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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Death Lord spat, "Who are you?"

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

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

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

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

Ty for the comment!

Chapter One
The Deliverance of the Death Guard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happened?" he said.

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

Cleon looked over and saw 1st Captain Calas Typhoon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

"No. I regret nothing."

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What shall we do?" asked Vitus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I demand...

Once again, ty for the comments!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




Chapter Two
Behind the Whispers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ready yourselves for combat."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He soon regretted it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get out of my sight," bellowed Mortarion.

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

As always, thanks for reading/commenting.

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

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

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Typhoon," growled Lucanus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know the feeling.

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

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

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

"Agreed," said Vitus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It hurts, doesn't it?

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

"Stop," ordered Tiberus.

I admire your bravery, however-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any more coming soon?

More more more!!!

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

Sir, this is one epic story. xD

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

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

Chapter Three
Prophecies

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Primarch!" shouted Cleon, waking up.

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mortarion put down the Lantern.

Not enough, need MORE