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A Horrid Fate

This is the story detailing the fate of Atriko, the 7th Tusk Bearer. He was classified as MIA and would end the honored Century of Honor where ten great Company Leaders fell one after the other. Atriko is rumored to live through his brothers, the Indomitable Boars and Sisters, Radiant Bliss prayers. The fate that befell him was far darker than anything either could imagine. It is through divine faith he's survived the countless centuries as the creature he's become.

Thoughts once came to mind, even memories shared with others. Snowy smiles shared between icy blue brother amidst golf ball sized hail crashing against their iron, icy teal bodies. Vague, crystalline shards formed over their exposed bodies within the storm and nine stood with shared smiles as they embraced the storm washing over them. The winds screeched in their ears, creatures howled behind leering sapphire eyes lit behind the veil of hail. Nothing could touch them, nothing could harm them. Together they were untouchable even by the horrors of their planet... Indomitable Boars, proud astartes of the Imperium. Huge warriors whom often stood over most other Astartes

Nine Astartes entered the storm together, the nine Tusk Bearers destined for legend.

Atriko, plagued by this same recurring memory couldn't help but indulge the comradery he found among them. Bazmardo and Avalonzo, two brothers who resembled mountains. Melleardo, his head held higher than others. Patrako, an almost expressionless man overwhelmed by their joint success. Eremus, ever weary indulged the moment. Jericho, more so basking in his own delusions of taming these supposed daemons surrounding them. Azmedias prayed in whispers for guidance while Syphris dared to treck ahead without his brothers.
Nothing truly brought more hope then reliving this moment, when all esteemed Tusk Bearers stood as one to travel the Eight Great Storms together. He felt his heart beat faster simply seeing them again, after all these centuries being able to live this memory one more time. It would soon skew itself as Atriko, who looked upon all their individual faces and two tears from each eye froze but not an inch from his eyes. They were dead, each killed in their own defining ways. He knew their fates, how each died and the legacies they left in their wake. Everything he saw now was hope manifested by his everlasting tormentors who would soon strip this from him again, as they always have.

"Mmm..." Rotting breath wreaking of ammonia and copper seeped between the grated sleek black helm of a miserable silhouette slunk in sorrow. The silhouette's definitive hunched bobbed as agonized whispers found an echo through the blackened dungeon where it lingers.

"You clutch it every time..." Bulbous needled fingers secreting illuminated neon green liquid trailed over the canvas of contorted muscles drenched in surgical scars. "Never truly understanding the fate such hope brings." These needles clanked underneath the grated helm and forced guided the silhouettes head to meet the sapphire eyes of its tormentor. His voice cracked with every word, his forked tongue slithered out and streaked across its broken, jagged teeth. Blood seeped from his blackened lips.

Another arm appeared from beneath its cloak patting the blood with a cloth. The clawed appendage took the stained cloth and drew the Haemonculi's Coven symbol over sleek helmet glistening in the darkness. An agonized groan came from the creature this cruel Eldar catered to. So many words came to mind yet none could form. What mouth remained became a small hole meant only for its feeding tube and the excessive whimpers of agony. Eyes once there couldn't well up in tears; it honestly didn't know if there were eyes anymore. This creature of torment only saw pulsing veins breathing life into organs.

The anonymous Haemonculi lurched forward with its bleeding serpents tongue dragging across the helmet to personally savor the masterpiece before him. "Such anguish never loses its taste." Cackled the figure.

Four spindly legs crept beneath his cloak raising the tormentor ever higher above its twisted monstrosity. Each leg clicked against the metallic floor as it crept away to further appreciate the mourning creature which rose further and further until it stood, out of reach of its master. There, standing in a bulwark of miscellaneous flesh from creatures man and xeno stood what remained of a once prestigious Astartes. Two broken tusks protruded from its grated helm, large black spikes dressed with decaying corpses still rotting, four equally long arms tipped by exotic hooked blades, and tendrils whipping to life from its back. Atriko... Former Tusk Bearer to the Seventh Company of the Indomitable Boars, the final Tusk to be lost and concluding the infamous Century of Honor. He lives now and forever as the monstrous Grostesque creature lost in Commorragh.

Lord of Slumber

Tl'ak Mk'zar, newly awakened Necron Immortal stands beneath the heavens, an ocean of stars cascading over the endless abyss that is space. He awakens alone, without weapon or purpose. Programs once existed inside though time often has a diminishing affect. His programs were lost through incalculable years beneath earth, slumbering without disturbance... Until now.
He stood motionless, thoughtless, neither he nor anything existed except what stood above, gazing back with a trillions of eye; space. How long has it been, when has it been? He could recall neither except that this celestial canvas, dressed in mystique embodied all that truly mattered. Whether or not he could recall seeing the stars didn't matter. The two moons, one three times larger than the other, crossed above and below one another. In the distance, where fluorescent green flames radiating from his sockets narrowed into sparks, other stars were swept away. Fantastic clusters disappeared- what was this? However, this question answered itself as a tsunami of emerald flames flowed across the stars. Planets swallowed hole, stars shrinking and eventually diminishing into emerald fires; an all consuming force washed the celestial canvas into roaring flames echoing throughout the void of space.

Once void of emotions fear, terror, horror began engulfing Tl'ak. Metallic legs quivered as if organic, fingers stiffened, everything froze in place. Amidst these flames, which rolled about like ocean tides, ungodly screams bellowed forth. Innumerable voices cried one plea after another, their shared anguish resonated over the collapsing tides. One face stood out among the billions, maybe trillions washed in flames; his own. Grey skin, opal shaped head, gangly limbs reaching out amidst others prying for escape. This wasn't real, how could any of this be real? More faces began revealing themselves, pulling themselves free but momentarily from liquidized flames. Brothers, sisters, mother and father, friends and family, all Necrontyr, each thrust into these unearthly fires.
As this realization bombarded Tl'ak Mk'zar, a schism suddenly appeared. A great baleful sickle swished through the rolling tides of fire. He found himself blinded by a sudden flash yet his eyes wouldn't pry themselves away from the horror transpiring. Two eyes sprung open, immense spheres now narrowing into the sharp, displeased stare... The Nightbringer. He was there, he watched over the countless innocents given away into an eternity of servitude. A remorseless predator, not a god but a carrion creature. Tl'ak, overwhelmed wanted to cry out in vengeance, declare the fate he deemed himself destined to wrought over it, to feels his lungs nearly burst in his declaration... only to discover he couldn't. Even though it was impossible he still strained desperately, in his own thoughts crying curses in a language dead for untold aeons. He wanted to, so desperately wanted to hear his own words yet couldn't- only the daunting whisper of energy coursing through his mind.With a thud, he collapsed to his knee's as the sea of flame was whisked away into nothingness. The Nightbringers baleful gaze receded into oblivion and all the remained were stars; the celestial canvas he once basked in moments ago.

Sorrow soon sparked to life. It crept between the hollowed rib cage, slithered through lights, and nestled into his psyche. He wanted it back, to see the sea of flames once more. It all seemed so real, the cacophony of cries resonating into the distant stars disappeared as soon as it came. Why witness such pointless murder, to relive the trembling nightmare few, if any, Necron fear recalling? Again, neither would matter as new events snatched away any focus. He wasn't alone, no, another lurked beneath the veil of stars.
Across crimson grassed plains stood an individual unlike anything he'd ever seen. He'd discerned the gender immediately, assuming the cups over her armor were breasts plates. An obscure helmet, triangular in some sense peaked with a wild mane of red hair dancing in the breeze he could not feel. This woman, clad in form fitted, sectional black armor tilted her head and drew a blade brimming with energy. An aura radiated from the sword quickly twirled in hand before thrown to her other hand.

"They're everywhere..." Like the ocean the woman faded away into the wind, her body breaking away into ash now swirling into the gentle breeze now whispering the same voice. "The enemy... The Eldar" It wheezed, struggling to speak while carried across the plains.

Tl'ak turned on his heel searching for the voice still echoing in his thoughts. He didn't reply, wouldn't reply. Whatever was happening, whoever was talking, nothing could be certain. He stepped back and scanned the world around him. "Do not believe his lies." Another, more feminine voice echoed out yet, it seemed distant, less present. Memories, they were memories.

He focused now to collect those echoes in is thoughts. The one who spoke inside the breeze- that was him, his own voice before transference. What he heard beyond were memories. "This bitter conflict is over... Let us fade into what little peace we have left." The voice rang again, her words more earnest, He listened to her tone; the distress she felt sank into him. Who was this, why were these shallow memories suddenly returning. He was baffled, perplexed, confused without explanation. These were obviously memories but of what, who, what were they talking about. His memory, so fractured couldn't fathom exactly what was transpiring inside.

"Tl'ak Mk'zar." Another voice bellowed with an authoritarian tone, as if demanding his presence. "Tl'ak Mk'zar!" It rang again.

One hand clasped his skull with a resounding clank, though he couldn't hear said clank. The voice echoed without restraint in his thoughts. "Tl'ak Mk'zar!" Now shouting. Cracks began slithering through his Necrodermis. Each time it echoed another crack surfaced. Where he stood, these creeping schism crawled like tendrils, spreading a cancer that cracked and rattled his form. "Tl'ak Mk'zar!" Another shout shattered his legs into splinters, each one erupting into emerald embers. His body fell without legs, his torso now breaking away. Liquid fire oozed from his ribcage. A hand tried to seal the oozing flames yet only shattered. His other hand stretched and sank into the dirt, desperately trying to pry himself way from the molten pool of Necromdermus. "Tl'ak Mk'zar!" Again it beckoned him, again it shouted this time splintering is skull. Tl'ak, once without voice finally cried out. "Raaagh!" He roared over his name being shouted again.

Tendrils of emerald flame sproutded to life. An amalgamation of alien metal and flames, they sowed through his crippled body. He shouted again and was met with an all encompassing abyss built on agony.
----------------------------
The eternal sleep, the Silent Kings final command- a command one Necron fought endlessly to follow. Where ever danger lurked, where malicious intent lingered, ancient ghosts would bellow throughout these pitch black halls. Every Necron in stasis remained dormant... Except one. This lone warrior endured the collective nightmares thrust upon him. Trillions of fragmented, barely existent souls wallowed for all eternity. Memories of those force into Biotransferance couldn't, wouldn't rest. All that remained were their wailing voices fearing the awakening of their tomb. Ancient technology pulled the souls from every dormant Necron, except one. One chosen warrior would guard this tomb worlds eternal slumber, a slumber not even there King could disturb.

Tl'ak Mk'zar, Lord of Slumber must rise again to purge those who dare defile these sacred grounds.

Very cool story! Nice to see the emotion that the Necrontyr had before they were tarnished by the C'tan's bargain

Hope to read more soon!

It still needs editing to help clarify certain things but once I get a better grasp of what I'm trying to convey, I'll expand further. The idea is exploring Necrons outside their militant portrayal and go a little deeper. I read the Death of the Emperor, so I'm thinking of tackling my own ambitious project.

(( Might be edited later depending on how I like it tomorrow when I get some sleep. For now, I hope you all enjoy. ))

Forgotten Dynasty (Lord of Slumber History)

Benevolent kings and queens, proud governors, perhaps even emperor's can attest to any multitude of regrets or at the very least- guilt. Such as their role over the masses who entrust their livelihood onto these select individuals. One ruler in particular, who's name means little but carries an infamous title, burdens himself on guilt and regret; the Silent King. He, overwhelmed by his yearning for revenge, sacrificed all his people, whom loved him deeply despite the ensuing wars between pity kings. Every man, woman, and child were thrust into emerald flames where the chrome ocean of living metal peeled away their body and soul.
Many rejoiced, praising his forgotten name as they leaped into the flames. Promises of immortality, life without illness, strength they could only conjure in fantasies; all mere illusions swirling in the vast lakes in colossal furnaces. Whole dynasties converted their sacred burial tombs into furnaces, siting it only fitting they cast aside their diseased ridden history and begin anew as immortals. Cursed gods sneered from the heavens while disillusioned masses, so desperate for salvation clung to false promises. Some, however, weren't convinced. These few, who hid away even during the War with the Old Ones looked upon the fate their fellow Necrontyr embraced. The Mk'zar Dynasty, who so desperately searched for reprise from short spanning lives of degradation, stepped from the shadows.

Tl'ak Mk'zar, traitor to all Necrontyr for abandoning them in their time of war. Death became the embodiment of all Necrontyr; ill-fortune becoming their entire history. Every generation lived fewer and fewer years. He couldn't commit his house, no matter their strength to openly parish in a war of uncertainty. His advisors urged him to reconsider but wouldn't. If he stayed the collective Dynasties would certainly collapse his own, maybe even force them into war, thus decided on an exodus. Great barges and temples rose from above and below, lifeless black lands splitting and grand vessels emerging; he abandoned them... Abandoned all other Dynasties in their greatest time.
Unlike others who crumbled beneath malevolent weapons employed by the Old Ones; the Mk'zar Dynasty hid away and used their unique technology to hide. They watched from afar, astrologers chronicled the expansive wars between them. Tl'ak, firm on his decision, wouldn't aid them. Everyone beneath him dedicated their lives and resources to continue combating their degenerative cells, exploring various technologies, gradually progressing while all others failed. The Silent King crumbled under numerous defeats until his once fleet, so vast it resembled a lingered black abyss fell from the very heavens they once rose from. Old Ones, who Tl'ak depicts as blinding beacons of lights, forced the race into solitude.
Related to them, this beacon of light descended through the veil of darkness shrouding the planet the Mk'zar Dynasty hid and watched. Neither foe or friend, they were met with mercy. Remain unseen and fade away as was intended for the others. Tl'ak wholesomely accepted their mercy but continued watching everything that unfolded around their world. He would witness each event that led to the discovery of the C'tan, who his people describe to be carrion monsters. In fact, their technology, though not militant discovered the C'tan many years before fellow Necrontyr. Their own star faded away and all were forced underground. The unique energy sources contrived during exploratory technological advances saved them from genocide. Star feasting creatures. Mk'zar tracked their radio waves, what few they could find.
Those brilliant minds under Tl'ak never knew the extent of their sentience, or even if they were. They themselves assumed them gods, and seeing them take form in Necrodermus shells only enforced that belief. However, not every god was gifting in nature. The furnaces constructed after the Silent King struck the deal frightened every Mk'zar out of hiding. They were close, closer than they've ever been to solving their genetic defect. Augmentations, suits of living metal, various methods and contraptions became a reality to prolong their own existence. Old Barges leaped from darkness and set forth to share their inventions. Members left behind prepared defenses and modified old structures in case their desperate mission failed... And it did.

Tl'aks fleet emerged from smouldering, thunderous clouds in glistening black barges illuminated by green gauss light. War torn Dynasties looked to the heavens and openly chastised their sudden return. C'tan watched in silence as they descended. Ships landed on tattered lands and fields of black glass. Tl'ak emerged to confront the ruling triarchs. 'Do not humor their lies and deceit, they feast upon stars and leave worlds barren.' The Silent King heard enough. Before the Mk'zar traitors could continue the newly unified people took every betrayer away. He promised the C'tan their entire race, them included. They were hurled into the emerald flames except for Tl'ak. He was forced to watch each and everyone be stripped of body and soul, everything that made them mortal fading away in molten lakes.
Lifeless automatons marched force in unison, some bigger than others but each the same. He himself knew the Necrontyr was doomed to extinction regardless of his efforts. His mission to fade away in peace was stripped away when the fires consumed his body. Like many others he writhed in agony, crying aloud and splashing while his body was ultimately disintegrated. Anything that remained of Tl'ak died that day.
The Nightbringer would soon sweep away the darkness cloaking their planet with a swath of his scythe. Defenders immediately opened fire from their continent sized fortress but ultimately failed. The newly formed Necron army easily washed over any resistance. All Necrontyr attempted to lure the attacks into the web of corridors beneath tattered defensive structure only to be squashed under their might. No defenders died despite their futile efforts. As promised, all were sacrificed. Even though the Silent King now became aware of the pact he made was compelled to thrust even them into the furnaces. Ettaziel Mk'zar begged and pleaded, grasping the Silent King's metallic body. "Let us fade away with what little peace we have left." Her final words before being consumed in flames.

The Mk'zar Dynasty disappearing completely with any potentially conscious Necron's being expunged from existence. Like many worlds, theirs become a glorified Tomb World housing billions of Necrons. Technology gifted by the technology overshadowed their own yet evidence still remains inside. Ultimately the fate thrust upon them wouldn't silence the Mk'zar Dynasty. Fragments of souls wailed through the corridors. Crystals similar to Eldar soul crystals were clumped together into a grand, jagged sphere containing the fragments of each Necrontyr. It was originally created to record the final moments, so those who found them could relive a feeble race disappear in bliss. The final moments recorded depicted unearthly agony, a contradiction to their intended purpose.
Only sentient Necron or psychically gifted can hear endless agony wailing through the once bleak metropolis. Through this pain a peculiar phenomenon occurred. Fragmented spirits weeping from the crystaline sphere grew conscious. Perhaps that's a stretch yet these collective fragments possess dormant Necron's. Whenever any ambitious enough enters their Tomb World to either activate or defile its contents, one Necron will rise. This chosen individual came to be known as Tl'ak Mk'zar. Not truly the individual presented earlier, his own crystal recorded a significant amount. Other crystals containing fragments mold into a single soul- albeit quite unstable.

Blood Pool Series

Recently Colonized Agri-World, Oravous VI, Edith Sector 514.M39

Heathens, unfortunately sanctioned mutants, ignorant sinners stepped with guilt and shame in their miserable hearts. Appauling examples whom needed constant reminder of their status in society; Mongrel's. Little abhuman wretches shipped in months ago to toil the fields, herd plump Moore sheep, and ultimately slave without compensation. Under Canoness Theodora's own decry, all Mongrel Abhumans have their horns removed, their bodies hairless, teeth filed into curbed tip- all measures taken to ensure the most human, thus, proper appearance.

Sentinels remained vigilant among the slaves. Sororitas ensured maximum efficiency from these blasphemous dogs atop thin towers quickly constructed around towering monuments. Sister's stood as statue's themselves barring the disapproving sneers their many saints scowled in statues depicting them. Dressed in pristine power armor washed twice by slaves morning and night these sentries stood under the esteemed Ecclesiarchal monuments on a small porch jutting out. Vast wings expanded outward where guilt ridden faces were carved in vivid detail showing the seemingly endless cry for forgiveness. Only a blank marked the statues head and there, the sister stood; she would judge them without bias or restraint.
Beneath each tower were six Sister's Repentia. Sinister maidens who's face remained hidden inside iron masks depicting an expression relevant to their sin. One face bore sorrow where tears were painted a crimson, another sneered wickedly. Chainmail hung loosely over their delicate limbs; so thick was the chainmail the sun itself couldn't grace their once fair skin. Red tunics hung low with thick, battle hardened leather corsets dressed in spikes.
They marched through the fields with flawless posture and autonomous motions. Their hair a lush mane of bleach blonde flared to life in the subtlest breeze; a semblance of beauty and life few would ever witness. Slaves dared not gaze upon these celestial servants but toil endlessly without thought or word for none shall speak in their presence unless instructed. Rebellious slaves bold enough to act on either wore grizzly scars, some even had their tongues ripped out the very instant they spoke.
Fear washed over them. Any secret discussions of rebellion were quickly thwarted. Every sermon ended with 'For each transgression committed, ten mutants shall wear the sin for now and eternity'. Innocents attests to these unprovoked mutilations, their backs torn asunder in quick dismissive slashes of the Repentia Eviscerator blades. Passivizing the slaves came immediately. Their natural communal instincts rendered them harmless if others of their kind were threatened.

Canoness Preceptory, Serraliine Mosshire oversaw the colonization and strict adherence to the Imperial Creed other Mongrel societies failed to uphold. Pious and stern, she was an intellectual treasure whom earned the envy of many. Despite her own academic and military feats she wasn't the innocent beauty most Sister's embodied. Serraline's cheeks bones were especially visible, her jaw a firm brick form, an unnaturally sculpted body displaying her physical prowess.
Like all Radiant Bliss Sisters, excluding Repentia, her hair was tightly knitted into a long braid hung over her right shoulder. Opposed to those ensuring absolute obedience through presence alone, Serraliine hid away in darker chambers. The recently erected cathedral needed constant supervision. Uneducated mutants found themselves fumbling about with invaluable parchments, stained glass, and holy icons. Repentia Overseers, exactly six whom always remained ten paces from her presence, chastised the bafoons without delay or warning. It was unfortunate every Repentia within the Order Militant found themselves stationed in this abominable world.
Dark Eldar sightings grew scarcer by each passing week until nothing remained. Exodite piracy fell along side their sadistic cousins. Mongrel rebellions were brutally uprooted and would-be Imperial deserters executed to the man. All that remained now for her Repentia to find favor was enforcing the Imperial Creed's adherence through tyrannical governing. Perhaps more promising opportunities would arise but for now this would suffice.

"Mistress... Mistress." Cried the once child turned servitor. What remained of her childlike mirth became agonized words. "Company Commander Armerran..." She paused to collect her strength. "Armerran Bastion request your audience."

She glanced in response, her face churning into vivid disgust. "Ten paces." She reminded.

The servitor shrank away on three mechanical appendages grinding as she wheezed. "Many apologies, Mistress." Bowing painfully.

Serraline turned away and rolled her eyes impatiently. "Well, send him in." Her apologies meant nothing.

"Of course, of course." Into the darkness of the cathedral crypt she went, her grinding gear and mechanical resonated throughout the bleak corridors, mechanical fingers clicking and clacking as she went. Promethium fueled lamps hung in tightly wound rows along the ceiling. Blue flames fluttered as an alien breeze skulked the narrow corridors. Hefty footsteps suddenly resonated over nerve wracking servitor grinding and wheezing; Armerran. His augmented foot clanked aloud while his remaining foot stepped quietly behind. He was undoubtedly disgusted, possibly mortified by the child but such were the sins of her parents that she must suffer where they cannot.

Serraliine's quill constantly scrawled theological interpretations, personal revelations, sins witnessed and punishments issued. At her desk of iron and wood, Armerran stepped from the shadows and gave a curtsy bow. "Canoness."

Without a doubt many would easily assume him a militant member of the adaptus mechanicus. His eyes were pried out and replaced with red lens extending ocular augments. The entirety of his left arm was shattered, the bones broken into brittle shards as was his leg. Both were replaced with well earned prosthetic cybernetic limbs. Only three ribs were his original and left hand, and forearm, given the same cybernetic treatment.
Canoness, though she detested Mongrel's couldn't restrain the relieved grin involuntarily creasing the corner of her lips.. "Commander," Her thirty pound, hard leather and steel cased tome clapped shut. "Early, as expected." Grinding behind him came the child servator who hung her head low with the crimson hood hiding her distorted face. "A fine little lady ya got here; does a bang up job."

Serraliine's eyes narrowed. "I suppose." The servator acted on instinct and receding back into anonymity. Armerran made an all too apparent sigh, shaking his head and placing both mechanical hands on his hips. A moment of silence came between them, each contemplating one another. He, who felt compelled to question her disposition knew her well enough to foresee the unpleasant answer. She, however, stared momentarily before opening a drawer and placing the data-slate on her tome.

"I'm relieved you arrived on such short notice. The situation is a delicate one the Schola Prognium could not entertain, at this point in time." Compliment or not, Armerran broke the cardinal rule for all underlings and approached closer than ten paces.

"You mean they don't care for them 'Mongrel's' puttin' food in their bellies. It's alright, that's why you got me and the lads and lasses here." Uncultured, spoke without restraint- he was either bold or too comfortable in her presence. Her browed furrow as he took the slate and brought the digital screen to life.

Presumably testing her patience with no semblance of professionalism, Serraliine took a moment to compose herself. "Our Death Cult operatives went dark three weeks ago without a word. Last week eight sl--" She checked her words carefully. "Eight Mongrel's were found cut into pieces and four more sites were discovered this week of similar murders. We're assuming the Death Cults went rogue, all seven--"

Armerran's eyes extended out several inches to help further emphasize the shock. "You had seven of them here, with that new Schola academy not thirty clicks away!" She slapped a firm hand on the desk.

"I'm well aware of the repercussions of my actions and what's at stake, that's precisely why I requested you!" Her bark came with traces of regret.

Silence followed while his lenses scanned over the map display marking different attack sites. A legend displayed where each Death Cult was previously located before disappearing. "If they're smart they ought'ta be traveling north, away from the Schola." Nothing would be solved arguing. His fingers traced over the teal holo-gram displaying the map. "Knowing you're gals they're in pacts of two or three. They probably think the Scion is out for'em so it's a safe bet they're still moving North and keeping to the river thickets.... Question remains how many are going north?"