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For once the planet was silent. It's silence a dedication in reverence to the Pantheon of the Chaos Gods. There, to the west, a throne of skulls drenched and dripping in the blood of thousands of slaughtered souls. Their decapitated bodies lay strewn across the ground in a hapless, yet intriguing, pattern no doubt lost under Khornes fearsome gaze. To the East, a grand and ever changing tower of Tzeentch. A singular, monstrous, black eye peering through a looking glass made of tempered psychedelic beads directly into your soul. Examining your worth, hungering for your spirit. To the south lay the dens of debauchery, slave pits of ecstasy, the racks of excess. Slaanesh's music could be heard playing discordantly for miles. The moans of pain and pleasure, equally loud, adding a favorable chorus. And, to the north, Grandfather Nurgle's cesspool of filth. Beyond the stench, and obvious wall of flies, there was the occasional splash of something wicked beneath the still, tepid, contaminated, oily, and entirely too pea soup green waters of the bog. The Word Bearers unholy Chaplain beheld the sickening menagerie of sights surrounding him. Their foul, and glorious, ritual was nearly complete. Banks of enslaved psykers, huddled deep in the pit of Eternal Commune, sang to the Dark Gods. Theirs was truly the music of the Warp. Van Drakazar could feel the potent wall of their combined energies forcing his hair up and back. Chills ran down his spine, the time was nearly there. He spun with purpose and growled demandingly “Tenebrus! Have you what's required? Or, do you still crave more, you greed possessed malcontent!” Tenebrus turned ever so slowly from his high, comfortable, human skin upholstered chair and glared at the ages old Chaplain. He took note of the fresh spatters of blood, smeared, begging, hands prints on his ornate armor, and the dark look in Van Drakazar's eyes and took a moment to consider. To others the gaze may have been taken as an act of war, others still as a warrant of death. But, to these old, corrupt, and mighty souls, it was merely an act of humor. The moment passed and both broke into broken and chilling laughter. Headsets within 20 meters trembled with static, fearful of their wrath. The laughter abruptly stopped, Tenebrus stood from his chair, which released a sigh of relief when his considerable weight was removed. The chairs gibbering faces blinking rapidly to clear away detritus left by his dirty cloak. “Indeed.” Tenebrus began. “Call forth the procession of the Wise, bring forth the sacramental candles, and begin your sermon, brother Van Drakazer. The time is right, right now, and we need to begin. The Great Lords above will grant us only a small audience to be heard. May their powers grant us what we seek.” Tenebrus bowed his head in submission to the Dark Gods and began to cut sigils of power into his face. With each stroke of the blade the sigils grew angrier and angrier until bloody light shown through the ragged remains of his flappy skin. Van Drakazar went quickly, but ceremoniously, about his duties pulling those required together to form the circle. It was time, the ritual could finally begin.

The ritual had spanned days. This planets moons had passed by thrice since it began. It was coming to it's culmination. Tenebrus was reading daemonic scriptures, written aeons ago, which had been inscribed on the flesh of bound daemons. Spirits of the damned swarmed around the procession like buzzards hungering for corpse flesh. It was icy and static, small bolts of pink lightning ripped out of the air occasionally killing a member of the circle in a particularly explosive manner, showering all those around in bloody rain and gore. Screaming souls and dark whispers clawed at the minds of all present. Tenebrus felt his eyes beginning to sink and melt from his torn skull. His shaky hand reached out and enacted the gestures required by the formulae and with a shout the enslaved psykers, deep in the bellows of the pit of Eternal Commune, burst into multi-pigmented warp fire. It was their screams that provided the tunnel needed to communicate with the Dark Gods, time was of the essence. Van Drakazar stepped forth into the blazing fire, knelt before the powers of the Chaos Gods, and spoke his peace. The moons above transmuted into dark, bleeding, holes in the sky and it began to rain tainted warp mana and, perhaps, the occasional festering body. And, like it had began, there was only silence. The skies had returned to normal, the spirits vanished, and the whispers abated. The choir had been burned into the earth, Tenebrus was left blinded and withered, and Van Drakazar knelt in confusion.

To be continued. . .

Van Drakazar, still kneeling, shook his head in discontent. The answers he received, if he could even call them answers, were certainly not what he was expecting. He heard laughter, his skin tingled as if being caressed by unseen ethereal hands, he felt a burning urge for blood but, most of all, the stench of diseased rot cloyed to the dry skin of his throat and the buzzing of flies drown his senses in a blacked deprivation of movement. It had covered him like a warm and embracing blanket. At once, he was disgusted and, somehow, reassured that everything was going to be alright. He coughed and realized that flies where still worming their way out of his nostrils, ears and mouth.

To be continued. . .again. . .and so on


Side Note: Sorry, folks, I'm doing this between other things and I happen to use about 6 different computers with various OS's at different parts of the day. Hence, no reliable place to save the data. Accept, perhaps, a flash drive, which I have, but is in my tool kit in my car. And, frankly, there's no way I'm going out there right now!

Oh, and something else, let me know what you think about the stories. Thanks a bunch!

........... purly amazing ( I know that not really proper english)

In the freezing depths of space tumbled an ancient, warped and pitted, drop pod. It’s armored shell blackened and dented by small arms fire. Corruption poured out from the fractures in its rusted plates. Some of it moved with a life of its own, grasping at the void of space, hungry to escape its limited bounds. It was a frozen prison. Locking an indescribable horror within. Millennia had passed since its doors had last been opened. And, as fate or the gods would have it, those doors were about to open again.

Tenebrus, his body still steaming, his flesh running from the foul warp energies he funneled through his once powerful frame, looked up. Now blinded, his sight turned to the warp, to the silent whispers of the empyrean. “Something’s coming.” he croaked as teeth fell from his soft and bleeding gums. This, he knew, would be their answer. He could feel it in his now hollow bones, vibrating into his withered soul.

Wiping the putrescent flies from his mouth Van Drakazar spun around to look at his ancient, and currently melting, comrade. He sat crumpled in a growing pool of his own liquids starring at the skies. “You’ve heard their answer?” Van Drakazar moaned. “Tell me! Tell me what the God’s have declared!” he roared taking a step forward. His old ally looked towards him with empty sockets and opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by a sonic boom. Both looked towards the sky. For the first time in a hundred years excitement burned within their dark hearts. An excitement crushed by angry surprise as the drop pod slammed directly into Tenebrus, smearing his already melting body across the landscape like jelly across to much bread. Van Drakazar found himself screaming, enraged, and completely stunned by the sudden change in events. He stomped towards the still smoldering drop pod, swatting away the staggered cultists in his path. “Was this it? Was this the gift the gods had sent him?” his thoughts raced faster than words could equate. Untrusting by nature, Van Drakazar unholstered his plasma pistol. It’s ancient power cells wined keenly, he could still remember the day he acquired it from the corpse of a fallen Loyalist. Stench roiled from the superheated drop pod. It’s stink forming wavy tendrils of corruption. It was the stench much akin to a mass grave. It was the stench of sorrow and sickness. Of death and return. It was like the stench that still cloyed to the back of his throat. At that moment Van Drakazer knew this to be his answer. Whatever awaited inside this unholy vessel was surely what that gods had given him in return for his ceremony. “You there” he called out to the cultists clustered around the pod “pry the doors.” They no longer appeared functional. Hundreds, no, possibly thousands, of years of corrosion and filth had clogged the mechanisms leaving the doors jammed with something, something indescribably disgusting. It was still writhing, grasping at life. For a moment, he thought he could hear it crying softly on the wind. He was growing impatient as he watched the cultists stumble around in a haze searching for the right tools. This was going to be a long night.

The Horse’s Mouth
Electrical mechanisms had failed repeatedly. Cutting lasers, drills, saws, all burned out. It was if the pod had some form of distortion field bound to it. Creating an EM field around it to hide whatever it was inside. Even Van Drakazar’s armor was affected by it. His sensors dulled, his cells drained, his servos began to weaken. It was up to the cultists to chip loose the decay and wedge the door open. They’d been at it for 13 hours and finally reached the final steps to crack the shell of the ancient drop pod.

“It is ready, my lord.” Hissed a rather old cultist. Scars covered his body. Years of ritualistic scarification and battle have certainly taken its toll. His dark eyes, though looking down in reverence to Chaplain, were filled with hatred. This man was incredibly dangerous, his age alone proved this. Even now, his hand was no further than an inch away from his weapon, ready to draw in an instant. Van Drakazar could tell that he wanted to. It was like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

Van Drakazar spat, his flem still black with the bodies of fat decaying flies, “Pull it down.” The cultist nodded silently, turned on heel and gave the command. An explosion of gases burst forth as the door was ripped from its hinges. Screams filled the air as many were crushed and torn in twain by the wide flung door. The gases were utterly corrosive and those caught in its path were flailing on the ground clawing at their skin as it began to melt painfully away. Many, off in the distance, even began to develop bursting pox. Their skin becoming ragged and twisted, warping in the star shine. Little ones, the children of Nurgle, scurried from the pod, greedily lapping up the pools of forming putrescent and vomiting it back in great gouts of steaming ichors. They giggled happily, feasting upon the fallen and nearly fallen cultists. Those that ran were swarmed and brought down. Others were being dragged back to the depths of the pod screaming while they gurgled on bile and disease. Only one of these men stood unaffected by the situation, looking over it like an observer, the old cultist. Van Drakazar had no idea when he put his mask on, but its chemtoxin filter must’ve worked. He found this of fleeting interest, it was time to find out who their visitor was.

oo

The plump, boil ridden, little children of nurgle were still running amuck causing all forms of mischief. Several buildings in the encampment have been raided and soaked in gratuitous quantities of vile fluids. The buildings themselves began to change form, metamorphosing into rusted shells where once stood solid materials. The cries of those still being devoured rang out in the thickening atmosphere. The air had become stifling, heavy, weighted upon the skin. Van Drakazar sat, sweating heavily, in his throne overlooking the object they had pulled from the drop pod. Many cultists had sacrificed themselves to clean the poisonous filth from it and still it sat there mocking him. A suit of ancient, rusted and corroded, battle armor locked in place. It’s plates long scored and battered, just like the pod it had been removed from. It was like removing a child from its mothers’ womb, covered in birthing fluids and sticky. He believed the individual inside had entered stasis long ago to avoid the worst of time within the jettisoned drop pod. This marine was considerably old. Far older than even himself. Not many chapters could provide a stasis gland, and some that could had issues properly training marines in its use. Protruding from this ancient marines spine hung a cluster of mechandrites, now fleshy, alive, lay across the floor like spilled intestine. Van Drakazar was running low on the cultist cattle, he couldn’t waste any more, the removal of this armor was his responsibility now. The gods were surely mocking him. A singular marine was gifted to him. And that singular marine had already inadvertently killed more than three dozen cultists and a mighty sorcerer. Van Drakazar released a great sigh of frustration and set about his labors.

“Hours of work have done what?” pondered Van Drakazar, “Produced a skeleton of a marine?” There was no doubt this man was taller than most marines, but his body had wasted away. Boney calcifications jutted out from his flesh, his ribs were shone bear, the skin stretched taught, his face near skeletal. His hands were nearly claws, hooked, with scraps of meat still clinging to his fractured nails. The black carapace bonded to every marine still gave his upper torso some form. But, somehow, it was different. It had warped into something closer to an exoskeleton, like an insects. The marines flesh was dead and cold. It was not typical to the few Plague Marines that he’s come into contact with previously. Van Drakazar had grown tired in the last hours, he needed to commune to with the oracles, whatever was left of them, and determine the next course of action. As he turned to walk out of the barracks Van Drakazar caught site of a gaggle of nurglings conspiring in a dark corner of the building, trying to hide themselves under a cot. They looked towards him, giggled, and scattered in all directions leaving slimy little trails everywhere. He caught himself opening fire on the little bastards with his plasma pistol, screaming with hatred. Blood red star fire burned holes in the floor and set fire to combustibles littering the area. Little nurglings cried out in excitement as burning cinders fell to the floor like confetti. They enraged him so. “Nothing to be done about them now.” He thought while storming out of the building.

ooo

“How many are left, Eraki? We need to communicate with the greater fleet.” Van Drakazar questioned while examining his surroundings. It seemed, every time he entered this room he found things moved around. Eraki, stood hunkered over a great basin, swirling the boiling blood of the most recent sacrifices. It’s coppery tang gave the air a comforting aroma opposed to the diseased climes from which Van Drakazar had just arrived.

“You smell of sour sickness, my brother.” Eraki whispered as he turned from his basin. His look was dark. “Your appearance is no better. Have you just shared spirits in a grave while defecating upon yourself?” He raised his hands in respect “I only bring it to your attention because our vessels have died. And, most likely, because of the disease brought with upon your shoulders. It’s like a shroud of death and those of weaker constitution have no tolerance to its, shall we say, flavor.” Withdrawing his rune covered blade, Eraki set about removing the vessels hearts. His stew needed more meat. “So, tell me, how have things gone. Have your prayers been answered? Will our battle go smoothly knowing the gods favor your offering? Eraki spoke over his shoulder with an even tone.

“Ha!” Van Drakazar laughed. “No!” he screamed “Not at all!” “The gods have gak on me, killed Tenebrus, slaughtered the cultists, and left us with a singular marine that has more in common with a decrepit skeleton than a killing machine!” he roared, throwing his hands into the air in frustration. He kicked over a nearby desk, scattering trinkets and splintered wood across the dirt floor. “It appears that our savior had gone into stasis long, long, ago. His form is withered and useless! The drop pod he rode in on crushed Tenebrus. I now wear his dried remains on my armor. It must be at least a millennia old.” He said while gesturing towards the stains on his armor. He couldn’t help staring. He was curious as to what parts of Tenebrus he was wearing after all.

Eraki chimed in “Tenebrus or the drop pod?”

“What?” Van Drakazar looked up questioningly.

“You said it must’ve been a millennia old. Were you referencing Tenebrus or the drop pod?” Eraki shot back.

“Oh,” Van Drakazar stumbled over the words “The pod, you fool. The pod!” This days frustrations would never stop mounting. He rubbed his temples furiously but the pain wouldn’t dissipate. “We don’t have the resources here to resurrect a marine from a millennia long sleep. But, the “Malice” may have the proper chemo treatments to drag this, this treasure, back to life.”

Eraki turned to face Van Drakazar, wiping his hands off on the clothing of a recently offered sacrifice. “Hm, well now, long range comms are down due to immense electromagnetic storms we had here yesterday. Satellite communication is a no go. Your communion saw to that. Further, spiritual communication is also down because of disease and bad luck.” Eraki stepped back and chuckled “Or fate. So, show me our “treasure”, as you put it. I would like to see what we’ve earned from all of our troubles. Or, should I say, your troubles?”

oooo

“What!” Van Drakazar bellowed . “Where in the hells has he gone! “ He spun in anger grabbing the nearest cultist. “Tell me! Tell me where he’s gone, you pathetic waste of meat!” he screamed into the comparably small mans’ face. Terror gripped the man more firmly than Van Drakazars rigid gauntlets. “No! You give me no answer?” Rage burned in his hearts hotter than the sun, he pulled the man apart from clavicle to sternum. The man cried out, vomiting blood on himself as his bones splintered within and fractured through his skin. Van Drakazar tossed him aside like an angry child throws a rag doll during a tantrum. The sound of wet meat smacked against the ground as he turned his gaze to the next man in line. It was the old one again. This man just won’t die like the rest. He’s sharp, like a razor. “How about you?” he whispered sinisterly “You must know something.”

Head lowered in fane submission “Look at the floor, my lord.” his voice came through with a confidence found only in survivors. One hand pointed towards the boney foot prints in the dirt while the other slid onto his weapons grip. He would remove Van Drakazars face before he killed him like the last man.

Eraki burst into laughter “I like this one, Drakazar. He’s brazen, unafraid like the rest. The man was ready to draw on you faster than your mitts could grab him. More than his suicidal wish, he’s right. Your “treasure” walked away on his own volition. Now, where could our sleep walker have gone. I haven’t played hide’n’seek in a long time. It could be fun.” A genuine smile split his weathered face.