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Myself and ChaosPhoenix are starting a mini kill-team campaign based around CSM searching for a weapon buried on a daemon world. I'm new to writing 40k fan fiction, so the accuracy with things like the nature of daemon worlds, the eye of terror etc may be a little out. Thought I'd post as I write it up here, for posterity. Enjoy!


Within the great, scab- red wash of colour that mortals call the Eye of Terror, lie tens of thousands of planets, in various states of corruption. In this domain, the great gods of Khaos rule, and all is mutable, shifting and effervescent. One particular planet glows deep scarlet, a single drop of arterial blood on black canvas. Here, amongst the twisted rocks, whipping plasma storms and acid pools, a consciousness dwells. It is both there, and not there, existing in many places upon the surface at once, shifting and malleable like wisps of smoke caught on the wind. It flows and streams apart, sometimes with intent, but often without purpose, as is the way of Khaos. A deep and unsettling sense of both power and malevolence emanates from it, as it turns its attention this way and that. And without warning...

It stops.

It senses something out of place. A change, a ripple in the psychic webs which stretch away from the consciousness. With a great roar of energy, the separate points of thought rapidly coalesce, whipping together into a silhouette of truly monstrous proportions. Bat-like wings, claws, talons, fangs, horns, lashing tail.
With a snarl, the daemon stretches and tests its physical form, flexing hugely muscled arms. It crouches, then springs into the air, enormous wings bearing it forth, skimming across bubbling red lakes towards the source of its sudden consternation and excitement.

Intruders. Mortals... to toy with.

***********************

“We’re lost, Heratus. The gods do not guide us, we will never find this damned weapon, and your eternal soul will suffer the cost of failure, you incompetent sh1t.”

The gruff, venomous tones echoed strangely among the arching, red, rock formations, which had been carved by wind, plasma rain or something much more ethereal. Right now though, the majority of Heratus’ party did not care about the scenery. They did not care about the many catastrophic environmental changes wrought upon the planet since it was caught up in the cataclysmic birth of the Eye of Terror. However, they did care greatly about certain inescapable facts. This was a daemon world, a dangerous daemon world, and this made them irritable, unpredictable, rage-filled and extremely paranoid. While this might be a standard mindset for many fallen Astartes, let’s just say that the feelings were magnified. The majority of their ire was directed squarely at their snide and self-centred leader, Heratus.

The critical voice had come from the huddle of bulky-armoured Terminators sheltering under a cleft in the rock-face, hiding from one of the periodic plasma storms, which sent burning orange bolts smashing into the ground beyond the overhang, melting stone and crystallising red sand with hissing burps. The Astartes themselves could shrug of the plasma, cocooned within slab-like Terminator armour or the smaller, more flexible power armour, but the party had stopped for the sake of the few cultist mortals who had survived the miles they had hiked from the shuttle. Already they were almost too few to perform their assigned role given by their cruel masters- distraction, cannon fodder and sacrifices. Twenty had first set foot on the daemon world, but fifteen had perished, melted alive by plasma, or drowning and burning in hidden acid pools.

Alongside the five surviving Cultists, Heratus, three other Terminators, Cronost, Eranis and Guyas, as well as three Chosen, Tremor, Ruddie and Hedwig, had travelled to this hellish planet on a supposed mission from the Gods. Granted a measure of foresight, Heratus had seen a vision of a weapon of great power, containing the combined might of no fewer than three trapped greater daemons, lying hidden on this red world. Like sharks drawn to the scent of blood, other fallen Astartes had gathered to journey alongside Heratus. They felt no great fellowship for one another, for each followed his own selfish ends, seeking perhaps an opportunity to claim the great weapon for themselves. Their loyalty would last as long as they needed Heratus’ navigating abilities.

Heratus himself stood separated from the others, staring threateningly at the cultists, who cowered together as far from their immortal masters as possible. He felt no particularly strong emotions towards them, seeing them as an expendable resource, but it simply amused him to periodically scare the crap out of them. As the complaint rang out, he turned, armour scraping quietly, and faced his brother terminators. The movement caused one of the cultists to cry out, and promptly gak himself. The eye-slits in Heratus’ helmet flashed red as he stepped further into the cave, plasma lightning flashing and crackling in the opening behind him. A sibilant whisper carried across the space. “Who dares criticise me? Cronost, you filth, I know it was you.”

One of the terminators pushed himself angrily from the rock, striding forward and curling his power-sheathed right arm into a fist. Miniature lightning bolts curled and flashed across the polished fingers. “Yes, it was I,” he growled. “If you truly knew the location of this weapon, why not land the shuttle closer? You are like a dog which has lost the scent, floundering this way and that to recover it. We have wasted a whole day on this planet! We will soon draw the attention of its inhabitants, which, though it will give me a chance to prove my clearly superior skills, may prevent us retrieving the weapon.”Cronost prodded Heratus sharply in the centre of his cuirass, and leaned in close to stare hatefully into the red eye-slits. “There is no honour to be had in... walking. The gods are watching.”

Heratus wilted slightly under Cronost’s tirade, but recovered, shoving the terminator hard, back across the cave floor. “You need me!” he hissed, flaring his own power fist into life. “I was chosen! I received the vision! Not you, you scum. You cannot imagine the power that I feel here, and it is close! We can dominate the warband, if we can recover it.” Blank masks stared back him, although the Chosen shifted uncomfortably. Cronost, however, was unbowed. He shot forward again, going head to head with Heratus.

“Lies!!” he roared, their helmets clanging together. “If the gods truly favour me, as I believe they do, we will find this weapon without you. You are not worthy to bear it!!” Heratus pushed back, punching his fist into Cronost’s gut, and Cronost stepped back, raising his own fist. They prepared to leap at each other...

“...my lord?” whispered a hesitant voice. Heratus and Cronost both paused and faced the cultist who had dared to speak. The tension in the cave began to drain away, broken by the interruption.

Heratus turned so fast that the cultist fell over in fright, scrabbling backwards away from the menacing advance of the bulky, armoured figure. “What now, you fu6k!? You dare interrupt the conversation of an Astartes?”

“But my lord, the plasma, it has stopped.”

“Oh.” Heratus peered out of the cave and into the pink sky, where the roiling plasma clouds had passed away to the south as quickly as they had come. “Let’s move. Grab your kit, ladies.”
***********************

'There is no honour to be had in ... walking'.

Great line.