Happy Imperial Citizen
The Warp
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So guys, I'm putting up my second story which will either be a two or three parter. I'd love feedback if you have any to give and I hope you enjoy this story featuring the Chaos Space Marines of the Black Legion. Death to the false Emperor!
Eyes of the Gods
Part 1 - Cursed
Toraz stood under the canopy of the dense jungle as he stared up to the towering hill that dominated the valley. This land, this planet, was thick with a vast variety of life that had produced many different forms and functions. Exotic plants that looked more beautiful than anything a Terran noble could imagine stared up at him. Even so he had learned within their buds was a single thorn coated in such a virulent toxin that it could kill three dozen men with a mere scratch.
Toraz was no man however, he stood towering far above the norm for humans, well over seven feet tall. His great height complemented by his broad brutish frame that showed only strength and dominance. His already immense form amplified by the suit of black power armour he wore, it was ancient and archaic even more-so than that of the Astartes standing behind him in the foliage. They were all the same; ebony plate trimmed with deep bronze, upon their shoulders a shining golden eye showed the respect they had to their old Warmaster.
Above them the heavens were black and grey as a vast thunderstorm roiled and wreathed overhead, slowly but surely the light rainfall that began at the behest of the roaring thunder turned into a violent on-pour. The thick fall clanging across the heavy armour of the giant Astartes even under the heavy treeline.
Toraz smirked to himself, the land was being covered in a shadow by the storm and he wondered if the Gods were watching anticipating what was to come. Once Toraz had not belived in Gods, once he had culled entire worlds with his brothers against furious zealots and mad paladins. Sometimes he caught himself wondering if perhaps his current state was a punishment for that, he couldn't comprehend why for at one time all Astartes thought the same.
Toraz coughed violently, his head shaking and a deep pain resonated from his chest and rose through to his head as he bit back a snarl of anguish. With his helmet holstered to his side his features were shown to his brothers, though he was ancient he did not appear greatly aged. His features once strong and stern appeared pale and exhausted, around his left eye was the branded symbol of the eight pointed star for he now lived to serve the Dark Gods.
He turned, glancing towards his brothers who looked at him, their heads tilting in curiosity and wonder, though their faces were masked behind their war helms he knew they wondered about him. The fierce cough, such a frail illness was not meant to take root in an Astartes warrior, though he knew this was no earthly ailment for if it was the blood in his veins would have crushed it long before.
His father was once called Warmaster, the greatest of all the Emperors twenty sons. It had been a source of vaste pride for them back then that they bore his blood, the blood of a god, but after his demise all that remained was hatred.
Like most of his brothers Toraz had now found new patrons, after his fathers death he began serving the four lords of the warp. The will of the gods however is a strange and fickle thing for they had now damned him and set him upon a course he could not avoid.
He was favoured, he had spoken to the neverborn, he had quested to worlds unseen, even by his kin, he had served the Warmaster, his elder brother, and the whims of great daemons and it was on this path that a diety had noticed him. All his life Toraz was a warrior who was renowned in his company for fearsome combat skills and a terrible fury. He had anticipated to earn the attention of the Blood Father but the first eyes upon him were not ones he suspected.
Hunting upon a world of undeath he stalked lifeless marshes and filthy bogs until a devil emerged from the gloom carrying a great scythe. It towered over him. Several eyes, all blind, looked off in a dozen directions. Its skin was torn and wretched and the scent of its carcass broke even his conditioning forcing him to gag.
The daemon spoke in seven voices, it told him the Plague Father had chosen him for great feats. Though he was honored his soul screamed for the crimson fields of the blood gods domain, not the forlorn solitude of the plague gardens and he denied the prince of death. With a gargling cackle the thing laughed and before even he could react the manreaper swung down slashing through his power armour, wounding him.
Toraz had grasped his wound, shocked and gazed at the daemon as its flesh and blood rotted from its standing skeleton. It had told him he had not a choice, and at once the bones fell into the water, sinking quietly into the murk, a deep menacing laugh was the last thing the champion had heard as the dead thing sank.
Toraz had been cursed by the manreapers swing, the very weapon he now held. He constantly felt the pain of the blow and felt the power of an illness always fighting his immune system. He assumed that was why his skin had paled and why he appeared exhausted. However he knew he was not alone, for within the manreaper there was a voice that only he could hear. It was sinister and ancient, filled with a gleeful malice and Toraz was stunned that it sounded like nothing more than a small child. In reality it was an ancient spawn of the Plague God, one bound to the blade to guide the champions hand.
Inside his mind he fought constant thoughts; memories, guilt, but most of all fate: for he was still Undivided and had Khorne not warranted him at all he may have already been a bloated and hideous beast of Nurgle by now.
He felt the gods testing him but knew it was ultimately the Plague Gods curse that drove him on. He would fulfill the daemons wishes, while searching for a cure and giving proper homage to the lord of battles as well. Even so he found himself occasionally thanking the Plague God, apart from the pain of the curse he no longer felt the pain of battle and was hardly phased by deadly wounds. In his mind he was torn to his souls path, one lead to the skull throne and the other to the quiet embrace of death.
Grunting, Toraz pushed aside these rising thoughts as the searing pain from his wound forced him to cough violently once more. This time a mouthful of blood drooled out from his panting maw and he snarled in rage sensing the Daemon must have been reading his thoughts.
'Bastard,' he grunted as he spat the unclean taste from his mouth.
From behind one of his brothers had moved to his side. Glancing over Toraz saw that it was Anton, one of his closest of kin. The two had fought together in the same squad since the Great Crusade and had eagerly followed their father against the hated Emperor. Anton bore the skull symbol of Khorne upon his collar and was one of the few who knew of Toraz' plight.
'Brother, the warband is ready to carry out your will just as soon as you're done wheezing and drooling.' Though he could not see it he felt that Anton was smiling under his helm.
He trusted him, he trusted him above the others, yet ever since the fall to Chaos none of the brotherhood was what it once was. Some of the Astartes following Toraz were new faces, ones born in the human slave pens aboard the Chaos vessels or hellish worlds of the Eye of Terror. Many of the brothers he had known were gone, no more than treasured memories sitting dis-quietly in his mind.
Even now Anton himself was rising through the ranks. He had been blessed by the blood god and was known to enter fits of inhuman rage, his blades swinging so wildly as to be capable of slaying even his own kin. Still Anton had chosen to follow Toraz, as did thirty of their brotherhood.
They had once been known as the 44th Company Luna Wolves, though time had changed that moniker many times, presently they were the Talons of Hatred, a warband of the Black Legion.
Using the manreaper to lift himself upright he gave Anton a stern stare before returning his attention to the hilltop. There, jutting from the high trees of the jungle canopy, he could make out the crown of a pyramid, ancient beyond reckoning. This world was home to feral humans, a failed colony that had devolved into a primitive state and that had, somehow, worshiped the Dark Gods.
No, he corrected himself, they only worshiped one god here. As he looked across the land, the great variety of life and colour, the change the evolution and the beauty he knew why the manreaper had demanded him here.
This world was where humans sacrificed one another to an ancient Daemon Prince, a venerated champion of the Changer. And though it pained him, he knew it was not only the destruction of the Daemon Prince the manreaper was after but the death of his current leader; Vorthas the Snake-Tongued.
Anton had gathered all those who were loyal to Toraz, Vorthas' second in command and champion. Indeed it had not been difficult acquiring the more violent and simple minded of the Black Legionnaires for recently Vorthas was solely interested in acquiring daemonic lore, weapons and sealing deals with dark entities to grant himself immortality and allies to the Warmasters cause. Here he had found an ancient and powerful Daemon of Change, and then it was here the manreaper demanded that Vorthas, dedicated Sorcerer of Tzeentch, would meet his doom.
'They must be there already,' stated Toraz flatly. He could vaguely make out smoke from the thunderhawks where the main party had landed.
He had taken those loyal to him off to the side so they could strike their brothers from behind. He knew it was cowardly and he loathed it, but it was what had to be done. Each time the manreaper grew angry he could feel his life ebbing away and he would not allow himself to die to such a curse, he would save himself by damning those he had once called brothers.
Anton growled, frustrated by the waiting, 'Then set us loose so we may gut the fools! Remember your part of the bargain brother, you are stronger than us but you have promised us righteous slaughter, no more of this hunting for petty books. We are the sons of Horus and we were meant to fight... and kill!'
Toraz knew well the bargain with his kin, he was destined to become lord should his coup succeed and he too longed to see the worlds of the Imperium burn by their hand. The path of Vorthas had taken them away from the front lines to skulk in shadows.
Without turning he nodded, 'Brothers,' he began, 'It is time to spill blood.'
Without waiting for the reply Toraz bared his teeth, like an angry wolf, and began sprinting though the thick undergrowth of the valley making way for the ancient pyramid ahead.
His warriors howled and cheered and across their private vox channel he heard their various war cries, 'Blood for the blood god! Skulls for the skull throne, and death to the foe!' Tonight he would rise a champion of Chaos or die and earn damnation.
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FOR THE DARK GODS 
5000pts 
