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I've been playing around with a story for my DIY chapter for a while now and I've finally found the motivation to put it down. I decided to start with my dreadnought and see how it goes from there if I get around to writing more. Here's the information on my Stone Sentinels chapter http://www.dakkadakka.com/dakkaforum/posts/list/397301.page

It was always the same damned dream.

Tritus, with his back propped up against the wall, sits on the ground, unable to will his body to get up. His does not know how, but he is back on Castellum, the world where he was reborn as a space marine. Castellum is not a beautiful world, no resplendence like the worlds of Ultramar, nor the savage beauty of Fenris. It was a land of grey mountains and bleak tundra, of freezing rain and smothering snow. But, there is a rare time of season, when the storms relinquish their share of the sky to the sun and the snows recede. Castellum shows its true beauty to those who wait. Grey stone forms a tapestry for the coloured lichens and rugged plants that make a living in this environment. A mosaic of colours paint the landscape, cut through with silver rivers and spattered with the shadows of clouds. Black mountains frame this vision of hidden beauty, standing vigilant against the ugly harshness that will return to mask it again.

The vision with no origin is marred though by a single fact; Tritus is dieing. He looks down at his body, apathetic to his demands to stand and move. Blood pools beneath him, spreading, standing out against the grey stone, despite its dark colour. He is wearing his armor, and though he vaguely remembers a distant battle, there are no rents or holes to speak of such a battle. There are no wounds to bleed from, yet the red pool grows and life still abandons his body. He grows cold, colder than he has ever felt; sleep begins to take him, but one Tritus knows he will never wake from. He closes his eyes and gives out one last breath.

A jolt wakes him from his long sleep, leaving him in complete darkness. Slowly though, light flickers before him, sensor feeds come to life. His life support kicks into high gear and he slowly drifts into consciousness. The cluster of sensors, set into an armored head on the front of his chassis, move around, viewing the state of his metal body. A net of cables and thick pipes connect to various ports on his chassis. Tritus looks down, noticing the heavily armored figure standing before him in reverence.

“I am techmarine Sarcus. I regret the need to disturb your slumber, but it appears that Tritus the Revenant is needed once more on the battlefield”, says the armored figure.

Tritus’ engines come to life, giving off a reverberating rumble, like the sound of an avalanche. Hydraulics and pistons hiss and groan into action, moving his oversized bulk. He steps forward, the pipes and cabling disconnect from his body with a puff of pressurized gas and sparking electricity.

Tritus, upon his first death, had been seen worthy to be interred in a venerable dreadnought chassis. Its slabs of armor thicker and its machinery more refined than that of a standard dreadnought. On his right side, he was armed with a plasma cannon, its coils dimly glowing, its machine spirit resting, waiting for the battle to come. Upon the battlefield, it can release the potential energy of a sun. On his right side was a power fist, but one that was unique to his second body, modified by his chapter some time in their founding. Instead of the stubby fingers usually found on standard dreadnought, they had been replaced with long chainswords. The blades could open and close, as well as rotate their teeth inwards or outwards. This allowed Tritus to use the fist like a drill, or to catch an enemy in his claws and maul them until only a lump of shredded flesh remained. Any foe that was to slow to stay out of that arm’s reach would suffer a violent death.

Sarcus’ voice was filled with pride and excitement for the glory of the battle to come. All Tritus could think was that this was just one more war, one more labour to endure. His vox unit comes to life, grating and growling like the sound of glaciers.

“What is needed of me?”

I like it, Tritus seems like the friendly old dred we all love and care for.

That's one grumpy Dread when waking up.

I we going to read this bad boy in action? because this sounds good so far.

 Themanwiththeplan wrote:
That's one grumpy Dread when waking up.

I we going to read this bad boy in action? because this sounds good so far.

Yes, hopefully sooner than later.

Cool stuff mr. nobody. I like your other thread about your chapter as well. I like the direction you took the stone sentinels. I look forward to more.

Here's the next part of the story, my next challenge will be adding more dialogue, Tritus really doesn't talk much, or anyone so far.

Also, this is Tritus

Tritus marched through the slums towards the line of burning houses ahead of him. Other Stone Sentinels advanced in a line beside him, a line of grey to face off against the line of fire and smoke. The sounds of gunfire and fighting could be heard ahead of them. Imperial fighters screamed overhead, neglecting the subtleties of aerodynamics for the brute force of jets and thrusters instead.

Tritus had long ago stopped caring for where he was fighting and why, they were all the same. Some dreadnoughts fell into dementia, constantly reliving the same battle; Tritus was not so lucky, remembering everything. He had been fighting in his second body for centuries, he had seen battles come and go with very little difference to the outcome. He had even fought long enough to conquer and reconquer some of the same planets. Given enough time, even a space marine could grow tired of war. Honour and glory may have faded, but he still held on to duty. He could take the blows his brothers could not; he could carry the burdens others would break under. If he didn’t, one of his brothers would suffer for his indifference and that was intolerable to him. So Tritus fought on.

This battle was different though, there was too much at stake. Heretics had been burning their way towards a forgeworld called Incuda. In any other case, heretics attacking a forgeworld would be typical, looking for plunder and spoil. But it had to be Incuda, the worst possible world to fall threat to the hands of chaos. Incuda was responsible for the production of warp engines. The resources of this world were kept secret; anyone wishing to enter or exit the system could only do so with permission from the highest authorities. Vox and astropathic messages were all watched and recorded. Somehow, the information got out and now knowledge of its dangerous resource was like blood in the water. The loss of the world would be a twofold ordeal; the first wound would be to the imperium’s ship production, a fleet was next to useless if it couldn’t warp to other systems. Second, the damage that could be done with a warp engine was limited only by a madman’s imagination. Entire planets could be pulled into the warp, destroyed in the blink of an eye. An even worse outcome would be if something was pulled out. A warp engine could provide all the power needed to tear a rift in the fabric of reality, allowing demons to pour through on demand. Tritus could not let this battle pass by; Incuda could not be allowed to fall while he was able to defend it.

It was the opening stages of the invasion, imperial guard had been deployed outside the walls, digging a trench lines around the city. They had been ordered to pummel the enemy as long as possible before pulling back behind the walls, leaving the slums outside the walls to their demise. The enemy was now too close for comfort and Tritus had been deployed with a number of his brethren to cover the guard while they made an organized retreat.

The slums ranged from small, metal shacks to six story concrete blocks; built with machines that could be salvaged or cobbled together from scrap yards. Those civilians who were too stubborn or too stupid to have left already were running towards city gates which will never open for them. A layer of ice and snow lay on the clusters of shelters while the paths had been churned into muck from the traffic. Imperial Guards tanks rolled by, heading back for their next emplacements behind the walls of the city. Some tank crews were zealous enough to turn their turrets back to the enemy and fire off a few more rounds. Tritus and the other Sentinels had reached an opening in the clutter to where the front line of the fighting had moved to. Imperial Guard units were taking cover amongst the buildings while the enemy boiled over the abandoned trenches. The enemy was made up of renegade guard unit and cultist, it appeared that the traitor marine were waiting to reveal themselves in a later battle. This would be easy work for the Stone Sentinels.

Stone Sentinels rushed forward to take up position while the guard units began to fall back. Tritus stomped forward into the sight of the enemy who were quick to move their aim on such an obvious threat. He leaned forward into the barrage of fire, giving the appearance of an old man hunched over in a storm. The enemy’s small weapons fire was nowhere near strong enough to pierce his second body’s plating and bounced off harmlessly. A group of heretics were trying to move a lascannon into place when Tritus spotted them. He swung his body around and brought the plasma cannon up to level with them. With a flash of light, a newborn sun was born and spat out the mouth of the cannon. The lascannon team was vaporised by an expanding ball of white light. Those nearest to them were gone in a puff of ash, while those who were further away were burned or blinded by the flash of light. The plasma cannon hissed with venting coolant, readying for another shot. He and the other Stone Sentinels laid down a line of fire, Tritus aiming for those weapons which could harm him. Without the chaos marines to back them up, the heretic’s push began to falter as panic spread through the mob.

The Stone Sentinels took this opportunity to start falling back themselves; they might be winning now, but they were too outnumbered to keep this up. They began moving back in concert, one unit falling back behind the other covering them. Tritus back pedaled, keeping his face towards the enemy and laying a barrage of plasma fire. This continued for many hours, the enemy creeping closer and subsequently being pushed back. This fight was becoming more dangerous though, the enemy’s aim was getting better, targeting joints, and Sentinels were beginning to accumulate injuries. This wave was much more aggressive than the last, growing much closer than before. There was a roar and the centre of the mob parted. Five ogryns came charging out of the mob, overgrown and twisted. Tritus charged forward in bitter silence.

They wielded hammers, axes and whatever heavy objects they could find. Tritus fired off the plasma cannon, obliterating two members of the bellowing charge. The cannon’s machine spirit gave off a whine, pushed into the upper limits of its safe use. No time for another shot. Tritus revved up his combat arm, four long chainsword roared into life, like the maw of some giant worm. The first ogryn ran forward with an oversized hammer. Tritus turned the teeth of the chainswords outwards, becoming a grinding drill piece. He rammed the arm forward, landing a blow in the ogryn‘s chest. The teeth grinded their way through its chest, destroying its lungs and heart. Tritus pulled the arm out, the ogryn dropped on the ground, dead. The other two ogryns ran forward, hoping to outnumber him. Tritus swung his body around, back handing one ogryn into the other. As the first ogryn threw his stunned partner out of the way, Tritus reversed the blade’s teeth inward and grabbed for the ogryn. It jumped back, a little faster and smarter than the others. The other ogryn came too and tried to pick itself up, fumbling for its club. Tritus took a step forward, crushing the ogryn under foot, burying it in the muck. He swung his claw at the surviving ogryn, the one smart enough to dodge. It swung its hammer down on the combat arm, causing Tritus to almost miss. Almost. The ogryn’s boot caught on some the claw’s teeth, yanking the leg into the claw’s grip, causing the ogryn to fall. The claws clamped down and chewed away at leg, the ogryn’s screams turned from ones of anger to ones of fear and agony. He turned off the spinning teeth and picked up the dying ogryn by its chest. Tritus reactivated the chainblades and the ogryn gave one last wail before being mauled to death. Tritus threw the chunk of meat back at the retreating heretics, their charge broken by the Stone Sentinel’s bolter fire.

The Stone Sentinels used the temporary reprieve to collect their wounded and make their way the remaining distance to the wall. Once they reached the safety of the wall’s guns, Tritus finally turned his back on the enemy and made his way to the gate. The enemy pushed forward into the slums, setting up what heavy weapons they could carry and digging in for cover. The Stone Sentinels knew they would lose the vast slums, so left a gift for the heretics. Spread throughout the buildings was barrels of promethium and explosives. Balls of fire blossomed amongst the slums, burning away and destroying the cover the heretics might have used to advance to the wall. Any heretics who had chased after the line of Sentinels were now dead or dying. The war had begun and it would only escalate until one side was dead or broken.

Oh my, well done! I like your Dread more and more.

Nice work on your Dread, it's a cool pic. I also like the Dread character. It's a nice difference to read about one who is sick of war but still wont give up the fight for his brothers and duty.

Great stuff Mr. Nobody. There was a nice balance of combat and back ground in that section and you still managed to give Titus some character.

When do we get more?

 IceAngel wrote:
Great stuff Mr. Nobody. There was a nice balance of combat and back ground in that section and you still managed to give Titus some character.

When do we get more?

Don't know, I usually add more when my lectures get a little slow or at lunch.

I've finally finished the next part and it is much longer. Lots of fighting and you get to see other sentinels. After this, I might stray away from Tritus and try and graft more story and plot onto this. Maybe get into who leaked information.

Many people think the worst part of being entombed in a dreadnought is the claustrophobia or the sensory deprivation, but this isn’t so. Claustrophobia will eventually recede as your mind becomes one with the second body, the shrivelled corpse within forgotten. The sensory deprivation is merely depressing, a tasteless replication of reality. No, it’s the breathing the body yearns for the most. The rush of air through the nose and mouth, the sensation of air flowing down the back of the throat. The flexing of the diaphragm, the feeling of the lungs stretching to fill to their limits. The release of this pent up breath, the air rushing from the body, along with a temporary release of tension. Such a mundane sensation means everything once it’s taken from you. Air was mechanically pumped into Tritus’ lungs, but his old flesh still craved for breath. Claustrophobia can fade, but the instinct to breath never did. If he wasn’t careful, his mind would wander and the sensation of suffocation would return.

It was four months into the siege, the enemy succeeding in capturing the minor hives, while the Stone Sentinels were holding the major hives in various states of security. Tritus and the bulk of the marine forces were located in Incuda prime, the forgeworld capitol. It was also the primary site of the warp engine factories themselves. All the components were brought together and assembled here, to be shipped off world. They had held the outer wall for months, but the enemy had eventually begun to break through. Eventually, there were just too many holes to fill, too many openings to hold; so the wall was abandoned and the next line was drawn. That was when the siege had become much more complicated and difficult. Tritus just called it a headache. Incuda was part city, part factory and part fortress. The city was built in layers, walls forming rings like a target, the most important structures closer to the center. But the city had grown over the years, uneven growths of architecture like tumors or fungal growths ruining its radial symmetry. The inner wall had developed many openings over the years; subterranean tunnels for shuttles and sewers, above, there were opening for transit ways, back doors through buildings clinging to the wall, the openings were myriad. Many were shut, caved in or barricaded, but the enemy was putting a lot of effort into finding a way through these. If they could find a way through, it would save them months of siege work and supplies. So Tritus and the marines were deployed outside the inner wall, trying to deny as much of the outer city as possible. The more of the city the Stone Sentinels could hold, the less passages the enemy could find.

For now, the war in Incuda Prime had turned into an ongoing game of cat and mouse. Both sides were trying to find the other first, trying to gain the first strike. Even the colossal titans were forced to stalk each other throughout the outer city. If the forgeworld’s titans were to push ahead they would have been surrounded and slain, the wall left undefended. If the heretic engines were to rush the wall, they would have been decimated by massed fire. The Stone Sentinels though were all too happy to play this game. They were well learned when it came to patience, waiting for the right moment to strike. This was the cornerstone of the Stone Sentinel’s teachings, to wait, listen and let the enemy run onto your sword. Leading Tritus’ hunting party was captain Atros of the second battle company. The captain excelled at predictions and could read the enemy’s movements as easily one traces a river’s path on a map.

They had been tracking a group of heretics for two days. It appeared they were aiming to make their way to a block of buildings hugging the wall, perhaps use the building as cover to breach the wall. The hunting party had decided on a suitable location to intercept and ambush them. Tritus’ group had located themselves at a midlevel transitway for ground traffic. Dark buildings towered on either side of the road, the windows blown out from passing artillery barrages, the sky only a grey slash above them. Through grating on the side of the paths, one could only see blackness below. When the power grid had been working, the blackness would have glowed with lights from signs and lower traffic levels; appearing as schools of iridescent fish in a black ocean. Now it was only dark. Tritus was positioned at a T-junction in the road along with a squad of imperial and PDF, he was much too large for subtlety. They were dug in behind sand bags and portable barricades; they were to hold this position against the heretic band. The band came into view ahead and moved forward into firing position. The enemy band consisted of a compact drilling machine at the rear, small enough to fit between buildings and remain undetected by the wall. Escorting the drill was horde traitor guard with squad of chaos marines at their centre, over twenty strong. These marines were painted in garish and bright colours, seeming unable to stay still, twitching with every movement. Their armor was adorned with pieces from their previous victims, those citizens who could not find shelter behind the inner walls. Tritus had fought these types of marines before, followers of the one they call “Slaanesh”; worshipping all forms of hedonism and depravity. All wars contain stories of armies taking their pleasure out on their victims, but even the most savage and barbaric human would look upon these Slanneshi warriors with disgust. The wa rband spotted them and pushed forward so that they could fire upon Tritus’ position. The guard ducked down and the two sides began to exchange fire as the war band pushed forward. The space between them was laced with las bolts and tracer fire from emplaced heavy bolters. Soldiers on both sides were mowed down; las fire punching holes through them, or being ripped open by bolter rounds. Even when Tritus added his own fire from the plasma cannon, the enemies’ numbers were too great for them.

As the heretics pushed forward, nobody noticed the paired green lights winking on as they passed, like the eyes of some nocturnal predator from a nightmare. No one noticed what appeared to be stone and ferrocrete rubble begins to rise, like golems from ancient stories. Fire explodes from either side of the transit way, stabbing into the warband’s flanks. The tactical squad, five men strong on either side, lean out the windows and continue firing into the heretics. Their armour was chipped and pitted with the accumulated damage of multiple battles. Mud climbed up to their shins, rain and snow had kept their upper body clean of muck. The traitor guard are pulped, but the chaos marines’ armour holds and they begin to return fire. Captain Atros jumps out of the window with his champion, landing with a heavy thud. The rest of the command squad lets off one last volley of cover fire before charging in as well. Atros gives off an air of invulnerable, seeming to have no openings or weaknesses. He is armed with the paired sentinel gauntlets. A power fist frame with a shield built onto the top of it, a retractable blade hidden inside. Armed with these twin gauntlets, Atros was supremely well equipped for close combat against a variety of foes. Where Atros was invulnerable, their champion Calcin was unbreakable. His shield was a mess of cuts and bullet holes, his sword chipped along its length. Calcin’s armor wasn’t much better, the left side of his helmet was slashed, and the left eye lens was black and lifeless. Yet, no matter how much damage he took, it didn’t slow Calcin down.

Atros lunges forward, his two gauntlets raised up to shield him from the enemy’s first attacks. Plowing through the cultists, Atros grabs one and with the left gauntlet and throws him into a chaos marine while the blade on the right gauntlet thrusts through another’s bolter. The energised blade punches straight through the bolter’s mechanisms and into the chest plate; neither bolter nor power armor is enough to slow the blade. The other chaos marine tears the cultist off and comes forward with a jagged knife the lengths of his forearm while another chaos marine joins the counter attack. Atros pulls the right gauntlet free of the impaled marine who crumples to the ground with a clatter of armour, his heart a torn ruin. Atros raises both gauntlet, both blocking off the chaos marines on either side. Pushing off the two enemies and swinging the blades, he gives himself a moment’s reprise. While Atros and the command squad attack the marines, Calcin goes straight for their leader. The enemy leader’s armour is a mess of sloppy painting and graffiti that seems to writhe in place. The eyes glow a baleful yellow and his head and arms seems to vibrate like a badly tuned picter slide. He is armed with two blades, both wickedly thin, giving off a glow like his eyes.

“Are you this rabble’s leader?” Calcin asked in a flat tone.
“Yes, I am the great-“
“Good” Calcin replies without waiting.

Calcin charges forward, holding his combat shield out ahead of him. The enemy dashes forward in a blur, beating away at Calcin’s shield in spasmodic fury. Every time the blades strike, Calcin can hear faint voices in his head, distracting him from the fight like a psychic vox jammer. Calcin pushes forward with the shield, trying to throw the enemy leader off balance; but he jumps back and immediately moves into the offensive again. Calcin once again batters the blades aside and thrusts forward with his own blade. The enemy spins, using Calcin’s shield bash as momentum and brings one his blades around in a slash. Calcin steps back and the blade slides across his raised collar, raising another wave voices, this time stronger. The enemy fallows through with the spin with a thrust from the other sword which strikes home in Calcin’s side. Voices explode in Calcin’s head and his vision turns a blurred, amber colour. The world begins to shake and jump, the overwhelming voices will soon leave Calcin helpless. With what little focus remains, he swings his shield at his foes face. The psychotic enemy commander is so focused on revelling on his strike that he didn’t notice the incoming shield. With a muffled crunch, the shield made contact with helmets mouth grill, crumpling the commander’s mouth. They stumble away from each other, the sword pulling out of Calcin’s side. The voices and the haze leaves his mind, his thoughts begin to clear again. Calcin attacks while the commander is still reeling, beating him down with his combat shield. As the enemy starts to rise, Calcin pins one arm with his sword while standing on his chest and crushing his other hand with his boot. The enemy commander thrashes back and forth; his head is a blur of useless movement. Calcin levels his bolt pistol at the enemy’s head. The enemy coughs up a viscous, red flood and makes a final attempt at speech.

“What proud, final words does the emperor’s thug have for me? Some stirring lecture on your holy lies?” Calcin looks down at the commander, as if studying the quality of some catch he’s made.
“No”.

He fires off two rounds from his bolt pistol, one puncturing the beaten mouth grill, the other through one of the glowing eye lenses. The heads is gone; the only remains left were shards of a helmet and red mush painting the stone beneath the corpse. Calcin turns back to the surrounding battle making his way back to his captain. Calcin finds captain Atros, who back hands a chaos marine into the others giving them some breathing room.

“How did your hunt go?” Atros asks as he pulls his blade out of a dead enemy.
“He stabbed me.” Calcin grumbles in reply.
“I’ve learned that a good way of winning a battle is not letting them do that.” Atros jokes, Calcin giving a quick laugh as a reply.
“I can’t kill this entire rabble, where are the reinforcements?” Calcin asks in frustration, blocking a blow with his shield.
“Almost here.” Atros promises.

The warband pushes in at them again, coming forward with a variety viscous blades and bayonets. Calcin strikes with an upward swing, splitting a chaos marine open down the front. Atros grabs a rushing enemy by the head and stabs in him in the chest. Atros pulls the blade down and out, emptying the chaos marine at his feet. The rest of the command squad is protecting their back, but they’re losing space quickly and are severely outnumbered. Then sky above them roars with thunder and five forms drop from above. Atros’ reinforcements had come in the form of assault marines. Most chapter’s assault marine were noble things that opened their attacks with roaring chainswords and crackling power weapons. The Stone Sentinels chose a more blunt approach, simply landing on their enemies and letting gravity do the work. Assault marines plummeted around Atros and Calcin into the midst of the fray. Chaos marines were crushed by the falling assault marines while the others were pushed back by the jet wash of thruster packs.

Tritus watched from his position with the guardsmen. Once the assault marines arrived, the battle became short work and Tritus saw no need to join in. Once the battle was over, melta charges were planted on the drill, leaving a melted husk behind. Once that was done, the apothecary moved amongst the fallen, collecting their geneseed. Others collected bodies, making sure their weapons and armour were secured for other marines. The Stone Sentinels were successful, but every time, they came back with fewer brothers. Guardsmen looked at the battle with awe and whispered amongst themselves on what they saw. One guardsmen was brave enough to speak to Tritus.

“I thought they only sent you to hold this block, when did they get here?” the guardsmen asks. Tritus turns his body towards the guardsmen.
“They were here before you were, waiting. Remember, for every one of us you can see, there are ten more you can’t”.

The guardsmen looked amongst each other, absorbing Tritus’ words. They had learned as lesson that day.

Another nice addition mr. nobody. I especially liked the beginning with Tritus and the lacking of breathing part. My only critique, which I think this may be a personal preference, but when ever I am writing out a conversation I like to try and add more then just the spoken words more often then not. In your major conversation,

“How did your hunt go?”
“He stabbed me.”
“I’ve learned that a good way of winning a battle is not letting them do that.” Calcin gives a quick laugh as reply.
“I can’t kill this entire rabble, where are the reinforcements?”
“Almost here.”

You only did this once where Calcin laughed. I think you could add a bit more description to give the exchange a bit more depth and clarity, its not even clear who started the conversation. Add in something to state their emotions or their actions while speaking. For example,

“How did your hunt go?” Calin asked while tossing aside a corpse.
“He stabbed me,” Atros spat with disgust.
“I’ve learned that a good way of winning a battle is not letting them do that.” Calcin gives a quick laugh as reply.

You don't have to do this every time but it helps set the mood, in my opinion. Other then that and some grammar stuff, (you may want to reread the last sentence,) I liked it.

 IceAngel wrote:
Another nice addition mr. nobody. I especially liked the beginning with Tritus and the lacking of breathing part. My only critique, which I think this may be a personal preference, but when ever I am writing out a conversation I like to try and add more then just the spoken words more often then not. In your major conversation,

“How did your hunt go?”
“He stabbed me.”
“I’ve learned that a good way of winning a battle is not letting them do that.” Calcin gives a quick laugh as reply.
“I can’t kill this entire rabble, where are the reinforcements?”
“Almost here.”

You only did this once where Calcin laughed. I think you could add a bit more description to give the exchange a bit more depth and clarity, its not even clear who started the conversation. Add in something to state their emotions or their actions while speaking. For example,

“How did your hunt go?” Calin asked while tossing aside a corpse.
“He stabbed me,” Atros spat with disgust.
“I’ve learned that a good way of winning a battle is not letting them do that.” Calcin gives a quick laugh as reply.

You don't have to do this every time but it helps set the mood, in my opinion. Other then that and some grammar stuff, (you may want to reread the last sentence,) I liked it.

I've done as you said, hopefully that clears it up. You actually had the two conversation parts mixed up, so it's a good thing you said something.

This was a fine read, well done.

Finally finished the next part, with actual dialogue.

After a few more firefights and a few more successful hunts, it was time for Tritus’ group to return to base. They headed back to the secured area behind the wall so that they could rearm and tend to both their wounds and their armor. Another hunting party would take their place beyond the walls. Tritus reflected on one major advantage to defending a forgeworld, with an entire planet dedicated to machinery, there was plenty of opportunity to repair and rearm. Rhinos had been sent out to pick up the squads and return them to base quickly. They had also sent out a flatbed vehicle that could transport Tritus, relieving him of the need to walk back. He blessed and cursed his second body’s size; his bulk granted near invulnerability in battle, but made him slow and cumbersome for any distance.

Up ahead, the inner wall loomed above the approaching convoy. It might have been smaller than the outer walls, but even this wall was a monolithic example of architecture. True to mechanicum architecture, the wall had perfect symmetry, broken by towers, which in turn, were perfectly spread out. The walls continued off into the distance, either obscured by the city or curving out of sight. It appeared as if a giant had planted its crown in the centre of the city. They approached the southern door, one of four that were placed on each compass point. The doors were massive, large and wide enough for the largest of titans to walk through. The door was adamantium plated iron, its skin blackened by age and soot. Rather than swing open, it split down the middle and slid apart. Snow fell from their tops, the accumulated snowdrifts disturbed from the sleeping doors. The door was a noisome machine to the ears, bellowing, squealing and groaning as it inched along. Gears of myriad sizes clunked and chattered along as they slowly rolled the door along their backs. It opened just enough to allow the vehicles through, only a hair’s breadth compared to the immensity of the door and its walls. They drove through the teeth of the door, revealing a thickness equal to the length of a landraider. Inside the wall, the hab blocks dissipated into those buildings most vital to the city. The factories and assembly lines that held the vital components of warp engines, which also doubled as both the machanicum’s temples, the techpriests ruling from their highest floors.

Headquarters had been set up at the centre of the city, being the shortest route to any location in the city and the most fortified. It was also the location where the warp engines were completed and where the arch Magos ruled the city from. Tritus group approached base from highest roads, those that were open to the sky, allowing them to see the full size of the warp engine’s manufactory. It was a spire that jutted out of the ground, rising above any other structure in the city, dominating the sky line. Its sides were covered with holes, allowing trains and shuttles to move supplies in and out of its bowels. It had the appearance of some insect colony’s den. What could not be seen was that, as far as it climbed into the sky, it also traveled an equal distance in the ground; keeping its volatile products shielded away by the surrounding earth. Their group pulled into a large, hangar like entrance in the side of the spire. Soldiers and vehicles from every aspect of the imperial machine moved about. An imperial guard convoy was forming up, their massed fire preparing to move to the field and flatten the enemy. Skitarii security squads patrolled the entrance, their preprogrammed routes buried in their skulls. Skitarii were personal soldiers of the mechanicum, recognizable under a myriad of technological modifications. Where the space marines were slabs of smooth armour, the skitarii bristled with blades and weapons. Space marines also occupied the space, some of them preparing to leave, while others were just returning. The ones returning were battered and worn down, their armour covered with accumulated damage; some of them were even missing pieces. The ones leaving had already had their armour repaired. Their armour was a collage of welding seams, having the appearance of metal scars; the armour would still hold though. The person capable of such quick work was waiting for them inside the hangar space. Tritus stepped off the flatbed, the truck swaying and groaning against the shift in his weight. He spots Atros moving towards the waiting figure and he moves to come up beside him.

“Techmarine Kasor, what brings you away from your machines?” Atros asks.

Techmarine Kasor, master of the forge and the one responsible for speed of the marine’s repairs. His servo harness was folded up on his back, like a giant, sleeping insect. Layers of extra armour were piled on his body, giving him the appearance of an oversized space marine. His face was forever hidden behind the glowing band of his visor. In his right hand he carried an oversized axe, doubling as both a weapon and a sign of office. Kasor had decided to join the ground war knowing that his technological mastery would allow their armies to hold exponentially longer with his repairs.

“A message, the leaders of our forces are awaiting on you to convene.” Kasor replied with a grumbling buzz.
“Since when did the master of the forge play messenger?” Atros replied. “What else is there”?
“Information; I wish to show you after this council though.” Kasor replies.
“A space marine does not withhold information from his captain, why should I wait?” Atros asks sceptically.
“The information is… disconcerting. I would not want our allies to suffer your ire.” Kasor answers with his signature, toneless and cryptic replies.
“Fine, I shall wait till after.” Atros relents to Kasor, waving a hand in surrender. He knew that Kasor did nothing without the soundest reasoning and calculation.

Tritus watches Atros march off, facing a battle of words and clout, rather than bolter and blade. Tritus was not jealous of his place at this moment. Tritus turned to Kasor.

“What information could be so dire as to affect our captain?” Tritus questioned.
“Information about a foe that can do more damage with whispers than they do with weapons.” Kasor replied.

Next time, the meeting and a thickening plot.

And the plot thickens!

Nice addition, Mr. Nobody.

Wow, great read!

Excellent Read - Look forward to reading more

Thank you very much for the replies. Seriously, I almost dropped this until comments started coming in. Attention = motivation.

“We must move more of our forces beyond the wall” Atros raised his voice, letting his exasperation show through. “My brothers and I are powerful, but we cannot be everywhere at once, as you seem to believe”.

Atros stood at a large table, unsure if the chairs here could support his armoured weight. He thought it best not to test them. The various leaders were sat around a table in the shape of large ring, the center open for a holographic projector. The holograph was currently displaying a detailed map of the surrounding city, showing what territory they still held. The table was beaten copper with polished steel inset into its surface, forming the pattern of a giant cog wheel. The city was a glowing, green field before Atros, marred by swathes of red blotches, denoting what territory the enemy had taken. Every piece of red was the blood lost to the enemy. Brothers, soldiers and innocents Atros failed to save. Every piece of rubble he took from his Emperor and gave to the lowliest and least deserving of life in the galaxy. Those simple, little, glowing pixels of light burned into him with more shame and pain than any physical blade.

Around the table were sat the various factions and groups within the imperial army. To his left, and the second largest group, were the imperial guard commanders. A quarter of the table was filled with their various leaders and their support staff. Each man and woman a veteran of war, each a different story of their survival built into their appearance. Some were clean shaven, with uniforms starch and perfect. War was no excuse for sloppiness. Others were grizzled and looked older than they should be; a collection of scars and bionics a testament to their survival. A force as vast as the guard takes an army of personnel alone just to lead it. To Atros’ right were the few staff that represented the naval fleet and the titan legions. These two groups were pale and slight, with hints of various bionic implants on their body. They did not fight with gun and blade under the sun, but within iron shells with weapons that made worlds tremble. At the other end of the table from Atros were the rulers of this planet and its factories, the Mechanicum cult. The seating seemed to be deliberate because he seemed to be facing off against them every time they met. They took half the space around the table while Atros was only one. No two priests were the same, their robes hung differently on a variety of shapes and sizes. Glowing points of green, metal hands and a forest of tubes peeked from underneath their hoods.

“Defense of the outer city is a redundant use of resources. Defensive routines are most efficient when forces are concentrated at the inner wall”. Stated magos Kafat’aslari.

The voice emanated from somewhere within the high magos’ robes. It sounded like a multitude of mechanical voices layered on top of each other, sounding even deeper than even a dreadnought’s voice. Kafat was a mountain of machine parts, only slightly larger than Tritus’ armoured frame. Atros’ enhanced sight allowed him to see into the shadows of its robes. Atros thought of Kafat as an “it” deliberately, for the magos’ had no discernible gender. Within the magos’ robes, Atros could make out skulls, their eyes glowing like stars in a clear sky. Kafat’s torso appeared to be a hive of servo skulls, like a walking ossuary. Nestled at the top of the mound was an iron skull, larger than the rest with its jaw replaced with a nest of cabling.

“I have given up good men and good, emperor-given ground because you wanted to hide behind your precious wall! I could have fought and drained the enemy in the city for many more months, but you kept holding your armies back!” Everyone else shrank back from Atros’ words, but the mechanicum priests showed nothing.

“The enemy does not have the forces needed to break the wall while are forces are manning it.” Kafas replied.

“You’re an idiot. Your wall is a sieve; Dorn himself would have laughed at calling it a wall. We have been fighting for months plugging up every damned whole in it”.

Atros had been arguing with the magos for the last hour. All the other forces were in agreement with him, the fact he was a space marine was enough to win most of them over; and yet the techpriests would not listen. If he were dealing with any of the other forces around the table, he would simply have shot their commanding officer and give the orders to whoever was next in line. Unfortunately, the Mechanicum held some immunity against his authority. The machanicum were a separate, symbiotic, entity to the imperium, held together by some vague idea that the emperor and omnissiah were the same being. Any outright violence against the imperium could result in a division, or even a civil war, against them. So Atros was relegated to using only his skills of persuasion. Not something a space marine was comfortable with.

“You allow your emotions to overstate the circumstances”. Kafas chastised. “The guard and your own forces have been sufficient enough to seal off the faults. Increased presences from our personal forces are not necessary beyond the wall.”

“If you will not listen, than this was a waste of my time and I have more important matters to attend to.” Atros stated with finality.

“Agreed, this meeting is concluded.”

With that, the various groups moved off to talk amongst each other or return to their duties. The mechanicum priest remained where they were seated, waiting for the others to leave. Atros exited the room and made his way down a hallway that would eventually lead back to the hangar. When he noticed he was alone, he took a moment to pause and remove his helmet. A Stone Sentinel only removed his helmet amongst those he trusted or deserved their respect. His skin was slate gray, a small mutation of their gene seed. He had a boxer’s flattened nose and two service studs on his brow, along with a web of accumulated scars. His black hair and beard had grown out over the course of the war. He’ll shave later.

He stood their breathing, trying to gain control over his anger. He looked over to his right and noticed the cog and skull of mars on the wall. A son of Dorn loathed falling back or giving up ground and those priests has caused him loss after loss. They could have stayed, they could have held the enemy back from the city. They didn’t. With the speed and impact of a tank, Atros embedded his fist in the skull in the wall. With a sound like the crack of a lasgun, the icon shattered and dust drifting from the ceiling. Oil and steam seeped out of the icon, seeming to whine at the pain. Atros collected himself and sealed his helm back in place. He continued on his way before anyone saw the shattered icon, a crack running along its length.

He would save this world, with or without help.



I was hoping to have Kasor's big reveal, but this was longer than I thought. That will be next time.

Also, dialogue is hard.

Great writing here.I disagree with the idea of a son of dorn spazzing about the mechanium, but the level of emotion displayed really humanizes him in the eyes of the reader.

Also, just cos i'm curious, how many years of service does a service stud from the stone sentinels mark?

Same as everyone else 1 stud = 1 century. He's a captain, so I figure he's served a very long time.

I had Atros flip out to show that he's had enough BS from them.

 Mr Nobody wrote:
Same as everyone else 1 stud = 1 century. He's a captain, so I figure he's served a very long time.

I had Atros flip out to show that he's had enough BS from them.

actualy it varies from chapter to chapter. but great work.

I've finally been able to get to writing more. Now we find out who the secret bad guy is.

Atros made his way down the labyrinthine tower, eventually making it back to the hangar. There were vehicles and racks of armour in various states of repair throughout the space. Servitors and chapter surfs were busy at work with repairs or rearming the next group of space marines. The hangar was filled with the sounds of power tools and sparks of welders could be seen out the corner of Atros’ eye. A gateway was open in the side of the wall where Kasor had set up his workshop. Benches lined every wall with various pieces of machinery in different states of assembly. Kasor had removed any servitors or menials that had been assisting him and it was only him and Tritus waiting for Atros.

“I take it the council ended the same as usual?” Kasor asked.

“Cowards. Those machine men refuse to fight beyond their walls and I do not know why.” Atros replied. “I doubt they will be of any use in this war.” Atros paused for a moment to contemplate their motivations. Atros wasn’t captain because he knew all the answers; he was captain because he knew where to find them. “Kasor, you have been taught in their methods, why do they hide?”

Kasor folded his arms and looked at the floor as if it was some sort of puzzle. “Despite appearing apathetic, there is much disagreement on the best course of action. The noosphere has been a storm of contradictive proposals.”

“Then why have I only heard this one plan?” Atros asked.

“Because it has been in the majority every time, so that is the one plan they share to us.” Kasor answered. “But this, by its nature, is suspicious; statistically speaking, one idea could not constantly be a clear majority. Not on something like this.”

“And this is what you wanted to share with me.”

“There’s more.”

Kasor moved over to one of his workbenches. The bench was piled with different tools and pieces of machinery. Despite the chaos, there appeared to be an underlining order to it all that only Kasor could understand.

“One of our hunting parties found something on one the traitor marines. It appears our enemy is not who they declare to be.” Kasor brought over what appeared to be a pauldron from a suit of power armour.

The pauldron was black with gold trim, the colours used by the black legion. The black had been carefully removed to reveal another symbol that had been painted over. It was a green serpent with three heads.

“Alpha legion.” Tritus had been silent throughout the conversation, but now his synthetic voice was filled with very old anger.

Atros looked over at the dreadnought. “You are familiar with this enemy?”

“They are masters of secrets and duplicity. They would rather hide and attack their prey with whispers and falsehoods”.

All space marines are taught to harbor hatred for the enemies of the imperium, but Tritus sounded like his went further than that. Atros had heard of them as well, though only through stories and myths. Traitor marines, very old, one of the original legions of the Horus Heresy. They specialized in infiltrating and undermining their victims. If they were amongst the enemy, then they must surely be amongst them. It explained many unanswered questions; how the location of the forgeworld made it to the enemy, why planetary defense had made so many wrong decisions. The enemy is inside wall.

He pushed himself away from the table he had been leaning on and turned away from Tritus and Kasor.

“Damn those infernal machine men, I’ve been talking to the enemy this entire time!” Atros paced across the room like a caged animal. “I should have struck them down where they sit and damn the politics of it all”.

“It would not work.” Tritus spoke up once more. “Any infiltrators who weren’t in the council would disappear like roaches in the light. They will wait till your back is turned and return to strike”.

“It would make me feel much better though”. Atros stopped his pacing and sighed. He would have to beat this enemy with subtlety, not brutality.

“Kasor, I want you to monitor as much communication traffic as you can; anyone trying to keep forces from fighting is your highest priority. If they don’t breathe in a way that’s helpful to me, single them”.

He pointed at the pauldron on the table. “They’ve already made a mistake once, they will do so again; and when they do, we will catch them”.


This part was extremely hard for me to write, so much so I lost motivation to finish this story. Trying to write the captain as surprised and angered without seeming incompetent or rash was difficult. Do you think I did well enough?

Anyway, next part will be how Tritus got stuck in a box.

Oh I approve! Glad to see you returning with more of your excelent work of fiction! Well done, now deliver us tales of a marine inside a box!