked her breath, and in a tiny voice called out a scared, shaky hello.

Something growled in the dark. The growl was old, wet and hungry.

And it was very, very close by.

With a horrified realisation, Myrtle slowly lifted the covers of her bed over her head and looked into the darkness within. A pair of white, lunatic eyes with pinprick pupils stared out of the black within her cot, its hot breath washing over her in waves. With a sudden lunge and a strangled scream Myrtle was pulled sharply and with shuddering violence under the blankets.

They covers lay were they fell, no sign of the child or monster in the small cot.

Somewhere in the night, outside Myrtle’s window, a wracked scream cracked in the night, followed by another and another. Soon the city itself screamed, not just the people that called it home. The wail of alarms and other, more chilling things filled the air in a constant din. The people of Hive Tempestora stirred in their beds, whilst the guards on the walls looked to the skies in fear.

Something dark, old and terrible stalked the world this night

Oh No! No, come on! Don't hurt little children! Nah, I'm joking. We all know little children die all the time in the Imperium, now, don't we, little child?

I am now a little scared... thanks!

Oh no! A writer on Dakka has managed to scare men!

Pretty creepy. Not too fun when you're picturing this happen in you're own house, so thanks for that.

Pretty creepy. Not too fun when you're picturing this happen in you're own house, so thanks for that.

lliu wrote:
Oh no! A writer on Dakka has managed to scare men!

I can't work out if your kidding or not... but yer so?

I'm kidding.

Awesome, demonic or Hrud incursion. I like it. Kill those children! Meat for the meat grinder!

Bones for the bone stew!

Blood for the blood God!

Prunes for the Prune Juice!

Guys, please refrain. Swerving off topic and spamming can get the thread closed and I'd really quite like it to stay open

Gheron Almeada stood on the armoured lip of one of the hive’s many watch towers and shivered in his heavy overcoat. It was a particularly cold day today, and the driving rainstorms that had bombarded Armageddon in the past few weeks had not helped matters. It drove down, grey and relentless, causing the high walls of Hive Tempestora to glisten and shine like immense beetle wings. The smoking stacks and spires of the hive were lost in the heavy downpour, fading and blurring in the constant rain like sea-giants. The steppes and flats beyond the Hive had become a grey and sticky mud plain, enormous sodden puddles covering the land and running straight toward the horizon. Where the water had fallen especially heavily the ground had given way entirely, revealing buried vehicles and wrecks of tanks, here the old, burnt-out hulk of a Leman Russ, there a desiccated corpse of a T-90 Light Attack Tank. They littered the vast expanse like ruins, their blackened forms soaked and steaming from the heavy deluge. Gheron gripped the collar of his great coat and pulled it tight against his neck, careful not to snag the piping of his rebreather. He was equally as sodden as the wrecks outside, and sighed irritably. His platoon had another twelve hours of guard duty on this part of the Defence Curtain.

Armageddon was a key world for the Imperium of Man, standing on one of its primary supply and recruitment routes, and also acting as a bulwark for smaller worlds and colonies in the system. It was also a world that was at near perpetual war: the relentless battle against the hated Greenskins consuming almost all of the world’s resources and manpower. They had first come decades ago at the back of the Beast of Armageddon, the hated Ghazgkhull Thraka, who descended upon the world like the wrath of a vengeful god. And even though the hated leader of the Orks had been driven off-world (if the Imperial propaganda machine was to be believed) his ilk remained on Armageddon, like a cancer, never leaving, never shifting, burrowing deeper and deeper into the marrow of the world. Many believed the war on Armageddon would never cease, and would burn furiously until the end of time.

But since the coming of the rainstorms the Greenskins had been peculiarly absent from the fields of Armageddon, with High Command whispering that many Orks had been sighted physically leaving the planet. Many of the upper echelons celebrated such news, claiming that the Emperor had smiled upon them and driven the filth from His favoured world. Many others pointed out that rats will leave a sinking vessel before the worst occurs. As to the reasons for the sudden quiet upon the battlefields Gheron did not care. He had twelve hours left on this shift and then he could return home to his wife and daughter. One of the few benefits of being part of the Armageddon Planetary Defence Force was that its troops were permanently garrisoned to their Hives, which meant that a modicum of a normal life could be achieved. The hours were long, and on more than one occasion Gheron’s life had been in danger, but he loved his world and he loved his family and to defend them as part of the Imperium’s armed forces was a privilege. Most of the men and women in his platoon led similar lives, defending their friends and families that lived in the Hives they guarded.

Theresa Myah, his closest friend in the platoon, stood alongside him and let out a long, drawn-out sigh. Her overcoat was equally as drenched as his, and she wore her rifle slung over her shoulder so she could keep her hands in her heavy pockets. The rain on her helmet sang a staccato beat, sounding like the fingers tapping a window pane. She shuffled from foot to foot, attempting to warm herself up. When she spoke, it was with an artificial haze, her rebreather robbing much of the human tone and warmth from her voice.

“Well this is delightful, isn’t it? I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing than standing in the pissing rain looking at nothing”

Gheron chuckled before responding.

“Vigilance is next to holiness don’t you know. Can’t be caught with our breeches down when old Greenie shows up can we?”

Theresa rolled her eyes.

“I mean I don’t know why they have us guarding this section. There’s been no activity her for weeks, literally weeks. Not a peep. You’ve heard the rumours: Greenie is packing up shop and leaving. And yet they’ve got us out here shaking in our boots while the God-Emperor pisses all over us”

Gheron laughed again, harder. Theresa was an eternal pessimist, but was always very humorous with it.

“So you believe the rumours? You think the war is over?”

“Does the Emperor sit a lot?” she replied, a gleam of humour in her eye.

Gheron shook his head and smiled. He took off his helmet to smooth out his hair, rubbing his hand through his blonde lock which quickly became wet with the rain. When he brought his hand down he paused: his hand and lower sleeve were a heavy red. His arm was covered in wet, sticky blood. At first he thought he was injured and patted his head furiously for any injury. He stopped in his maddened motion when he noticed Theresa staring straight up alongside many others in his platoon. Some were even pointing to the sky. Gheron raised his head also and a part of him quailed at what he saw.

The rain continued to drive down upon Armageddon, but the deluge had changed. Where once there was water, now warm, sticky gore rained from the skies coating everything in a skin of reddened viscera. The skies heaved and bled, and the clouds darkened as they vomited precious fluids upon the world they enclosed. Gheron’s mouth moved wordlessly and in panic, thinking first of his family as the sirens of Hive Tempestora began to wail.

the first war returns for vengeance on the world it was defeated from?

Oh No! What could it be? Either Tyranids or Chaos. Orks don't rain blood.

Khornes coming to town? I'm in

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD indeed. Great work so far, easily my favourite fiction on the site by far!

Patiently waiting for a new installment, and when one and I finish reading it I feel sad that I have to wait for more

The Armageddon Defence Fleet stationed in far-orbit above the Northern Hemisphere registered the Bloodstorm as it spread across the face of the planet. They were spread far in a web of steel and fire, initially there to halt any further incursion by Greenskin fleets, however their role had severely altered in the last few weeks with more Orks actually coming from the planet rather than to it. Like vermin fleeing a fire the Ork ships rocketed from Armageddon, their trajectory to the far rim of the system, seemingly flying to anywhere but the world they had previously ravaged.

Most were obliterated, their fiery corpses cast back into the atmosphere like so much shrapnel or doomed to orbit the world as frozen and bleeding wreckage. Many escaped however, their ramshackle engines speeding them in a manic escape: They did not defend themselves, did not attack or raise fire against the Imperials, which was highly unusual for Greenskins. A species bred purely for violence fleeing one of the most hostile warzones in the known universe should have been a major cause for alarm. But pride oft comes before a fall, and as the Bloodstorm crept across the surface many felt the fall to come.

Monitor stations based in the mountains and plains of Armageddon’s vast deserts registered peculiar atmospheric readings, high winds rising and falling against the natural systems of the planet. Vox relays across the planet crackled and pinged as communications became swamped with static, squalls of feedback and screaming distortion drowning any attempt and cohesion between the great Hive Cities of the world. Attempts to rectify the errors were met with grim failure, and in some cases terrifying accidents. Vox-Operators and Tech-Priests stationed at the relays went mad, brutally attacking their fellows in a fit of breath-taking panic. When subdued, the gibbering individuals claimed to have heard whispers and growls amid the distortion, maddening voices spilling forth in relentless babble. They all spoke one name, over and over, in every language under and beyond the stars. When pushed for the name, the afflicted wept openly pleading for their colleagues not to make them utter the foulness.

The Imperium of Man is however an uncaring beast, and its questions would be answered whether through force or coercion, and each of the afflicted eventually revealed their secret, most dying in the process. They said the whispers spoke one name, a name heaped with ruin and despair, a name cursed and thrice-damned beyond all measure. And it was coming, coming to this world to slaughter in the name of beings far older and crueller than any man or woman could fathom. It would bathe in victory and the blood of the human world.

The name was the end of them all, they said, the end of the worlds of men.

The name was Angron…

And if you look to your left, you see Angron marching to Armageddon. And... It's gone

Why would orks run from one of the greatest fights in the galaxy just when it was about to get even better? I would think this event would draw even more orks to Armageddon... after all there is not much difference between 'Umie and Spiky'Umie.

Perhaps for reinforcements? Then, they could come back like a wrecking ball, crushing worlds in its path.

OOOOOHHHHHH!!!! Many intrigue, such mystery.

Yes!!! Chaos it is! I got it right!

The blood rain hammered down, relentless and grimly forceful, like the sky itself was wounded and spilled its lifeblood on the world it had once protected. The sky bled upon the Hive, and the Hive bled in panic in return. Something terrible was happening on Armageddon, a world that was no stranger to terrible things.

Gheron had already vomited twice, the foul liquid seeping into his mouth through his rebreather, clogging his nose and throat. It tasted of copper, and a stale corruption that hurt his guts and turned his stomach. His platoon were similarly shaken, with many of them being escorted away by medicae personnel. The journey from the outer curtain to the inner Hive had taken a toll on them all, and Gheron counted himself lucky that he was still standing.

He stood at the entrance to the Hive’s inner concourse, linking the outer civilian districts to the main commercial sectors further in-hive. Several grand highways and autobahns converged at this point, and thousands of people flooded the area, all heading in-Hive away from the driving gore-streaked rains. His platoon had been re-deployed to aid in evacuation efforts, the people of Hive Tempestora panicking at the sudden unnatural deluge. A show of strength, the Masters of Armageddon had agreed in their ordinatus-proofed bunkers, that is what was needed. As many uniformed bodies as possible was filtered from the defences to the evacuation routes, charged with keeping order and helping the beleaguered Imperial citizenry to the shelters at the centre of the Hive. It was a thankless, grim task.

They milled like lost children, the people of Hive Tempestora: droves and droves of red-stained humans, all faces down-cast and terrified. Some held coats and blankets over themselves, trying to cover themselves from the bloody downpour. Others carried umbrellas of myriad shapes and sizes. Every single one of them was stained a glistening red, like fresh meat in filthy water. Gheron waved another group forward through his checkpoint, his armour and helm equally crimson and sodden. He heard his comm-bead click in his ear and heard Theresa, her usually calm and sarcastic demeanour noticeably downcast and serious. The rain had spooked her too.

“We’ve got another big group heading our way, lots of baggage. Command says to check ‘em and discard of anything that’ll take up too much room”

The platoon, including Gheron, nodded their agreement, and approached the crowd, hands outstretched in a gesture of halt. The line of people halted, standing seemingly in a daze, the red liquid hammering into them and pooling around their feet in a gross puddle.

The people were terrified and dejected, and stood near motionless as the troopers frisked and patted them down. Gheron couldn’t look them in the eye as he opened their belongings, casting clothes and keepsakes onto the bloody ground. Some glared at him in anger, most simply looked utterly defeated. He knew it was for their own good: there was no room in the shelters for erroneous belongings, but still he felt guilty. He was one of them, this was his home Hive. How would he feel in their shoes?

He moved down the line, scanning faces and checking papers until his advance was halted by a small girl, surely no more than six years old. She stood in shock, a small doll gripped tightly to her chin, covering her face. Her hair had been blonde at one point, but now hung heavy and blackened against her skin. She was coated in a sticky coat of red gore, like an ivory statue stained with heavy, heady paints. Her eyes were like white pools amidst the red gore that covered her small face, and she stared terrified into his face. She reminded Gheron so much of his own daughter, Myrtle, so much so that he stopped directly in front of her. He had to force himself not to think of his family, he had a job to do here and couldn’t be distracted. His wife Anne-Marie would know what to do. They had talked many times about what to do in an emergency situation. They would be safe.

He prayed that they would be at any rate.

He crouched in front of the girl, removing his rebreather so she could see his face. He smiled the smile that he had developed in his years of Fatherhood, and hoped that the child would react. She stood with her doll covering her face, impassive but wholly alert. The bloody rain seemed to drip off her covered chin onto the tarmac below. Theresa approached from his left and crouched beside him. Again the girl did not react. Theresa leant in next to Gheron’s ear, her voice rising just above a whisper.

“This one by herself?”

Gheron nodded solemnly.

“Seems so, although I haven’t looked for parents yet. Sorry...she reminded me of Myrtle”

Theresa shook her head, but her eyes voice was sympathetic.

“Focus Gher - We need to process her, we’ll double check the crowd, see if anyone knows her.”

Theresa rose and leant forward to take the girl gently by the arm, her hand enclosing the small right shoulder. Gheron was rising too, reattaching his rebreather when a startled shout of warning left his lips.

The doll fell away from the small girl’s mouth and revealed what she hid beneath.

Where the nose and mouth should have been was a bloody hole, ragged and torn vertically like a violent wound. Gheron at first thought it was indeed an injury before he saw the gory hole split open and dozens of needle-like glassy fangs erupted from the girl’s diseased gums. Within the bloody, shadowed hole bubbled numerous eyes, each white, lunatic and staring, all fixed on the form of Theresa. Gheron moved forward to swat his colleagues hand away but he was too slow.

Much too slow.

The girl-thing squealed like a panicked swine and pounced on Theresa, her small frame boasting strength grossly beyond her size. She buried her small face into Theresa’s neck, gripping onto her like human lamprey and bit down into the flesh of his comrade’s shoulders. Theresa’s mouth cracked open in pain, screaming in utter terror as the small child savaged her. Gheron seized them, trying to pull the small devil from his friend. A keening wail rose from the crowd similar to the squealing of the she-devil, and Gheron knew as he punched at the child’s head and Theresa convulsed under the assault in the driving, bloody rain that they were doomed.