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The days of peace and prosperity are gone. In their place is an eternity of war and pain. Incomprehensible Xenos attack mankind at all times, slowly warring down defenses. Resources are growing thin; morale is running dry. The Emperor of Mankind is long dead; a preserved corpse atop a Golden Throne and even when he still lived the galaxy was not safe. Billions must die daily to slow the unstoppable tide. But the Xenos are not the only threat; there is something much worse.

In dark realm of chaos known as the warp lie gluttonous Daemons, thirsting evermore for souls; the names of their mortal champions are tenfold curses within the Imperium; Horus the Warmaster, Abaddon the Despoiler, Perturabo the Iron Lord, Angron the Red Angel, Magnus the Crimson King, Erebus the Arch Heretic and Morgaris the Cold Blooded. Morgaris is a bane upon the Imperium, having taken dozens worlds and slain billions of men in the 10,000 years since the Horus Heresy. Favored by the Chaos Gods and Blessed with Daemon Princedom, he commands three Great Companies of the Iron Warriors without remorse. He has slain the Eldar Farseer Taraq, butchered the Warboss Bloodztoof and obliterated the Green Blade Chapter Master Contrera Scythe. Now, leading the charge at Skion II, this is his greatest triumph.



Morgaris leapt through the air, briefly flapping his massive wings to stay aloft, before crashing down upon a helpless Imperial Fist and crushing him. Blood splattered flecks of yellow ceramite were sent flying in all directions. One Marine, armed with twin lightning claws, charged at the Daemon Prince, crying out, "For the Emperor!" A swat of his palm sent the Astartes flying. The Astartes soared for at least forty feat before fatally slamming into the wall with a deafening thud. "Kill them all!" roared Morgaris, turning back towards the Iron Warriors behind him. As they advanced they fortified with thousands of cultists setting up bunkers, tank traps and land mines for every step they took; such was the way of the Iron Warriors. The steady advance had been going on for hours and was gaining momentum. Organization had been destroyed amongst the Imperial Fists; now it was just scattered Marines trying to hold off an unstoppable tide. The majority of the remaining Marines lay in a large trench system ahead. Before the trenches was an assortment of traps, mines, fences and tank traps. It was clear it couldn't be taken by ground forces.

"Steel Dragons," called Morgaris, raising his fist. The so called Steel Dragons, elite Raptors that had been promoted to their Warsmith's chosen, immediately soared over. The Daemon Prince commanded, "With me" and leapt into action, soaring on bat like wings across the battlefield and towards the Imperial Fist entrenchments. At least two dozen Astartes were waiting for the Iron Warriors, a final line of defense. As Morgaris flew, he heard bolts whizzing past him. He raised his own weapon, a bulky Kai Gun, and focused his hatred into the weapon. It fired off two glowing shots which easily obliterated a Space Marine armed with a meltagun. Morgaris grinned, revealing a cluster of venom dripped needle thin teeth. The Steel Dragons were firing as well; a plasma gun slew one Marine and a lucky bolter pistol shot another. The Imperial Fists responded with a more concentrated volley of fire that sent two of the six Raptors plummeting from the sky. Their corpses crashed into the ground, impaled on spikes, blown apart by landmines and tangled in barbed wire.

A lascannon shot managed to hit Morgaris and stab through his daemonic armor. The Warsmith endured the attack despite the bloody wound in his chest and continued flying. Another shot from his Kai Gun killed another Marine. Finally the Daemon Prince and the Steel Dragons reached the enemy trenches. At this point the Imperial Fists were already doomed; the rest was just details. Varin, the Sergeant of the Raptors, slew three Marines with his twin lightning claws, cackling the whole time. Another Raptor, Swithe, armed with a power sword, impaled an Imperial Fist on his glowing weapon. Even Elpidius, armed with only his plasma gun, managed to land a kill when he beat a flamer armed Astartes to death. Morgaris was the most impressive of all, shredding five Astartes within seconds. A Sergeant charged towards the Daemon, only for his head to be bitten off. "Iron within!" shouted Morgaris, the Sergeant's blood still dripping from his mouth. "Iron without!" yelled the Steel Dragons.

Continuing his rampage, Morgaris charged towards another group of Imperial Fists. He knocked two aside and crushed a third beneath his massive cloven hooves. As he ripped an Astartes' throat out, he noticed another Marine charging towards him. It was too late to dodge the attack and, against all odds, the Marine penetrated the Daemon armor on his back with the butt of his bolter. Thick daemon ichor was spilling out. For a moment Morgaris felt weak and mortal like again; his powers were gone, his energy was sapped and he was consumed by pain. The Imperial Fists renewed their attack, firing at and bludgeoning the Warsmith from all sides. As soon as it had occurred it was over and his Daemon powers were restored. A whirlwind of attacks removed all seven of the attacking Marines and left a gory mess in their place. Morgaris disregarded the feeling of weakness and roared triumphantly, not realizing that it was a hint of things to come.

Like "The Daemon Blade" this is going to be a very long story. C&C is appreciated.

I like your introduction in the way you set the scene, it gives the reader an easier time in understanding the context of Morgaris.

"Horus the Warmaster, Abaddon the Despoiler, Perturabo the Iron Lord, Angron the Red Angel, Fulgrim the Phoenician, Magnus the Crimson King, Lucius the Eternal, Erebus the Arch Heretic and Morgaris the Cold Blooded." - I think you have a couple too many examples here you could probably get away with dropping Lucius and Erebus and after "Magus the Crimson King" add something along the lines of "...and now a new players enters the Great Game of Chaos: Morgaris the Cold Blooded."

As for the fight scene, it seems quite well thought out and the image of a battlefield comes across clearly. My only concern is the fact the the Imperial Fists seem almost quite helpless against the 6 raptors and Morgaris while they are in flight. There was 24 of them, so I think maybe 1 or 2 more raptors should have fallen.


However, I would definitely enjoy this as a story so far, and overall, I am liking it a lot! Keep it up!

Iranna.

Thanks so much for the comment! As you said when I commented on your work, it means a lot! I'm going to take your advice and drop two of the names like you said (when I reread the sentence I realized you were right about two many names), though I think I'll keep Erebus and drop Lucius and Fulgrim. I am a big Slaanesh fan to be honest their Champions haven't exactly done much compared to the others. However I think I'll keep Morgaris' name like it is; I want to show that he's essentially one of them, a 10,000 year old champion of Chaos whose big slaughtering innocents since the Horus Heresy.

As for the fight, I looked at the stats of the Raptors and Imperial Fists and noticed that maybe one would survive at best. I had the Storm Dragons win in a devastating, sudden victory anyways, just to show that the battle was "Morgaris' Great Triumph." I suppose I could try to justify it by saying they were elite Raptors that were part of his Chosen. I guess in the future I'll avoid making little mistakes like that. Again, thanks for the comment! I'll try to update the story later today or tomorrow morning.

Morgaris surveyed the battlefield; it was already a massive cluster of fortifications, turrets, parked tanks and roving Astartes. The Imperial Fists were being collected; the intact geneseeds would be sold to the Black Legion and the intact armor would be used for more Iron Warriors. Normally when fighting Astartes they should use the salvaged geneseed for themselves, but this was different. Their rivalry with the Imperial Fists was so extreme that they viewed their geneseed, which was almost completely identical to that of the Iron Warriors, as impure. Halfbreeds (who only possessed a portion of an Imperial Fist geneseed) were barely tolerated and Astartes with full Imperial Fist geneseed, regardless of allegiance, were immediately slain. "Casualities?" asked Morgaris to his approaching Lieutenant, Basilius.

"We've lost sixty two Astartes and three hundred and fourteen Guardsmen. It looks like the enemy has lost around seventy Astartes, but we can't say for sure until we collect all of the bodies," answered Basilius. The Lieutenant was mostly bionic beneath his armor with four artificial limbs. He had gained them during an accident in Warp Transit when he was horribly mutated. "The important thing is that two of the factories, including a munitions one, are intact. Even the majority of the servitors are still alive."

"Good," replied the Daemon Prince. "For now we will recuperate our forces and rebuild our losses. Make sure to have the cultists scavenge any functioning weapon, ammunition or armor. We need to be as efficient as possible if we are to win this war."

"Of course, my lord."

"Leave me," Morgaris grunted.

As Basilius walked away he risked a look back and saw the Warsmith drop his knees and shut his eyes. "He's praying," muttered the Lieutenant, scowling beneath his helm.



This is Morgaris; he is defined by his pursuit of the favor of the fickle Daemons. They are uncaring, cruel and impatient, yet he perseveres. Everything he does is in their name, every soul he kills is for them and every planet he ruins is because of them. Even Abaddon, the true favored of the Gods must work tirelessly to ensure his position and Morgaris is far his lesser. Furthermore, Morgaris is in a much worse position. Upon his transformation to a Daemon Prince, he discovered how truly his power was dependent on them. No longer did it come from discipline, training or skill, but simply the warp and its insane Gods. Ultimately, Warsmith Morgaris the Cold Blooded is consumed by a fear that even in all of his greatness, some day he will not be enough for them.



"Iron Warriors don't pray," hissed Basilius, walking alongside Varin. "We serve alongside Chaos, not below it."

"We aren't as close to the Gods as him," pointed out the Raptor Champion. "Perhaps we don't see it as he does."

"They are not Gods, they are Daemons. Furthermore, in his empowered state, he shouldn't have to abase before them. We don't, why does an almost invincible Daemon Prince like him have to?" Basilius asked, stepping over a blood drenched corpse. "He's grown weak." The Lieutenant threw open the factory doors and stepped inside; it was huge. A massive series of conveyor belts winded around the entire factory, sometimes even cutting over each other like highway overpasses due to the lack of room. There were at least two hundred servitors and four hundred Chaos Cultists working away endless on hundreds of bolters and thousands of lasguns. In the sight of one of their Iron Warriors the cultists panicked and began working ever faster, practically finishing the weapons the second they hit the assembly line. Basilius completely ignored the amazing site and continued speaking. "The Iron Lord won't like it at all."

"Are you saying we should tell him?" asked Varin. The two Iron Warriors walked past a row of terrified workers and into a large express elevator. Its doors closed with a loud grinding noise and the elevator belched smoke as it moved.

"Of course not. I'm simply telling you that he serves the Gods now; he's weak."

"And you're going to do nothing about it? I don't believe you. You've either come in here to enlist me in a conspiracy or to gloat about some scheme you have."

"Correct," said Basilius as the elevator continued up. Sparks occasionally flew from where broken metal scrapped against the walls. "I suggest we blackmail him. In return for us not telling the Iron Lord, he gives you one of his companies and me one of his companies. It's perfect; we're his two highest up men and he knows who..... I'll just go out and say it, cutthroat we are. In addition, he still keeps some of his power, in the form of one company, so he doesn't feel as great of a loss."

"What if he became enraged and attacked us? Would you have the time to send the Iron Lord the videoclip before he shredded you to pieces? Or what if he had us poisoned after he gave us the Companies? We wouldn't know what hit us and then we'd die without saying a word," the Raptor Champion hissed, clearly irritated by Basilius.

"I'll get to that later. I have an announcement to make right now."

The elevator popped out onto the roof and the doors slid open with a grating noise. Basilius casually walked out and stood in front of a microphone connected to a massive amplifier system. He immediately turned it on and boomed, "Attention!" The noise could be heard across the landscape; hundreds of Iron Warriors and thousands of Cultists immediately turned their attention to the factory building and the figure on top. "You have done well; the city was taken quickly and without remorse. The Imperial Fists, in their ignorance, believed they could defend against the unrelenting wrath of the Iron Warriors, but they were mistaken!" Cheering broke out; some of the men raised their fists. "Now, in the way of the great Perturabo, we will do this as efficiently as possible. Every intact geneseed, clip of ammo, salvageable armor and functioning weapon must be collected. Our positions must be further fortified in the event of any foolish counterattacks on behalf of the Imperial Fists. Furthermore the factories must work at top speed to rebuild the minor losses that took place during the conflict. IRON WITHIN!"

"IRON WITHOUT!" echoed the crowd as they set to work.

I'm liking where this is going, keep it up!

Iranna.

Thanks for the comment! Without it I wouldn't have been reminded to write this new part!

Finishing the ritual, Morgaris stood up and approached one of the many established tents. Inside his quarters were already being erected; his throne had been moved from the Battlebarge Grey Sun, as had most of his personal possessions. Radars, communication devices, and a strange immobile astropath/servitor were already being set up. "Warsmith," squeaked out a hidious slave-creature. "Orbital Surveillance reveals that the Imperial Fists 6th Company are fortifying their own bases as opposed to readying an attack force. Their Battlebarge, Terran Vengeance, has left the atmosphere towards the Phalanx."

"They're summoning reinforcements," hissed Morgaris as he sat down upon his Iron Throne. It was engraved with images of his triumphs, particularly rampaging on Terra at the climax of Heresy and his ascension to Daemonhood three thousand years ago. "How many men do we have left?"

"Two hundred and thirty six Astartes, three thousand, two hundred and sixty five Guardsmen and seven thousand five hundred and two Cultists, my Lord."

The Warsmith paused before saying, "Summon my retinue."



It was an intimidating sight to see so many powerful Lieutenants, Sergeants, Sorcerers and Techpriests together. Cultists immediately abased before them and the normally arrogant Iron Warriors bowed. A Dreadnought even humbled itself, shifting its stiff legs to bring itself as close to a bow as it could. At the head of the retinue stood Lieutenant Zehir, second only to Morgaris, in his gleaming Terminator armor. In one hand he held a red Daemon Blade and in the other in a bulky meltagun. He stepped on a skull and barely regarded it as it crunched beneath his ceramite boot. On Zehir's left flank stood Basilius, resting his powersword over his shoulder with arm and loosely holding a bolterpistol with the other. Left of Zehir stood Sergeant Varin, fearsome Commander of the Storm Dragons, with two extended lightning claws. Beside him was Dark Magos Slytherix, a mass of steel and tubes held together by sore doted flesh and strange, unnatural bones. The last two members of the retinue were Belial, a blessed Sorcerer who served Morgaris on behalf of the Black Legion, and Slevic, a crazed Obliterator who preferred to be known as 'the Techlord.'

The slave thing immediately opened the tent and abased before them, watching the six Gods walk inside. As Slevic stepped in he knocked the slave away with a strange mechanical fist; it left a red stain in the slave's place. Inside the tent stood Morgaris at the head of a massive holo-table displaying Skion II with various fortresses, cities and battlefields marked. "Greetings," he said. "You know it is only in dire circumstances that you are summoned. There will be no need for formalities here; only business."

"Of course," grated Zehir; half of his throat was artificial and from his voice it showed. "I take it we've extended ourselves too far; only the Black Legion has the resources to win battles this far from the Eye and even then it's an uphill battle."

"Yes," answered Morgaris. "The initial attack was a great success, but it appears the Phalanx was closer to Skion II than my psykers estimated." He glared at Belial. "The Imperial Fists are summoning reinforcements. From the radar visuals I estimate we have perhaps three weeks before they arrive."

"Don't pin this on me!" Belial roared, taking a step closer to Morgaris and separating himself from the formation of the Warsmith's retinue. "I told you they were extremely rough estimates and we couldn't say for certain how close it really was. The blame lies firmly on your judgement." Belial wore ancient armor inscribed with the names of powerful Daemons, Arch Heretics and Traitor Primarches. As the ambassador of the Black Legion he had certain immunities the other Chosen of Morgaris lacked. "My reputation will not suffer for your failure."

Morgaris shifted on his throne and replied, "When someone says their estimate is rough, you assume it can't be off by more than one thousand light years. Yours was off by five thousand two hundred and thirty. You will have opportunities to redeem yourself. Failing that, I will send you back to Abaddon with a note pinned on your forehead explaining your failure. We'll see how he tolerates your mistake."

"Of course, my Lord," stammered the Sorcerer as he stepped back in line both literally and figuratively. "I am have overstepped my boundaries."

"Weakling," muttered Slevic in a disturbing, throaty voice.

Belial exclaimed "Excuse me?" and turned to face the technological monstrosity. "That coming from a fleshy mash of junk like you?"

"Gentlemen," said Basilius, stepping in between the two before their confrontation could escalate. "Please, despite all of our differences, we are still Legionnaires and we are still honorable. Now, let us focus on the true enemy, the Imperial Dogs, as opposed to our own petty rivalries. I'm sure two brilliant men like you can agree to this."

"Well said Basilius. We are here to speak of taking action against the Imperials, not each other. Now, there was a full company of the Imperial Fists, the 6th Company to be exact. We've slaughtered seventy one of their number and destroyed the majority of their tanks. I was hoping to goad them into attacking again, but they failed to take the bait. With their Battlebarge having taken off, we don't know how many of them are left and what resources they have. The normal course of action would be to take their position and fortify the entire planet against an orbital attack until reinforcements arrive. But that would invite them to launch a simple Exterminatus which would damage the Great Companies beyond repair. Any suggestions for an alternate plan?" asked the Daemon Prince, in a rare moment where he admitted that even in his greatness he wasn't completely sure what to do.

"Box them in?" half asked, half stated Basilius. "If we simply trapped the Imperial Fists but refused to kill them, their brothers might be hesitant to obliterate them all in a massive orbital attack."

"They will eagerly sacrifice their own men if they believe it will help the Emperor; look at the Siege of Terra. They put themselves between us and the Emperor despite the resulting massacre," pointed out Morgaris. "If their entire Legion meant nothing to them, what will they think of thirty stranded Astartes?"

"I suggest a counterattack," spat at Slevic as oil and saliva dripped from his deformed maw. "The thirty Marines could scarcely withstand a quick bombardment from our planetside tanks, much less the three awaiting Battlebarges we possess. Following that we meet the Imperial Fists fleet in transit and fight a ship to ship battle."

"Don't be an idiot," hissed Varin. "They'll no doubt know to bring a large enough fleet to obliterate every ship, tank and soldier we have and maybe even the entire planet. Make no mistake, the Imperial Fists are simply loyalist Dogs, but they do know how to war."

"But would they be prepared for an attack as bold as that? Their armaments would likely be down and their crew asleep. A proper surprise attack can take down even the most heavily armed forces," said Zehir.

Soon everyone was talking at once. Slevic began shouting and Belial started comparing the Iron Warriors to the Black Legion in a negative light. Zehir pushed Varin back and accused him of being an Imperial Sympathizer and insulted him for being a new addition to the Iron Warriors as opposed to one of the original Legionnaires. Even Basilius was powerless to stop the argument and soon joined in, accusing Zehir of being a worthless idiot who only held his position due to seniority. Slytherix tried to speak to the Warsmith, but couldn't talk over the shouting. Eventually Morgaris, sick of the argument, stood up from his throne, spread out his wings and roared. The tent shook and every member of his retinue fell silent. Morgaris turned towards Slytherix and growled a single word. "Speak."

Dark Magos were notorious for their almost complete lack of emotion, compassion, tact and social skills. They were outcasts even among heretics and were generally avoided within the Traitor Legions. "The true solution to this problem is that there is none. We have completely overextended ourselves; regardless of the proximity of the Phalanx, we were doomed as soon as the decision was made to take this planet. Even if we succeed and take the planet, we lack the resources and overall firepower to break through various Imperial Blockades and fleets to return to the Eye of Terror. Furthermore we lack the soldiers necessary to defend the planet; if we stay the planet will be taken by force or destroyed. If we leave our fleet will be ravaged beyond repair by Imperial Ships." Slytherix finished speaking and stood completely still at the side of the Warsmith, seemingly oblivious to the response of those in the room.

Morgaris' retinue was struck silent and was simply staring at Slytherix in surprise and terror. Though many had suspected the Great Companies were in serious danger or even doomed as the Dark Magos had said, none of them had dared to speak of it and simply tried to ignore the nagging thoughts. The Warsmith himself was staring at Slytherix also, but his expression was different; instead of fear his face was practically seething with rage. "What did you say?" he asked.

"We are doomed. Too many judgmental errors have been made at this point for survival to be impossible."

Summoning on every last ounce of psychic power he had and drawing up imaginable things from the depths of the Warp, Morgaris attacked the Dark Magos in both the material and immaterial world. Circuits, broken metal, bone fragments, metal and blood were sent in all directions like some sort of hidious grenade. The Astropath Servitor Thing was destroyed, a radar cracked, the throne dented and the holotable broken. A piece of metal penetrated Belial's armor, causing him to cry out in pain. Luckily the wound was nonlethal and the Sorcerer managed to pry the metal chunk out of his abdomen. What looked like a portion of Slytherix' skull bounced off of Slevic's armor. A chunk of brain splattered on Basilius' thigh. "Any more suggestions?" shouted Morgaris, his form seeming taller and more intimidating than ever before. This was the first time a member of his retinue had ever been slain. Nobody spoke or even moved at all. Even Zehir, perhaps closer to Morgaris than any other and having served with him since before the Heresy, was struck completely silent. "Good. You are dismissed," the Daemon Prince said.

The five remaining members of the retinue exited immediately, fearing for both the Warband and their lives.

C&C is extremely appreciated.

Looks good. I like Morgarius.

Ogryn wrote:Looks good. I like Morgarius.

Thanks for the comment. I'll probably write a new entry within the next... 16 hours?

Zehir left separate from the rest of Morgaris' retinue. He was enraged, but more than that he was scared. Supposedly Astartes no longer were genetically capable of fear, anxiety and nervousness; supposedly they were far above humanity in their complete genetic control over emotions. This was not true. They indeed lacked terror, but they still felt the pangs of anxiety and they still dreaded death. As he approached his tent, he saw Varin consulting with Swithe, one of the Storm Dragons. Itching for a fight, he stormed towards the two and said, "Well, you must be happy about the meeting, loyalist dog." His Daemon Sword hissed, sensing its master's rage.

Varin turned towards the Lieutenant and extended his twin lightning claws while Elpidius drew his powersword. Zehir activated his meltagun, but remained in a noncombat position. "Go ahead, strike me. See how it works out." The two Raptors remained silent in what Zehir regarded as an attempt in intimidate him. Zehir, being their superior in rank, armed with better weapons and quite taller than them due to his Terminator armor, couldn't care less. His blade was hissing now and vibrating within his grip. The Lieutenant could feel it influencing his mood and poisoning his thoughts. He was furious now. "What?" he asked. "Too afraid to do it?"

Elpidius swung into action, activating his powersword and swinging it two handed at Zehir's chest. The Lieutenant sidestepped and the blow swung past him, leaving him unharmed and the Raptor prone. Dropping his meltagun, Zehir grabbed Elpidius' wrist and snapped it. Varin tried to attack, but Zehir blocked both claws with his Daemon Blade and sent the Sergeant flying back with a solid kick to the chest. Moaning in pain, Elpidius attempted to stab the Terminator using his remaining intact arm. Letting go of the broken wrist, Zehir took a step back and dodged the attack. Elpidius had put too much weight into it and fell flat on his face when it failed to hit.

Varin charged at Zehir again, both lightning claws crackling with energy. Before he could reach him, Zehir grabbed his meltagun and fired at the Raptor's leg. The Storm Dragon's knee melted, as did part of his thigh and shin. His foot, no longer connected to his body, was sent flying off in a random direction. Varin screeched in pain and collapsed, lying directly in front of Zehir. The Daemon Blade was pushing harder and harder, influencing Zehir to slay the prone figure. The Lieutenant almost did it, but stopped. "Ages ago," he said, staring down at Varin. "Long before you arrived. We had principles of loyalty and brotherhood. Though those days may be long over, I will spare you out of nostalgia for them. Perhaps you could learn from those days." Zehir left, his bloodlust sated. The Daemon Blade was enraged at the outcome and the Lieutenant sheathed it to avoid the blade lashing out at him.



This is Zehir; he is a veteran of endless wars and a relic of a distant time. He does not hide his contempt for what the Traitor Legions have become. Nevertheless he still fights for their cause, motivated by revenge more than anything else. He has served with Morgaris as long as he has been an Astartes, with both of them having been recruited from the same planet and deployed in the same squad. He has grown distant from his Lord however, believing him to be more Daemon than man now. At this point Zehir has gone numb to the overall conflict and universe; 10,000 years of warfare have drained any emotion he once had for it. Now the only way he can still feel the strong vibrant emotions of the past is something considered wrong even by the Iron Warriors.



Returning to his tent, Zehir plugged an IV line into a port in his armor. The drug, created from the tortured souls of the damned, coursed through his veins immediately. There was a shock, as if he had suddenly been punched in the gut, and then came the pleasure; a feeling of happiness so raw and untainted that it was irresistible. He smiled and slipped into unconscious as the whispers of Slaanesh took hold.

I like it. I find Mogarius less menacing than the Warsmith in Storm of Iron, but that's probably because he's a POV character instead of the scary overlord of a POV character. Morgarius is still plenty powerful and dangerous, he's just viewed from a different angle. I like how each of the main characters is being set up as very different with individual strengths and weaknesses; one of the main problems about writing for baddies is the urge to write every important bad guy as a super-competent badass with no character beyond that.

The battle scenes flow well; you definitely use enough active tense. You also have a very good sense of positioning. I'm unsure about one thing: Do marines moan in pain? It seems a bit tame for them.

Best part so far was Morgarius' reaction to the Dark Magos' prediction. It completely fits the sort of desperate character you're trying to set up. Will definitely keep up with this.

Molten Butter wrote:I like it. I find Mogarius less menacing than the Warsmith in Storm of Iron, but that's probably because he's a POV character instead of the scary overlord of a POV character. Morgarius is still plenty powerful and dangerous, he's just viewed from a different angle. I like how each of the main characters is being set up as very different with individual strengths and weaknesses; one of the main problems about writing for baddies is the urge to write every important bad guy as a super-competent badass with no character beyond that.

The battle scenes flow well; you definitely use enough active tense. You also have a very good sense of positioning. I'm unsure about one thing: Do marines moan in pain? It seems a bit tame for them.

Best part so far was Morgarius' reaction to the Dark Magos' prediction. It completely fits the sort of desperate character you're trying to set up. Will definitely keep up with this.

Thanks! Yeah, I'm unsure about Marines moaning in pain too, since looking back in most stories they generally only have a tiny grunt or yell when they get hit and keep on fighting, so I guess I won't do that again. And thanks a ton for the comment about the Dark Magos prediction; it really helps to get specific feedback like that. There will be a new update sometime within the next 12 hours.

"Morgaris has summoned for you," said Tertius. He was the third of Basilius' five personal slaves and was named appropriately.

"Another retinue meeting?" half asked half stated Basilius as he stood up.

"No, my lord," answered the minion. "He has called for only you and Zehir."

Basilius grinned before putting on his helmet and locking it in. "Looks like I'm rising up the ranks," he said. "Also, do you know where Sergeant Varin is? I haven't seen him recently."

"He's in the med ward, my lord. According to Primus a fight broke out between him and Zehir. Do you wish for me to send him a message?"

"Not now," the Lieutenant replied, grabbing his powersword and sheathing it. "I'll check on him myself later. That bastard Zehir thinks he owns the Warband."

"Do you wish for me to poison his food, my lord?"

Once again Basilius smiled, though Tertius couldn't see it through the Lieutenant's helmet. "Nah, he'd catch you and flay you alive. Thank you for the offer though. I'll be sure to remember how helpful you were when I'm promoted to Warsmith."



This is Basilius; a man of extreme confidence and charisma. Like the other Iron Warriors he is a veteran of thousand wars and is far from unscathed, but unlike them is no longer jaded or dismayed by the concept of the war. He still is energetic and oddly optimistic about the Long War. However his arrogance has had him beaten and put down many times; during the Battle of Terra he was slashed across the face with a combat knife after standing to gloat over a fallen enemy. During Warp Travel his limbs all had to be amputated after a hastily prepared Chaos Ritual went wrong. On Cadia a mad charge had his shot through the chest with a lascannon and barely survived; his men belief this is proof that he has the blessing of the Chaos Gods, or Daemons as he insists they call them.



Walking alongside Morgaris, Basilius couldn't help but feel nervous. Just yesterday Slytherix had been subject to the improvisational execution after saying something Basilius himself might've accidentally slipped out. Zehir and Basilius flanked their Lord with two Obliterators stalking behind them as Guards. "Your presence is purely psychological," said the Warsmith. "I shall announce our new course of action and you shall stand by triumphantly, silently supporting it."

"If I may ask, what is your plan?" Zehir inquired. His voice was raspier than before and slightly slurred.

"A variation on Basilius' plan."

Basilius immediately said, "This is an honor, my Lord." Despite Morgaris' cold logic, the Daemon Prince was easily vulnerable to flattery.

"We shall hold the entire outpost hostage; however, this is not enough. In addition to this, I will launch a lightning fast raid led by the Storm Dragons. While your and Zehir's men distract the outpost with a seemingly futile and poorly planned out assault, the Storm Dragons and all shall drop from orbit and land inside their base. We will capture Commander Zhurok, the leader of the stranded forces, and leave as quickly as we came," explained Morgaris. "He will be tortured badly, until he is forced to beg for his life. A video of this will be sent to the approaching ships, along with a message from me."

"Excellent plan, my Lord," responded Zehir. "Its quite better thought out than Basilius'. No offence to the Lieutenant of course, his plan was still ingenious."

Biting back an urge to defend his pride, he forced himself to say, "Yes, I admit it is an improvement." He made a mental note to take up the slave's offer.

Two days after Morgaris' announcement, the Iron Warriors reached the fortress. The combined forces of Zehir and Basilius assailed it brutally, constantly attacking it from all sides. The Imperial Fists suffered very little Astartes casualities, but with only thirty some Marines they could barely afford any at all. Their ramshackle fortresses, barricades and turret posts could seldom do more than slow do the unhalting tide of Legionnaires. Now, they were backed into their final outpost, a massive complex that had once been a bureaucratic facility but was now home to a approximately three hundred terrified civilians, seventy PDF Soldiers and the surviving Imperial Fists. "Secure the doors!" yelled Command Zhurok, his helmet off so that the civilians could see his fearless face and know that they were safe. "Man the turrets! Remember, the Emperor Protects! We have not lasted this long for nothing!"

The greatest danger to Zhurok was not the plodding Iron Warriors, their ancient Tanks or their worthless foot soldiers, but a lone Daemon descending from the skies. The Steel Dragons were currently out of duty due to heavy causalities and Varin's crippling injury. As a result, Morgaris came alone. His massive, leathery wings were outstretched at full length, allowing him to glide downward with surprising control towards the Imperial Fists position. He noted a PDF gunner at a lascannon turret yelling and gesturing to him. Just as the turret began to swivel towards him, Morgaris rolled and dodged the shot. A second lascannon turret fired and this time the Warsmith wasn't so lucky; the laser punched through his left wing. Morgaris began to lose control of his flight. He frantically twisted and flapped his wings in an attempt to salvage his now wobbly descent. A third lascannon shot grazed his shoulder, badly burning it and further lowering his ability to actual control where he was going.

The Daemon Prince roared and aimed his Kai Gun, now within range of the enemies. A single shot obliterated the first lascannon and badly burnt the gunner. Morgaris suddenly shifted his stance to that of a striking bird of prey and swooped inside the compound, knocking the turret out of the way and crushing a PDF Soldier in addition to the gunner. He took a brief look at the room and saw twelve PDF Soldiers and three Imperial Fists. Morgaris grinned and said, "This is going to be easier than expected."

He was a mad blurr of action, leaping across the room and slaying soldiers at random. A swipe of his claw disemboweled an unfortunate soul and a stomp of a cloven foot another. An Imperial Fist charged at him, only to be suddenly charged himself and devoured. Friendly fire killed two men as the soldiers began to panic and shoot frantically in a vain attempt to scare the Daemon off. The door swung open and Imperial Fists began pouring in, bellowing orders and opening fire with their bolters. Morgaris spun around, flailing his spiked tail and impaled an Astartes. He crushed another within his hand. A third slammed against the wall and died due to a powerful kick. A Marine with a multimelta rushed inside and fired, shooting through one of his Battle Brothers to hit Morgaris. The Battle Brother completely melted, leaving a mass of molten slag, and the shot continued on, piercing through the Warsmith's daemonic armor and stabbing into him.

The Warsmith roared, loud enough to shake the room and send every none Astartes fleeing for his life. The Imperial Fist with the multimelta managed to dodge the Daemon Prince's first attack, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid a blast from a Kai Gun. He grunted oddly as the unholy weapon blew a massive hole in his lower abdomen, shattering ceramite and send viscera flying in all directions. He clutched the wound, as if he was trying to keep all of his organs inside, before slumping to the floor dead. That was when Commander Zhurok of the Imperial Fists 6th Company appeared.

Zhurok was an intimidating figure. He was armed with a shining, mastercrafted Thunder Hammer supposedly carved on Terra itself during the Great Crusade and a bulky Storm Shield adorned with images of Rogal Dorn in his moments of triumph. The Commander's artificer armor was adorned with an impressive adamantine mantle and dozens of purity seals. The Imperial Fists were spurred into a frenzy by his appearance alone, immediately charging at Morgaris while yelling, "For the Emperor!"

Despite the moral boost of Zhurok, the massacre continued and within a minute Morgaris had slain ten Imperial Fists. "Back away!" ordered the Commander. "We cannot afford so many casualities upon a single foe. Defend the citadel and the civilians. I shall confront the Daemon alone."

The Astartes slowly backed away, weapons still focused on Morgaris as they left. "Tis a shame you sent them back," the Warsmith said, "Considering my thirst for their souls is not yet quenched."

Zhurok activated his Thunderhammer and took a step forward. "Regardless of what happens here, you are doomed. A massive fleet is coming here; there will be no escape."

"I have radars also, Zhurok," hissed Morgaris, taking a step forward as well. "I know of and have planned for their arrival."

"Good. You know what's going to kill you then."

"I tire of this meaningless conversation," the Daemon growled. He leapt towards Zhurok, claws extended, and the duel began.

C&C Appreciated

I laughed at how Basilus' plan was considered "seemingly futile and poorly planned assault." Ouch. His description was really interesting because optimism in the face of all adversity is usually a characteristic of nice characters, not mean ol' traitor marines.

You still have the Imperial Fist scream with pain, which seems even more out of character for me; while Iron Warriors are self-serving, paranoid nutcases, the Teachings of Rhetoricus are all about withstanding hardship. "Pain is the wine of communion with heroes."

The Imperial Fists always die. Not that it's surprising in an Iron Warriors fanfic. The duel will probably be great, considering how good you are at illustrating action.

Thanks for the comment! I realized you were right the edited the previous entry so that he just "grunted oddly" instead of "screaming in pain." Imperial Fists are one of the few chapters that manage to practice the philosophy of "No Pain, No Gain" without worshiping Nurgle or other heretical stuff. Also, thanks for the comment about Basilius; after all, not all ambitious, evil 10,000 year old mutated Super Soldiers are pessimistic and gloomy.

Zhurok ducked under the first attack and his impressive Storm Shield blocked the second. As the Commander ducked to escape a third attack, Morgaris suddenly jerked his tail and stabbed it at Zhurok. The Imperial Fist clumsily leapt back, barely dodging the attack. Seeking to push the assault, Morgaris charged forward. The Veteran Commander was prepared for this and was immediately in action, swinging his Thunder Hammer with impressive strength. Morgaris suddenly realized what was happening and attempted to jerk back, but it was too late. The ancient weapon hit him squarely in the chest with a sound like an explosion; it was clear how the weapon had gotten its name. The Daemon Prince was floored by the attack and his chest was cracked open, revealing a twisted mass of throbbing muscle and mutated bone.

Stunned by the attack, Morgaris was hopeless when Zhurok struck him again in the same spot. The hammer was soaked with a black Daemon ichor now. Zhurok wrenched the hammer out of the Daemon's chest and raised it, preparing for the killing blow. He suddenly felt a massive pain in his left shoulder; there was a spurt of blood. The Commander cocked his head to see that the Daemon Prince had impaled his shoulder with his massive barbed tail. Zhurok tried to move his left arm and move his storm shield to brace for the next attack, but instead there was more pain and the limb refused to move. The Daemon Prince grinned and flicked his tail, sending the Commander flying across the room.

He hit the wall hard, dropping his storm shield and cracking his ceramite armor deeply. His adamantine mantle absorbed most of the blow; without it he wouldn't have stood a chance. Zhurok glanced toward the Daemon Prince to see him slowly standing up and aiming his Kai Gun. "Surrender now," hissed Morgaris. "And I will spare you and all of your men." Zhurok ignored the comment and forced himself to stand as well. He began to pray. "Faith is my armor," he grunted, steadying himself and entering a combat stance. "Hatred is my weapon. For am I an Angel of Death and a Warrior of the Emperor."

"Ah yes," purred Morgaris, keeping his weapon focused on Zhurok but not firing. "A generic Astartes prayer; I remember reciting that once. Only after Isstvan 5 did I realize how foolish it was."

Zhurok charged, raising his Thunder hammer and screaming, "For the Emperor!" The Warsmith focused his hatred and pain into his weapon and pulled the trigger, watching the bolt of raw anger slam into the Imperial Fist's ceramite chest; the armor armor held strong. Zhurok swung his Thunder Hammer wildly, slamming it into the side of Morgaris' face. The Daemon's eye was destroyed, his flesh disintegrated and bone broken, leaving the right half of his face a massive gory mess that seemed like it would be more fitting as something splattered on tank treads as opposed to a head. Morgaris roared as best as he could with half of a mouth and leapt backwards, barely avoiding a second blow to his head. Now, truly enraged, he fired off his Kai Gun insanely.

One shot blew a sizable hole in the wall. Another melted a corpse. The third blew off Zhurok's left leg below the knee. Zhurok collapsed but continued attacking, slamming his ancient weapon into Morgaris' thigh and scoring a minor wound. The Warsmith grabbed Zhurok's remaining functional arm with both claws and hissed, "This is what you get for ruining my face." He squeezed, slowly crushing the ceramite into Zhurok's flesh. Cracks appeared in the armor as it lost form; joints popped open. Blood began to spill out as Morgaris squeezed further. He heard bone crunch. "Pain is the wine of communion with heroes," the Daemon mocked. "Well, some wine is quite bitter."

"You do not scare me Daemon," grunted Zhurok. "Faith is my armor. Hatred is my weapon. For I am an Angel of Death and a Warrior of the Emperor."

The arm snapped finally snapped off, Morgaris having pushed both the armor and the bone to the limit. The Warsmith grinned and stood upright, picking up the crippled form of the Commander. "Now we leave," he said before outstretching his injured but still functional wings. He jumped out of the window and soared, leaving the citadel behind.

Zhurok a tough dude. I'd probably cry a lot if someone crushed my arm until it fell off.

Yay! Another great part.

Thanks for the comment (as I always say)! I was planning on writing more today, but due to Writer's Block I couldn't.

Alright, new entry. Most of this part is leading up to a revelation thingy from Zehir. C&C always appreciated.

Basilius walked with Zehir towards the Land Raider Hephaestus, surrounded by the blood splatted bodies of his own men. Smoking was wafting through the air as fires from the skirmish spread from the Imperial Fists Citadel to nearby buildings and fortifications. A downed Iron Warrior with a massive gash across his helmet reached out towards the two and moaned something incomprehensible. Ignoring it, the two Commanders continued on. "So many Legionnaires died for this," Basilius grumbled as he stepped over the mutilated legs of a Traitor Guardsman. "This isn't right."

"Its war," replied Zehir as he sat down inside the Land Raider. His once shining armor was stained with blood and grit from the battlefield.

"But this is different; the only purpose of this mission was to capture a single Imperial Fist and holding him hostage in hopes of warding off the other Dorn serving fools. The massive amount of causalities that occurred wouldn't even be justifiable for slaughtering every loyalist Dog in there!" Basilius yelled. "But we had to do it because of Morgaris."

Zehir paused and then asked, "Are you blaming him?"

"Yes, I am," hissed the Lieutenant in response. "He's a weakling; he prays to Daemons as opposed to accomplishing things himself."

Suddenly Zehir was actually interested the conversation. His posture immediately stiffened and he bent in closer to Basilius. "Wait, what?" he asked.

"I caught him praying, or at least what looked like it. After we took the Imperial Fists trench and before we learned about the fleet, I saw him get on his knees and put his face near the ground and start... well, praying," answered Basilius. "He's a weakling. We were supposed to serve alongside Daemons, not worship them as deities. The reason we joined with Horus was to escape the tyranny of the Emperor, not to find the new tyranny of twisted Daemons and mad, so called Gods."

"To serve alongside someone, you must offer something in return for their assistance. Morgaris is not a weakling, he is likely just holding up his part of the deal with the Warp."

"Prayer is a form of worship. Worship implies superiority to oneself. One partner doesn't worship another in a business agreement."

"Fine," said Zehir, sighing. "Let's assume that he worships the Chaos Gods-"

"Daemons," interrupted Basilius.

"Let's assume he worships Daemons. So be it. There are many Iron Warriors who are devoted to the Daemons, or even highly dedicated Cultists who serve one Daemon in particular," Zehir pointed out. "The Berzerkers who lead mad charges and rule melee in the name of Khorne. The strange, warp protected Astartes of Tzeentch, protected by sorcerous auras. The bloated, disease spawning Plague Marines of Nurgle, a metaphorical and literal blight upon the enemy. The fearless Slaanesh serving Noise Marines, mastery of senses, who can obliterate enemies with their hypnotic music."

"They are only barely tolerated, and if their false religion goes too far they are executed. Jarthe Tezaar, Disciple of Nurgle was slain after trying to convert his men to Nurgle and spreading his blights to them. Furthermore, you are steering away from the point, which is that Morgaris is weak for worshipping Daemons when other Warsmiths, even Lieutenants like us, are able to successfully lead while serving besides them, as opposed to below them." Basilius paused and then quickly added in, "You acknowledge this?"

Zehir leaned in closer to put himself face to face with the Lieutenant and spoke quietly, as if to avoid the various servitors and slaves inside from hearing him. "Basilius, they are Gods. You have no idea just how powerful they are. Entire races have burned because of their wrath. During the Heresy we were foolish and arrogant, immediately joining Horus after learning that we were not alone in our hated of the Emperor. We did not know what forces we were fighting for." The veteran put his head down in shame and spoke even more silently. "They are worse than the Emperor. The only difference is that they actually have the power to control their slaves; us. Look at the Night Lords; they believe that they don't serve Chaos and even fight against it, yet they are plagued by mutations and death. Their numbers have been plummeting since the Heresy and now they are forced to ally with the Black Legion to survive. Look at the Thousand Sons; they tried to master Chaos with Sorcery and instead doomed their Legion. They were once a Legion of scholars and now they are a Warp driven force of slaves to Dark Gods and automatons. Don't you understand? We are slaves."

The rest of the trip back was silent.

Nice part. I shall be looking forward to more I think Zehir is starting to realize the truth....

Zhurok had been removed from his armor. His limbs had all been destroyed to prevent resistance. He was strapped down onto a medical table in a damp room surrounded by Morgaris and his Retinue; Basilius, Varin, Slevic, Zehir and Belial. Varin now had a new, robotic limb beneath his ceramite. He walked somewhat stiffly now, but still could run and jump. "All we ask of you," repeated the Warsmith, clearly irritated. "Is for you to beg. Sob, whimper and beg for your Brothers to spare you. We do not ask you to kill your own men or devote yourself to our cause or to give away information; simply to beg."

"I stand by the Emperor; If I must be killed to further his cause, so be it," replied Zhurok. He was no longer intimidating or majestic; stripped of his gear, his health and his dignity, the Commander had lost his aura of authority.

"How can you have so much caustic disregard for your own life?" shouted Morgaris, leaning in towards the table to bring his twisted face closer to Zhurok. Now the half that had been destroyed was replaced by a large mass of circuits and electronics with a bionic eye jutting out. "Do all of your accomplishments mean nothing to you? Was becoming a Space Marine just something to do in your spare time? Was being promoted to a Commander just random happenstance? Surely there is something that matters to you!"

The Commander remained stoic and answered, "The Imperium."

Morgaris struck him, punching Zhurok squarely in the chest. You could hear the ribs crack and see the flesh turn a bruised purple. The Imperial Fist coughed and writhed in an instinctive and vain attempt to escape. "We do not ask you to betray it," the Daemon Prince said. He punched Zhurok again. "And regardless of your loyalties, we will have you begging for your life by the end of this." He punched Zhurok a third time. A fragment of a broken rib was pushed up through the flesh by the impact; blood began dribbling down onto the operation table from the wound. "Do you understand?"

"I understand well enough and I refuse," Zhurok managed to say, coughing violently the whole time. "My life was spent serving the Imperium. I will not undue all of that now; I know why you want me to beg."

"We'll kill him long before we get answers this way," interjected Zehir. "Perhaps we could try a different method?"

Belial took a step forward. "I know of a method that you, as Iron Warriors, may regard as unsavory," the Sorcerer purred, seemingly taking pride in the fact. "But I know it will work and I know that by the end he will still be alive, regardless of whether or not he wants to be."

The Warsmith turned to face Belial and asked, "Are you certain that he will still be alive by the end?"

"Yes."

"Will he still be able to speak?"

"If he needs to be, than I will change my methods to respect this."

"Good. You have permission to go ahead with your methods. If you need any resources, cultists or tools for this, you may take them," Morgaris said. "Get to work."

The retinue all cleared out save Belial, who was busy tending to Zhurok's wounds in preparation. As they walked away Basilius asked, "How's the new leg? There's always and adjusting period after you get a new one."

"Yes," acknowledged the Raptor, walking rigidly. "I assume you would know, considering you've lost both of your organic ones and one of the artificial ones."

"Its not my fault the ritual went bad!" exclaimed the Lieutenant. "Besides, it wasn't that bad. I still have my head and chest, which is all I need."

"Of course," said Varin, smiling dryly. "What do you think about what Belial is doing to Zhurok?"

Basilius paused before answering. "The Warmaster sent us Belial after we assisted him the 12th Crusade. Belial's first action was to go out on the battlefield and destroy the mind of an Eldar Farseer we were fighting at the time. He specializes he severe psychological and neural damage, having figured out a way to use the Warp to mess with how brains work. Its complicated. Only an extremely strong willed person can resist his methods and if hes given enough time, he can break the mind of anyone. Zhurok will endure for a long time, likely days, suffering the whole while. His ability to process thoughts and feel things beyond pain and sorrow will diminish. Finally he'll snap and end up as little more than a play toy of the Sorcerer, trapped in constant agony. Essentially Belial is condemning Zhurok to a fate worse than death."

"Does he deserve it?" asked the Sergeant.



This is Varin; he is a Raptor, blazing across battlefields at insane speeds to butcher infantry and demoralize enemies. Due to his impressive skill he was selected to lead the Steel Dragons, a group of the most elite Raptors within the Iron Warriors. Hundreds have fallen to his archaic bolter and shimmering power sword. Thousands have fallen to the Steel Dragons all together. But Varin is more than a thoughtless executioner. He is oddly merciful, just barely clinging onto concepts of morals after two hundred years of war. Unlike the other Iron Warriors, he acknowledges the suffering of the enemy and views them as people as well. Compared to the the Traitor Legionnaires that surround him, Varin is a naive newcomer.



"Of course he does," casually answered Basilius, barely stopping to think about the question. "He's an Imperial Dog and his comrades are coming back with a massive fleet in hopes of executing all of us. Hell, I'm surprised Morgaris even gave him a chance to just follow orders without suffering. Normally you'd expect someone who hurt him like that to be executed on the spot or at least tortured a lot."

"We used to be Imperial Dogs," said Varin.

"We were given an opportunity to change sides and we accepted. He was given an opportunity to briefly assist our cause and he declined. That's the difference Varin. We were smart enough to succeed from the Imperium and he wasn't. Besides, saying things like that is the reason Zehir cut off your leg."

"Are you taking his side?" demanded the Raptor.

"No, not at all," answered Basilius. "I'm just explaining why he did it."

"Okay. Also, the part of my leg attached to the bionics had a strange, pins and needles sensation that's been spreading for the past few hours. Is that normal?"

"Probably not. You should get that checked out," said Basilius as he walked off towards his own tent and away from Basilius.



Belial made sure to lock the door and stabilize Zhurok's health before preceding. "You know," he said as he put the final bandage over the Commander's chest. "I actually dislike this, despite the fact that it's what I'm renowned for." Zhurok was silent. "It's stressful to say the least; you aren't a psyker so you can only imagine this, but exerting so much energy so precisely over such a long period is extremely draining. I've actually fallen unconscious attempting this once before." The Sorcerer's helmet was off so that the Imperial Fist could see him briefly smile. "I have a request, and I know you'll say no, but I'm going to ask it anyways. Will you not resist? It'll make it less painful for you and less stressful for me."

"Pain is the wine of communion with heroes," replied Zhurok. "If my pain will have the slightest negative effect on the enemies of the Imperium, I will accept without complaint."

"My, you are devote," Belial said, smiling widely. "Well, if you're going to resist, so be it. Let's begin."

I didn't have time to edit this, but I'm hoping to edit it later.

Wow, you have made my day by posting this. A great part!

I appreciate that, thanks! New update is coming sometime later today.

Morgaris reclined on his throne. His tent was swarming with servitors and slaves; two Servitors working on repairing the section of his Iron Throne that had been dented by Slytherix's death, a half dozen slaves were carrying in a new radar system, two servitors and a mutant thing were setting up a new astropath servitor and one final minion was augmenting the cybernetics that dominated the left half of the Warsmith's face. Morgaris himself was silent, simply pondering the next course of action. His concentration was interrupted by a hunched cultist wearing flowing black robes. "Greetings," squeaked the pathetic creature as he approached the Daemon Prince. "I sincerely hope I haven't disturbed you, you're greatness." He suddenly realized that by standing he was greatly disrespecting Morgaris and immediately bowed. "I hope to speak with you over one of your past victories."

The minion augmenting his face momentarily stopped so that Morgaris could speak. "Go on," he said in an uncaring way. Once again the minion continued his work, carefully disconnecting a wire from a socket and plugging it into a new area. The Warsmith scarcely noticed.

"On the planet of Krychek you mercilessly slaughtered an entire regiment of the Imperial Guard and completely your ascension to Daemon Princedom. Very little is known about the battle beyond that. I am what could best be described as a Remembrancer, one of many ordered by Perturabo to collect an accurate history of the Iron Warriors," he stopped and coughed violently. Tiny flecks of blood stained his robes. Once he finally stopped the Remembrancer continued. "As such, I wish to ask you if you could describe the Battle of Krychek and what led to your victory." He coughed again. This time more blood came out, enough to stain his teeth a dark red.

Once again the minion stepped back. "You can continue the maintenance later," hissed Morgaris. The minion immediately put down his tools and scurried away. The Warsmith cleared his throat and began to speak. "You know, during the Great Crusade I deeply disliked the Remembrancers. They were a symptom of the corrupt bureaucracy that was taking hold of the Imperium. However, I did understand their purpose. Much can be learned from the past." Morgaris lost some of his rigid posture, leaning back in his throne more. "You need to have some background for this battle, which I will provide. We were fresh from the Horus Heresy, our organization having been shattered and our forces banished to the Eye of Terror. There was an air of hopelessness; many believed that we had completely lost. The Emperor's Children were the dominant Legion, having remained mostly organized under the command of Fulgrim. They had already lost any pretense of Brotherhood with the other Legions and spent their time raiding us for resources and enslaving us.

Finally, they attacked the Black Crusade for slaves and in the process Fabius Bile captured Horus' corpse in the name of his Legion. This pushed the Warmaster, who was only known as Abaddon at the time, too far and he gathered what remained of the Black Legion and launched a massive raid on the Emperor's Children, wrecking havoc amongst their ranks, stealing their capital world within the Eye of Terror and destroying the corpse of Horus. From that moment on, the Black Legion was truly in Command. Abaddon launched many more raids, dominating every Legion and every Traitor Guard force until he was truly Warmaster. That was when he launched the Black Crusade."

The Remembrancer was writing this all down frantically on a wrinkled sheet of parchment. Blood was dripping from his maw but he didn't notice, too consumed by his work. "The Iron Warriors did not need 'persuasion' from the Warmaster like many of the other Legions," continued Morgaris. "We immediately joined the Crusade and when we escaped the Eye of Terror it was one of the greatest moments in our Legion. We finally realized that we hadn't been defeated; the war had just begun. The Iron Lord, still just an Astartes at the time, tasked me with stealing the verdant jungle world of Krychek. They were defended by the Krychek 14th, an infantry oriented horde of Imperial Dogs. The war raged for a year; our ground soldiers were gaining land, but at a heavy cost. We conquered its barren moon and took control of the atmosphere. Normally we would've launched an Exterminatus on the planet but Perturabo wanted to keep the planet intact so that we would gain its resources. Do you know what I did?

I demoralized them; civilian centers were taken first. Commanders were captured and executed on live transmissions. The dead were held up on massive poles so that the Guardsmen could see the corpses of their comrades. Sometimes we would launch night rides to simply capture, mutilate and torture Guardsmen before releasing them. The regiment was twenty thousand Guardsmen strong, yet we only had to kill five thousand before order broke down. That was when I was elevated to Daemonhood. The majority of Guardsmen surrendered, hid in bunkers or attempted to flee the planet. Some turned against each other. Others defected. The planet, completely intact, was taken along with approximately ten thousand new slaves for the Iron Warriors."

"You were promoted to Daemonhood before the Iron Lord?" asked the Remembrancer.

The Daemon Prince smiled in an oddly sheepish way, considering his massive stature and inhuman face. "Yes, I took much pride in this. However, even at that time he was still my superior in combat ability and rank. When he was promoted to Daemonhood himself the Iron Lord was elevated even farther above me."

"I assume you've gained more Daemonic attributes and gifts since Krychek," the Remembrancer said.

"Massive wings sprouted from my back on Cadia during the sixth Black Crusade after slaughtering Regimental Commander Karl. When I fought at the Iron Cage under the command of Perturabo my teeth warped into slender, venomous fangs. My claws drastically increased in strength on the surface on Ittrex 3 when I finally took the Chapel and slaughtered Commander Saz'el of the Order of the Bloodied Rose," answered Morgaris.

"Thank you for your time Warsmith, I promise this information will be used well," said the Remembrancer as he packed up his items. He immediately left. As the minion set back to work augmenting his face, Morgaris couldn't help but notice that all none of those events had occurred recently."

Didn't have time to edit, sorry.

Ah, I have always like Remembrancers. I made my own Remembrancer (Of Chaos). I am still making a background for him. Anyways, great part, please continue!

Ooh, post a pic of the mini. There aren't enough non Astartes Chaos Corrupted Guys.

The strange feeling had spread, but with it something else. Where the pin and needles appeared, Varin was suddenly able to interface with his armor at a far more efficient pace and could actually control specific gears and the like. Before he had considered his armor an extension of his body but now it was his body. His optic servers were now his eyes, acting at top efficiency and showing incredible detail that the Raptor had never seen before in his three centuries as an Astarte. His bionic leg that he once considered inferior to his organic one was now faster and stronger, capable of amazing flexibility and speed; he was considering getting another one. But his ability to interface with technology had not stopped at his power armor; when he had grabbed a small, hand held communicator it had somehow plugged into his armor and become part of his body until he chose to release it.

He left his tent silently, strangely compelled. After walking for several minutes he realized what he was approaching; a technology storage area established on the command of Morgaris. It now beckoned to him, calling on some subconscious level. The Raptor walked closer and closer until he was stopped by two Terminator Guards. He hadn't noticed them before, too concentrated on what lay inside. "This is an off limits area Sergeant Varin," said one, armed with a Combimelta and a powerfist. The weapons were beautiful; elegantly crafted and efficiently built, masters in the art of death. Varin shook the thoughts from his head and forced himself to concentrate. "Understood," he said, turning away. But the Machine Spirits were still calling.

The Raptor turned back towards them and faced the Terminators once again. "Why are they off limits?" he asked. "What if I need access to this equipment for a night raid? The Storm Dragons are frequently called into action without warning or official announcements."

"If I receive a message from Warsmith Morgaris or the Techlord informing me that you need any items in here you will be granted clearance. Otherwise its off limits. Get the feth out of here Sergeant Varin," the Terminator grated. Varin could barely understand him; he was consumed by pain and dizziness. The only clear thought was that he needed to get in there.

"I don't have time," he said, rubbing the forehead of his helmet with a ceramite gauntlet. "The raid is beginning immediately; this is a secret mission. Understood? Let me in."

"Get the feth out."

The Machine Spirits' siren song was irresistible now. Without thinking, Varin charged, his lightning claws blazing. The first Terminator yelled something and clumsily fired the Melta portion of his combimelta before the claw sliced across his face. He yelled out in pain and tumbled over backwards, his massive bulk making a loud crashing sound as he hit the ground. The second Terminator, armed with a Heavy Flamer, opened fire but Varin charged through the inferno and sliced with both claws. The Terminator's massive chest split open, spilling blood and viscera at an alarming rate. He tried to swing his powerfist at the Raptor, but Varin leapt under the attack and slashed again to finally kill the Guard. Finally, with both dead, Varin realized what he had done. He was breathing hard and splattered withe blood; the blood of his comrades. The blood of Astartes that he would normally refer to as Battle Brothers. He was disgusted. Varin was too consumed by self loathing to heed to the Spirits and ran back to his tent as fast as he could.



"How is it working?" asked Morgaris, taking a step towards the medical table.

"I won't lie," replied Belial, sitting down on a blood splattered stool. "It's difficult. He's very strong minded and stubborn. Progress has been slow. It'll probably take three more days to break him and then two days of hypnosis."

"Why the hypnosis?" the Daemon said, looking down at Zhurok. The Commander was unconscious; blood was seeping from his ears.

"Well, sometimes by the end of breaking them the patient either simply goes deaf to the world, hiding in the back of his mind. Or worse, the patient might want to die. We can't have him begging for the Imperial Fists to kill him and everyone of us. We want him to be a pitiful sack of skin that's still a tiny bit human and still wants to live," explained the Sorcerer. "Thus, at the very end I'll rehabilitate him a bit and instill the tiniest bit of hope. That way he'll be a miserable thing, but he'll beg for his life and still, well, move and talk and other human things."

The Daemon paused to stare at the Imperial Fist a bit more before saying, "Good. I am not going to lie; our survival and especially my survival hinges on this. If you do well, I will personally tell the Warmaster of your success, obedience and usefulness."

"Thank you," said Belial, smiling beneath his helmet. "I assure you, I will not fail."



Varin sat on his bunk nervously for several minutes before finally gaining the courage to do it. He carefully unlocked and detached the left shin, ankle and foot portions of his power armor. It made a hissing noise as it unlocked; this was the first time he had removed those parts of his armor in many years and the mechanics had degraded since then. The Raptor forced himself to look at what was underneath. Upon seeing it he immediately closed his eyes and forced himself to look away. He began hyperventilating and tried to tell himself it wasn't real and it was all just a horrible dream but he knew that he couldn't avoid the truth. Varin forced himself to look it again, still hyperventilating and on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

The bionics were twisting into a strange daemonic flesh, punctuated by hydraulics and pieces of robotics. Furthermore, the corrupted mash of flesh and technology was spreading. Originally the bionic leg was only extended from highway down his shin to his foot, but now the daemonic technology had reached his knee and was continuing to grow and swell. It was barely contained by his armor anymore. Varin yelled in rage and tried to force his leg back into the armor, but it was too swollen to be held in by it anymore. He frantically pressed the ceramite against his flesh over and over, screaming and pounding. It was in vain. He was becoming something besides an Astartes now.

Deep inside the archaic bionics, something sinister had taken home, beyond the comprehension of even the Magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Now, attached to a host, it had spread. Varin was deep in the throes of the Obliterator Virus.

I consider this one of the best parts of the story so far. C&C appreciated.

I'm starting to like Varin, although he has the Oblit virus...Great part, one of the best!

Thanks for the comment (as I always say, but I mean it)! Yeah, Varin is slightly less cruel than the others and he certainly doesn't want to turn into a half insane, technological monstrosity.

Lots of plot important stuff happens in this update, though it doesn't have much combat/epic battles.

Basilius threw open the tent door and stepped inside, letting it flap shut. The tent was extremely quiet and dark, enough so that the Astartes could barely make it out even with his superhuman vision. "Varin?" he said, cutting into the silence.

"Over here," groaned a pained voice.

"Are you okay?" asked Basilius. "I'll turn on a glowlight."

"No, wait-," the Raptor tried to say, but it was too late. The rod activated, lighting up the entire room and giving Basilius a perfect view of Varin.

"Chaos!" exclaimed Basilius, leaping back and unsheathing his powersword. Varin lay ahead of him. The armor on his left leg had been removed, giving the Lieutenant a perfect view of the deformed mass of bionics and flesh. It had spread almost all of the way up his thigh now, and was throbbing. Small parts of it were covered by a strange, natural form of ceramite that the virus was slowly growing.

"The bionics were contaminated," stuttered Varin. His voice was thick and raspy. "By the Obliterator Virus. Its been spreading. At first it barely reached my knee, but now its almost reached my chest." He paused and made a strange, swallowing noise. "That's why I asked for you. I need your help. I want you to cut it off before it spreads even further." He paused to swallow again and coughed. "You aren't even supposed to get the virus unless you spend centuries in the Eye of Terror. Its supposed to be barely contagious. I don't know why I have it and I don't know if it can be stopped, but I want to try. I don't want to be one of those horrible things."

The Lieutenant brushed the forehead of his helmet and said, "Chaos." He focused on the floor, avoiding eye contact with Varin. "Alright, I'll do whatever I can to help. This may be painful."

"I know it will be," replied the Raptor. "I'm ready."

Basilius took a step closer to Varin and activated his powersword. His ancient weapon seemed oddly bright in the dim tent whose only light source was a low quality glowstick. He raised it slowly, focusing on Varin's leg. After a pause that seemed to last hours, he swung the blade down. It sliced through the uninfected area of the thigh, spraying blood. Varin screamed and activated his lightning claws, slashing wildly at the air. Basilius barely avoided them with a clumsy dodge. The massive, swollen leg tumbled off of the bunk and hit the dirt with a loud thump; it was soaked in gore. Varin was still screaming and slashing as his thigh continued to bleed out.

The Lieutenant grabbed a medical kit lying in the corner of Varin's tent. He sprayed a strange disinfectant on the wound, causing Varin to scream more. Once the Raptor stopped thrashing and slipped into unconsciousness, he began bandaging the bloody stump. As he did so, he noticed the amputated leg writhing. "Chaos," Basilius muttered.



Morgaris and Zehir stood in front of a massive screen, guarded by two hulking Obliterators. "Are you ready?" Zehir asked on the Comm. System. "Yes," answered Belial, managing to speak over the heavy static. "Just give me the cue and I'll be right over there with Zhurok in tow."

"He's ready," said Zehir, turning toward Morgaris. "Shall we begin?"

"Yes," grunted the Daemon Prince, pressing a small button and flicking the switch. The screen activated, consumed by static at first, but it then showed a strange cyborg whose bionics were marked with Imperial signals. "Commander!" the cyborg exclaimed, reeling back in his seat at the sight of Morgaris. "The Iron Warriors are opening a channel with us!" "Transfer it to me," grunted a deep voice through a communications device attached to the cyborg.

It faded to static once again before a new image appeared; an Imperial Fists Commander, adorned with purity seals, medals and inscriptions of past battles. Two other Imperial Fists with standard armor and equipment flanked him. Alongside the Astartes was a slender woman wearing elegant, black clothing. In her right hand she clutched a plasma pistol. She showed no fear at the sight of the Warsmith; the first words out of her mouth were, "Let me make this clear; we do not negotiate with heretics. The only reason we have not closed this channel is that we may gain a tactical advantage from this. I am Inquisitor Livia of the Ordo Hereticus and this is Commander Caelinius of the Imperial Fists 4th Company. Now say what you want to say."

"I am the Warsmith Morgaris of the Iron Warriors," replied the Daemon. "We wish to negotiate a peaceful withdrawl back to the Eye of Terror. Now, before you close the channel, I must say something. We have a hostage." Zehir sent Belial a brief message on the Comm. System with a single word, "Time."

There was was a silence as the mechanical doors slid open to reveal the form of Belial. He looked quite small compared to the Terminator Zehir, Daemon Prince Morgaris and massive Obliterators. In one hand he held a large chain which he was using to drag something. As he walked inside, it was apparent what he was pulling. Zhurok's limbless, tortured form was being hauled across the floor by a collar. He was choking and gasping for air, writhing as much as he could in his crippled form. Finally when Belial was up next to Morgaris he stopped, allowing the Imperial Fists Commander to breath. "Please," he groaned, gasping for air. "Don't kill me. Please."

"Zhurok?" asked Caelinius. "Is that you?"

"Caelinius," replied the prisoner, looking up at the screen. "Please, help me." he coughed. "Don't let them kill me. Caelinius, I need your help."

Morgaris grinned, realizing that the two knew each other. "You will not be granted safe passage to the Eye, regardless of any hostages," hissed the Inquisitor. "Upon our fleets arrival, an Exterminatus will be launched and all of you shall die. Any Imperial Fist would gladly die for the Emperor."

"We do not ask for any bloodshed!" roared Morgaris. "Simply let us retreat! You may keep the planet and the hostages may live! When the Emperor still lived and the Great Crusades still lived, he spread a message of peace. That was the one thing I respected him for, and now you violate that in his name!"

"Don't let them kill me," repeated Zhurok.

"Zhurok..." stuttered Caelinius. "Remember, the Emperor Protects."

"We will not listen to the teachings of the Emperor from a deceiving heretic," the Inquisitor said, staring at Morgaris. She wasn't blinking. "We are going to cut the channel now and that shall be that."

"No," said Caelinius, turning towards Livia. "They have many valuable members of the Imperial Fists. We can inflict more losses on them in the long term if we let these men live."

"You are simply trying to justify irrational emotions," Livia replied, not even bothering to look at the Commander. "As I said earlier, any true Imperial Fist would gladly die for the Emperor."

"Are you accusing Zhurok of not being a faithful servant?" yelled Caelinius. Morgaris was silent now, simply watching the argument. "Zhurok has served since before you were born!"

"Don't let them kill me..."

"Commander, restrain yourself. I will now sever the channel."

"Please, Caelinius... we're Battle Brothers... don't let them kill me...."

Caelinius activated his powerfist. It crackled with energy. "Caelinius!" exclaimed the Inquisitor, swing her plasma pistol towards him. Bellowing with rage, he swung his glowing weapon at her. She barely dodged under the attack and fired, sending a bolt of green energy into the Astartes' chest. It blew apart ceramite and penetrated deep, but Caelinius disregarded the wound and swung his powerfist again. A frantic servant cut the channel off.

I have only read ther first post, but I am liking what I am seeing.



LoneLictor, there is a subtle difference to the style of the text. It is more confident and faster paced than Daemon Blade was. Action from the start. The opening is the most importent bit. People will tell you that it is the unmasking of the culprit that is the centre of a crime novel. Or the gunfight in a cowboy movie. Or the big fight scene. It is not. It is the first sentence that really mnatters most.

LoneLictor wrote:The days of peace and prosperity are gone

That is a line that will reverberate around peoples heads, and draw them like moths to a flame.


I am going to bed now, but I will read the story in full tomorrow.

Wow, thanks! Yeah, I plotted out this story and realized that the first 3rd or so doesn't have much action; its mainly just building up to it, setting up the characters and such. Since I knew that wouldn't be a way to get viewers, I decided to make the very beginning a big, fast paced action scene like the majority of it will be later on.

Night has fallen on Skion II. News has spread quickly throughout the Iron Warriors encampment. The fleet will be arriving soon; it could be days, it could be hours. And it could be the death of them all. Zehir, knowing this day might be the last day of his life, has decided on how he'll spend it. Three medical bags of the drug hung from rusted hooks, connected to his armor via slender IVs. Already it took more and more to get to the same high. He knows he can't sustain this, but he also knows he can't stop. As the drug entered his veins, the Lieutenant's vision began to dim; his hearing faded and things seemed distant and unreal. He tried to grab a old trophy, a Genestealer skull, but his arm delayed before moving. Zehir realized he was yelling and didn't know how long he had been doing it. Panicking, he reached at the IV with numb hands, but they refused to move properly.

He blanked; everything went black. The blackness stirred and began to swirl, generating a new world. Zehir was back on Olympia and he was shooting his combimelta. He didn't know why. People were screaming and he realized who he was shooting at; civilians. Furthermore, he realized who he was; Sergeant Zehir of Squad Severus of the 32nd Company. He and his Terminators were steadily advancing, firing wildly into the mass of civilians. They were fleeing in all directions. A sobbing man charged out in front of Zehir; he wanted to spare him, to just ignore him, but instead he swung down a shimmering powerfist obliterated him. He was soaked in the blood of his people. The Sergeant willed himself to stop but kept on shooting and barking orders. "Kill them all!" He was trying to say, "Stop!" A child ducked behind a piece of rubble and Zehir tried to look away. Instead he fired.

Finally, he snapped. Suddenly in control of his body, he roared, "Stop!"

"We have our orders!"

"Stop now! I order you!"

"Sergeant Zehir, we have orders from Perturabo himself!"

Suddenly he was swinging his powerfist into one of his men; his chest exploded into shards of ceramite and chunks of gore. One Terminator was upon him, swinging a chainfist. He ducked under the blow and fired the melta end of his combi weapon, obliterating the upper half of his armor. "Stop!"

Now he was somewhere else. Looking around at the smog choked air, clusters of barbed wire and massive fortresses he realized he was on Medrengard. Zehir was running down a clustered street without his armor, knocking cultists and slaves aside. He was soaked with blood and sweat. Instead of stopping to think he kept on running until he finally realized that he was tumbling down a steep slope out of the industrialized area and into the savage hills where the Unfleshed roamed. In front of him was an incomprehensibly beautiful figure. It was horrifying to see something so perfect and Zehir forced himself to look away. It took a step towards him and said, "You are one of the most pleasing of my champion." It put a slender hand on his left shoulder. "Strong, intelligent and charismatic, you will go far Zehir." He forced himself to keep looking away. He wanted to flee and escape the horrible thing, but he was strangely compelled to stay. "I have given you much, but it is costly. You must repay me; you must conquer nations in my name, slay billions on my whims and enslave millions for my cause. If you do so, the rewards are unimaginable." Zehir vomited and fell to his knees. He was sobbing. "But right now," it purred, leaning down next to him. "All you have to do is say my name."

"Please... no," he stammered.

"Say it," the voice ordered. It spoke softly but with authority. "That is all I ask. There will be more later, but for now that is all I ask."

Zehir gulped and said, "Slaanesh."

"Thank you," it said.

Zehir's eyes opened and he found himself back in his tent; all of the medical bags were empty. He roared, ripping away the IVs. Dropping the Genestealer skull to the floor, he crushed it beneath a ceramite boot. He drew his combimelta and open fired with the bolter end, blowing massive holes in his tent. Storming over to a desk, he hurled it as far as he could and watched it smash against the ground. A frantic Cultist scurried inside only to be shot through the skull. He stormed over to a bunk and drew his Daemon Blade, slicing it in half. Zehir screamed as loudly as he could and stormed outside, impaling the first Astartes he saw on his weapon. The corpse slid off his blade and Zehir stood completely still, breathing deeply. As he did so, he remembered a fragment of a quote from a notable Inquisitor. "Slaves to darkness."