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I was bored, and suddenly was struck to write a piece about a follower of Chaos who is preaching about the Futility of Resistance,
an ancient text written by Erebus, the former First Chaplain of the Legion, to captured Imperials, to turn them to Chaos.

By preach, I mean torture, maim, kill, and anything else needed to break the spirit of the Imperials and convert them to Chaos.
Now, being I don't know much about Chaos being a devout Loyalist, so if I scre something up, let me know please.

Enlightenment. So simple in theory, so difficult in practice.

To preach on street corners as so many of the Corpse God's followers did was unwise. It was far from subtle, and it did not suit his ends.
But to preach in the mass congregations of captured Imperials? There was no risk of death by an Arbitrator silencing his voice. That suited his ends perfectly.

He looked at the stage as it was being prepared. A podium stood in the middle, with The Futility of Resistance layed open to his selected passage.
A chair with restraining bands on the arms and legs was slightly off to the right side. Next to it, a table with his selected instruments stood.
The blades gleamed, the sharpening stone was dull. The brand and coal burner were underneath the dark wood funriture.

Censers stood at the ends of the stage, and the entrances to the temple. The smell of mint wafted throughout.

He took his place at the podium, as the converts to be filed in, flanked by ten Marines. As was custom, one of the flock was brought up to the chair,
despite their portests and pleas.

The young woman was strapped in. Tears rolled down her face, and she screeched loudly. He began to address the flock.

"We are blessed. Truly blessed, though you do not know it. You believe what we have done is cruel, that what we have done is evil.

I want you to know, what we are doing is not. It is just, it is right. It is... holy. It has been ordained by the Gods." He paused.

Many were crying, hugging each other, trying to block out the noise of his words.

He began to read from the most blessed book.

"We have all heard their calls. The calls of the ones the followers of the Corpse God call Dark Gods. But they are not.
They are the Old Ones, the Chaos Gods. They are the truth in a universe of lies, salvation in a world of damnation.

Their whispers speak to our heart of hearts. Their promises unlock our truest desires, and liberate us from our chains of bondage to the Fallen Throne."

Tears flowed ever more freely, and many had passed out.

He turned a few pages.

"Charun, Verse Three, Passage Twelve."

"And the Gods shall guide us into true paradise, as I shall guide thee unto their sides.
The Blood God shall take those who are strong of arm and mighty with blade, to his side.
He shall make the weak strong, by instilling the virtues of honor and martial prowess.
And they shall be his champions, scions of war, cleaving and smiting all the enemies of the Pantheon."

More then half of the congregation was slumped over, or on the floor.

He stopped reading, and turned around. The woman was passed out as well.
He smiled slightly, and motioned one of the Marines.

The massive man racked his bolter slid. He fired five rounds into the crowd. The sound of the gunfire echoed for two minutes around the church.

The sound awoke the people. They cryed again, wishing that they had awoken from a nightmare, only to find they were very much in it.

He stepped away from the podium. He removed his robed, stripping to his tunic and pants.

He lit the coal burner, and took the brand up. He held the sharpened metal rod towards her face.

She screamed, craning her neck away as it neared.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Her cries grew louder and he heard pleas from the flock to cease.

He took the brand away. Her burnt flesh now carried an eight pointed star.

He turned, returning to the book. He flipped to the begining on the book.

"THe Futility of Resistance is simple. It will only end with you're death, where you will join the Gods.
Whether willing or not is your choice."

He closed the book.

He took up a small welding torch. He triggered the flame.

So much work, so little time. Too many fools unwilling to break. He thought.