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Mmmmm daemon prince at large...though I must admit I expected the whole daemon-princedom a bit more...dramatic? I don't know. I cant actually express it...

On the other hand...Half-Mad needs a plastic surgeon asap

WTF is the Half Mad doing, changing? rumble on the bridge with Qul and the Half Mad me thinks is coming

Dear lord, that was very nice. But I agree that half mad is getting more and more whole sane

The World Eaters met in a vast boiler room, just barely large enough to house them all. Even the Dreadnought Kaalek had come, though the doorway had been too small to accommodate him. He'd simply torn through it, leaving a pile of debris in his wake. His new mechanical body fit right in with the rusted machinery lining the room. Wires snaked their way up the walls, and exposed systems of gears shown beneath broken plating. Cylindrical boilers were stacked against the room's south most wall.

Where is Qul? Kaalek boomed. He rotated on his waist axis, his red visor sweeping across the room.

"Silence dead one!" Hael said. Though Qul had sworn to kill Hael for incompetence, he'd never made good on the promise. "You would best address our Lord as Lord Slaughterking Qul the Ascend-"

You bore me. Where is Qul?

The crowd was silent. Someone shrugged. It was dangerous to keep this many World Eaters in one place; already some were swaying on their feet and breathing heavily. They were on the risk of entering psychotic trances. Since his entombment, Kaalek had experienced little of this. Being kept in a metal sarcophagus kept him too detached to grow angrily as easily as he did during his glory days. Still, sometimes his temper flared. When he'd hunted through the bowels of the ship, Kaalek had charged straight through a wall of hydraulics system and into a crowd of fleeing mortals. He hadn't even been mad at them, he'd just needed an outlet for his rage.

Once Kaalek had thought that it was unfair for the Imperium to condemn the World Eaters for their actions. They couldn't be expected to control themselves. His entombment had made him think about the issue from perspectives besides his own. Rabid dogs also couldn't be expected to control themselves though, and they weren't exempt from punishment. They were put down for the good of the community. Someone should've put the World Eaters down too. It was entirely possible that the God-Emperor had been planning this, but had been disrupted by the Horus Heresy.

Something dropped from the rafters. It landed in the room's center on cloven hooves. The thing was like a World Eater, but it's flesh had grown beyond the extent of its armor into something monstrous. Though humanoid in shape there wasn't a trace of humanity in its asymmetrical face. Its eyes were dark, beady things half-hidden by angry furrowed brows. Instead of a nose, it just had two gaping nostrils above its mouth. Cracked lips opened to reveal sharp piss-yellow teeth, glistening with acidic saliva.

It made its way over to Kaalek, its movements made awkward by its hunched back. The thing lowered its head, so that its eyes were at the same level as Kaalek's visor.

"Recognize me?" it said, speaking with Qul's voice. Lord Slaughterking Qul licked his lips. "In 10,000 years you never once gained the favor of the Blood God, yet here I am... I've had this rank for no more than a week and I've already accomplished more than you ever done. How does it feel Kaalek, to be a complete and utter failure?"

You hold no rank, Qul. The Red Angel never promoted you, nor showed any desire to. He never even knew your name. Believe what you like, but your titles mean nothing.

"I answer to a higher power than the Red Angel."

The Blood God? You think that Daemon Princedom means anything? You will not be the first Daemon Prince to die an ignoble death, and you will be far from the last. Having horns and fangs makes you no better than the rest of us.

"Dead one, I knew that your corpse had sustained a head injury, but I'd never known the full extent of it until now," said Qul. He chuckled at his own wit. "The higher power I speak of isn't the Blood God; its me. I answer to myself, and myself alone."

"Lord Slaughterking Qul only answers to himself!" Hael shouted, raising a fist in triumph.

Qul reared on Hael, his jaw practically unhinging as he screamed. "DON'T SPEAK FOR ME. Do you think that I can't speak for myself? Do you think I'm some kind of idiot that has to be spoken for? DO YOU?"

Hael fell to his knees, head lowered in reverence. "I mean't no disrespect, my Lord."

"What did you mean then?"

Qul, Kaalek said sharply. Don't hurt him.

Qul spun to face the Dreadnought, putting his speed and momentum into a hard roundhouse punch. His spiked knuckles met the ceramite of Qul's chest, and the ceramite buckled in. Kaalek's top heavy body was thrown onto its back. His cannon of an arm rotated to face Qul, but the Daemon Prince caught it by its twin barrels. Qul rested a hoof on the sarcophagus and glared down at it. For a moment he just stood, not basking in his triumph but rather recovering from his surging adrenaline. He breathed short and hard through grated fangs. Huge shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

He relinquished the cannon. Kaalek let it rest, falling beside the rest of his prone body. The Daemon Prince stepped back from the Dreadnought, its monstrous face having taken on a more serene appearance.

"Those who would defy me, I will warn you now. I've been blessed by the Blood God himself. Some say that Astartes are gods amongst men. If that's true, then I'm a god amongst gods. We are going to renew our quest against the Black Legion, and this time with focus. No longer will we waste our days here, in the ship's stinking bowels, hunting worthless mortals. Now we're going straight for the throat; the bridge. Markov will be throwing every obstacle he has in our path. As we get closer, he won't be shy about wasting his precious bikers anymore. As such, we can expect a great deal of skulls. We won't need to repaint the Valiant in the colors of the World Eaters, because by the time we've conquered it, it'll run red with blood."

The beast that was now Qul, but was now a great deal more, said, "It will be glorious."

Yeah, rumble on the bridge I was right! but who will be on the bridge to greet Qul, the Half Mad or Markov? Poor Dread, nice chapter don't keep me in suspence for long please.

Very nice LL cat wait for the next part!

This keeps getting better !

Qul had to die.

He had to.

Kaalek let loose his reaper autocannon, aiming in the rough direction of the mortals. He'd stumbled onto a pack of the vermin, trying to make their way to the bridge. As if the Black Legion could protect them. As if the Black Legion even would protect them. The cannon's duramite solid shell rounds punched through metal and tore gaping bloody holes in flesh. One shot punctured a pipe, spraying the mortals with scalding steam. Skin bubbled and crackled away, eventually just sloughing off the mortals. Beneath it, bones were blackened to a charcoal hue. Kaalek couldn't help but think of the Hellhound, belching smoke and flame like a Wyrm of old, coming crashing into him. He'd looked like the mortals did now.

He didn't like that. A mortal's head disappeared, misting his comrades with blood. Another took three shots to the chest, cracking bones and pulping the organs within. One mortal lost both her legs, one at the knee and the other halfway up her shin. The mortals tried to flee; the floor was slicked with blood and strewn with corpses, and the survivors were being blasted with steam. They didn't make much progress. Kaalek marched towards them, one ponderous step at a time, all the while laying into them with his cannon. He was beginning to run out ammunition; soon or later he would have to force one of the World Eaters to reload him. That wouldn't be pleasant.

Realizing that brought his thoughts back to Qul, the little bitch with piss-yellow teeth and mangy goat legs, the false Lord of the World Eaters 3rd Company.

Qul had to die.

He didn't know how, but Qul had to. The more unpleasantly, the better. If Kaalek had still had hands, rather than a drum shaped bludgeon with claws and a rather large cannon, he would've cut Qul up piece by piece. Starting at the feet. First he'd cut up the bastard's hooves, then his ankles, and so on. He'd draw it out, nice and slow. Maybe hook him up to a life support machine, so that he'd be alive until Kaalek had finally worked all the way up to brain.

Something squelched beneath his foot. Kaalek looked down, and saw a corpse. Help me, it mouthed voicelessly. It was amazing that the thing was still alive, considering its chest had been crushed. Kaalek blew its head off.

Chapter Eight
(Don't Give In) Without A Fight

The bridge was empty, save for the presence of one Astartes.

The bridge was soundless, save for the Astartes' pained, shuddering breaths.

His hair was matted to his scalp by sweat. His flesh had gone sickly, jaundiced yellow. As had his eyes. Both his knuckles were white, but they were hidden by the clenched gauntlets of his power armor. Bedsores ached alone the length of his spine, but the rotting spike just beneath his ribcage kept him from moving. They were only getting worse. He could imagine it now, his swollen red spine jutting out like a row of spikes draped with flesh.

"Caeroc," he hissed, his voice sharper than he intended. "Caeroc. I need you."

There was pheumatic hiss of a door sliding open. Markov craned his neck, pressing half of his face flat against his throne's backrest. Armored boots thundered against the metal floor, echoing through the empty chamber. It could be Caeroc; it could also be an assassin, whom Markov would be powerless to fight back against. Finally, the figure came within view. It was Caeroc alright, his gauntlet stained a dark red with the Half Mad's blood. Caeroc made his way to Markov's dais, which he kneeled before.

"You called for me, my Lord," Caeroc said, his voice blandly polite as per usual.

"Yes. You may rise." Caeroc did. "How close are we? To Lotheen?"

"The Half Mad says we're no more than a day away."

"Ah yes, the Half Mad." Markov said. "He hurt your back during the battle, didn't it? Is it any better?"

"Still hurts like a bitch. I broke the Half Mad's face for it."

Markov grinned. "Apothecary Validus has a large quantity of pain-killers, which he's been holding out from the rest of the crew. You have my permission to take as many as you like."

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Caeroc, I'm not going to lie to you. As you know, things have been... slipping lately. First the World Eaters' rebellion, and now the Half Mad living up to his name. Even if I somehow survive this ordeal, it is entirely possible that the Warmaster will... not take kindly to what's happened here. He may blame me for this, and he may kill me. After all, other commanders have kept even larger Berzerkers aboard their vessels without mutiny or rebellion.

I would go out, and correct things myself if I could. I barter with the Bleak Brotherhood and the Mantis Warriors, and I would make them observe my will. But, my condition prevents this. Caeroc, you're the only one I can trust now. It's up to you, to deal with them. They will try to circumvent our will and betray us at every opportunity, even with the Warmaster's latest successes. Its up to you to keep them in line. Everything hinges on you.

After a long moment of silence, Caeroc finally said, "Is there anything else, my Lord?"

"Yes. If I die, I want you to keep 10th Company's name. I want us to still be known as Markov's Bikers." He grinned bitterly. "It was one of the few perks of the job. And make the Berzerkers pay. Especially Qul. Skin him alive and cut him up piece by piece. I should've shot down his Thunderhawk when I had the chance."





An orb of broken steel, man-made buildings and walkways jutting at sharp angles from its cracked surface, was caught in the orbit of Lotheen. It was a spacehulk, a collection of ships lost to the warp and fused into one great mass by its burning tides. The Bleak Brotherhood had colonized it, putting almost a million slaves to work reinforcing and building onto it. No more than a hundred thousand survived the operation. Genestealers, apex predators infesting the hulk's haul, insane mutants that once crewed the lost ships, freak construction accidents, and human incompetence had managed to claim almost nine hundred thousand lives. It was rumored that their spirits haunted the hulk; the Bleak Brotherhood liked this idea.

The Valiant came gliding towards the hulk, broken engines sputtering. It left a trail of smoke and debris, flakes of the ship's skin.

In the hulk's shadow, two engines flared. Two glossy black frigates sailed towards the Valiant, their gunnery crews following the broken ship's every move. Thousands of cannons tracked the Valiant in perfect unison. Another vessel, not a frigate but a full fledged battle barge, left the hulk's shadow. It was painted in garish shades of yellow and green, and a score of scars and dents in its haul marked it as a veteran of the Long War.

"Master of Auspex, I want the names and classes of every vessel. Master of the Comm., open a two-way channel with the north most frigate." Markov licked his teeth, feeling the rough and broken enamel. "Gunnery crew, stand-by."

"The south-most frigate is the Nova-class vessel Icon of Purity, constructed for the Emperor's Swords Chapter in m.36 on Helios. The north-most frigate is the Hunter Destroy-class vessel Liberation, constructed for the Justicators Chapter in m.39 on Gryphhone VI. The battlebarge is the vessel Spear of Flame, constructed for the Mantis Warriors Chapter in m.37 on Graia."

"The Icon of Purity has connected with the channel. Standing-by..."

"This is Lord Vladimir of the Bleak Brotherhood," a voice crackled over the vox.

Markov wanted to redirect all power to the Valiant's broken engines on one last chance power-drive, ramming through the Icon of Purity and into the hulk. The engines would blow out in no more than a few seconds, taking out all of the Berzerkers alongside the aft of the ship. The resulting explosion would propel the Valiant into the Bleak Brotherhood's ship at a suicidal velocity. They'd just have enough time to divert all power to the shields, which the Valiant's prow would be destroyed against. At that point, the shields would overheat, allowing what little remained of the Valiant to be destroyed against the Icon of Purity's bridge. Lord Vladimir would spend the last few miserable seconds of his life confused and angry, venting his frustration by screaming at his crew.

That'd be better than the slow death from the spike in his chest. That'd be better than watching your body fail one organ at a time, while all the while your crew talks about you as though you're already dead.

"Repeat, this is Lord Vladimir of the Bleak Brotherhood."

"This is Lord Captain Markov of the Black Legion 10th Company, more commonly known as Markov's Bikers. Take those puny guns of yours off my ship, or the Warmaster will have all your heads," he spat.

"No need for hostilities, brother. We are all comrades in the Warmaster's Black Crusades." The guns shifted downwards, like a guilty child staring at his feet.

"You won't address me as 'brother', Vladimir. To you, I am Lord Captain Markov. I thought I made this clear. When you've spent 10,000 years butchering the dregs of the Imperium and have worked your way up to a Captaincy in a Legion, not in some sort of therapy group like the Bleak Brotherhood, you have my permission to call me 'brother'. Understood?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Say it again," Markov said. The crew looked at him worriedly.

"Yes, my Lord."

Heh That's a nice bluff there Markov. I wonder how he is going to barter with them...

Markov is feked one way or the other, as soon as the Mantis and Beak Brotherhood marines see him why should they listen to a dead man, and there's the Half Mad and World Eaters to sort out to.

Come on Dread you can do it, don't fail me now! As you can tell I like your chapter

Caeroc had his helmet off, so that they could see his easy smile and his trustworthy face.

In another life, he could've been an investment broker or an insurance salesman.

A glass proboscis extended from the spacehulk. It had a rusting iron frame that looked as though it'd turn to dust if touched. Everything traitors touched seemed to either rot and rust, or grow out of control. Think bloody flowers of flesh and bone, blooming on iron girders. Everything turned ugly. Traitors eventually became a product of the ugliness that followed them. They became hollow shells of their former selves; some lost their sanity. The Black Legion was only able to stave off madness through finding a purpose; the destruction of the Imperium and the death of the False Emperor.

The False Emperor had enslaved them to his cause, the Great Crusade, and expected the Astartes Legions to live and die for him without any reward or recognition. Then, he'd abandoned the Great Crusade that had been his idea, leaving it in the Warmaster Horus' hands instead. Terra's bloated bureaucracy, with the False Emperor's blessing, grew out of control. It wormed it's way into the affairs of Astartes, stripping away their power but refusing to accept any of the responsibility that came with it. This great injustice couldn't stand.

When the False Emperor died, the Black Legion would lose any purpose.

With perfect mechanical precision, the proboscis locked onto a voidsealed doorway in the side of the Valiant. The door slid open, and a cool breeze rolled in. The moment Caeroc had stepped inside the proboscis, the door snapped shut behind him. He was in the custody of the so-called Bleak Brotherhood now. So be it, Caeroc decided. Caeroc of the Luna Wolves and then the Black Legion had his orders, and he would follow them.

Two renegade Astartes awaited Caeroc on the opposite end of the proboscis. One was a member of the Bleak Brotherhood, his glossy black armor detailed in ghostly flame. Twin bandoleers of ammunition ran down his chest, crossing to form an 'X'. He wore a ram-horned helmet with a 'T' visor, and was resting both hands on the pommel of a power sword. The blade's sharp tip rested precariously on the glass floor. The other Astartes was a Mantis Warrior, wearing the yellow and black camouflage of the Tranquility campaign. He held his helmet, a streamlined and beaked Mark VI model, in the crook of his arm. A sniper rifle was held against his back by a sling around his shoulder. His scarred face was expressionless.

They looked as though they were contemplating killing him.

Caeroc strode towards them, unfaltering in pace.

"Brothers," he said. "I am Caeroc, an envoy of Lord Captain Markov. On behalf of the Black Legion, I would personally like to thank the both of you for your respective warbands' hospitality." Still smiling warmly, Caeroc extended hand towards the Bleak Brother. "I believe you are Captain Vladimir."

Vladimir took one hand off the pommel of his blade. He and Caeroc gripped each other's wrists in a ceremonial Astartes greeting. Captain Vladimir's voice was blandly polite and artificial sounding. "Thank you, Lord Caeroc. We are honored by your Legions' presence."

Chuckling, Caeroc said, "I am no Lord. I've managed to go 10,000 years without one promotion; Captain Vladimir, I believe I'm below you in rank." He turned to the Mantis Warrior. "And I don't believe we've met. You are?"

"Captain Audir of the Mantis Warriors 2nd Company," answered the Mantis Warrior, gripping Caeroc's wrist tightly.

"The Mantis Warriors performed admirably during the Badab War. You may not know this, but Warmaster Abaddon himself has expressed the desire to fight alongside your kin someday."

Audir's face cracked in a grin. "As much as I want to believe that, I don't think I can. Us Mantis Warriors don't have the best reputation, especially among the founding Legions."

"So, I take it that you two are the commanders of your respective kin in this place?" said Caeroc.

"Not quite," Vladimir said. It was clear why the Bleak Brother wore his helmet; he didn't trust his face to not give him away. "Captain Audir is the Lord of the Mantis Warriors here. Though I represent the Bleak Brotherhood, I am one of its two commanders. Myself and the Captain Sevastian are the joint leaders of the Bleak Brotherhood here."

"Why don't you just kill him?" Caeroc said, in the friendliest sounding way possible. He was genuinely curious.

"Because we aren't barbarians."

Though Caeroc was a very patient and understanding individual by the standards of Black Legion, he had little patience for being lied to. If that answer had come from a Word Bearer, a Death Shadow, an Iconoclast, or even a Night Lord, he might've let it slide. But this was a member of the Bleak Brotherhood, one of the most ruthless warbands, claiming that its members weren't barbarians. They'd butchered and raped the population of Cilthos and they'd dissected the children alive, just because the concept amused them. If any warband could be considered evil to the point of ridiculousness, it was the Bleak Brotherhood.

"Bullgak."

Vladimir started to say something, but cut himself off. Awkward silence reigned. Still smiling warmly, Caeroc stared down Vladimir. He didn't need to say anything; the Eye of Horus on his chest spoke for itself. Caeroc was a member of the Black Legion, and for that he commanded respect.

It was Audir that broke the silence. "Captain Vladimir, perhaps we could give our brother Caeroc a tour of our installation?"

"That'd be excellent," said Caeroc.

The halls had been sterilized to the point of lifelessness. There was nothing but the gleam of cold steel; there weren't even rats. Identical looking slaves with black robes and shaved heads paced the facility, heads bowed in reverence. Their fingertips were made of soft white scar tissue, and devoid of fingerprints. Caeroc didn't ask why. It was a bad idea to be openly snooping and asking questions.

It was all posturing. Audir and Vladimir wanted to show off that they had a working facility, swarming with slaves and rich with all sorts of rare and valuable resources. Vladimir explained that mining operations were regularly made into the hulk, for the purpose of obtaining ceramite. It was clear what he was insinuating; the Bleak Brotherhood was building new suits of power armor for newly recruited Astartes. In addition, they had pens of Genestealers. The creatures had been fitted with shock collars, and their blue carapaces had been repainted black and detailed with ghostly flame. According to Vladimir, they were just like any other animal. With the proper training, they could be put to work as attack dogs. They were loyal, he stressed. Though he never outright stated it, it was clear that he was contrasting them with the rebellious World Eaters.

Once, during the Great Crusade, Caeroc had been tasked with giving some sort of Terran bureaucrat a tour of the latest world conquered by the Luna Wolves. Caeroc had been careful to not show the bureaucrat the cities blown to bits and the hospitals full of widows and orphans. Now, Caeroc felt like the bureaucrat. No one was outright lying to him, but he couldn't help but feel that things were being omitted during the tour. There was a thoroughly unpleasant sensation of malaise creeping up on Caeroc.

"We'll need your finest Apothecaries and surgeons, in addition to your cooperation in the elimination of the World Eaters and the repairing of the Valiant," said Caeroc as the tour was nearing its end. "And ten thousand bolter rounds, one hundred bolters, servitors, one ton of raw steel, another ton of ceramite, and a half ton of adamantium, five intact suits of power armor, replacement tires and engines for bikes, and a navigator. I'm sure this won't even put a dent in your fortress' vast riches."

"I assure you, the Black Legion will pay you back," Caeroc lied. If the Bleak Brotherhood ever came demanding repayment, the Warmaster would have them all butchered like animals. "We're working out a loan here, not tribute. Your presence here is just as valid as any Legion presence."

"What you're asking for..." Vladimir paused. "Is a lot. Even more than we were expecting. Ten thousand bolter rounds? A navigator? Five intact suits of power armor?"

"Our navigator, a sorcerer called the Half Mad, attempted a coup. We'll need a replacement for him. As for the bolter rounds, we used up a great deal of ammunition against the World Eaters."

"What about the power armor?"

"I thought you had vast ceramite reserves."

"Yes... but, making ceramite into power armor is extremely costly. Its not just pouring the ceramite into some sort of mold and having a suit of armor pop out. Servos and engines need to be installed, cable bundling and nerve ports need to be outfitted, and-"

"The logistics," said Caeroc. "Are for you to work out. All we care about is getting the armor. Its only five suits; that's not even enough for a full squad."

"What about the half ton of adamantium? You think that's going to be cheap?"

"A spacehulk is full of adamantium."

"The only way to mine it is using diamond edged tools!" Vladimir was starting to sound exasperated. "You don't seem to understand the difficulties involved in any of this."

"I'm sure you have a great deal of diamond edged tools," was all Caeroc said.

"Can't we negotiate any of this?"

Caeroc grinned. It wasn't the warm smile he'd worn earlier. It was the tooth baring grin of a saurian predator.

Hmm what are they hiding, and why boast about what you got then can't deliver? tut tut. Nice chapter, more soon I hope.

caeroc is awesome.... for a traitor. haha

Vladimir, still pouting, remained silent.

"I'll escort you back to your ship," the Mantis Warrior, Audir, said.

Caeroc had been hoping someone would say that. The installation was a maze of claustrophobic halls and walkways. It'd show weakness to have to ask them for directions.

"So," he said as he walked. "Is it true that Chapters only have a thousand Astartes? Or are they like the Legions?"

"Like the Legions?" Audir repeated. He and Caeroc passed by a line of servitors, equipped with long barreled lascannons. They looked almost like lances.

"Every Legion was created with one million Astartes. At one of his many speeches during the Great Crusade, the False Emperor mentioned that the Legions were only one hundred thousand Astartes. No one wanted to be the person who contradicted the so-called God Emperor. From then on, all Imperial papers recorded the Legions as having only one tenth of their actual numbers, to fit with what the False Emperor said. When the Ultramarines reached two million Astartes, the papers said that they had two hundred thousand. And when the Emperor's Children fell to five hundred thousand Astartes, the papers said they had fifty thousand."

Audir smiled, genuinely amused by what Caeroc said. "You never hear those stories about the Emperor," he said. "I can only speak for the Mantis Warriors, but yes, we were a great deal more than a thousand Space Marines. First, we stopped counting Scouts as Space Marines, and then we were allowed to add another Company of a one hundred Marines. Then, we stopped counting the reserve companies, because they weren't in combat so they shouldn't count. We were allowed to add another four companies. Then, we stopped counting our two Sniper companies, because snipers weren't mentioned by the Codex Astartes. Then we stopped counting all the special personal, the Chaplains, Librarians, Apothecaries, and Dreadnoughts, just for a handful more Marines. I think we were closer to three thousand Marines when the Badab War started."

"That's still puny."

"This, coming from you? Your 10th Company is maybe a hundred Bikers."

"Firstly, we have an additional three thousand World Eaters and another ten thousand mortal soldiers we can call on if we need to. Secondly, we're one of the Black Legion's Thorns. We're supposed to be small, so that the Imperium won't be able to track us down."

"Had World Eaters," Audir corrected. "They rebelled; they aren't yours anymore."

Caeroc knew better than to discuss that topic; even in a seemingly friendly conversation, he couldn't afford to show any weakness. He'd been sent on diplomatic missions before; Warmaster Abaddon himself had told Caeroc, Whatever you do, never bare your throat. "So, will you Mantis Warriors be making any of the payments? Or are you letting the Bleak Brotherhood pay for everything?"

"We'll be giving you our Navigator and our Apothecaries, and we'll be doing a great deal of work against the World Eaters."

"Are your Apothecaries any good? We only have one, and he's a useless git. Spends most of the time shooting himself up with painkillers."

"His name is Carid. He's damned good. Its like he has a sixth sense for... surgery I guess. Its hard to explain; when you look down and see a limbless and faceless corpse, he looks down and sees a patient that needs X medication and Y operations."

Audir and Caeroc reached the glass proboscis. The Valiant's door was open, waiting for him.

"For a small payment," Audir said. "I can have Carid kill Markov. It'll look like an accident. No one will know, except us."





Caeroc's quarters were best described as spartan. His only possessions were a filthy cot and a nightstand with a tusked Xenos skull atop it. By the standards of the mortal slaves that served under him, he lived like a king. When he died, they would fight over his cot. When he died, they would probably use his skull as a chamberpot.

The slaves under him didn't exactly like him.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," Caeroc said.

It was one of his slaves, whose name escaped Caeroc. He was carrying a piece of parchment. His face was covered in bandaging, save for his bloodshot eyes. The slave's pupils were white. "My lord," the slave said. "Lord Captain Markov, while going under anesthesia, dictated this to me. He called it his 'epilogue'. I was not entirely sure who I should deliver it to. Forgive me if parts of it are... incomprehensible. I only wrote what I was told to write."

Caeroc snatched the parchment from him.

There is the assumption that freedom comes with power, and that a king can do as he pleases, the paper read. Vandire did as he pleased. Curze did as he pleased. Freedom catches up with everyone, in the end. I am not afraid.

No repentance. No remorse.

Some among the Traitor Legions claim to be morally superior to the Imperium. This isn't true. We are just as every bit as depraved and cruel as they are. But we are stronger. We are stronger, and our grudges, our yearnings, our desires, come first. It is the destiny of the strong to rule the weak, and the weak to be ruled by the strong. I waver between strength and weakness, never quite landing on either one. Everyone is watching me, but no one listens to what I say. I am the corpse in a murder mystery.

Us Astartes are taken away from our homes before we're mature. We spend our lives looking for replacement parents, because none of us really grew up. Some of us were content to accept the Emperor as our father. Some weren't.

If I die, keep the name. Markov's Bikers. We need to known as Markov's Bikers. As long as the name remains, I am never truly dead. My spirit lives on. Part of me wants to be remembered, and part of me looks back on a lifetime of betrayals and doesn't. All of my friends are dead, and those that are alive want to kill me.

If you do change the name, I understand. Caeroc's Bikers has a nice ring to it.

"He was reeling under the affects of the anesthetic," the slave said, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "The Mantis Warrior apothecary said that he should've been unconscious, but he wasn't."

Caeroc opened a vox channel with the apothecary. "Yes?" crackled the apothecary's voice. The connection was poor.

"He's already dying, and he doesn't have more than a few days left. No point in killing him," Caeroc said.

"So, I shouldn't kill him? I should save him?"

"Sure."

Caeroc couldn't shake the feeling that he was making a mistake.

Wow was there really that many Astartes per legion?

A shadow whispers from the dark. "Hail Caeroc, king! Kill him! kill him now! and I will bless your flesh with godly gifts and set you apart from all others"

Nice chapter chapter, politics at play. I hope the World Eaters wash them all away in a tide of blood, but we will see.

The blood flows and such the lord of skulls is pleased! Well done

Very nice additions m8 ! I really enjoyed the political play, a nice break from the slaughter...Now enough with the break, Lord Khorne demands blood and skulls for his throne!

I've been suffering from writer's block, so I haven't been able to write much lately. I'm working on Chapter Nine, which is about the extremely violent and bloody last stand of Markov's Bikers. No more politics.

Dakka, I need you're help. I've been having trouble with writing Space Marine characters. I've been trying to balance them between being inhuman and being sympathetic. I'm worried I made the Space Marines, the World Eaters especially, too human while I was trying to make them sympathetic. What do you guys think? Like Qul. He's a Daemon Prince, who hasn't been human for 10,000 years, but I'm worried he acts too human.

Hmmm I persoanly like that kinda traits in smal doses, and yes. Its quite hard to portray Sm or Csm in a unhuman way. I find myself more times than not drifing into the eralms of the common man when tyrying to dos aid thing. What I have found to work best is to either portay them as absolut removed from any kind of emotion barred of hate & zeal or as more down to earth characthers.

And as far as Qul well.....I dont think snacking on humans and loling at getting shot in the face are even remotly human.

I just go on how they sound in the first three heresy books as i liked the way they were portrayed - human but a step or 2 removed and missing a few emotions that only seems to come across when they talk to Joe blogs (Jon doe). I think your doing a fine job, carry on the way you've started my good man.

I believe they are as human as they should be. Plus being a Khorne believer does not mean a mindless killer (ok not at all times anyway)

I think this is going great. Do not rush it and take as much time as you need to write the next part. We ll be waiting

More Erezak! He reminds me of Scaevolla from Honour Among Fiends, in that he isn't a mindless CSM and actually dislikes his situation a bit, but is still a homicidal psychopath.

That story is in Heroes of the Space Marines, where all the stories about CSM and Renegades top the stories about loyalists haha.

Take your time, I like the story so far! As to how to write the marines, I always found it interesting that they were indoctrinated as teenagers to become marines. So while they are masters of the sword and bolter, as well as skilled tacticians, they have the psyche of juiced up teenagers.

So even after fighting for 10,000 years, they are still an 18 year old at heart. There isn't exactly time for emotional development when you are eviscerating your enemies. But that is just my take on it!

Thanks, all of your suggestions helped.

Chapter Nine
Waiting for the Worms

"Let me think, just LET ME THINK! Alright. Sevastian, this is Vladimir! The Black Legion is firing on us, repeat, the Black Legion is firing on us! We need backup!"
-Captain Vladimir of the Bleak Brotherhood, at the last stand of Markov's Bikers.

Before battle, the Emperor's Children would torture slaves. They'd brand them and beat them until their blood was rich with endorphins, the body's natural painkillers. Once the slaves were so high that they didn't even react to the beatings anymore, the Emperor's Children would slit their wrists and drink their endorphin soaked blood in all its salty deliciousness.

Before battle, the Word Bearers would prey fervently and offer choice sacrifices to the Gods. They never settled for slaves; more often than not, the sacrifice was a powerful Champion, equal in strength and cunning. Sometimes Word Bearers volunteered, hoping the Gods would see their selflessness. Sometimes they were taken in the night, and brought before an altar. Their face would light up at the dawning moment of realization, when they realized that they were about to be burned, branded, flayed, and castrated. They would scream until their throat burned raw, and then they would beg and plead in a distant rasping voice.

Before battle, the World Eaters would kill each other until their Lord manage to harness their aggression in the direction of the enemy.

Erezak placed a foot on his brother's crimson helmet. Its red eye lenses glared up at him with nothing of forgiveness or understanding. Erezak could imagine his brother's wide eyes and grated teeth. He could imagine the veins throbbing on his brother's forehead. Holding the head in place with his foot, he pried his axe from his brother's neck. It's whirring teeth had gotten stuck on his brother's spine.

"Help," said Erezak's brother, his rasping death-rattle of a voice magnified by his helmet's vox grille.

He felt shameful, like he should curl up in a ball somewhere and die. It felt wrong on so many levels to kill a brother. Rationalizing it was easy when the brother attacked him, but in this battle he'd been the aggressor. Erezak had chosen to attack him, and he'd chosen to deliver the killing blow.

The teachings of the Blood God eased his conscience. Rage demanded suffering. Without rage, the World Eaters would have nothing. Humanity would have nothing. It was rage that laid tyrants low, and it was rage that brought murderous justice to the pleasure-seekers of the universe. Not killing his brother would've been an even greater crime than killing him.

"Help," his brother repeated.

Erezak kicked the head hard. Its already broken neck snapped, and the head flew for maybe ten feet before hitting the ground with a satisfying thud.

The battle seemed to be lulling. No one was charging at him. He wondered why. Then he heard a deep voice resounding through the chamber.

"Brothers," Qul said, prowling towards the World Eaters. He wasn't as intimidating as before. By now the World Eaters were used to seeing him, in all his mutant glory. "We're close now, less than an hour away from the bridge. The Black Legion can sense this. Have you noticed their distinct absence?" The crowd was silent. Erezak glanced towards the headless corpse at his feet. "HAVE YOU?" screamed Qul. He wasn't fond of being ignored.

"Yes," several dozen World Eaters answered in unison, including Erezak.

"The Black Legion is absent because they're mustering their forces," continued the Daemon Prince. "We can't allow them to establish a proper defense. We have to strike quickly and decisively. Hael, explain the plan."

"We kill them all," Hael said. A soft and wet sound came from his vox; he was licking his teeth.

"Don't do that," Qul snapped. "Unless you want me to eat your face. Like sausage. Now, World Eaters, what does it mean if we have to strike decisively? Does it mean that we waste our time here, killing each other?"

Erezak felt like Qul was addressing him personally. He looked up from the corpse and into Qul's burning eyes. It made him feel naked and cold, standing in the wind. His breathing quickened and his hair stood on edge.

"WHAT DOES IT MEAN?"

"Yes," several dozen World Eaters answered in unison, including Erezak.

The World Eater next to Qul died. Qul struck him with the back of his hand, or more accurately claw, with enough strength to shatter his chestplate and the ribcage within. Shards of bone and ceramite pierced through his lungs and heart.

"Listen to me, or you all die. We are attacking the bridge now. If I catch any of you not moving towards the bridge, you die. If I catch any of you killing each other, you die. If I catch any of you licking your teeth, you die. Now move out. I have a Captain to slay and a ship to command."

Erezak ran. His boots pounded on grated decking, along with the boots of another thousand World Eaters. He ascended up steep and claustrophobic staircases, and he ducked under rusting pipes running along the ceiling. An alarm went off, which was the Black Legion's way of showing that they knew the World Eaters were close, and they were waiting for them. High pitched klaxons blared. Migraine red lights flashed and blinked with furious intensity. Distant, echoing gunfire and shrill screams could occasionally be heard.

He threw open a door and hurled a Mars MK variant krak grenade inside. The grenade had been built on Mars itself during the Great Crusade, and would've been worth a fortune in any museum. It was designed to tear open the hauls of tanks, but it was just as well suited to tearing open people. The mortals inside the room began screaming, but their screaming was drowned out by Erezak's roaring bolter pistol. The grenade, fashioned in the visage of a horned skull, went off. Red-hot superheated shrapnel flew in all directions, whizzing straight through flesh and embedding itself in the room's steel walls.

Another World Eater threw open a different door, and was sent hurtling into the wall by searing plasma. A serf, holding an over-sized plasma gun at the hip, stood in the doorway. Her face was a patchwork of ugly scar tissue, and she wore a Black Legion medallion on her flat-chest. It marked her as a veteran of the Long War, having fought against the Imperium just as long as the World Eaters have. The weapon was too huge to be aimed conventionally, and she had to swing her whole body to aim at a new target. The gun let loose another roaring bolt of plasma, which blew off a different World Eater's swordarm. He fell to the ground, howling in pain. His broken stump of a shoulder was smoking.

Erezak threw a krak grenade at her, screaming something about the Blood God. It beaned her on the face, cracking her nose, and landed somewhere inside the room. She stumbled, firing carelessly. This bolt did nothing but rip a smoking hole in the wall, and overheat the plasma gun. Glowing energy coils caught fire, and the metal around it bubbled. The serf dropped the weapon, but it was too late. Both her hands had been scalded and she was screaming incoherently. She desperately keyed the door's control rune. With infuriating slowness it began to close, gears clanking and pipes hissing. Erezak squeezed the trigger of his bolter, firing in the woman's general direction.

A shot pierced through her chest, dropping her to the floor. The door started to close on her already broken chest, cracking her ribcage. Then the krak grenade behind her went off. All-in-all, it was a glorious tribute to the Blood God.

Hael punched Erezak hard, right in the face plate. His HUD went out for a movement, and his visor was flooded with static. "Erezak!" Hael shouted. "The bridge is that way! We're only wasting our time against these mortals!"

"Ehh," Erezak said. "Blood is blood."

"Not all blood is equal," said Hael. A muted clicking sound came from his helmet as he accepted a vox channel. He stood in complete silence for several seconds, just listening.

"World Eaters!" Hael called. "Follow me, or you all die!"

He started running, and there was a certain urgency to his movements. Erezak and around ten others World Eaters followed him, sensing that he would lead them to worthy prey. They followed Hael through a dank hallway, where the warp had bled through and the walls were runny flesh. It reminded Erezak of a womb. They reached a narrow and rusted staircase, which collapsed under the first Berzerker to step on it. He fell several stories, his impassioned screaming growing more and more distant with each floor he passed. Hael then declared that they would no longer use the stairs, and instead use the lift.

It couldn't carry the weight of a dozen Astartes. The World Eaters, with sword and axe, tore their way through the ceiling. Pipes snaked their way up the walls of the elevator shafts, like metal vines. They climbed up the pipes, making slow but steady progress. Evidently someone entered the lift, because it started to move up, towards the climbing World Eaters. One of them decided to swipe at the lift cable with a power axe, which he'd recently looted. The cable melted at the axe's burning touch, and the lift went hurtling down the elevator shaft like a missile. Hael shouted at his followers to keep moving.

They reached a door in the side of an elevator shaft. Hael, sporting a looted powerfist, pried the door open and clambered his way inside. He waited for the others to catch up with him, screaming at them all the while. Erezak wondered when Lord Qul would finally get around to killing Hael. Did Lord Qul even remember the promise he'd made, about butchering Hael for his incompetence? Erezak wanted to believe that Qul was infallible, but he just couldn't make himself like his brothers could.

The World Eaters ran through a pristine hallway. It was in good condition, which meant it was close to the bridge. All of the hallways Lord Captain Markov used were kept in excellent condition. Every few months, crews armed with flamers would sweep through and purge any warp flesh. Markov didn't like it when the floors bled and the walls literally had eyes.

Erezak heard bolterfire nearby. It was close enough so that he could almost smell the smoke and taste the gunpowder's rich, ashy flavor. One World Eater let his bloodlust get the better of himself. He charged ahead of Hael and rounded a corner. His head snapped back and his faceplate shattered. The bolt lodged in his broken eye lense detonated, pulping the Legionnaire's brains. He spasmed, then went limp like a ragdoll. His corpse landed amid several other bodies, all of which belonged to World Eaters.

"Halt," said Hael, raising a hand. Hesitantly, the Berzerkers complied. "Does anyone here remember being trained for a Scout squad? Just after you passed the Astartes trials, but before you'd ever gone into combat?"

"Aye," Erezak said, after realizing that no one else was going to answer.

"Remember the pack fighting exercises, where we learned to fight as one?"

"Aye."

"That's what we'll need to do here. First, we let loose a controlled volley of frag grenades, then we charge as one. Kill them all. Understood?"

This time, several Legionnaires besides Erezak acknowledged what Hael said. Several said, "Yes" or "Aye", and others just nodded their heads. A few still stared ahead blankly. To them, Hael's words were little more than static.

"Alright. Everyone, get ready. On one. Five... Four... Three... two... one."

Around half of the assembled Berzerkers charged, and the other half hurled grenades. Erezak realized he'd thrown a krak grenade into the crowd of his brothers. The six World Eaters who had charged disappeared in a cloud of shrapnel and bolterfire. Erezak managed to catch a glimpse of one, bolt after bolt punched into his cracked and broken armor. Hael started screaming in a less than coherent fashion, then threw his powerfist at a nearby World Eater in a roundhouse punch. The Legionnaire he'd attacked dodged the punch. He stabbed clumsily at Hael with his chainsword. Whirring teeth clattered against the reinforced ceramite of Hael's breastplate. Hael threw another savage punch. He hit the Legionnaire square in the throat, inadvertently decapitating him.

The bastard's headless corpse fell past the corner, where it was torn to shreds by bolterfire.

His body was added to the growing mound of corpses.

"Brother, why would you kill one of our own?" a World Eater asked, his voice oddly clear for a Berzerker. It was the one with the power axe. "Qul has forbidden it."

Erezak looked down at the two remaining krak grenades on his belt. He wondered where he'd gotten so many. In all likelihood, he'd killed someone for them. That was a disturbing thought. In the past he'd been emotional and often irrational, but he'd at least been coherent. He'd always known what he was doing. Now, he may have killed one of his own brothers without even remembering or acknowledging it. Erezak worried that he was beginning to slip.

"He disobeyed," said Hael. "He threw a krak grenade. I had to kill him."

"He didn't throw the krak grenade! Erezak did!" the clear voiced Berzerker shouted.

Erezak looked up. "No," he lied.

"Then who did?"

"Kalarg. The brother Hael killed," Erezak answered. At least he was still coherent enough to have conversations.

"I saw Kalarg; he didn't even have any grenades. He just stood there in a trance until Hael killed him."

Suddenly, Erezak found himself disliking the clear voiced Berzerker.

"Silence!" Hael shouted. "Enough is enough. We can deal with this later. For now, we have to work on the problem with the Black Legionnaires around the corner. How many of us are left?"

"Six," said Erezak. The correct answer was seven, but he had forgotten to count himself.

"We can take them. Alright. On one. Five... Four... Three... Two... One."

The World Eaters rounded the corner as one, yelling and screaming. Some howled, some gave praise to the Blood God, and some just spat barely coherent threats. Around the corner was a formation of seven Astartes, standing behind a makeshift barricade of empty crates and steel sheets. They wore modern armor designs, painted in yellow and black camouflage. Many of them had beaked helmets, which hadn't been developed until thousands of years after the Horus Heresy. These Astartes certainly weren't Black Legionnaires. Bug-eyed mantis heads had been painted onto their right shoulders.

Six of the Astartes were equipped with long barreled bolters, designed for accuracy rather than strength. The seventh had a tripod mounted, snub barreled heavy bolter. All seven Astartes open fired simultaneously.

Initially, the battle seemed lost for the World Eaters. Three Berzerkers, including the clear voiced one, were taken out by the volley of bolterfire. Two had taken carefully aimed shots to their exposed joints, and though alive, they were no longer fit for combat. The third had been shot in the throat. Hael tossed a frag grenade, throwing off the Astartes' aim. Before they could recover, he came crashing through the barricade. With a wide sweep of his powerfist, he annihilated one Astartes' chest and broke the skull of another. The Astartes with the heavy bolter rotated to face Hael, but before he could take proper aim Erezak reached him. His axe passed through the wrist joint of the Astartes' right hand. With his other hand, the Astartes reached for a combat knife.

Before he could grab it, Erezak kicked him hard in the face. He was sent reeling back. As he lay on the floor, his head swimming, Erezak opened fire with his bolt pistol. The Astartes' thigh-plate was blown open, and the flesh beneath it was reduced to a mess of shattered bone and torn muscle. Another shot hit the elbow joint of his good arm, ripping through the joint's ligaments and ruining his arm. Wracked with the worst pain he had ever felt, he could do little more than moan and wheeze pathetically.

Erezak looked around. The other Astartes had already been slain, but at a steep price. Him, Hael, and a Berzerker he didn't know were all that were left.

"These weren't Black Legionnaires," Hael said. "These were Mantis Warriors."

"Mantis Warriors?"

"Loyalist dogs, and one of the worst breeds. I need to tell Lord Qul."

The Berzerker who had been shot in the throat undid the seals of his helmet. With a great deal of effort, he gripped it by the face-plate and pried it off. Beneath the ceramite, his face was slicked with bloody spit. He'd been gagging it up uncontrollably, and it'd begun to fill up his helmet. Every muscle in his face was tensed, locking it in an ugly grimace. Through watery eyes he glared up the ceiling lights. He refused to blink. After trembling for a few moments, his face relaxed. His eyes rolled back in his sockets, and his armor's lifesign readings went dead.

Erezak realized that he could've just as easily died like that, drowning in blood and spit. His face began to feel hot. Pressure was starting to build up behind his temples. He clenched his fists and grated his teeth.

"Death to the False Emperor!" he bellowed, unaware that the Mantis Warriors he fought were renegades. He sprinted off, seeking more skulls to claim.





Erezak didn't know where the bridge was. He ran aimlessly, throwing open random doors and sprinting down random halls. There were very few living people where he was, and a great deal of corpses. Though some of the corpses were of Mantis Warriors, others were of Black Legionnaires and World Eaters. A few belonged to a strange fourth faction Erezak didn't recognize. They wore glossy black armor, detailed with green flames. He stole a meltagun from one corpse, and a plasma pistol from another. Though he was forced to discard his bolter pistol to carry so much gear, he didn't particularly care.

At one point he found a power sword, but was unwilling to part with his chain axe. It had a certain sentimental value to him. In order to keep it, he was forced to find a chain and tie it around his waist. It clattered against his leg when he ran.

On static ridden and choppy vox feeds, he overheard screaming and bolterfire. The battle was still going on somewhere. Erezak just didn't know where.

At one point he found a legless Mantis Warrior, its severed chest trailing gore and intestines, dragging itself across the hall. The thing was so pathetic that for a moment Erezak's hatred was overcome by pity, even if it was a loyalist dog. He blew its head off with his plasma pistol, allowing it a clean death. Someday, Erezak hoped someone would be willing to do the same for him.

He kept on running.

Later, he came upon a dark metal door, reinforced by thick bars of durasteel. Presumably the Black Legion was keeping something valuable in there. Inside, there could be suits of Tactical Dreadnought Armor, Great Crusade era jet-bikes, or even nuclear arsenals. Erezak pulled the trigger on the meltagun. It didn't need time to charge, and there was no recoil. The weapon hissed, and the air before it was distorted by heat. Instantaneously, and with a roaring blast, the door was reduced to dolloping molten slag, barely clinging to the doorway.

He fired again. The roaring blast left a gleaming puddle of liquid metal, interladen with smoking wreckage.

"Have you come to kill me?" drawled a wet, burbling voice.

The liquid metal was already starting to cool and solidify. Rising heat distorted the smoky air, making the room seem like something out of a nightmare. Erezak stepped inside, clutching the meltagun tightly.

Something stood in the corner of the room. It had roughly the shape and appearance of an Astartes, but it was something much different. Its flesh had bonded with its armor, and it looked like a shambling wreck of a person. Exposed cabling ran about its broken form. The thing's face was leering and draconian, with too many teeth and beady eyes. Some parts of him were scaly, like a lizard. Other parts of him were wrinkled and sagging. And in some areas, his flesh was soft and smooth, like a baby's.

"What in the name of the Blood God are you?" Erezak said.

"I am the Half Mad. I am this vessel's navigator and, I assure you, I am more valuable alive than dead." Its face twisted in an ugly grin, baring its many fangs. "Kindly put down the meltagun, please."

yusss, more Erezak, he is awesome.

Zomg! This was very, very good!

Very good! more soon please.

The Half Mad stepped out from the smoking room, and it was no less horrific when Erezak could see it clearly. Astartes couldn't feel fear; it'd been bred out of them. Instead, Erezak felt a mixture of unease, disgust, and very palpable dread. One of its arms was a bundle of knotted and twisted tentacles. The other was a claw, with knobby fingers that were far too long. Its posture was hunched and its spine twisted, but it was still a good six inches taller than Erezak. It looked down on Erezak with gleaming eyes and tilted its head in a quizzical way.

"And you are...?" it said. The Half Mad licked his cracking lips, which had been stretched thin in a smirking grin.

"Slaughter Brother Erezak, of the World Eaters 3rd Company."

"Its a pleasure to meet you, Erezak." The Half Mad extended its claw arm.

Erezak gripped it by the wrist, in a traditional Astartes greeting. Its flesh seemed to squelch ever-so-slightly. Wrinkled leathery fingers coiled around Erezak's wrist, and squeezed. The Half Mad's nails scrapped against the ceramite.

"I take it the World Eaters are attacking the bridge now?"

"Ehh... Maybe. Don't know," Erezak said. The Half Mad spoke in a slow and deliberate droning way that made him nearly impossible to listen to. Erezak's attention was already to starting to slip.

"I so-dearly loathe being the bearer of bad news, but I'm afraid the World Eaters will destroy themselves against the Mantis Warriors and Bleak Brotherhood. Their only advantage was their numerical superiority, and with the arrival of these thin-blooded renegades they seem to have lost it."

"Mantis Warriors," the Berzerker echoed. "Where are they?"

"It depends. If the World Eaters are mounting their attack now," it drawled, licking its thin lips. "Then the Mantis Warriors will be defending Lord Captain Markov on the bridge. If the World Eaters have already been defeated, then they'll be hunting the few survivors through the bowels of the vessel."

"I am lost. Take me to the bridge."

"I fear that if I return to the bridge, I'll be slain. My last discussion with Lord Captain Markov didn't end well. I nearly killed him, and he nearly had me killed."

Erezak pressed the barrel of his meltagun against the Half Mad's chest, fixing it on his two hearts. At such a close range, his flesh would evaporate. It would create a vacuum in the Half Mad's chest, which his other organs would seek to fill. Charred organs would squelch together, and his chest would fill with a stew of bodily fluids.

"Take me to the bridge," Erezak hissed, his voice born of pure resolve.

"As you wish."





All the halls seemed the same. The Half Mad led Erezak through one identical passageway after another. Though the Half Mad moved with a sense of purpose as if it knew the place, Erezak couldn't help but doubt the creature. He didn't like anything about it. He hated its long-winded way of speaking, its ugly skin, its hunched back, and its little beady eyes.

They came across a broken barricade. Dead members of the Bleak Brotherhood were strewn about, lying on sheets on broken steel and soaking in puddles of their own coagulated blood. There were two World Eater corpses. One was missing both legs and a great deal of its abdomen. Its broken armor was charred black. The other was impaled to the wall by a chainsword.

Erezak sorted through the corpses. He found a bandoleer of frag grenades, which he slung around his shoulders. In addition to this, he found several strips of spare teeth for his chainaxe. He hung them on the grenade bandoleer. All the while, the Half Mad watched him patiently.

"You don't scavenge," remarked Erezak.

"I prefer not to associate myself with the dead. Touching corpses is something I would rather avoid."

"Heh. An Astartes who's afraid of corpses." One of Erezak's gauntlets was starting to lock up. He began to disassemble the wrist and hand of a Bleak Brother's armor, carefully unclasping and deactivating the mechanics.

"Everyone has their quirks," the Half Mad drawled. He sounded like he was drowning in spit. After removing the Bleak Brother's gauntlet, Erezak began to remove his own. "I've never spoken with a World Eater before. I've seen your kin around the Valiant, but I never had a legitimate conversation."

Erezak fitted the new gauntlet over his hand. Though it fit perfectly, it was having some difficulty interfacing with the rest of his armor. The new gauntlet was approximately ten thousand years younger than the wrist it was supposed to be connecting to. "All Astartes have a poor relationship with sex," the Half Mad continued. "We're circumcised to reduce pleasure, inadvertently sterilized by hormone treatments, then pumped full of chemicals to stunt our sex drives. But the World Eaters are exceptional. No other Legion, save perhaps the Dark Angels, loathes sex with the tenacity they do. No other Legion has declared a war on pleasure and happiness."

Finally, with a loud whirring and then a series of clicking sounds, the new gauntlet connected. Erezak touched his thumb to every finger in rapid succession. "The World Eaters claim to look down on pleasure. But I think that, in reality, they envy it."

Erezak started paying attention. He rose from his crouching position at the corpse, and rested his new gauntlet on the handle of his holstered plasma pistol. "What. Did. You. Say."

"World Eaters envy pleasure, and that is why they hate it."

The Half Mad found himself staring down the barrel of a plasma pistol. Its energy coils lit up in a bright green shade, and the weapon began quaking in Erezak's grip. He swallowed some the spit building up in the back of his mouth, and licked his lips.

Erezak tried to blink away the pain building up in his skull. He wanted to blown the thing's ugly smirking face off. But, more than that, he wanted to prove it wrong. His breathing started to accelerate, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't slow it down. Each shuddering breath came quick and hard. Erezak struggled to put his thoughts in order, to make them into something coherent.

"No," he said. "I hate pleasure because... because.... its a vice. A vice that only the most selfish and wicked men can afford. In this universe, you have to choose between pursuing pleasure, and justice. The World Eaters have suffered wrongs that can not be allowed to stand. We must be avenged.... The universe has wronged us. This can not be allowed to stand. We must wrong it back."

"Fair enough. I sympathize with your viewpoint, but I can't honestly claim to side with it." Slowly, Erezak lowered the pistol. He stood trembling before the Half Mad. "Are we still going to the bridge?" the Half Mad asked.

Qul will kill him Erezak thought. And then we'll need a new navigator.

Ooo nice edition

I agree, Half mad seems to be going for the mutant take on things! I approve

this is a good addition, very nice