# The End



## normtheunsavoury

The End….

This is something I have been planning to do for some time, a sort of continuing story for the Heresy community.
I am by no means a great writer but I hope that from these humble beginnings some of the Heresy greats might take up the thread and really run with it. 
This is how my idea works out: I will write the fist chapter, and then, as in the four word story threads, others take up the story by writing their own chapters and taking the story in a new direction, whatever it may be!
We used to do this a lot when we were playing AD&D or WHFR and it led to some very enjoyable campaigns and adventures, so here goes!

A single cry pierces the vacuum of the void, a terrible cry that only the most potent of psykers can hear, a scream so terrible that it has echoed for 10,000 years throughout the galaxy and the empyrean. It is the scream of an immortal dying, the scream of the God Emperor of Mankind, for 10,000 years it has driven those touched with psychic powers to insanity and now at the Age of Ending that scream has fallen silent.

“Why have we dropped out of Warp space Captain Astor?” boomed Admiral Clarris, His voice barely audible over the screaming sirens and the roar of the burning cogitators.
“I don’t know Admiral, everything was fine and then….”
Admiral Clarris was an imposing man and did not tolerate the failure of any members of his crew, he shot his captain a look that would have stopped a Daemon in it’s tracks and suddenly the captains mind went blank.
“Well, Captain, would you possibly consider finding out rather than standing there flapping in the bloody wind? What the hell is going on with my ship?”
At this the entire bridge crew burst into action, the shock had been shaken from them and they knew they had work to do or consequences to answer to.
Almost every system on the ship was either on fire or about to burst into flames and servitors moved from cogitator to cogitator trying to extinguish the fires, through one of the soot covered armourcrys viewing portals an ensign spotted something.
“Admiral, I think you should look at this, sir, it’s, um,, well ….” Panic was taking control of the young ensign, tears appearing in his eyes.
“Get out of the way boy, in the name of the Emperor, what is wrong with everyone today….” the Admiral stopped and stared, in nearly 300 years of service he had never seen anything like the scene that presented itself to him outside the ship.

Captain Astor made his way through the belly of the Righteous Hatred, if anyone would know what had happened it would be Mi So the ships Astropath, he hated having to speak with the psyker, the things dead eyes always made him feel uneasy.
The door to her chamber was open and as soon as Astor walked into the dark a strange feeling washed over him, something was horribly wrong.
The chamber was silent except for a feint clicking sound, an irregular tapping, that, as he drew closer he realised, was dripping.
The Astropaths chamber was awash with blood and the young Psyker was laying in the middle of the gory scene, her entrails torn out by her own hands and wrapped around her like a shroud.
On the wall, scrawled in her own blood and faeces were two words “The End”
Astor keyed his communicator “Admiral Clarris, this is Captain Astor, it’s Mi So, she is dead sir.”
“You had better get your scrawny arse back up to the bridge captain” Clarris sounded shaken, that was bad, Clarris was never shaken.
“What is it Admiral?”
“ We have dropped out of the Warp right above Terra Captain, Right above Holy Terra…”
The Admirals voice broke up, it sounded almost like the tough old sailor was crying.
“Holy Terra is burning, Captain, Burning”


Well there you are the story is begun, Please take it where you will and enjoy!

Norm.


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## ironhammer

bound to happen sooner or later, who or what has raized terra and, well, "now what?"

but anyway, great story, pretty well written. I like it


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## NoiseMarine

yeh dam wat u mean ur not a good writer? that was good, or maybe its just the satisfaction of seeing Terra destroyed :biggrin: jk awesome job


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## normtheunsavoury

I don't know who raized Terra or why, thats down to everyone else to come up with.
Like it says, take this as the beginning (of The End) write the next chapter.

And thanks for the compliments, they are appreciated!


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## imm0rtal reaper

Hey all, norm has granted me the title of bearer of the second chapter. It's taken me a while to find time to sit down and write. But here goes:


"Burning?!" Astor repeated, dumbstruck.
"Aye Captain" Clarris replied solemnly "Even from here you can see it. there are other ships here Captain, thousands."
Astor held the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger for a long minute, taking in the scope of Holy Terra burning. Finally the Captain snapped into action, sprinting back to the command deck.
When he arrived, the crew stood huddled around one of the navigation screens.
"What is it?" Astor asked approaching the screen.
"A Distress signal with an attached video." Replied Jonas, a young navigator.
They stared at the image on the screen, binary composed in the form of a ditress signal. The image froze and then the screen burst into light as a video began to play.

The screen shook as the ground infront of the camera errupted. A huge figure, encased in blue and gold charged towards the camera. The figure looked old and wise but was haggerd and battered. Blood wept from multiple wounds upon his face, his left arm hung impotently at his side, half severed, and he bore a hole in his shoulder.
"This is Marneus Calgar of the blessed Ultramarines" the man spoke, his breath ragged "We have held them for days and nights. My Chapter is broken! We must fall back. There is no escape. Do not send aid! I repeat. Stay away from Ter-"
The video was cut short as a blinding light engulfed the screen. Static followed.
"And it just repeats." Jonas stated.
"How old is this?" Admiral Clarris asked. Jonas typed for several seconds before stopping, open mouthed.
"What? What is it boy? How old is this transmission?" Astor asked, his eyes alight with fearful interest.
"The date. It's M41 001. This is 2 years Terran time into the future sir"
"What? how is that possible?" Clarris asked, furious.
Jonas entered more information into the computer before stopping abruptly once again.
"Sir, the nav-computer reads the present data as M51 0001. According to this Sir, we are over 10,000 years in the future"

Silence filled the bridge, only broken as the disrtess video started once again. And outside the viewscreen in front of them, beyond the thousands of wrecked starships, Terra continued to burn.





Well i hoped you enjoyed that folks. I will PM the person who i would like to take up the mantle of Chapter 3.

And thanks again to norm for this lovely opportunity

Regards

Repaer


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## squeek

Nice idea Norm, this looks like it could be a really good thread to keep an eye on, well here's hoping anyways.


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## normtheunsavoury

Great stuff Reaper, can't wait to see where the next part goes and who writes it.
Thanks for all the positive feedback, if there is enough interest I might start one for fantasy. Or maybe someone else will and I might be lucky enough to be asked to contribute.
Anyway, happy reading and for the creative types, happy writing!


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## Commissar Ploss

Reaper has asked me to continue with the story. I must say that i will do the best that i can, and hope that you all aren't dissapointed! lol!

I'm almost done with it so i'll post it within the next couple of days. 

Danke! :drinks:

Commissar Ploss


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## Commissar Ploss

*The next installment-the end!*

Here is the next installment! I hope that you all like it a lot. I'll PM who i want to do the next bit and we'll see what happens. well, here you go!

***

It had to be a mistake. Surely there was something wrong with their systems. Even now, servitors were still attempting to extinguish fires burning from many of the cogitators. There was something wrong with the data, there had to be. 

“What do we do sir!” Jonas pleaded. 

“Admiral?” Captain Astor asked.

Admiral Clarris was leaning on the railing of the bridge. Tears streamed from his eyes and down his face. He seemed to be shaking.

“Why...now!” the Admiral spoke amidst his sobs.

“What is it sir?”

“Don't you hear it!”

“Sir, I hear nothing but these blasted sirens!”

“The screams my boy...the screams...” The Admirals words grew softer as he sunk to his knees on the decking.

“Medic! Quickly! See to the Admiral!” Captain Astor bellowed. “Get him to the medical ward immediately!”

As the medicae staff carried him off the bridge, Admiral Clarris sat up on the stretcher, grabbed the lapel of one of the orderlies and whispered, “Holy Terra herself is in pain.” Turning back towards the Captain on the bridge, he reached and yelled out, “Don't go near that place! It will only lead you to your doom!”

It seemed to the Captain that the Admiral had gone insane. The very sight of Terra burning had tortured the man so severely that it had incapacitated him. 

Captain Astor turned back solemnly towards the rest of the staff there on the bridge. He raised his hands wide and spoke to all of them. “In the absence of a commanding officer, I will assume command of this vessel and its operations!” 

Jonas stood up at his station and addressed the Captain. “With all due respect sir, none of us know what to do!”

It dawned on the captain that there was little they could do here. With thousands of ships from Emperor knows where, and the same garbled message playing in the background, things were getting out of hand. He had to act now.

“Jonas! Shut this message off, but don't stop monitoring it! I want to hear right away if anything else is found! He turned to another navigator bent over his station. “You there! How many Lightning wings do we have operational?”

“Two sir, Beta and Lambda wings are fueled and primed for your orders.” said the young man.

“Good. I want Beta and Lambda squadrons to sweep the poles and tell me what the flek is going on down there! If there are any pockets of resistance left that are holding their own, thats where they'll be!”

“Sir, I don't think thats such a good-” Jonas cut in.

“Damn it son! We're the blasted Imperial Navy! And based on what I see here, I think it fleking well is a good idea! Now, what do we have on the order of available troops?”

“None of the regiments are battle ready sir! We were in Warp Space just a few minutes ago, most of the troops have just been woken!”

“Then you better well get them ready! I want them briefed and ready to drop as soon as I get some feedback from those Lightning's! If there are soldiers still alive down there they're gonna need all the help they can get!”

“What about Marneus Calgar and the Ultramarines, sir!”

“Looks like they're fleking well going to need some help as well son, don't you think!”

“Sir! Yes sir!” Jonas saluted and hurried back to his station. 

“Now the rest of you! I want open lines of communication with every ship in this sector! I want to know who's here and why! I need to coordinate an effort with anyone who'll listen! I need guns! I need fighters! I need some fleking solid minds! If they're not here to help, get them the flek out of here! NOW MOVE!”

Captain Astor leaned on the railing of the bridge where the Admiral had stood just moments before, the vision of Holy Terra squarely in his gaze. He sighed as he thought of what the Admiral had said. Screams. Probably just the ravings of a emotionally destroyed man. But still, the Admiral was not one to break so easily. What ever he had 'heard' really messed him up. He was glad he hadn't heard it too. 

He released the rail, took a deep breath and strode over to the Admiral's throne. Buttons and knobs of all shapes and sizes protruded out from its golden arms like a pissed off porcupine. Laying on the seat was a golden helmet. Streaming with thick golden wires it looked like it trailed a mane of hair from its crown to the back of the chair. Astor knew what this device was. It was the neuro-link that the Admiral wore to help direct the actions and movements of the ship. It connected whomever wore it directly to the ships machine spirit. What pains the ship felt, he would feel. What exhaustion the ship felt, he would feel. What destruction the ship felt, he would feel. It was a harrowing feeling. One that he didn't want to have to deal with at this very moment. There was no choice. The foundation of Mankind was burning under their feet and hesitation was not to be rewarded. Captain Astor picked up the neuro-link, turned, and sat down on the chair. It was warm, he thought to himself. Wait, why was he thinking of that at a time like this. Maybe in the toughest of moments, Astor thought, you still had to be able to notice the details. Details would be important in the next few moments and he was glad that he was still noticing them. 

With a deep breath, Captain Astor raised the golden helmet into the air and placed it over his head. 

The pain that greeted him was immense. Captain Astor yelled out uncontrollably as the ship reminded him how much damage had been done already. Multiple fires were burning through the ships decks and he could feel the damage being done. He struggled to suppress the pain coursing through his body. It was several minutes before Captain Astor was able to gain some control of the situation. Regaining his composure, Astor took in the helmet display. There were three prominent items that took up the majority of the screen. In one corner was a structural map of the ship showing the multiple decks and rooms of the ship. All of these were color coded to some effect showing their status and structual integrity. Anything labeled the color red, Astor assumed, could be called structurally unstable. And by the looks of it there were about three decks worth towards the aft end of the ship that were a deep crimson shade. Astor called up a magnified display of the afflicted area to better asses the damage. Decks A through F were situated near the Warp drives and as such had been damaged when they had been unexpectedly dumped from warp space. The majority of the fires were situated in those areas closest to the rooms above the drive compartments. Captain Astor managed to cut the oxygen flow to these areas in the hopes of staunching the brunt of the flames. 

A beeping red indicator sounded suddenly in his ear. A second later, another image took over his viewplate. The pict was that of Terra. Only now, this was a more schematic view of the planet. The majority of the planet was covered in a grid format that displayed the various planetary sectors, quadrants and hemispheres. Once again there was a color display of the varying heat registers emanating from the planet's surface. Auspex flashes indicated where Beta and Lambda Lightning squadrons buzzed back and forth across the surface. He could hear the bustle of vox traffic between the squadron commanders. From what he could gather there didn't seem to be much of anything going on down on the surface. Most of the planet seemed to have been demolished or burned out. The odds of there being anyone alive down there seemed slim, but it still felt like he was doing the right thing. 

Captain Astor silenced the vox traffic so he could think. What could have happened to the Ultramarines? How could a chapter of such magnitude and strength be failing, or have failed in such a way. It was beyond his comprehension. If the glorious Ultramarines had failed, how could he hope to succeed. And what of the Wolves of Fenris? Didn't the legends say that if Terra was ever in danger, the men of Fenris would come to her aid like a mother wolf protecting its young? Where were the fabled Space Wolves? And lets not forget the Custodian Guard, the Adeptus Custodes. So many questions and possibly no answers. He wondered whether or not Marneus Calgar issued that signal out of pride. Was he afraid to admit defeat in the face of insurmountable odds? Did he not want aid for fear that it would squander his victory? No one could be that brash. 

A vox transmission indicator interrupted his thoughts. He quickly queued it up and saw that it was from Lighning Wing Leader Beta. 

“This is Captain Astor, what news of the surface?” He was certain that there was no one alive but he needed the confirmation from the wing leader. 

“This is Beta leader with good news sir! Three of our Lightning fighters have reported signs of Imperial resistance over the Imperial Primus Palace sir! And Lambda wing has reported activity over the Ecclesiarchal Palace and the Scholastica Psykana! Sir there are still people alive down here!”

“Emperor be praised! Wonderful! Beta Leader, coordinate your efforts with Lambda Leader and give those people any sort of help you can! Captain Astor out.”

“Aye sir, Beta leader out.”

'Our doom be damned!' thought Captain Astor to himself. What had the Admiral been so frightened about? It seemed to him that Admiral Clarris was a man in distress. There was nothing that man could say that would change his mind now. He was going to help the Adeptus Terra and all those down there as best he could. After all he was presently in command of an Emperor class Imperial Battleship. He still had port and starboard batteries at full operating potential, and his normal space drive engines were in good shape. So he didn't have his Warp drive engines, but that wasn't going to be a problem. 

“Navigator Jonas!” 

“Yes Captain!” He had just been communicating with another Emperor class battleship on the other side of the planet. 

“By the Emperor's guiding light there are still people alive down there!”

“Thats excellent news sir!”

“Fleking right it is! How many regiments are ready to drop?”

“Sir, you have 5 million men at your disposal.”

Captain Astor smiled a very broad smile. It looked very odd behind the eyeless helmet he wore, but it was a smile nonetheless. 

“Your orders sir?” Jonas asked impatiently.

Captain Astor turned his blind gaze towards Jonas, still smiling that broad smile. 

“drop 'em.”
***

well thats it, i'll contact the next one to see they want to do it or not.

cheers, :drinks:

Commissar Ploss


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## Commissar Ploss

i let the person know whom i would like to do the next bit, hopefully i'll get a positive response! Here's hoping!


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## Digg40k

You're all doing an amazing job I can't wait for the next installment!


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## Farseer Beltiac

I only read the first part.Good writing, a little over gory for my tastes, but over all well written and intresting.


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## aM | Gunslinger

well i thought that was fleking awesome ploss i really enjoyed it, and to everyone else who wrote it it is looking brilliant cant wait for the next installment  

gunslinger


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## Commissar Ploss

yeah. "Flek" if you haven't figured it out yet, is the new curse word. haha! I wanted to come up with something unique other than F**K and S**T and all that.

cheers, :drinks:

CP


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## normtheunsavoury

This is all going really well, thanks for taking the idea and running with it, you have all put a big smile on my face!


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## Khorne's Fist

I don't mean to nit pick, but there seems to be a bit of a continuity error. At the end of imm0rtal reaper's post he says the ship has jumped forward in time 10k years, but Commissar Ploss goes on as if this wasn't mentioned. So Marneus Calgar has been fighting on Terra for 10 millennia?


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## Commissar Ploss

Khorne's Fist said:


> I don't mean to nit pick, but there seems to be a bit of a continuity error. At the end of imm0rtal reaper's post he says the ship has jumped forward in time 10k years, but Commissar Ploss goes on as if this wasn't mentioned. So Marneus Calgar has been fighting on Terra for 10 millennia?


You don't hear back from the Lightning squadrons if they actually see the ultramarines or not, i figured i'd leave that up to the next person...the whole date thing really confused me so i sorta brushed it aside, just like the captain did, but if someone wants to bring it back, thats fine with me.

CP


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## Concrete Hero

Very nice, has inpsiried me to get some stuff completed!


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## Commissar Ploss

update: possible addition in the works, keep your eyes peeled for more fantastic writing!

cheers, :drinks:

Commissar Ploss


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## Unknown Primarch

quality, if only GW could move things along abit. maybe you ashould send it them to give them a kick up theirs arses


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## imm0rtal reaper

Hey guys, it's been over a month since the last enstallment. Have you asked the next person yet Ploss?

Just wanna see this thing kick off


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## Concrete Hero

_Whispers_

You should've asked me....

:biggrin:

Not saying I didnt enjoy you're portion Ploss


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## aM | Gunslinger

ye im with reaper has anyone been asked??? 

ye ive read some of that hero guys stuff on the original works he is pretty good 

 keep it going guys


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## normtheunsavoury

rest assured people, the next instalment should be here soon. I have PM'd the next writer and it should be good, well worth waiting for!
Thanks for the continued support, remember, greatness can't be rushed!


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## Commissar Ploss

*rest assured!*

yeah, when i asked said contributor initially he said that he would be more than willing to do so. So lets all be patient and see where the story takes us!

Cheers to Patience! :drinks:

Commissar Ploss

p.s. you will not be dissapointed! a pat on the back to anyone who can guess who its gonna be...


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## Concrete Hero

Commissar Horn! That's who it should be!
I hope he reads this


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## normtheunsavoury

Sorry for the delay guys, there has been a couple of hurdles that have slowed things down. Hopefully the next contribution should be here soon:biggrin:. Thanks for the patience and sorry for the delay.

Norm


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## CommissarHorn

If your so distressed about the next installment, write it yourself!
Thats the whole point to the the story, that you guys are the ones that write it.
You don't sit there in the 4 word story asking for the next 4 words, the same applies here. 
Give it a shot, write something, anything.

“Noble decision Captain, but is it a wise one?”
Captain Astor abruptly swiveled around at the intrusion and stood to attention when its owner revealed himself.
“Major General on deck! Attention!”
The crew and Guard on the bridge ceased what they were doing and stood to attention.
“Carry on.” Major General Garrick saluted to Astor. Adorned in bronze armour over the regiment's cold grey uniform and a white cape trailing behind him, the Major General was also followed by his retinue of usuall officers. General Lions in the same uniform with the cape albeit without the bronze armour, the Iron hearted Colonel Reyes and his equally cold retinue, Astor's friend Major Birka, the young gloomy Commissar Dawson and two other officers captain Astor didn't know.
The officers stared in astonishment and horror at the scene unfolding down on their beloved Terra, except the Commissar who stared at Astor with his droopy eyes, standing at the back of the crowd.

“Captain! Sir! We are in Com Radio Contact with the Recon class Imperial cruiser 'Blizzard'!”
“What about the other ships?”
Major General Garrick had taken control of the situation concerning communication.
“None of them respond sir! Only static, except this one sir!”
“Excellent! Put them online!”
“Sir!”

A large Holographic picture screen appeared on the bridge displaying the figure of an officer, waist up.
The office's uniform as well as those behind him, closely resembled the Vostroyan uniform but without the armour and the colour only consisted of dark green cloth, black badges, black facings, black buttons, black decorations and a black bearskin hat.
“Hi!” Came the cheerful welcome from the reddy face.
The Major General was appalled at the casualness of the an Officer of the Imperial Guard.
“Report Damn you! By proper protocol!”
M.General Garrick was red from fury.
“Protocol aye? Um... Colonel Price, 74th Terek After Math World Recovery Regiment, 7th Terek Battalion!”
Lifting his left arm, Price took a swig from a glass bottle half empty.
Birka whispered to Astor. “That colonel ain't crazy, he's bloody drunk!”
This made Garrick Angrier. “Where are your damn commanding officers! I will have your head for this arrogance!”
“Semyenov! Wheres the General?” Price was addressing somebody from his own ship.
“We buried him sir!” Came the reply. “Oh... and what about the ship's captain?”
“We buried him too sir!” “Oh... fair enough. Well then I'm the commanding officer, hi!”

Major General Garrick was ready to brake something. He was not used to such insolence, especially from Senior Officers.
“What the Feck is going on?!” Garrick shouted at the drunk colonel.
“Fucked if I know. Have you sent troops down?” Price took another swig of the bottle. “I was about to issue the order.” Captain Astor decided it best if he handled the situation. “...hic..well don't, unless you want to be on that side of the field.”

Price Pointed out into space.
“Notice..hic.. how the ships are dividing. Theres two halves; our side and “not our” side. You can communicate with our side, the “not our” side ships are Imperial ships that dropped troops on the surface. After that we lose contact with them and they join that side.”
“What about the wolves of Fenris? What about Mars? The space Marines?”
“Oh they're all here, everyones here. We're just waiting for the rest to arrive.”
Price almost finished the bottle this time.
“Loook outa ur window, thers the Dark Angels, Imperial Fist's, Black Templars (some of them), Blood Angels, few hundred thousand Guard Regiments and a hundred other Space Marine Chapters aswell.”
“The ultraMarines? Titan Legions?”
“Oh don't worry they're here, just not on our side, infact everyones here, the orks, elder, not so nice elder, Tau ships, funny looking half moon ships (I dont know what the hell they are) and the 'nids. It seems our beloved Emperor invited everyone to the party.”
“I still don't know whats fecking happening!”
The Major General was growing impatient.
“Ha! Its apocalypse, the battle to end all battles, the holy last battle my friends, kill anything not human and pray the last man standing is waving “our” flag.”

Suddenly one of the enemy ships fired at the loyalist side, hitting a Black Templars Frigate, blowing apart the starboard side. The loyalist ships opened fire, ork raiding pirate ships charged forward and the sinister Dark Elder crept ever closer.”
Price threw aside his bottle, ripped open his shirt and unsheathed his sword.
“Ha! Its begun! Its The End!”



Price was right, everybody was here.
“Now you can drop! Drop with me my friends! I'll send you my coordinates! May the Emperor be with you at your death!”
The holopicture dissapeared and the bridge went into panic.
“Activate the shields! Arm our bloody selves! Did you get the coordinates? Good! We drop now!”
Garrick and his officers rushed to the giant drop pods.

Astor paused to stare out at the billions of drop pods and transports descending towards the planet. 
“How the feck will they fit?”
Price's ship let out its transports and drop pods.
Astor stayed at the bridge of his ship as he was a navy captain, not Imperial Guard and he needed to keep in touch with the general Lions on the surface and Price.
Chaos! Half scared guardsmen piled into the transport carriers, millions of them. A sea of men.”

General Lions sat in the carrier with Commissar Dawson and colonel Birka.
Lions had done this millions of times but this time was not the same, this was Holy Terra he was charging into.”

The Carrier Crashed into a chapel, crushing the sacred objects kept inside. Guardsmen filed out into the open.
“Fuck.” The Fabled Golden Palace lay in ruins, thousands of differently uniformed Guardsmen and Marines ran everywhere, there was no room to assemble, everybody was brushing up against each other.
Colonel Price with his shirt unbuttoned came running towards the General and shook his hand.
“We charge, we fight! No time for tactics General, no time for honour!! This is pure gutter fighting! Claw, scrape, cheat, do whatever kills the enemy! Kill General! Kill and win! KILL!!”
And with that, Price screamed a savage, but appropriate war cry as well as thousands of other guardsmen.
The air was thick with the seething stench of death and destruction, ash, smoke and fire. Every building was raized so it was like an open plain battle although the grass is replaced by ruined buildings and once glorious chapels.
“For the Emperor!” was constantly heard from all sides.

Suddenly a huge Deamon of knorne materialised and crashed into the middle of Price's regiment. Lions shivered, this was true fear he had never before felt.

The disfigured Deamon swung its sword through the Terek 74th killing men by the dozen.
Colonel Price took out another bottle and drained a third of it before throwing the bottle at the Deamon.
“Argh! Ha ha!! Fuck you!!” Price clung to his sword hilt, looking down he picked up a dead comrade's lasgun to use as a club and jumping onto a chimera screaming, lunged up at the Deamon and was swallowed up in the ash, fire and artillery shells.
“Feck!” The general didn't know what to do. A hand grabbed his coller and shoved him forward into the crowd while he was pushed from behind by the sea of guardsmen charging into hell. A transport carrier burst into flames during flight and colided into a regiment of Guard and Marines moving with the sea.
Claws grabbed at Lion's feet and he looked down to see a horrific metallic frame emerge from underneath the ground.
A passing Space Marine cheered and lunged forward with his fist, punching the necron in the face, smashing it completely.
Another necron emerged and semi chopped a part from the Dark Angels waist. The Dark Angel's comrades charged forward to begin the fight with the still emerging Necron Flayed Ones.

“The drunk Colonel was right again.” Thought Astor, staring at Terra from the Bridge.
There were Tau drop ships, Elder drop ships, Ork drop ships, Heretic drop ships and Tyranid spores all heading for the surface.

“This is truly, The End.”


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## Commissar Ploss

good stuff, will be hard to follow up! 

i like the Daemon stuff 

CP


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## Unknown Soldier

I hope people don't mind, but this is such an exciting story, that I felt compelled to take part.

'The enemy has committed all of it's forces in the raising of Holy Terra' mused Lord Inquisitor Forson Graves 'Now is the time to strike. Contact Cadian High Command, tell them that Operation Exterminatus has begun.'

Graves sat back in his ornate throne on the command deck of his battlecruiser, The Vindicatus Maximus and smiled to himself. After twenty thousand years of continuous warfare, victory will finally be theirs, no longer will the Imperium of Man be threatend by the xenos, the traitor, the heretic or the mutant. The time had come to cleanse the galaxy.

'I have General Indred of the Cadian High Command on the channel my Lord' came the cry from the Communications Officer.

'Excellent. Put him through.' responded Graves gleefully.

The view screen on the Vox crackled to life and through a sea of static, an image began to emerge. It was General Harl Indred, a seasoned veteran of over forty bloody campaigns and one of the few Imperial Guardsmen to have risen through the ranks all the way to Warmaster. Depiste the snowstorm like static that surrounded his visage, his chiselled features and cold eyes could hardly be mistaken.

'General Indred, are you ready to deploy your troops?' asked Graves almost non-chalantly.

'The Cadian Guard await your orders with anticipation Lord Graves. We are ready to fight.' Indred quickly responded, more then a hint of impatience in his rushed tone.

'I am pleased to hear that you are eager to do battle General. Take your mighty fleets and wage war against the Xenos filth. Visit every world in alien space and cleanse it in Holy Fire. Do not stop until every Eldar, Ork and Tau is wiped forever from the face of the galaxy. Once you have dealt with these scum, I will give you the co-ordinates to the Necron Tombworlds, where are forces will combine to deliver the final hammer blow.' announced Graves.

'But what of the Legions of Chaos my Lord?' inquired Indred.

'Oh do not worry General, I will be taking care of those traitorous defilers...personally. Now begin your righteous crusade Warmaster and may the Emperor's blessings be with you and the two billion men under your command...Leave at once and strike great victories for Holy Terra and the Imperium!'

General Indred repeated the righteous call and then his Vox transmission ended. Graves looked through the large, ornate portals on the bridge of the Vindicatus, everywhere his eyes laid, he could see the numberless myriad of Imperial vessels surrounding his own flagship. Space Marines, Grey Knights, Sisters of Battle, Daemon Hunters, Witch Hunters, Imperial Guard, Titan Legions and of course his own battalions of Alien Fighters were lying in perfect formation within their mighty space crafts, waiting for the order to attack. There were so many ships, that it was almost difficult to make out the entrance to the Eye of Terror on which they had all congregated.

It had been a risky strategy to leave the Cadian Gate empty and an even greater risk to tempt the xenos scum into attacking Holy Terra, but risk is how wars are won. And considering the battle plans were drawn up by the greatest warrior to have ever graced the Imperium. There was no way that the holy warriors of mankind could ever fail.

Suddenly, the bridge of the Vindicator fell silent, the various Pyskers and Servitors had frozen in place and an overwhelming wave of warmth, courage and euphoria swept through every deck. From the main bridge window Graves could see it, in all of it's shining magnificent glory. It was the Emperor's Saber, the most beautiful, powerful and holy battle cruiser to have ever been fashioned by the Adeptus Mechanicus. The gold plated ship came to a graceful stop, it's nose seemingly pointed directly at Lord Forson Graves himself.

'The Emperor's Saber is hailing us!' came the excited shout from the communications officer.

'Put it through at once!' Graves barked back, angry at the delaying Imperial protocols for ship to ship communication.

The Vox once again crackled to life, but this time the image was crystal clear, as if no random piece of static would dare to interfere with this most coveted of signals. A boy, no older then twelve years old appeared on the screen, his face covered in Imperial markings, his long flowing hair touching his young, muscular shoulders. Lord Graves threw himself from his battle throne onto the deck of the bridge and kow towed to the image of the child.

'Lord Graves, it is time to begin the Final Great Crusade. How fair your men?' spoke the boy, his voice ringing with maturity far beyond his physical years.

'We are more then ready exalted one, seeing you has filled our hearts with harmonious joy and puritanical satisfaction, we await your orders with eagerness and anticipation. For today is the greatest of days and we are blessed just to be in your presence.'

'Your words bring inspiration, your heart delivers faith and your leadership is without question. Lord Graves, order your fleets to follow me into the Eye of Terror. The moment has come to purge the galaxy of evil once and for all.'

'Yes my God-Emperor, your will shall be done.' 

I hope this was okay and fits in with the overall story. Next please.


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## waltzmelancholy_07

THIS IS FECKING AWESOME!!!... Hahahaha...


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## Shogun_Nate

The flotilla of coalition ships waited in high anchor on the outter rim of the Cadian system out of sensor range of the fleet making it's way towards the blasted Eye of Terror. On the bridge of the _Kami Saiban_, the last chapter master of the Void Stalkers, Tokugawa Minobu, sat in his command throne high above the milling sea of chapter serfs and servitors whose tireless efforts kept the old ship plying the tides of the Empyrean. The glowing lights of his command lecturn reflected off his burnished golden terminator armor, casting it in various shades of greens and reds and yellows, as he studied the incoming messages from the other ship's commanders. 

Word from astropaths had brought bad news. While unable to send messages across the vastness of space, their powers still granted them the abilities to do so over the short distances between the fleet's ships. He rubbed his brow in frustration as the information scrolled across the viewscreen incompassing his lectern. The Minotaurs and the Marines Malevolent had turned from their duties and joined with the forces of the child Emperor. With more and more chapters of the astartes coming under the banner of this child, those who stood against him found themselves branded traitor or worse. Minobu had accepted the black-mark for he knew in his soul that this was wrong. "There is only one Emperor and he resides on Terra" he intoned to himself in a hushed whisper, "Long may he reign." 

He turned his weary eyes to those below as they went about their duties. The old battlebarge was a hive of activity with men and women running back and forth in the ordered chaos that only those who had experienced it could understand. They each bore reports over the various ship's system status and the rediness of the fleet for action. Squeals of binary could be heard over the sounds of the bridge crew as the ship's techpriest communed with the vessel's ancient machine spirit, making sure the ship was in working order and prepared for the task ahead of it. 

When he had first heard that the Emperor had been reborn, Minobu had rejoiced. That mankind's saviour had been returned to them after his supposed death had been seen as a sign of his greatness. The resulting rebirth had created a tidal wave of faith that washed through the length and breadth of the Imperium but at the same time created a rift. This was especially true in the aftermath of the Astronomican going silent for the first time in millenia. There were those who doubted the veracity of the boy's claims, many of those being the astartes themselves. It hadn't taken much for the thousand chapters of space marines to begin taking sides. Some saw the return as a sign that they should turn from their heathen ways and accept the child as the god he seemed to be. 

Terror had gripped humanity in it's cold, black grasp on that fell day when the Emperor's beacon went dark. With no means of safely plying the warp, ships had been forced to either fly blindly into the realm of daemons or limit their pace to that of their sublight engines. The Imperium that the Emperor had carved out with his blood and sweat and tears had fallen apart in the course of but a few days as anarchy niggled it's way in in the place of order. Riots on the scale of planet-wide warfare had errupted on many of the hive worlds that made up the Imperium. Having no way to produce food for themselves and facing the prospect of wide-spread starvation, those worlds had turned to insanity as the frightened masses scrabbled to gather what little provisions they could. Such acts were not limited to hive worlds though. The Imperium was a great behemoth and it depended on each planet to support itself. 

It was in this insanity that the sparks of war were fanned into a blazing inferno. Chapter fell on chapter as each questioned the piety of their fellow brothers. Had it not been for the intervention of the Ultramarines, many believed that they would have seen another clash similar to the Horus Heresy. The chapter master of the Ultramarines brokered an unsteady peace between the two factions only to see it casually disregarded the following year when the false Emperor-child called for a crusade against the non-believers, preaching that Holy Terra should not be allowed to remain in the hands of the unfaithful. 

"The Emperor still lives..." 

That was all that could be made of the garbled, static-filled transmission that had surfaced over five years ago. Those four words had galvanized the astartes still unsure of the child-Emperor's claims. The Wolves of Fenris had been the first to react. Along with the Salamanders and the Blood Angels, they created what would later become the coalition. They openly called for the child-Emperor's death as the boy could certainly not be the true Emperor of mankind. On Terra's fortrees moon Luna, the first conclave was called and those loyal to the true Emperor had met and made preparations for the conflict surely to come. The Ultramarines and their successors along with the Imperial Fists were the first chapters to join the coalition against the child Emperor. The numbers swelled as more and more chapters repledged their fealty to the one, true Emperor. 

It was during this time that the fleets of the child-Emperor made their move. From the warp came at first dozens of ships, then hundreds, then thousands and not all of them were Imperial. Ork, tau, Chaos, Eldar...all came to aid or destroy the Emperor and those loyal to him depending on their agenda. The war for Holy Terra had begun. And the battle still waged. It was never-ending carnage as those involved continued to send forces to sacrifice on the altar of war. Word had spread that Terra still burned. Of those who still defended it, there had been no news. Minobu ferverntly prayed that those warriors still held.

"And here I sit preparing for war because whispers and rumors" Minobu muttered, as he slammed his ceramite-encased fist into the arm of his command throne. The sound of their chapter master's deep, gravelly voice and the following boom startled many of the junior serfs who had never been in the presence of their lord before, much less the bridge of a warship making to go to war. Still, not all news was bad. Ships of the Redemptors and the Eagle Warriors had joined with the fleet, adding their might to the fleet. That brought their total numbers to a little over nine thousand astartes. Such a great number had not been seen for very long time.


His attention to the scrolling screen was broken by a polite cough. "Yes Admiral?" he asked. 

"My lord, the false Emperor's fleet is moving towards the Eye."

Standing, Minobu turned to Admiral Minamoto Heida. "Prepare the fleet. We move to engage."

"HAI!" the admiral replied, slamming his fist into the golden aquila splayed across his amethyst-armored chest. His voice sounded throughout the bridge, filling the crew with renewed vigor. 

"My lord! Khan Subedai requests the honor of leading the assualt." came a voice from ship's vox master. 

"Tell him I would be honored follow in the wake of the White Scars."

Slowly, the ponderous warships of the coalition fleet made their way through the stars towards their objective.

"For the Emperor" Minobu called. The vox filled with replies as the ships joined in the battlecry.


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## imm0rtal reaper

Awsome nate I must admit i really didn't like this Emperor is 12 business (No offense unknow soldier, the writing was still great) But i like what you've done with it


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## Shogun_Nate

Thanks for the kind words Immortal! I'd been working on something for this until I read what Unknown Soldier had posted up. The idea hit me so I scrapped the other one and wrote the above on the fly lol.

Good luck to whoever comes next!

Nate


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## Ste

i dont understand how hes been 'rebord' wouldnt hte UM and the IF of headed straight for the throne the SECOND something hapened and if the 'corpse' lol was gone an in its place a child then how could they not believe him? allthough tahts not whats ahappened unknown i would like t ohear some more info on how this 're born' had come about? otherwise BRILLIANTTTT WORK GUYS!!!


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## Unknown Soldier

Nate, what can I say? Absolutely brilliant writing my friend, I bow to your mighty prose and 'wicked skillz'. For something you've written on the fly, it is truly fantastic.

The idea for the 'Child-Emperor' came about after reading up on Sebastion Thor and the Thorians. When the original parts of the story said that it was 10,000 years in the future to the current timeline and that the Astronomicum had gone silent, it seemed to make sense. The original Emperor had finally passed over and in his place, the 'star child' had been born (just like in V - I miss that show). 

Anyways, the Thorian priests had managed to smuggle out some of the Emperor's gene seed and started to grow a clone for his new 'emergence'. Unfortunately, they got the timing wrong and as the Emperor's spirit floated off towards the Warp, the Thorian priests were able to channel it into the boy's body.

Now thanks to Shogun Nate, the question is...or did they? Is the Child Emperor the re-incarnation of the God-Emperor? Or is this some sort of evil plot hatched by the Eccleisarchy to regain power? Is this really the Final Great Crusade to cleanse the galaxy or is there something more sinister going on? Could Tyranid Gene Stealers be involved? Or even the Chaos Gods? Why else would the Emperor fall silent and let Holy Terra burn? Some many questions and so few answers.

And once again, the Imperium is split and brother must fight brother, etc. Schisms are a big part of the 40k universe, so it seemed entirely apt. Who would you follow - the corpse on the throne or the child bearing his holy name? Would you let Holy Terra burn if it meant you were able to finally wipe out the traitor, the xenos and the heretic for good? 

The Inquisition seems to believe that it's the child, but is that because they are desperate for a miracle / courageous leader after so many millenia of inactivity by the Emperor? Does it even matter if the Child Emperor is the real deal or not? As long as people believe, then that should be enough to conquer all.

I will let you lot decide and I might even chuck in some more narrative myself.


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## Shogun_Nate

Aye, it was a good plot twist you came up with. And when reading it, I too thought of the old background regarding Thor/Thorian Inquisitors and the star child(which is an old RT-era line from way back when heh heh heh). It really hit me out of left field and got me to thinking. What if... From there it just rumbled downhill at a break-neck pace lol.

As for the bowing and stuff, let's skip that heh heh heh. I thank you for the kind words though :biggrin:!

On reading the previous entries, I noticed that while they added to the story they also left quite a bit open for interpretation so future writers would have the option of filling in the holes or creating more of their own. After reading your post, I saw that in it was a chance to create even more confusion and questions. This would give future writers opportunity to add to what the two of us had touched on or to take it and in a totally new direction.

As for taking it further, you bring up many good ideas. Genestealer patriarchs are known to spread an aura of well being amongst hybrids and use their powers to sway the uninfected. Could this be the feeling the Imperial fleet felt as it began it's trip into the Eye? Or is it another idea you put forth, the touch of Chaos trying to either fool the last vestiges of humanity by lulling them into a false sense of security at having a new Emperor? Perhaps the child Emperor is taking the massed fleet into the eye as a sacrifice to the Chaos gods to give their mortal followers the power to finally conquer Terra and the Imperium? It could be any and all of these things or none at all heh heh heh. 

That's what I like about this narrative. The freedom in it allows the writer take an idea and plant it in fertile soil. After that, see how it grows LOL.

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## Commissar Ploss

i'm glad you guys figured out what we were trying to pull off here. the writing is superb, and the plotline is gaining intensity. i love it. i'm glad normtheunsavoury started this thread. i was hoping i wasn't to specific in _my_ entry, cause i wanted to leave it open for others to fiddle with. the path did kinda stray with the entry from unknown soldier however with the sudden introduction of new characters, but i'm sure that the originals will make a resurgance.

cheers, :drinks:

Commissar Ploss


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## CommissarHorn

yay for the originals!

Great writing guys, now that we've kinda got an actuall story line going.


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## aM | Gunslinger

guys this is AWESOME!!! i have to congratulate you all but i especially liked it how nate put a brilliant twist into it??? is it a second heresy!!! who knows but its great  cant wait for the next installment...


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## CommissarHorn

Just write it yourself, if you can't wait.


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## Commissar Ploss

go for it. better make it a good one...*cough*you should bring the original characters back*cough*...

CP


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## normtheunsavoury

Great work everyone! I was a little suprised when a chapter popped up from nowhere but things have turned out well. 
This is pretty much what I had in mind when I started the thread, not story wise but how things have started to snowball. When someone reads a story they will see that world in a unique way based on their own interpretation of what's been written.
I was really interested to see what would happen when you place a story into a relatively unknown arena, to be honest, I'm impressed. 
Keep up the good work people!

Norm


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## Commissar Ploss

Here Here! :drinks:

much enjoyed,

CP


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## Digg40k

Apologies for jumping in but I feel it's necessary to consolidate something and that something for me is that the Emperor is indeed still alive. It would be the only acceptable plot line for so many loyal chapters to have followed.

So without further ado, meanwhile back on Terra...

Multiple resounding cracks filled the air as Lascannon fire scarred the pillars of the corridors deep within the Golden Palace. Bolter fire instantly barked back a reply barely seconds later. The Astartes fighting a retreating battle were hard pressed but held their ground nonetheless. Since the coalition was founded this inner sanctum had held. Chosen by the coalition itself for its expertise and aided by the Adeptus Custodes they were charged with the defence of the Holy True Emperor himself. Working with limited resources and almost zero knowledge of the enemy the Astartes had turned what seemed to be an obvious defeat into a hardfought inch by inch firefight. Terminators strode through the corridors shredding and burning all who dared assault them, Scouts ran infiltrated into the most dangerous of locations, carefully setting booby traps for enemy forces to fall into. But all the while, Astartes with Boltgun stood their ground, stubborn in their attitude, pouring ceaseless rounds into the enemy, fighting for every scrap of ground with Chainsword, Hand, Foot and even Betcher's Gland.

Word had trickled through, the White Scars would lead the charge, the false emperor in his arrogance had made for the Eye of Terror itself. Victory was at hand, vast spaceships of uncountable mass had begun to confront eachother, bringing huge destructive batterys to bear. The fate of the galaxy lay in the balance in space, but yet also on Holy Terra itself.

"The Emperor still lives..."

The same recording played over and over again throughout the Vox network. They would not forget, they would not yield, they would not perish. In the name of the True Emperor they would stand!

The Imperial Fists, true Sons of Dorn all, the Emperors Shield were resolute in their task. An entire chapter of the Emperors finest indeed would sacrifice themselves for the cause. It would be a long night, as well as the next and the many after that.


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## Shogun_Nate

Damned good addition Digg!


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## Digg40k

Shogun_Nate said:


> Damned good addition Digg!


Thank you, I hope I did the storyline proud. Perhaps after a few more additions I might chime in again with how the battle is going, taking into account the story as a whole of course.


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## Unknown Soldier

Wow Digg, excellent stuff. I could really imagine the Terminators striding through the ancient stone corridors, dispencing justice with their heavy flamers. Such is the ferousity of the battle and the overwhemling numbers involved, that the xenos have breached the Imperial Palace!

Every single enemy of mankind has sent forces to Terra and if both the 'faithful' and the Child-Emperor's fleets severely damage each other, how will the Imperium survive?

Dum-dum-der!


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## Shogun_Nate

For those who want the original characters back, why not add more yourselves? I don't see a problem with the story covering different actions during "The End" from both perspectives heh heh heh. I think that both lines can coexist in harmony with the overall story continuing onward with no hiccups.

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## Unknown Soldier

Well, I'm going to try and keep this story alive, especially considering that I've taken it in a different direction. By all means, please add to this installment or cut back to the initial story set on Holy Terra.

‘Battle stations! We are under attack!’

From the portals of the ship’s bridge, Lord Forson Graves could see numerous flashes of gunfire and ships exploding in the far off distance of space.

‘What the hell is going on?!’ demanded Graves, moving quickly towards his command throne on board the Vindicatus.

‘The rear guard of our flotilla is being annihilated my Lord…by Astartes Strike Cruisers.’ Came the reply from a startled crewman.

Astartes? Those fools, those damned traitorous, back stabbing fools were attacking mankind’s only saviour. How could these misguided, disloyal, heretical brigands turn their backs on Holy Terra and seek murderous intent on the Emperor Incarnate himself? 

‘Bring our ships about! I will show these mutinous dogs the true might of our righteous and faithful crusade. Woe betide the insurgent who dares to disrupt our holy mission, damnation for the heretic who wantonly conspires against the Imperium and death to the treasonous jackals who seek to betray our beloved Emperor!’ boomed Graves, his body visibly shaking with anger.

The Vox screen dominating the bridge of the Vindicatus flashed into life, the image of the Emperor-Incarnate filling the screen once more.

‘My Emperor…’ Graves stammered, staring once again at the face of his god for the second time this day.

‘Lord Graves, do not commit your forces to the attack, your Inquistorial fleet will follow me into the Eye of Terror. I have sent word to our loyal Astartes to deal with these injudicious usurpers. I have need of your strength and resilience for the the battles that lie ahead.’ The Child-Emperor spoke, his words carrying incalculable authority.

‘But my saviour, without the Chapters, we will be severely weakened against the hordes of Chaos that await us beyond the Eye.’ Graves responded respectfully.

‘My dear Lord Graves, it is not with ships or Marines or firepower that we will conquer Chaos, they are but a mere bagatelle against the unholy foe. Our supposed weapons of war are nothing more then trivial adornments and useless decorations compared to the the true ammunition within our arsenal. Faith will be our shield, devotion our sword and belief our banner, with these in our armoury, there is no enemy that we cannot smite.’ Lectured the Emperor Incarnate.

‘Of course your eminence, please forgive my lack of vision, once again, you have shown me the true path to victory. I beg your forgiveness for my ill founded words.’ Graves replied, his head bowed.

‘I do not seek blind or unquestioning followers Lord Graves, especially in these most troubling of times, I cannot forgive you as you have done nothing wrong. Lift your head high and plot a course, once through the Eye, bring your fleets to bear on the planet of Prospero.’ The Child-Emperor confidently responded.

‘Prospero my Emperor?’ quizzed Graves.

‘Yes. We seek Magnus the Red. He will be the first.’ Declared the Emperor Incarnate.

‘The first? I do not understand my Messiah.’ Graves asked reverently.

‘For too long have my children been scattered and alone. I will deliver them from Chaos and return them to the bosom of humanity. It is time, Lord Graves, for my Primarchs to unite once again to save Mankind.’

And with that, the Vox screen flickered and died. The engines of the Emperor’s Saber burst into life and within moments, the Inquistorial fleet had entered the Eye of Terror.


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## Commissar Ploss

and the plot thickens :read:

CP


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## lawrence96

as does the gravy!


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## Shogun_Nate

No real action..just a bit of reflection heh heh heh.

*************************************************************
The sound of thunder filled the skies over Terra as the battle commenced. Blood and death were the only companions to those souls who fought their way through the mud and the muck that was once the dead soil of the cradle of humanity. Thousands died every minute as the guns of the gathered forces sought what little advantage they could find. Men and xeno, mutant and pure were slaughtered as each side turned their mighty weapons of war against their percieved foe. 

From his vantage point in the Imperial Palace, Chaplain Antonin of the Imperial Fists looked on in mute horror at the enemies ranged against the last defenders of the Emperor's hold. They came not in their thousands...no. Not even tens of thousands. The plains filled with whooping racious called of hundreds of thousands of men and aliens and other things too horrifying to contemplate; all fighting for whatever cause they believed in. In all honesty, had not the Emperor held on after the failure of his mighty life-sustaining throne Antonin knew that this would have ended ages ago. How the protector and uniter of mankind survived was unknown. The ecclesiarcy declared that it was only his great faith in humanity that kept his soul ensconced in the withered shell of flesh that remained of the once proud leader of man. Their fiery rhetoric stirred the masses, creating a fervor of religious belief that had swelled to the point of breaking. Darker rumors, whispered in the black corridors behind locked doors told of a more terrible reason. It was said that without the the throne and the costly sacrifice of thousands of warp-cursed humans that other steps had been taken to sustain him. Those who voiced their opinions soon disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.

Antonin thought of the day the false-Emperor had set foot on Terra. He came with the backing of millions, from the Inquisition to even chapters of Astates themselves. They fawned over him, calling on him to take the reins and guide humanity into another golden age of domination over the galaxy. The boy had looked on the crowded masses that stood before him and proclaimed to all that the God-Emperor had fallen, his will to weak to continue to keep the burning light that burned though the warp like the beacon of an ancient lighthouse. He had told them that no longer could he protect mankind from the darkness that crept from the shadows in the deepest, darkest regions of the galaxy. His words were like honey, their effect like a plague. 

The infection spread throughout the populace. Riots, mass-hysteria, and a breakdown of law flared up like wildfires, burning their way across the face of the planet and the rest of the Imperium, herself. They had marched to the palace and demanded entry. They demanded that the high lords recognize the child-Emperor's divinity and right of leadership. They claimed that to stand in the way of the new saviour of humanity was tantamount to treason. The word heresy spread; the followers of the false Emperor stood on every street corner, like hawkers selling their wares. Only the thing they offered was so much more than mere trinkets. They sold salvation and a place beside the new Emperor of Man when he once again took up the mantle of crusader and purged the Imperium of the unclean. 

However, their demands were met by the combined forces of the Imperial Fists and the warriors of Guilliman. When the child-Emperor made to enter the gates with his entourage he found them barred, sealed by the palace wardens. No demands or pleas for entry were granted. On the sixth day, two space marines exited the massive portal to the gardens before the palace. Each bore no weapons, only a single rolled scroll of parchment between the two of them. Sprawled across the ancient devotional was a simple demand. Surrender. Their deaths signaled the beginning of the long war.

Antonin was roused from his reverie by the sound of slowly shuffling feet. So long had the war gone on that few inside the crumbling walls of the once might edifice went without injury. Weariness had settled over the survivors like a cold fog, befuddling their minds with the constant sounds of warfare and the leeching exhaustion that could only come when one had fought to the extent of his stamina and then pushed ever forward. Even the implacable might of the astartes had met it's match in the constant tide of blood and death. 

Bowing his head, Antonin found himself praying the Emperor that they find their own salvation. The word had come that the fleets had engaged the false-Emperor's ships and the boy had fled deep into the blighted Eye, home of daemons and foul traitors. That in itself was proof enough to Antonin's mind that the creature was not the flesh and blood of the most reverent Emperor. Turning to those returning from the walls he beckoned them on into the remains of the reclusium so that he might refresh and renew their vigor and hope with prayer.

The prayer began as it always did, since the day the Emperor had spoken through his heirophants... The world had listened to his words and in them found the true path. Astartes and man knelt shoulder to shoulder, side by side in the gloomy wan light that shone its way through the remains of time-worn, shattered stained glass..

"Benevolent God of Man, Emperor of all humanity, the Light in the Darkness, the Word of Reason guide our poor souls through this time of strife...."


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## Unknown Soldier

Dammit Nate! Another beautifully written chapter filled with good stuff. You always make it so difficult for the person following you on this thread. Now my next chapter will look like this in comparison -

'And then the good Marine shot the bad Marine in the head and it went all, like, ka-plow! and blewed up real good, like a tin of beans in the microwave.'

The killing of the Marine messengers with their giant surrender banner was truly groovy. Gah! Now I will have to write something in return.

Again, great job Nate.


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## CommissarHorn

Enough reflection and politics, time for some gutter born savagery, proper soldiering.

Since its a full out battle with every race competing, any one can write anything, regardless of race. 
I'm doing guard, because they're fighting for you and cause I play em.

Ruin. Ruin and destruction beheld the once glorious Imperial Palace of Terra. The heart of the Imperium. Without the heart, the Imperium would inevitably fall into ruin. Without the Imperium, so would the universe. But a new star shone, a new star promising salvation.
Man, in his ignorance, decided this was not the case... 

“Bastard!” Clubbing a Dark Elder warrior savagely down, guardsmen charged into a building over taken by the xenos. The Holy City of Terra is in ruins. Every building, every gutter, every inch is fought over. Mongrel mixes of crazed Guardsmen run though the city streets, as well as every other race and army. A horde of Orks has taken a chapel and are being besieged by Maurading chaos marines. Elder swoop through the city on their jetbikes gunning down Tau. Tyranids swarm the sewers only to be met by the equally heartless Necrons. The air is thick with death, ash and screams. The streets choked with dead and dying. 
Nobody is safe. 

Captain Gat of the Cadian 9th thrust his straight sword forward into the oncoming Elder. “Keep em back boys!” Gat's rabble is a mix of 50 guardsmen from dozens of different Imperial Guard Regiments bunched together. Upon charging a force of Tau encamped in a city building, Gat's platoon was assailed from behind by another horde of Elder. This was a bloody shit spot to be in thought Gat. If he beat back the Elder, the Tau behind him would take advantage. There weren't enough Guard to fight both sides. The distinct Human voice was heard from behind the Elder. “Fuck you clown!” Emperors grace! Thought Gat. More Guard had charged up from behind the Elder. He was safe to finish the Tau. There were Tau on the top levels of the City block, a layer of guard under the Tau, a layer of Elder on the floors bellow Gat's guard and more guardsmen charging up the first levels of the building under the Elder. “Forward! Charge the Tau!” Rushing up into the top levels, the cry of dying Tau was heard under the rise and fall of bayonets. 

The fresh Guard were slaughtering the Elder and had managed push them out of the building's windows and exits. Desperate Guardians scrambled up stairs only to be met by more Lasguns.

The officer leading the fresh charge rushed over and to Gat's surprise shook his hand. The officer was senior to Gat and was covered head to toe in blood. A large newly done scar ran down the Colonel's ( he was at least a colonel thought Gat) right forehead to his left cheek. The colonel wore a Dark green Vostroyen uniform and was clutching a bloody, curved cavalry blade. There was alcohol on his breath. “Pleased to meet you! Good job! Don't stop her...” The building exploded. Gat and the Colonel were flung aside in the impact and bits of guard flew everywhere. More Elder swarmed through the new hole made in the building's side.

Picking himself up Price shook his head. “Argh!” His world was spinning. New Elder had infiltrated the building and now threated to surround his men on the top level. The Captain he had greeted lay on his back skewered through the heart by his own sword. “Dirty bastards!” Guardsmen picked themselves up from the fallen concrete and desperately fired at the Elder. An Elder Harlequin leaped through the air, landed behind some Cadians and with fluid artistic movements sliced their heads to pieces. The Harlequin dodged a chunk of concrete thrown at him by the Green Guard Officer and leaped up to finish him as well. Landing to Price's side it spun its twin swords around itself in a display of marvelous accuracy and agility. The harlequin slashed forward to end Price's life but Price kicked it in the crotch, dropping it instantly. ”Clown!” Price snapped its neck. “Fuck!” There was no where to run. Guardsmen were being gunned down left and right. The screams of guard being cut down by shurikens and the loud keening noise made by advancing Elder rang in Price's ears. Fish Fucking Clowns, thought Price. Whether it was the Alcohol, insanity or pure frustration, Price began to utterly detest the Xenos and desperately wanted to fuck up some Elder with his bare hands. Dropping his sword, the Colonel picked up a fallen helmet and striding forward in long steps, smashed it across a guardian's face. Another guardian saw Price and lunged at him with his sword but the Elder's head exploded in a cloud of red mist. Guardsmen sniped at the Elder from the rubble. The Guard were fighting back. “Pick yourselves up! Kill them! Kill them!!” Price's voice roared over the screams of the charging Elder. Without thinking, Price found himself among the Elder swinging his bare fists like an animal. “Mother Fuckers Argh!” Guardsmen raised themselves from their hiding places and with a new found eagerness to kill, sprinted into the oncoming Elder. The guard crashed into the Elder, fighting face to face, torso to torso. Men slipped under the bloody floor. Comrades climbed over comrades, there was no room for bayonets or swords. Men clawed, bit and kicked savagely at their foes. The Elder's martial obedience could not compete with Man's gutter born savagery and slowly the remaining Humans pushed the Elder back to the windows and doors. “Kill them all!” Clutching a Guardians neck, Price violently throttled it down to the ground and headbutted another guardian behind it. Elder abandoned their advance and jumped from windows, afraid to face the merciless Guard. 

“After them! I said kill them all!” Price leaped through the building's window after the retreating Elder, fuelled by hate, raw adrenaline and alcohol. He landed on a passing Elder Jetbike and dragging the pilot off the bike onto the bloody street, beat its head in with a glass bottle. Price stood and drank from the bottle. Vengeful Guardsmen were jumping out of windows on all levels clubbing down the retreating Elder. To Price's left a Blood Angels Dreadnought crashed through concrete rubble and fired on the Elder with its assault cannon. More Blood Angels Space Marines followed the Dreadnought and charged the Elder, cutting them apart with their Chainswords. An Angel reeled back, his head decapitated by shuriken. An awesome Farseer rallied the Elder to fight back but was tackled down by Guardsmen and clubbed to death under Lasgun stocks. Suddenly the Earth shook, a Chaos Land Raider crashed through a building into the Dreadnought and Khorne Berserkers piled out from it. They didn't last long, a Tau Devilfish sailed down crashing headlong into their band. There was an explosion, fire, limbs and rubble flew every where. Smashing his bottle on the ground but still holding onto half of it, Price ran at a Berserker picking himself up and slashed apart the Chaos Marine's face with the bottle. Then picking up the Marine's axe with both hands swung it into another Marine climbing out of the flaming Land Raider. A bolt shell flew inches past Price's face, smacked into the Land Raider and exploded. 

More Chaos Marines emerged from the damaged buildings. More shells exploded around the Land Raider and Price was forced to leap into cover behind the Dreadnought. There were Blood Angles, Cadians, Space Wolves, Mordians and other men from other Guard regiments all crouching behind the damaged dreadnought. “Fuck me its hard work.” Price smiled through his bloody face at a crouching Space Wolf. “Aye, for you humans.” The Marine returned the smile, stood to fire at the Chaos and crouched down again. “Gotcha yer bugger!” Price pulled up a fallen Lasgun and checked the power pack. Satisfied he turned to the Space Wolf. “ We go over the wall kicking and screaming!” Price shouted loud enough for the other crouching Guard and Marines to hear. “Fancy dying do you?” The marine reloaded his Boltgun. “Fuck dying! We're not here to live! We're here to kill, can't do that behind a wall now can we?!” Price shouted. The Marine chuckled. “I like this mortal. We'll follow you.” The other Blood Angel and Space wolf Astartes nodded in agreement. “Then follow!” Standing up, Price fired into the horde of Chaos, thought he saw a Chaos Marine's head explode, and shouting he sprinted eagerly, swinging the Lasgun stock into a Berserker's face, followed by Blood crazed Guardsmen and battle hungry Marines to, as Price said earlier, “Kick and scream”.

Whatever choice man makes, whoever man chooses to fight for and for what reason he decides to fall... it will not be done quietly


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## waltzmelancholy_07

BRAVO is all I can say...:victory::so_happy::victory::so_happy::victory::so_happy::biggrin::biggrin::biggrin::good::good::good::good:


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## Commissar Ploss

Bumping a really awesome thread, yes its threadomancy, but i'm attempting to encourage more writing in this forum. If someone would like to write the next piece of this story please do. I'm writing something! you should too!

Commissar Ploss


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## waltzmelancholy_07

Ei Ploss... Why don't you write the next piece to this thread and I'll write the next one... Just a thought...


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## Commissar Ploss

sounds good, i'm plugging away as we speak. 

CP


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## dark angel

Im not sure what we are supposed to do. Can someone please explain?


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## Commissar Ploss

basically you read the thread as it has panned out so far, and then write your own piece as the next part. We try to reserve spots so as not to get confused. You base your piece off the piece before you. I'm writing this piece, Waltz is writing the next installment, and if you want to write the third i would encourage it!

CP


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## dark angel

I will certainly see how these next two pieces go. From what I have read (Skimmed back through the pages) I got the impression that you are all writting about the same basic storyline but about your own characters? Kind of like a Role Play? So for example, I could write about the White Scars, but keep them to the same setting as this and all? Not sure if thats right or whatever, could you please tell me?


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## Commissar Ploss

yeah, it turned into that... unfortunately. The goal was to preserve the first 3 chapters as they are happening. Thats where i'm following up from. The first three story posts are the only really cohesive story, which is what this was supposed to be. So i'm continuing from where I left off. If you read the opening post and then Immortal Reapers and then my own, you will get a feeling for where the story is supposed to be going. although once we hit the surface of Terra, i guess anything could happen. Commissar Horn wrote a piece as well, so we'll get this thing going again!

CP

once we hit the surface we can break from the original story line with the original characters i guess.


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## dark angel

Depending on how I see the next two pieces I may certainly be interested! I have now read the original posts and they were pretty awesome, not quite sure why Terra is burning and all as of yet however  Cheers Ploss!


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## Commissar Ploss

Please enjoy the next installment.

***
Captain Astor groaned. The day had been rough on his already wounded frame. Flopping down against the framing of his dugout, he let out a deep breath which was quickly consumed by a coughing fit. It was getting dark now, and that wasn't good. He'd found that night brought a different type of horror. One you couldn't shoot with a lasgun. Horrors that seeped into your every thought and dream. Well, that wasn't quite the case since he hadn't dreamed in weeks. However the technicalities worked out, it still wasn't fun. Terra herself screamed for salvation. Three months now had passed since he dropped with his troops to fight the onslaught of xenos, mutants, and heretics that had descended upon this most holy land, and still he couldn't get it out of his mind. Had he not been thrust into this situation, he would never have believed that a planet could actually scream, and writhe, in pain. But such was the case. 'Terra herself is in pain.' That was what the Admiral had said while being carted off to the medical ward... He hadn't believed it then. But now that it was audible, he sure as flek believed it now. 

Today hadn't been much different from the rest. Ground forces had been stuck in a war of attrition for the last two weeks outside and all around the Imperial Palace. They fought with a tenacity befitting of Imperial soldiers. Everybody was fighting everybody, or so it seemed. Eldar stormed the lines of Imperial soldiers only to turn and fight the Daemon hordes that threatened their flanks. 

Day after day, night after night, it was constant fighting. No pause, no respite, just war. Millions of beings all fought to take over the planet that was central to the Imperium. Bathed in the ever-present lights of the Imperial Palace, it was perpetual daylight. Out of the darkness stormed everything you were afraid of. Gods and Daemons and everything in between. No matter what your phobia, there were thousands ready to exploit it.

He hadn't slept in what felt like days. There were millions of guardsmen stationed in and around the Imperial palace, not to mention the thousands of Space Marines that prowled the front lines killing everything that moved. The noise was deafening and the tremors in the ground ever present. 

Wiping the blood-laden phlegm from the corners of his mouth, Astor rose back to his feel. From his point behind the line, he could see all manner of projectile, beam, bolt, and needle, streaming out of the darkness to decimate the Imperial defenses. So horrible was the fighting that every second a person fell, and every second, another one stepped forward to take his place. This endless cycle was taking place on both sides of the line, enemy and ally. 

Suddenly, a rocket of unnatural size streaked up from the endless mass of bodies that made up the enemy forces. Fifty meters, sixty meters, seventy meters, the object continued to rise. After reaching the apex of its arc, it screamed down towards the imperial lines. Astor watched as the rocket suddenly banked in his direction. He squinted at the object in the sky and was astounded when it sprouted a pair of arms, then a pair of legs. Captain Astor began to run for cover but was thrown the last 10 meters as the object impacted the ground close by. Coughing up dust and scrambling to his feet, Astor turned to see the shape of a Chaos Raptor rising up from one knee in the crater it had just made. 

More rockets screeched up from the enemy lines in the same manner as the first. Captain Astor stared in horrified realization.

The Black Legion was behind their lines.
****

please feel free to continue the story, just post that you are going to be writing the next piece.

CP


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## Commissar Ploss

Waltz_M is up next, according to the previous posts. So If someone wants to claim the chapter after his that is cool.

CP


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## waltzmelancholy_07

_“It is time.”_ a lingering whisper echoed across the Imperial Palace. All of the Custodeses froze as they heard it. _“Abandon your vigil.”_ it said again and the authority that came with it was irrevocably absolute, and the Adeptus Custodes wasted no time in obeying it. They immediately left the presence of their fellow Astartes who stared after them, confused at their brother Custodeses' wordless and immediate departures. 

_“What would would you have us do my lord?”_ they asked telepathically in unison.

_“Assemble the full might of my legion.” 
_

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Don't allow them an inch further!” screamed the captain as he fired what felt like all the las bolts his gun could carry. Around him guardsmen did the same: firing their guns with abandon, hoping that one of the las bolts would punch through the twisted armours of the Chaos Space Marines. 

The first line buckled when two squads of the heretics landed and butchered every guardsman they could reach. Astor was forced to signal the retreat after that and by the time they did manage to reach the next line, only fifteen of his one hundred twenty men made it safely.

Now, the Raptors were renewing their charge, this time on foot and for whatever reason, Astor didn't care. A handful of his men and other guardsmen took up positions around him as he fired his lasgun while some charged, yelling and brandishing bayonets as they tried to stem the advance of the Raptors who were also firing their bolters.

“Stand your ground!” Astor yelled hoarsely as he reloaded his gun and fired at the Raptors who ignored the projectiles and hacked through the charging guardsmen like farmers to their crops. 

A guardsman broke from the firing line and caught Astor's attention. His hands reacted instinctively and caught the soldier's collar and heaved. The soldier only felt the pull when his weapon flew from his hands and the next thing he saw was the barrel of the captain's gun. 

“I am no commissar.” the captain breathed down on the soldier as he ignored the painful screams and the whizzing of bullets all around him. “But I'll shoot you like a fleking dog if you do that again!” 

The soldier was close to tears but he nodded vigorously at the captain. He shakily scrambled to his feet, ran towards where his gun fell and no sooner did he raise his weapon, a bolter whipped through the air and blew his head off.

The Captain glared at the soldier's remains for a few seconds, his expression unreadable, before averting his attention and raising his weapon. He released a few measured shots into the charging Raptors but they ricocheted like before, and his targets were still standing and screaming at the top of their lungs.

He made a grab for a frag grenade clinging on his belt when an unusual thought came across his mind. “Krak grenades!” he shouted and some of the guardsmen stopped shooting and looked at him as if he lost his mind. 

“Shoot you FRAKS and throw the DAMN grenades! 

After his command, a collection of kraks soared through the air and tumbled beneath the quaking treads of the Raptors. A series of contained but ear shattering explosions ripped the air and the shriek of a couple of the heretics brought a brief smile unto the Captain's face; their armours were as thick as tanks, why didn't he though of this before.

“Mow them down!” and so they did, and reaped a tally as one, two, three, four.... ten Raptors fell instantly to their overwhelming volley. And again and again, krak grenades were tossed in the air and were followed by the bellowing roar of the traitors and the volley that silenced them. 

“Are there any Space Marine Chapters patrolling the east of the palace outskirts?” he shouted to his master-vox as he grabbed the device on his neck. Their supply of grenades will not last long, he needed Astartes support fast!

Five more Raptors fell to the ingenious use of the Krak grenades; but the traitors finally reached the line and made them pay dearly for their actions


The vox in his hand came to life a while later, when he was running again and firing blindly over his shoulder, but it was a scrambled message. With all the jamers from the xenos and heretics alike, Astor already knew this would happen but got irritated nonetheless. 

“I say again! Chaos Space Marines have breached our line! Request Astartes support!” he knelt down and fired his lasgun at the Raptors.

“.... Aye.. re…Captai... Guards.... nearing... position” a fleeting message broke through but it just made him more agitated.

“I need Astartes, not guardsmen! O Frek!” Astor hastily raised his gun again and fired at a Raptor. The Raptor caught five of his las bolts in the ruptured eye sockets and fell to ground with a crash. He grabbed his throat again and ran “Unless you have a Custodes tagging along with you, don't waste your freking breaths coming here!”

“FOR THE DARK GODS!” another Raptor screamed from the skies. 

Astor quickly dived out of the way.

Rockrete and gravel flew in all directions as dust overwhelmed the lungs of guardsmen nearby, including the captain. The Marine rose from one knee and surveyed his surroundings with bloodshot eyes on his helmet. The fleeing guardsmen around him pivoted on their heels and unleashed a volley that could fell an entire company. The las bolts ricocheted off his armour but some hit their marks; yet all they did at point blank were burn tiny holes on it. They only realized the futility of their actions when the Raptor cleaved them in twos and threes.

Undeterred by the carnage in front of him Astor stood up and shouted “FOR THE EMPEROR YOU WORTHLESS FRAK!” and took aim. He squeezed the trigger and a las bolt escaped the nozzle. It seared through the air and hit the back of the Raptor's head who was now pummeling a guardsman to the ground with a headless carcass. The Raptor merely froze and turned, as if someone called him. He saw Astor, kneeling several meters away, aiming for another shot. He made up his mind in an instant and charged at Astor as the latter squeezed the trigger again and again. 

“Chaos can never be denied!” the marine screamed as he swung his chainsword left and right at guardsmen who crossed his path, killing them where they stand. When his feet brought him in front of the still kneeling Astor, he raised his roaring sword and brought it down. 

Astor dived out of the way and the Raptor was denied of the kill. Astor quickly rose to his feet and wedged the last of his krak grenades on the back of Raptors power pack, or what it used to be, and ran for cover. The grenade destroyed the Raptor's power pack and in turn, destroyed its owner as well before the former realized what happened.

Silence scantly overwhelmed the battlefield thereafter but maybe the close proximity of the explosion played on Astor's ears. He raised his head and saw his men, still fighting a losing battle against the heretics, he minutely turned his attention to wards the remains of his quarry and found solace at his charred carcass. “Fracking lunatics.” Astor muttered when he rose behind a destroyed speeder and dusted dirt off his uniform.

“Oi! Captain! Nice moves you got there!”

Astor turned and a weary smile broke through his dirt riddled face. A colonel was speeding up towards him from one of the streets that lead directly into the palace. He was holding a half-emptied bottle and with about fifty ragged, haggard but nonetheless battle ready guardsmen and about twenty Astartes who overtook him, whilst screaming litanies at the Raptors before they clashed amidst bolter fire and roaring chainswords.

Astor saluted him and he replied with his usual sloppy one that was followed predictably with the swig of his bottle before saying:“Got one of your message when we was passing a group of Custodes who might have wanted to use the bathroom.” he took another swig “Laughed at the last one too. We couldn't convince a Custodes to tag along but we brought what you asked.” 

Under the normal circumstances, Astor would have taken offense for the casual and jovial intake of the situation but he has learned to appreciate the well-needed humor from Colonel Price.

“Thank you Colonel.” 

“Twas nothing.” Price waved his bottle casually and asked: “Where are the fraking shitheads?” 

“Has the liquor made you blind mortal? They're right in front of you” a Blood Angel astartes walked up to the pair, flexing his powerfists as he did so.

“I was just testing you Lucius.” the Colonel bottomed his bottle, threw it away and readied his lasgun “Was making sure your super vision still worked.”

“Hmph, you humor me.” the Astartes then thundered past them and enter the fray. The pair then saw him grabbing an unsuspecting Raptor with one of his monstrous hands from behind and ripping his head off with the other.

“Glad I did.” Price stared after the Astartes, then looked at Astor who was fitting a magazine into his lasgun “ So captain, Kick and scream?”

Astor looked at him, and smiled “Lead the way colonel.”

“Well then, let's get to it.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“My Primarch, the Vermillion Phoenixes have started to move.” a serf bowed low as he approach a throne like chair, situated in a darkened room that was only illuminated by the light directly above the colossal figure who sat on it. 

A magnificent looking double-headed ax was propped up in front of the giant. His hands were holding its Aquila shaped head in place as he considered the serf's message for a moment. 

“So, is it time then Asteroth?” the giant whispered more to himself than to the serf. “Time for us to reap the glory that was promised to us by our father?”

“Your orders lord?” the serf looked up, though he already knew what was to come.

The Primarch stood up and grabbed the double-headed ax with both hands. Amidst the shadows, his honor guard stirred, their eyes gleaming ferociously in the dark, awaiting his orders. 

“We march.”​


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## Commissar Ploss

ooh, shit waltz! that was fleking awesome! Now i have to write _more_. sweetness! Great JoB!

CP


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## waltzmelancholy_07

Glad you like it!... Hahaha... Who will write the next piece?...


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## Commissar Ploss

i'm not quite sure, i think Dark Angel was interested. I'll ask him.

CP


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## Mossy Toes

I have agreed to be taken on for the next part of this. I hope not to disappoint...


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## Commissar Ploss

Mossy Toes said:


> I have agreed to be taken on for the next part of this. I hope not to disappoint...


Can't wait to see what you come up with mate!

CP


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## waltzmelancholy_07

Mossy Toes said:


> I have agreed to be taken on for the next part of this. I hope not to disappoint...


WOO!!:victory:... Can't wait!...


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## Mossy Toes

_Plink_.

The drop of water splattered on his massive gauntlet. _Like my soldiers,_ Marneus Calgar thought. Like my sacred chapter. _Splashed and gone, blown away like so much chaff on the wind._

He was the last of the ancients amongst the Chapter, himself and Tigurius. Telion was dead. Agemman was dead. Cassius was dead. Even that treacherous, over-arrogant bastard Sicarius was dead.

The death of the Emperor had echoed through the Imperium like a tidal wave, a single spark to start a calamitous wildfire of collapse. The death of the Astronomicon had marked the occasion, Calgar was told, which had destroyed any chance of concealing the event from the galaxy at large.

And now he sat within this dripping chapel, taking respite from the constant fighting outside. He and his Ultramarines held the empty Templus Astronomicon. Still the death cries of those hundred thousand psykers echoed here, unsettling the defender

The backlash of His death cry had killed every psyker on Terra. Every psyker in the Solar System. His death had warped time and reality, snaring and luring in countless billions from all forces in the galaxy. Chaos, Ork, Tau, K'Nib, Necron, Eldar, Demiurg, Tyranid, and Imperial—so many sons of the Imperium—all fell prey to the siren call of Terra.

_Plink_.

He had come from the year 41,053, at the head of the entire chapter of the Ultramarines as it had sailed through the void to wipe out Xenotopia Tau, their upstart Empire. Since his arrival here, Calgar had met and fought alongside Imperial Astartes who had participated in the Great Crusade. He had met soldiers who spoke in hushed tones of the C'tan Outsider and swath of devastation it had cut across the galactic core in the 47th millenium.

The Second Imperium, the union of Eldar and Tau, had both risen and devoured and fallen before this, the death of the Emperor in the 51st millenium. It had consumed even Macragge before its violent, implosive self-combustion as the slave-castes rose up and killed their overlords.

And so, now, out rang the Call. Ships that had vanished into the warp from all walks of history reappeared here. Huron Blackheart and the xenos prince, Yriel, had both fallen to Calgar's fists since arrival to this place and time.

_Plink_.

But that wasn't the worst thing. The Emperor had died; the Star Child had not. What being was it that called all the billions of warring races here, to this time? What was it that benefited from this unimaginable scale of devastation and carnage?

Legends flickered through his mind, forbidden lore that he had unavoidably seen or heard over the course of his long, long command of the Ultramarines. The Fall of the Eldar, which birthed the Eye of Terror and the Chaos God Slaanesh. The insinuation that the Emperor was truly the Star Child—once appearing so baseless, so blasphemous—that He was merely the germ, the seed of something greater...

_Who benefited from this unthinkable devastation and carnage?_

He had tried to warn those who came, to tell them to turn their faces away and stride from this place. And then there was the Child Emperor—what was that mystery? A facet, an avatar of the Star Child and His physical manifestation? Or simply another imposter?

The Call had brought warriors from every millennium of the past, every reach of the galaxy. But Calgar had not met a single warrior from the future beyond this year; not a single warrior that could tell the shape the true nightmare to come. And yet...

_Plink_.

And yet he had his suspicions.

“...They shall be my finest warriors,” Calgar murmured, “and they shall know no fear.”

He barked a bitter laugh. He was not afraid.

No, Calgar was not afraid of this birthing, this Second Fall. He was not afraid of the nascent fifth Chaos God that was the Star Child that was his Emperor.

He was not afraid.

_Plink_.

He was terrified.


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## Commissar Ploss

ooooh. niiiiiiice. i like it! Although it is extremely late, i think it is quite a welcome addition to the story! Great job Mossy! +rep!

CP


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## CommissarHorn

Hahaha, Waltz07, I love you. 

Price is a character I use in alot of my fictions and I was only slightly worried someone might stuff him up. But you did a bloody fantastic job mate, and the story work was great aswell.

Cheers guys, I'm really happy this thread has risen up again. Its a bloody good idea.

Theres no way I'm passing up a chance to post something up and annoy you all again. See what dark writes up first though.


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## CommissarHorn

Dammit, tried to edit a past post but it wouldn't let me.

..."But its got sooo many mistakes!!!"


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## Commissar Ploss

CommissarHorn said:


> Dammit, tried to edit a past post but it wouldn't let me.
> 
> ..."But its got sooo many mistakes!!!"


haha, good to see you back in action mate. 

CP


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## waltzmelancholy_07

@Commissar Horn: Uhmm?... I love you too?... Hahaha... Sure thing mate... Glad you like my piece... And tnx for the rep btw... And I'm also glad you're back...

Cheers!...


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## Perriwinkléé

Since nobody has taken the next part I'll have a crack at it, unless Dark Angel still wants to write something? Working on it now none the less, this is a brilliant story guys I just hope my part is as good as all of yours! :biggrin:


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## Perriwinkléé

I don't think anyone is going to do this so here is the next part of this gripping story, hope you guys like it.

_“Yes… Yes the plot thickens...” _The cackling voice was repeated by dozens of incoherent, out of tune murmurs.

_“...The four horsemen shall gain another, betreyal shall all but undo the imperium, but for now my children, let us watch the show...” _A slow, fluctuating laughter rings through the air and fades...

----------​
_“Captain! Captain! Get up, come on!” _Captain Astor scrambled out of the barricade he was sleeping behind and hastily followed the guardsman.

_“Look, can you see it, the sky, the sky look at the sky!” _The guardsman was trembling.

The sky above what was once holy Terra was thickening and vivid lightning storms wracked the heavens.
_
“Whats happening? I’ve never seen anything like it.”_ Price was dumb struck, the whole of Terra fell silent as human and xeno alike watched this phenomenon unfold. The arcs of lightning were forging themselves into a colossal oval high above the ground, ear splitting cracks of thunder ripped through the sky one after the other. The thunder intensified until finally it came to a halt and there it remained rotating smoothly, a mammoth oval of pure lightning sustained above the surface of Terra, but sustained by what only the emperor knows.

Complete darkness fell over the whole planet, the only light source being the huge oval of lightning miles above the ground, it lit the men’s faces an eerie blue colour. To Aster at least, the whole scene was beautiful, the blue silhouettes of titans, massive daemons and huge hive beasts were littered across the horizon, and he could have almost shed a tear. But within around thirty seconds the pounding of gunfire, the screams of men and the roars of beasts began all over again, bringing Aster back down to reality.

_“On the ready line men! Ork swarm incoming!” _One of the guardsmen screamed, Aster, Price and their men rushed to a rough barricade made from piles of chaos raptors and took aim, moments later a lone Space wolf joined them accompanied by dozen Blood Angels, all of whom had a fiery blood lust in their eyes.

_“Business as usual then.” _Smiled Price, as he opened fire on the mass of blue outlined figures charging relentlessly towards them, everyone else followed Price and unleashed a hail of bolter and las fire that hit the Orks like a Sledgehammer, pummeling the first few rows of greenskins. Aster had never fired his las-rifle so hard in his life; he could feel the gun heating up in his hands but he couldn’t stop, there was no way of telling how many Orks there are.

_“For Sanguinius!” _The Blood Angels roared as they hopped over the barricade unable to control their need to rend their foes, they smashed into the Ork lines like a steamroller, the Orks flung themselves at them but were no match for their superior skill and were cut down in droves, Sergeant Drallius of the Blood Angels 3rd company, armed with his dual power fists, pounded his way from hundreds of Orks leaving a bloody trail behind him.

For a good few minutes the sergeant and his comrades eviscerated their way through hundreds of Orks, dispatching the wild beasts with swift ease, there was no stopping them.

_“Who’s dese? Stupid Humies! Killin’ me boyz! I’m gunna stomp em’ into tommora!” _A massive Ork the size of a truck and encased in crude metallic armor lumbered through the crowd towards the Blood Angels, the rest of the Orks were chanting, cheering it on as the greenskins in immediate combat with the marines either backed away or were finished off. 

_“To me my brothers! Let us show this Ork whose planet this is!” _The marines braced for impact as the huge Ork started to quicken his pace, almost sprinting towards them. Sergeant Drallius had a stern look upon his face, he widened his footing and prepared for combat.

_“WAAAAAAAGH!!” _The Ork let out a massive cry before hammering a marine into the dust, crumpling his ribcage like a toothpick. The rest of the marines engaged the Ork, carefully dodging its clumsy swings and striking efficiently but it was too tough for mere hacks and slashes, a decisive blow was needed to fell the beast. Drallius was about to charge when the greenskin lashed out, grabbing a fellow marine and tearing him in half, the blood spattered all over Drallius and his brothers faces.

_“Die! Die you foul greenskin!” _screamed Drallius as he and his marines rushed the Ork giant, the sergeant jumped onto the back of the Ork and landed a bone crushing blow into its spine, the beast let out an ear shattering howl, its massive body outlined by the rich blue light. 

Sergeant Drallius dropped his guard as the Ork couldn’t survive that blow, he jumped down from the creatures back and looked around at his battle weary brethren. 

_“You humies just don’t know when to give up do ya!!” _The Ork recovered and gave one last push to ram sergeant Drallius against the floor, in a berserker frenzy the beast picked him up like a toy and smashed him off the nearest marine, sending him hurtling into the mob of boyz.

_“I am da biggest, da bestest and da strongest boss dere eva was, I am Ghazgull Thraka!!” _The marines looked in horror as their sergeant drooped lifelessly by his foot from the Orks grubby hand, it cast him aside and made for the remaining marines with malicious intent scrawled upon its smirking face.

_“Retreat!” _The marines began barreling back towards the barricade where they dived over to rejoined Asker and Price, ammunition was running low, reinforcements were hours away, but one thing was certain: the horde was descending upon them.


----------



## CommissarHorn

Great piece Perri.

Thats it! I was hoping to watch for a little while, but now I just have to write something up! I can't take it anymore, its so good!

Save the next spot for me.


----------



## Perriwinkléé

Thanks Horn, I was a little hesitant about posting a section of my own at first because I've never written any fluff before, but it turned out Ok haha.

I am eagerly awaiting the next installment! :biggrin:


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## waltzmelancholy_07

Yeah! Now its the Orkz turn to shine under the spotlight!...

Nice piece Perriwinkléé... 

@Commissar Horn: You better post it soon... :laugh:...


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## Commissar Ploss

i might just ninja another piece in soon if you don't hurry! lol :laugh:

CP


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## CommissarHorn

Finally, after months and years of forcing myself, I managed to bloody write this. Its not very good, and not very interesting and hell it's battle scenes aren't very good either.


As if responding to a signal, mobs of Orks stormed past the mighty, cackling Warlord, crushing the fallen Astartes underfoot and sprinted savagely into the Human defenders. “WAAAAAGH!” 

Flaring out, the bloody infused mud exploded, crashing rubble into both attackers and defenders as pieces of twisted and scorched metal violently screeched down from the oppressive, eerie blue ashen sky.
The sudden barrage had shocked the Orks with it’s destruction and stopped their charge completely.

“The battle rages even in the sky.” Cupping the bloody grime from his eyes, Astor stared upwards. It was fascinating how only war and death existed in this world and his beloved sky was no longer an escape from it’s horrors. “It rages in our souls as well.” Price had appeared from under the mud, standing up. His whole uniform was covered in mud and blood, he looked no different from a walking corpse. Except for the confident smile which stood out amongst the caking mud and terrible wound on his face. Blood was streaming down his neck.
“Yes, its infectious, war. Your wounded Price.” 
“Haha, your nuts, go roll around in the mud for a bit.” 

Leaping behind a burning sentinel, the two officers narrowly escaped an unexpected volley of blue plasma fire. Looking over the sentinel, Astor spotted an incoming squad of Fire Warriors. The pair ducked instinctively as a mortar shell hit the ground behind them, drowning them in more dirt. Another shell crashed into the fallen body of a Black Templar, dismembering the corpse and showering blood onto the ducking guardsmen. “Radio! Radio, you bastard! Radio!,” Price stood up angry and despite the oncoming shells, strode towards a ducking group of guard. “Radio!” A bloody faced guardsmen sat clutching his head and rocking back and forth wailing, another was laughing hysterically as he continued to smack his head with the palm of his hand. Kicking a guardsmen who lay smoking indifferently, Price hauled him to his feet. “Radio!” He yelled over the crashing, whooshing sound of mortar barrage. The standing guardsmen, apathetically pointed into the black smoke further down their defence lines. “Where’s the first line?!” Price was shouting into the soldier’s ear. Shrugging, the Guardsmen lay back onto the ground, smoking his cigarette, oblivious.

Sliding across the mud, Price landed beside Astor. “Go into our lines and find the 33rd Company. Bring em up here, and get me a bloody radio!” Nodding, Astor quickly stood up and sprinted past the huddled group of Guard and into the black smoke.

Watching him go, Price unscrewed another bottle and drained its contents. His innate fury began subsiding and he felt much better. The sentinel shook as more blue plasma exploded around it. “Blue arsed bastards!” Price shouted and threw his empty bottle over the top.

“Price! Mortal!” Whipping his head around, the Colonel spotted a mix of Astartes bursting from the black smoke, lead by a Blood Angel Captain carrying a familiar standard across his shoulders. “Lucius! Bloody oath, anything new? Did you see Astor?” The Blood Angel shook his head. “No, but we ran into your regiment. This whole world is falling apart and there’s not much we can do, the lines are broken, the battle above us is hell and there’s pieces of ship falling from orbit all the time.” Price was pleased to see the Marine. “My regiment?” Nodding, Lucius handed Price the standard. “We didn’t make it in time, they stood against several traitor regiments and killed them all, only the standard was left standing though.” Clutching the standard, Price laughed. “Good for them! Lets keep going, I’m sick of these blue bastards!” 

Jumping over the sentinel, tightly gripping the standard, the dark green blood stained cloth laced with black silk flowing above his head, Price sprinted towards the confident Tau and Lucius followed behind him with his mongrel Space Marine company. Shells fell around the Marines, an Ultramarine twisted into the mud as a shell ripped off his shoulder and another collapsed backwards, hit in the face by a blue light. Slipping on the bodies and mud, Price’s fury was taking over and his feet continued forward, the standard still in his grip, still waving in the ashen, bloody air.

“WAAAAGH!!” From out the black smoke emerged an Ork, flying through the air and crashing into the Fire Warrior squad, followed by more frenzied Orks running into the shocked Tau. A rocket spiralled through the smoke, past Price and exploded somewhere within the dark ash. A Fire Warrior screamed, his head being beaten by a blunt axe and an Ork kneeled, his stomach open, choking on blood and ash. The ground shook again and the melee disappeared under mud, blood and limbs as a Fire Warrior, losing the battle exploded. 

Leaping into the mess, Price kicked an Ork in the head and stabbed the standard’s tip through the neck of another, splashing it with more black blood. Lucius swung his pistol, smacking a rising Fire Warrior into the ground and brought his chainsword down through the skull of an Ork, showering the Marine behind him with green flesh. 
“RAGHR!!” A mass of Ork and metal barged through it’s comrades and smashed it’s way into the Marines, dismembering a Dark Angel with its viscous power klaw and blowing apart another with its hand held cannon. Ducking under it’s swing, Price kicked it in the knee but found himself flying into a Fire Warrior and lying in the mud, looking up at the sky. His back flared up in pain. “Stupid bastard…”
Suddenly a massive hand lifted his head and a grimy, camo smeared face was smiling at him. “Price?” The Guardsmen shouted above the noise. “Colonel Straken, Catachan 22nd, you’ll be fine, we’ve got this green shit under control. Haha!” Breaking off laughing, the Catachan dropped Price’s head and disappeared into the melee, sending his fist through an Ork’s jaw.

The darkness was spreading in Price and a soothing warmth was beginning to take over. “Colonel!” Suddenly another face appeared. “Bloody hell! What now?!” Price sat up, his vision restored. It was Captain Astor.
“The 33rd Company are gone, Tyranids. I’ve brought some survivors lead by Colonel Straken… Your wounded pretty bad, get some rest.”
“Your nuts Captain, go roll around in the mud for a bit.” 



See, it acheived nothing except introduce Straken. I wanted Ploss to write up Astor in combat before myself, so I sent him off to get reinforcements. 
Cheers.

Please Dark, don't kill off any of the Original characters.


----------



## Commissar Ploss

lol, i'll have to do that then. I'll get started here. Perhaps i'll throw in some Flesh Tearers. Just to give Astor the edge. :wink:

CP


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## dark angel

I have already planned out one featuring the Mechanicus/Custodians! So I shall go after you Ploss, if that is alright?


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## Commissar Ploss

nah, have at it mate, i've got stuff for my novel i have to finish first, so you may as well go ahead. Just so long as i get Astor, i'm cool 

CP


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## dark angel

Ah, alright then mate  just one thing: Is there a particular word limit for these or can they be as long as you want?


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## Commissar Ploss

nah, no word limit. just have fun.


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## Yru0

By the power invested in me by the 'Reply to thread' button, I hereby necro this thread, because no sane soul should have to maul through the 'Featured Fiction' post by Serpion to find something this brilliant!!! The moment I discover how to deliver the almighty rep, I'm handing it out  

PS: Could somebody PLEASE get someone from games workshop to see this, they could learn a thing or two!


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## gothik

this is fecking awesome!!!!!!!!!!!! this has to be the tale of the year so far for me well done guys brilliant work, absolutley astounding work. i am so proud to be part of this site especially when i see this kind of stuff......"beers on me"


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## Commissar Ploss

i'm glad you guys like it so much. it sure features some of Heresy-Online's most esteemed writers, that's for sure.  Seems you'd like us to continue, no?

CP


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## gothik

thought I'd have a go...hope its OK


Only once before had Holy Terra seen so much bloodshed, once more brother fought brother as they replayed events that had happened ten thousand years before. Captain Astor swallowed as he listened to the cries of the wounded and the dying but pride filled him to know that every warrior from the mighty Astartes to the Imperial Guard were casting aside old divisions of us and them and fighting side by side with every bit as much honour as the angels of death themselves.

He was about to ready himself for the next attack when everyone around him went quiet.

"Holy Throne"

He heard one of the guards, a woman named Jocasta mutter and saw her make the sign of the Aquila to ward off whatever she was looking at.

"They have returned" 

He turned to see a Black Templar come to stand beside him, he had long got over the fear that all humans felt when standing next to the Astartes, this battle of battle had made them equals in spirit if not in body.

In confusion he followed the gaze of the Templar and stared open mouthed as columns of Astartes in red and bronzed gold livery came marching towards their position. The chapter banners of the varying elements within their legion flying high.

"The Word Bearers" The Templar growled and through his vox grill it sounded more like a dragon then a man.

Astor wasn't just looking at the fallen marines that slowly marched towards them he was looking at the figures that marched ahead of the legion, power plays forgotten, this was what they had waited for.

Kor Phaeron, the Black Cardinal himself roared a defiant chant into the air in the long dead language of their blighted home world. Erebus spoke his blasphemous sermons as he lead the Dark Apostles, and centre stage, his body illuminated in the flame of chaos undivided, his golden skin and flame cast hair leading the legion who adored him.

"Who is that?" Astor asked almost too afraid to know the answer. 

"Captain Astor ready your men and women" The Black Templars voice was now grim, not that that was any different to how the Black Templars normally sounded.

Astor briefly thought that had things been different, then the Black Templars and the Word Bearers might not be so different after all. 

"My Lord?"

"Lorgar has returned" 

Astor clenched his fists, this was not just going to fight those blasphemous bastards, he and his people were going up against a son of the Emperor, a lost son had returned home to greet his father.


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## Commissar Ploss

very nicely done there Gothik! thank you for your addition.  I shall be sure to write Captain Astor in some action very soon.

CP


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## gothik

your welcome glad i could help even if it was a tiny piece


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## VulkansNodosaurus

_I hope it's okay if I make an addition._

Navigator Karon Jonas surveyed the battlescape.

The Righteous Hatred was still there, still drifting in the orbit of Terra. Most of its crew had been dropped; most of those that hadn't descended were working on the endless repairs. Even a vessel as grand as the Righteous Hatred couldn't sustain the bombardment that everyone in the orbit of Terra was receiving.

The sound of wheels behind him alerted Jonas, and Admiral Clarris rolled into the center on his bed. The admiral was recovering from his earlier episodes; it had taken three months, but it seemed he would survive.

If anyone could survive this battle.

"It's an odd sight, isn't it?"

"With all respect, Admiral, this is far more than odd."

Clarris shook his head, in the process knocking away the pillow. "It's more, but odd as well. The greatest battle of all time, taking place over humanity's homeworld.... And I'm there to see it."

"We have bigger concerns."

"I know. The shields are virtually down, weapons batteries are ruined, and the only thing keeping us alive is lack of interest from anyone else. Lucky I have a small cannon in this bed, but we need to be prepared for boarding. I know, Navigator, I know.

But the thing is, Terra is in pain. Massive events are going on here, and we need to stay. I feel it. How are the Guard?"

"Peyes, Garick, and Birka are all dead. Garick and Peyes were smashed apart by a bunch of Tyranids who were trying to uncover something from below the Palace. Whatever that thing was, it killed them. Lions saved the rest of our men.

Birka- well, there was a Night Lords offensive. Birka was out with a small detachment, and we lost the signal. They could still be alive, for all we know: I heard the Eighth takes prisoners."

Clarris shuddered at the thought of what the Traitor Astartes would do to any unfortunate enough to be caught by them.

"Commissar Dawson is on the ship, commanding the five thousand people we have on board. Lions is still alive down there. So is Astor, last we heard."

"At least some survived."

The siren blared quite suddenly, interjecting into the calm of the discussion. Within minutes, gunfire was heard on the decks.

"Could you remind us why we're still in orbit?"

"Admiral, if I could get us out of here, I would."

Clarris pushed a pedal, rolling himself towards the bridge. He would be safer there, and the position was also more defensible. Jonas hesitated for a moment, then rushed down. He had a few grenades, as well as the Third Eye.

Running to a viewing platform above the cargo bay, Jonas watched the invasion unfold.

The attackers were mutated Astartes in red and bronze armor- World Eaters. They ran around the vessel, each murdering separately.

Dawson tried to rally his men; there was still a chance to win this. There were perhaps twenty or thirty Chaos Astartes, and five thousand defenders. The Commissar shot a man trying to run away.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't work. The goal of a Commissar was to make his troops fear him more than their enemies.

It was hard to fear anything more than the World Eaters.

Jonas shot a few times with his pistol, but the giants refused to die. It was still too early to use the grenades. The enemy was, in the end, stoppable. Even now it was killable; Jonas saw the Commissar shoot an unhelmeted Traitor Legionnaire in the face, blowing it off.

"See them die!"

Then, a chainaxe brushed off one of Dawson's arms. The Commissar swung backwards with the other, but it was too late. Though the next swing missed its aim- Dawson's head- it knocked off much of his sword, and on the ground, Dawson could do nothing but look in fear at the giant Champion of Khorne.

"Know this! Your greatest champions are no match for me! Know that you have been bested today by Kharn of the World Eaters!"

And, even as the remnants of Dawson's sword pierced his right leg, Kharn the Betrayer cut off the Commissar's head.

And the Guard ran.


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## Commissar Ploss

interesting to see the Admiral back again! nice work!

CP


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## Serpion5

Yru0 said:


> By the power invested in me by the 'Reply to thread' button, I hereby necro this thread, because no sane soul should have to maul through the 'Featured Fiction' post by Serpion to find something this brilliant!!! The moment I discover how to deliver the almighty rep, I'm handing it out
> 
> PS: Could somebody PLEASE get someone from games workshop to see this, they could learn a thing or two!


:laugh: Whose name would I put it under? 

btw, You realize Featured Fiction was Ploss` idea, not mine right? I simply volunteered to run it because I like the idea.  


On topic, may I reserve a post? I read through and noticed this story seems a little... one sided shall we say? 

It`s time we learned why some of the xenos are _really_ here... :spiteful:


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## WarpSpawned

Ahahaha.
I look forward to reading that particular chapter, Serp


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## Serpion5

*No more suffering...*

_Death..._ 

Such a concept no longer seemed to exist, as Nehekratekah looked out upon the blasted landscape. For too long had he slept, and now with his awakening he would struggle to bring about the perfect order his kingdom required. With his awakening, he had seen what the stars had become infested with, flittering little life forms that believed themselves the heir to their ancient realm. 

Fools. 

The venerable royarch stirred himself into motion, and as he did so his legions reacted in kind. With but a thought, his loyal cryptek Hamemkateph activated the teleporters in accordance with his master`s will, and a thousand silver masks of death looked out upon the living with nothing but hatred and contempt. Nehekratekah roared a metallic cry of malice as he swung his god blade into the nearest living soldier. The star god that had been imprisoned on Mars would soon be recaptured if the efforts of the royarch`s general could be relied upon, and this world would then feel the full fury of the star borne`s might. 

The royarch panned his head sideways, taking a far more in depth look at the battlescape that stretched before him. From what he could tell, the humans seemed desperate to defend something, but what exactly he could not ascertain just yet. 

_Hamemkateph, why do these creatures fight?_ He demanded. 

_Intelligence from our undercover operatives indicates that this world is the heart of the human empire._ The cryptek replied. _Logic dictates that the loss of this world would be critical in diminishing the morale of a weak living race such as these._

_In future cryptek, I will require full data download befor I am dispatched to some random mudball._ The royarch growled, decapitating yet more humans with a swing of the god blade. 

Even from the Scythe Class Harvester in orbit, Hamamkateph could sense his master`s severe displeasure. _My apologies Your Majesty._ He offered. _However, this situation came to our attention only recently, and no other was in proximity enough to intervene in time. More are coming I assure you, but for now you must hold our position here yourself._ 

* * *​
If only the situation was so simple. Even from here, the cryptek could tell that the necrontyr efforts on this world called Terra were doomed to fail. Nonetheless, death was no barrier for their kind and so long as they could delay the human forces enough, their plan may still succeed. The human Emperor was paramount to the undying`s goal, and had to be contained no matter the cost. 

The cryptek temporarily severed his connection to Nehekratekah and connected himself to the lesser ruler, a noble named Kapethoth. Instigating contact, he remained as distant as possible to minimise the time he would remain in contact. 

Kapethoth was a carrier of the infectious Flayer virus, a malady that no sane necrontyr wished to contract.

_My Lord Kapethoth, your status?_ The cryptek enquired.

_A fine selection down here._ The Flayer Lord replied. _Yet the prize remains elusive. I am beginning to think the god child is not here._

_Do not speak such blasphemy._ Hamamkateph growled, elicting a laughing response from the Flayer lord stalking the Imperial Palace below.

_Blasphemy?_ Kapethoth mocked. _Who are we to deny divinity, especially from one who defeated the mighty Dragon itself!_ The flayer had lapsed into a rambling insanity that seemed to accompany times of combat. The cryptek had a momentary glimpse of fighting through the flayer lord`s eyes before he severed contact, the evil metallic laughter chilling even his own long faded soul... 

It was looking more and more bleak as time went on. Over a hundred million years, all close to being undone by one infuriating individual. 

No. It could not be allowed.


- - -


----------



## gothik

whoa serp love it


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## Serpion5

I do what I can. So who`s next? :grin:


----------



## gothik

Jocasta screamed an affirmation to the Emperor, her Emperor, her god and felt that he was with her. Captain Astor was with the others fighting the heretics that had raced ahead of the Word Bearers, eager to claim blood in the name of Lorgar.

She was about to move forward when she was pushed down roughly and a harsh voice commanded her to stay.

"Your courage is admirable Corporal" The Black Templar told her "But such fervent iconography of those heretics will see the end of you."

"What would you have me do Lord?" She asked although she realised that she did not know his name.

He looked around him, assessing the field, the strengths and weakness's of the enemy and their own forces of the Imperium.

"I am Brother Gerwaint" he told her "We are equals this day Corporal Jacosta. Now take your squad and come with me, I will show you how we operate in a theatre of war"

She did as he commanded and with her sqaud followed the towering form of the Black Templar brother around the left flank. He stopped in a rocky outcrop and turned to the ten man squad.

"Know that this day you have served your Emperor with hearts of iron and nerves of steel. Know that this day you have earnt the respect of the Black Templars."

His words stirred thier souls and courage mixed with pride flowed through thier veins. if they met their end this day - and that was highly likely given the nature of thier opponenets - then they would do so as sons and daughters of the true Emperor of Mankind.

"Come with me brothers and sisters" Gerwaint roared holding his sword high *"NO PITY..."
*
His war cry was joined by the humans with him and pride filled him 

*"NO PITY, NO REMORSE, NO FEAR!"*

With the same cry on thier lips they followed thier Astartes brother into the fray...


----------



## VulkansNodosaurus

Magnus surveyed the unrecognizable landsape before him.

It had been a fertile world, once; he saw, with his inner eye, Prospero as it once was. Even now, twenty thousand years after it fell into ruin from the charge of the Wolves, it had not healed. How could it, in this impossible domain of the Eye, where gods walked and demons screamed?

He had moved Prospero here five thousand years ago- five thousand years outside, for time had very little meaning within the Eye. Looking over its gray-red-streaked desolation, he struggled to recognize why he had ever done so.

"Because it's home," he mumbled, and then turned around to greet the shuttle which had landed on the Obsidian Tower's summit.

Four figures stepped out. Two were recognizable as Grey Knights, silver warriors whose armor, carved with a million litanies to the Emperor, undulated in the hostility in the Eye, rebelling against the very heart of this existence. The others were Astartes too, but of an altogether different type. There was Bolesath, Chapter Master of the Dark Angels, a young and noble warrior with undecorated green armor. The final figure was not human in shape; it looked, if anything, like a box of void on legs. This was Shrike, the legendary Raven Guard, in one of his rare moments of visibility.

Behind the Space Marines, two more exited the shuttle. One was Inquisitor Forson Graves, and the other-

The other was his father, and his father's greatest foe, and no one, and everyone.

"Magnus," the Child-Emperor proclaimed, "I have returned."

"You were never here."

The Daemon-Primarch caught a spare filament of light in his left hand, twisting it to craft images of his father- his original father. That name was split now, one becoming many. Among the many was this one.

Thus the cycle began anew.

"All is dust. Yet never forget what this implies, Father-claimant. For if all is ruin, then from ruin all can come forth once again. I do not know whether you can be called my father; for that is a matter of opinion, and thus unknowable. But I have endured twenty millennia, and I know more than you ever will. My father destroyed my life. From the ruins came... this."

"You do not truly serve Tzeentch." It was not a question.

"I do not even pretend to anymore." Magnus extended a hand of light to the top of a towering building, far below the platform where he was now deciding his future. "But I will not serve you, either."

A point in time cracked. The future had been decided, though what that decision was wasn't yet clear. A crevasse appeared, and what could have been was gone, separated forever from what was.

"You felt that. It was a divergence. I will repeat my decision: I will not follow you, nor anyone else. My path is my own. Yet now, I suppose, at the end of time and warp, I have the courage to walk it. I leave to the mountains of infinity. You will go to the Plague Planet; I know Mortarion will join you, and Fulgrim, and perhaps Perturabo. You have the ability to wrest them from the false gods. But I will depart, and my Legion with me."

A moment later, he stood on a beach.

His Legion was with him; ten thousand, built up again from the decimation at Prospero, if only slightly. Amon was there, and Ahriman; and together they stood, watching the dunes, and behind them the soaring mountains of rock and ice. It was an infinite landscape, endlessly flat, and behind them the ocean roiled, and above them the storm sang; and before them the mountains grinned.

"It begins now, Father?" Amon asked.

"Indeed. Let us walk."


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## Commissar Ploss

Very nice addition!!! It's good to see this thread still going. 

CP


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## andygorn

_I don't know if this stands up to the great work already here, but this came to me and I thought it might fit in? I'm always trying to improve, so please let me know of any suggestions/improvements privately and I'll change this post accordingly.
[N.B. I'm not 100% about unit designations (please advise and I'll amend). This isn't meant to involve anyone famous, just one of countless small skirmishes which is part of a much greater whole. I guess this may or may not lead to something more momentous]._

*+++++
Area: Western continent 8
Assigned units: Emperor’s Children 17th Chapter, World Eaters Chapter 32, Black Legion 8th Cohort assisting.
Targets: Hive Verundal and Plains of Castigor
Objective : Destruction of these will lead to 6% less reinforcements for hard-pressed Loyalists in this segment, also weaken resolve due to reduction in food supplies.
+++++*

*“What in the name of Khorne’s Holy Throne are we doing all the way over here, then?” *Xelur, Champion of Khorne roared, seeing the distant cataclysmic struggles light up the horizon.

The several tons of his steed had already easily ploughed through the sandbagged position of Guardsmen, scattering them across the earth and was busying itself trampling one unfortunate into an even finer paste beneath it’s brazen hooves.

A howl of eldritch energy and green lightning played along the end of a trench, gouging up the hard-packed earth just as surely as through the pathetically human bodies of it’s defenders.
*“How the hell should I know?”* replied Arch-Sorceror Harlen of the Black Legion, breathing hard with the exertion of summoning such energies, but clearly exhilarated to the same degree.
*“I go where the Lords will, but we all claim a ferocious tally today...even your God would look on this as a glorious day!”*

Sweeping his halberd to the side, Xelur took a charging lasgunner across the chest, sending both of the victim’s sections spinning into the muck...finally sated by gore, the blade screamed in the joy of myriad kills just as much as it’s wielder.

Drawing twin pistols, Xelur send bolter rounds whooshing into a nearby parapet, keeping the humans’ heads down as the next squad leapfrogged and took over the task of slaughter.

Detaching himself from the main melee of his Sonic Marine unit, Archlord Velouris casually dismembered a Sergeant who was vainly trying rally the remainder of his troops who struggled bayonet to chain-blade with their foes in the waist-high mud and corpse-water.

Despite the tumult all around, the Slaaneshi’s voice still carried over to his allies without the use of a vox-unit; yet another Gift from his Dark Mistress:
*“Xelur, for a debased skull-collector, you talk too much. Harlen is right, we go where we must and where the Gods desire our attentions. Today here, tomorrow elsewhere...”*

A sound like the ramming of tanks clears the area which had been occupied by the Chaos reinforcement unit moments before, leaving their charred carcasses strewn and torn, just like their defiled and forgotten humanity.

Before them stands a Primaris, untouched by the bullets whirling around as he brings his hands together in another enormous thunderclap, frying a small unit of Havocs inside their armour as their unchained battle-lusts caused them to stray too close.

Pointing his crooked thighbone staff at the Imperial, Harlen invokes the name of Sabrides -the 75th daemon he enslaved- releasing the beast’s vehement essence in a torrent of crimson flame.
Yet the roiling destruction cascades over and around the human, deflected at the last second by a hemisphere of pale blue power.

Harlen’s staff energises as he approaches the so-called ‘Battle-Psyker’ and their weapons clash repeatedly, mirroring the time-old struggle between their cultures and deities. Green and blue sparks fly across both weapons, seeking primacy over the other, yet they are evenly matched given Harlen’s earlier exertions.

The human’s focus and commitment is undeniable as he screams to his foe:
*“There is no hope for you, slave to the dark gods! The Emperor’s Light will burn you from this land and all the other planets He holds dear!”*

Although experienced in centuries of combat, Harlen soon shudders beneath the Human’s relentless assault, bringing him to his knees. As he falls to the ground, the attacks upon the Sorceror suddently cease and the Primaris runs back for safety down a nearby tunnel, followed by a twin stream of bolter shells.

Picking himself out of the mud, Harlen has no time to thank Xelur before the steel horn of his saviour’s steed gores him through the chest, pinning him there like a defenceless insect as his vitals flood out, grotesquely garlanding the creature’s burnished head.

Craning his head upwards to question why, the last thing the Sorceror’s golden eyes see is the wickedly curved blade of Velouris’ power-rapier swinging towards him: cyan metals catch the light of dying Imperial vehicles as it shears off his head and most of his right shoulder.

As the separated bodyparts slide into the quagmire, their former owner is soon forgotten by both Champions, yet the Archlord curses himself at the oblique, almost ferally ragged cut; stunned that his emotions had ruled his disdainful mentality so completely.

*“Such a one was not worthy of the power he held...the Imperial would have made a prodigious plaything however...yet you had to go and chase him away!”* Velouris snarled, barely-checked hate wracking his entire frame.

Xelur’s sole reaction is a maniacal smirk and a shrug of his shoulders, before he pitches back into the fray.
Despite the earlier Chaos successes here, the Imperials had brought up reinforcements and were retaliating all along the front, so there was much more work to be done.


----------



## VulkansNodosaurus

_I know this is necromanting the thread, but I really think this is a good idea and want the story to continue. Chaplain Antonin here is from post 53, and we've heard about General Lions._

Targat Antonin stood at the base of the Column of Glory. It was a sacred tower that had been built in the days following the Horus Heresy, holding the bones of the Imperial Fists who had fallen in the first Battle of Terra, so long ago. He had not expected them to see battle once more.

_And they will not. We will hold._

But even as he thought the words, he knew their falsehood. Terra was a maelstrom of battle, and the only thing that mattered was holding on long enough for the Emperor’s resurrection- the _real_ Emperor, not the forming Star-Child, the child-Emperor or the Neomnissiah that some of the Mechanicum insisted was the true Emperor of Mankind.

The other members of the Northeast Front’s Achkas Region war council surrounded the column. From the Sixth and Seventh Companies of the Imperial Fists, Captains Anro Benfasav and Korir Etas, as well as Librarian Nifidor Neogur, joined Antonin. The loyal Mechanicum was represented by Fabricator Locum Xito Omalan, Titan Princeps Dwarg Gudd and the high-ranking Skitarii Wafara Kaeronaph. The Rhinoceroses Chapter’s Sixth Company was represented by its Captain, Burgu Sakzint. The disparate Imperial Guard forces were represented by Generals Tas Lions, Lei Nu, and Reania Kastarre, as well as Commissar Karibus Cain. Finally, and most uncomfortably, the Crimson Fists’ Second Company was present. Despite the two Chapters having grown apart since the 42nd millennium, they were still close, and Antonin had no quarrel with Captain Takalen Rospikt; but flanking Rospikt was an oversized red-and-indigo Dreadnought, and the legendary Marine inside the Dreadnought just happened to be the reason the two Chapters had grown apart.

“Pedro Kantor,” Benfasav noted with some acidity. The Ancient didn’t respond, but Rospikt fixed the Imperial Fists Captain with a glance that could be weaponized.

“Seriously,” General Lions noted, “let’s not argue about past feuds here. We have more pressing issues.”

“Indeed.” Omalan took out a data slate. “This is the disposition of our forces. The Marines are holding well, but over here, in the southeast, we’ve had a major Necron breakthrough. Even further south, a ton of daemons are converging on the palace’s center, led- so reports state- by the Daemon-Primarch Lorgar himself.”

“But that’s not our district,” Etas clarified.

“No, it is not. But the Necron assault is.”

“They’ve broken down the walls,” Sakzint noted, “so siege warfare will be useless there. I’ll take my Company to combat them- a couple of Titans might help, too.”

“My Titans,” Gudd noted, “are otherwise occupied in the northwest against a sea of Orks and Tyranids, assisting Lions' and Rospikt's forces. Two Warlords is all I have, and that’s including my own _Mausoleum Pax_.”

“Two Warlords and a Company of Marines,” Sakzint concluded, “would be enough to conquer most planets. Still, I doubt it’ll be enough, even with Guard assistance.”

“Kastarre’s regiment will come with you,” Cain said, “but everyone else is really stretched way too thin as is.”

Rospikt nodded. “I think it’s time to admit it,” he said. “Something needs to change. We’re losing.”

A storm of protest erupted, but Antonin silenced it with a handwave. “You do not understand,” he declared to Rospikt. None of them understood, not really. “The Emperor will return. His rebirth is close at hand. We only need to hold out- time is on our side.”

“And what proof do you have?”

“Who searches for proof in faith?”

“Enough, Chaplain,” Benfasav said. “As our human friend so rightly said, we must. Not. Quarrel. ”

“Forgive me for asking,” General Lions noted, “but what’s going on with the Emperor anyways?”

“No one knows,” Nu answered.

“Enough,” Etas declared. The Imperial Fist was by now tracing lines on his armor, something he did only when very nervous. “We all have tasks. Is this war council adjourned?”

“NO.” growled Kantor.

That was the first word the Dreadnought had said since arrival; yet it had the resonance of a hundred.

“IT IS TRUE,” Kantor said, “THAT WE ARE LOSING. WE CANNOT WIN THIS WAR CONVENTIONALLY. BUT ANTONIN’S FAITH OPENS A NEW AVENUE FOR CONSIDERATION. WE ARE ON HOLY TERRA ITSELF! THERE ARE RELICS OF UNTOLD POWER HERE, AND NO PLACE IN THE GALAXY IS LIKELY TO BE AS PSYCHICALLY ACTIVE AS THE IMPERIAL PALACE. THIS IS MANKIND’S HOME, BROTHERS, WITH FIFTY THOUSAND YEARS OF TRAPS ON IT!” The Dreadnought pointed to the Column of Glory. “LIBRARIAN NEOGUR, I SUSPECTYOU CAN DO SOMETHING PSYCHIC WITH THE COLUMN.”

Neogur nodded, and Antonin felt him pump power into the column, through the sacred column….

A blinding, golden sun erupted hundreds of meters above the council. In the next instant, it shot withering beams of light at the monstrous legions outside. Wherever light met flesh, they collided, and there was death where there had been life.

At last Neogur’s power began to run out, and the Librarian sank to the ground on one knee. The sun instantly disappeared.

“Emperor…” Neogur said. “Primarch… Primarch…”. Then, he lost consciousness completely. Etas motioned General Lions, who was breathing heavily, and the two carried Neogur toward the infirmary.

“Death toll: 9874, of which only 73 Imperial.” Omalan looked up from the cogitator. “How come no one noticed that column’s psychic powers before?”

“NO ONE WAS REALLY SEARCHING FOR THEM.”

Antonin had conditioned himself to hate Pedro Kantor, but now that they had met… how could he hate that? Kantor was a ten-milennium-old legend, and unlike almost all other Dreadnoughts he had not spent nine-tenths of his third life asleep (though he rarely fought on the front lines). The only beings in the galaxy that had more memories were the Emperor and perhaps some Daemon-Princes, but Kantor… Kantor was human.

And yet, Antonin knew, in this he was wrong. Using relics and tricks was all well and good, but the council lacked faith.

“Immortal Emperor, forgive them,” Antonin whispered to himself as he walked towards the chapel. “I know you will return. I know you will return to us.”

And a voice answered, from somewhere outside Antonin, a cold voice that might or might not have been the Master of Mankind.

It said one word.

“Yes.”

* * *​ 
The Cadian Gate was aflame. Noavic Shasfa, Epistolary-rank Librarian of the Sons of Medusa, watched the spectacle with regret.

_How many? How many human lives will be lost here?_

Too many, he knew. At this crucial time, this moment when the final victory of Mankind was in sight at last, humanity’s weakness had fragmented it. Many had declined to heed the call of their messiah, even among the Space Marines. Most First Founding Chapters, among them the Ultramarines and the Imperial Fists, naively maintained the original incarnation of the Emperor was still alive. Others, such as the Blood Ravens and Red Scorpions, went off on their own mysterious quests. And, to Shasfa’s great shame, many Astartes had chosen to follow the pretender known as the Neomnissiah. Those included the Angels Sanguine, the Plutonium Dragons, the Aurora Chapter, the Iron Hands…

And two of the three clans of the Sons of Medusa. Lachesis and Atropos had put their support behind their Founding Chapter without thinking. Only Mageara had remained loyal to the true reborn Emperor. Only Mageara had been strong at the end, where it most mattered.

Shasfa wondered if any of the heretics had felt the psychic imprint of the reincarnated Emperor. Had they knowingly refused that warm power, that loyal certainty? It was hard to believe, but he had stood alongside those who were once his comrades when they first saw the Master of Mankind. To have walked away from that….

“Brother-Librarian Shasfa! Are you injured?”

Shasfa shook his head and hurled a mental hand out into the Coalition’s fleet. It was a massive projection of psychic energy, one he could never have managed before meeting the Emperor; but his master had unlocked a new potential within him. Still, crushing the enemy fighters was difficult for him even now.

Difficult- and painful. Shasfa’s head raged with resistance, images of the Warp threatening to spill out into him. No matter; he would crush the enemy, one by one. They were weak, and they denied the obvious truth, the only possible truth- the Emperor had returned.

Across the Imperial fleet, psykers and weapon batteries were doing the same. In the chaos of void war, strategy was at best the domain of a few admirals, and at worst nonexistent; for someone like Shasfa, destroying as much of the enemy as possible was all that mattered.

The Imperial fleet was significantly stronger in brute power, though it could have been stronger yet. A large portion had left with the Emperor into the Eye of Terror, on the unbelievable quest of redeeming the Daemon-Primarchs. Yet the Emperor could do the impossible, there was no doubt about that. And if the Coalition thought the Emperor’s absence would galvanize the Imperial fleet any less than his presence, they were gravely mistaken.

Vision darkening with utter exhaustion, Shasfa released his determination. The hand evaporated, and the Epistolary sat down to meditate.

Apothecary Thav Maudmic glanced at Shasfa. “Epistolary,” he noted, “do not over-exert yourself. We’re winning.”

“By how much?”

“They underestimated the strength of our fleet. Initially, we had approximately a 7:4 firepower advantage. They have taken 38% casualties since then; we’ve taken only 14%, mostly in Minobu’s vicinity, leaving us with about a 5:2…”

“Minobu’s here?”

Sur-Admiral Tokugawa Minobu was the leader of the Void Stalkers, a Dark Angels descendant, and probably the greatest void-war mastermind in the galaxy. Awe and a bit of apprehension intermingled in Shasfa’s heart.

“Minobu’s here, but even he can’t do anything with the misinformation our spies fed the Coalition.”

“Since when have you been an expert on void tactics anyways?”

“I’ve been studying the subject for the past year, actually.”

Once again, Shasfa was stunned by how little he really knew about Maudmic, who he considered his closest friend within the Chapter.

And then there was no more time for abstract strategy or comradely discussion as the boarding sirens flashed. Shasfa calmed himself and began to recharge, pumping a bit of nutrient fluid into himself in the meantime. A few minutes later, he was ready for battle once more. Next to him, Maudmic and Squads Twalon and Aqa stood waiting. Twenty-one Space Marines, ready to do battle against what would be, quite likely, their equals.

“We will win,” Shasfa confidently declared, taking the role of Iron Father for this engagement. “The Coalition has proven themselves to be incapable and undeserving. But who would we be if we did not make a key contribution to this victory? I do not need to tell you to do your duty, brothers. Purge the weak!”

“Purge the weak!” Maudmic and the Tactical Squads echoed, albeit with somewhat less enthusiasm.

And seconds later, the wall burst and the Crimson Eagles burst in. A quick scan told Shasfa there were two Assault Squads and a Devastator Squads- more Marines (twenty-nine) than the Sons of Medusa had, but no Librarian.

Shasfa attempted to unleash a telekinetic storm on them, but in his tired state the power flowing in was too great. He desperately willed it to stop, willed his mind to block it, before-

And it did stop, but the feedback fed into Shasfa’s armor. A moment later, his breastplate shattered into a million ceramite shards, flying into the midst of the Eagles.

Three died instantly. Two more were incapacitated, falling onto their knees. There were no casualties among the Sons, their mechanical augmentations and oft-upgraded armor protecting them. Then the actual firestorm began- the telekinetic distortion had scattered the Devastators’ first volley, but that was over now.

Astartes, demigods of war, were dying. The Assault Squads, their jump packs mildly scrambled by the storm, nevertheless continued to charge into the Sons’ line, even as bolter fire picked them apart. The Devastators were hurting the Sons of Medusa too, though, and Maudmic was forced to issue emergency injections to keep them on their feet, even as he narrowly weaved his way out of the firefight himself. Shasfa crumpled two Assault Marines’ armor, dropping them; but a third reached him, his chainsword clipping the Librarian’s exposed chest before Sergeant Twalon’s shot exploded his head. Shasfa dropped to his knees and then his back; but he could still easily see the battle’s madness evolving.

And within minutes, it was over. No Crimson Eagles were still able to fight. The casualties were horrendous on both sides, the battle having taken place without cover; perhaps three or four Sons of Medusa were still standing, including Maudmic. He ran over to the bleeding Shasfa.

“Insignificant chance of fatality,” Maudmic muttered, “with prompt treatment. You’ll live, brother. Sleep for now.”

Shasfa’s last sight before falling unconscious was Maudmic leaning over him, a concentrated expression on his now-helmetless face, a complex instrument hovering over the Epistolary’s chest.

And behind him, outside the battle-barge, the Cadian Gate burning.

* * *​ 
They had sent representatives before. The Legion of the Damned. The Phantoms of Macragge. The Null Chapter. All loyal Marines, all brought back from the dead to serve the Emperor one last time.

But they were different. They had been first. They had been truly killed, not merely lost in the endless Warp; and whereas the others could only gain one last life, even that only an echo of true vitality, they could be reborn forever, losing none of their mind, none of their form, none of their strength.

Not any more than they had lost- and gained- during the first rebirth. That, the Third Phoenix remembered well- a vortex of treachery and pain from which their brotherhood emerged, even in the gaze of death, and then the sensation of suddenly existing when one should not. By then, the world on which they were killed was a bad memory, the war their deaths had begun was a legend of corruption, and the Legions they had loyally served had become dark parodies of their former selves. Third, Twelfth, Fourteenth or Sixteenth- those words were linked with only madness; they were the Vermillion Phoenixes, forged in the planetary inferno of Isstvan III, forever fighting unseen for the Emperor they had all died for at least once.

But now, the Third Phoenix knew, everything was changing.

Now the Time of Ending had come, and they knew, as one and each separately, that they were needed in full.

Now the values on which they had lived, ideals of honor, of valor, of truth, were battling with their opposites on a scale unseen since eternity’s beginning.

So now they moved to destroy the greatest of the unseen threats they were certain existed.

Now the Vermillion Phoenixes flew, as one and each separately, into the Maelstrom.


----------



## VulkansNodosaurus

_Bump.

Impatiently, I've greatly added to the post above- but please, someone, continue! This is an awesome idea that should go on._


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## VulkansNodosaurus

Bump! Write! Add to this, or else we're never going to find out what ends up happening with Astor, the Emperor, & the others! Or am I the only person that cares anymore?! (I would post something myself, but the last story post is already mine....)


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## Santaire

Having only seen this recently, I would post myself but I have no clue whether this is actually still alive; hence, no post


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## VulkansNodosaurus

Santaire - I see this thread as alive (it's basically impossible for it to die IMO, given the format). But it's been asleep for a while now (not for the first time). But I, for one, would be very happy if you (or anyone, really) did continue it.


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## waltzmelancholy_07

Can I volunteer to write the next chapter?... It's been so long and I think one space marine chapter is missing from the chaos in this story... :grin:


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## Dave T Hobbit

I am all in favour of more writing. So go for it, @waltzmelancholy_07.


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## Over Two Meters Tall!

I feel like a junkie now... please someone continue! (slapping the crook of my arm)


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## gothik

Lorgar raised his arms, dripping with chaotic fires and the gifts of his fathers, the first son of Chaos could sense the victory was near. Behind him the howls of the traitor legions, no not the traitors, the true legions, sensing that after what had been a few centuries to them, but thousands of years for these morsals of meat, victory was coming thier way.

He began to chant in a low tone, his chaotic brilliance blinding the Imperial Guard that were charging at them. He turned his gaze on one Corporal Jacosta as she cut down the cult figures, the only one left of her company, the others killed and butchered. 

The Black Templars she had been with, impailed and ripped open on the corrupt vehicles these scum drove and rode. She was going to die, she could feel it, she could sense it, but she was going to take some of these bastards with her.

She raised her head and Lorgars brilliance burnt through her skull, searing her eyes until blood ran from the boiling sockets, her ear drums exploded, a dark red liquid running from her ear lobes, just when she thought it couldn't get any worse, a word from the Prince of Chaos had her skin sloughing from her bones until her musculator was all that was left. 

He smiled, enjoying the carnage he wrought and with a wave of his mighty crozius, he exploded her body, capturing her departed soul and swallowing it. 

There would be no peace for Corporal Jacosta, just an eternity of screaming.


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## waltzmelancholy_07

Will release my piece at the end of the week... :grin: Sorry, it took me longer than I anticipated...


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## waltzmelancholy_07

Terra was alive with the apocalypse.

Its sky was aflame. The borders writhing with the glowing ambers of death as cathedral like ships were raked by salvo after salvo from vessels made up of ancient steel, rusting adamantium, wraithbone and necrodermis. 

The planet’s atmosphere was agitated by the ferocity of the void battle and it stirred the millennia’s worth of industrial cinder and ash, giving birth to artificial thunder clouds. Wrecks and debris from the conflict plowed through this heavenly bulwark and ignited. Descending upon the hive world as fiery rain drops that will either burn up or obliterate hive clusters in cataclysmic explosions akin to the birth of stars. 

The moans and screams of the dying caused by these falling objects was an incessant din and blended with the noise of the raging battle on the planet’s surface. It would rise and fall with each impact or cease all together when a carcass of a ship makes planetfall.

Flashes of unworldly lightning would then illuminate the battlefields on this edifice covered world, with colors that were painful to the eyes. Revealing husks of hive cities that were destroyed by orbital bombardment, a cluster or two engulfed in bloody sieges or converted to sprawling sacrificial pits that released columns of pitch black smoke into the air. 

The roar of thunder soon followed and echoed with the calamitousness finality of this war. 

Yet, from where he was standing and through his magnoculars, Astor could see that humanity was not backing down without a fight. 

Thousands of imperial aircrafts, represented by tracing vapor trails, soared from one column of smoke to another, braving the choking air, the falling debris, the tendrils of lightning and the limited visibility of only a few meters, as they fought an enemy force that outnumbered them five to one. 

He could see the distinguishing shapes of the thunderbolts as they fired las-cannon beams at the menacing reavers, lightning squadrons unleashing concentrated autocannon fire on dreaded doom scythes, and even fury interceptors strafing elusive hellblades from all directions. 

But for every kill they made, dozens from amongst their already depleted ranks were also being shot down. 

Below them, another battle was taking place. God-machines were walking amongst the ravaged hives of the planet. Some took the shape of the pyramids of Gyptus and sported viridian weapons that scythed down every living thing they could find. Others bore the markings of age and corruption and released daemonic screams every time their weapons fired their devastating payload. While there were those who lumbered like giant assemblages of hastily built track systems, rusting metal plates and scavenged weaponry. These fired indiscriminately at spectre like colossi who ghosted in and out of reality as they battled on Terra’s holy soil. 



Astor adjusted the lenses on his magnoculars and zoomed in on humanity’s own god-machines. It was a titan maniple from Mars that stalked a formation of Necron Monotliths near the commercia districts. 

Forged in the image of the Omnissiah, the imperial walkers were like mountains of steel, iron, or adamantium with arm and legs. They towered over at least fourteen meters and their carapaces were bristling with turrets and weapon systems that were equally massive and menacing. 

A sea of red glimmered underneath their threads and Astor knew that up close, they were file after file and rank after rank of skitarii regiments. They were Mechanicum soldiers who never flinched from the quake inducing footfalls as they marched beside the gargantuan constructs. 

Together, they approached the monolith phalanx from the southwest of the commercia and used the cover of hive clusters to mask their advance. Canine like Warhounds then broke off from the formation when the maniple was a few kilometers from its targets, and Astor followed them as they stalked through the battlefield and deftly avoided the skitarii underneath them. 

Grouped into twos and threes, they were like pack of wolves as they darted from one spire to another. They were agile for their size and Astor surmised that their auspexes were picking out key targets from the enemy formation and relaying them back to the main force. 

Fulfilling their prime directive after circling the entirety of the commercia, Astor saw them take up positions for a flanking maneuver, making sure to avoid the armies of the undying that were spewing forth from the pyramids. 

Astor then panned his magnoculars from the warhounds and focused them on the maniple just as it splintered into several demi-maniples when they entered the commercia. The front-liners were composed of battle titans of the mighty reaver and warlord class, and their war horns were blaring for all to hear. 

The phalanx slowly turned upon hearing the war horns and immediately targeted the titans with their gauss faux arcs and particle whips. The volley unleashed came in the form of eldritch lightning and the necron legion that supported the pyramids, added their fire to the attack. The titans’ void shields flared and crackled like plasma globes as it prevailed against the tremendous amounts of power. But it only lasted for a few minutes and eventually the barriers cracked and disintegrated, leaving some of the titans exposed with only their hulls protecting them. Some though were maimed and crippled from the backlash of their overloaded shield generators. 

But the Necron’s barrage, though considerable, ebbed as well for their weapons reached their thresholds and needed time to recharge. The titans’ manifold, exploiting the lull, homed in on the target markers and unleashed their own volley.

Blinding light filled his lenses as lances and super-heated plasma from melta and hell-storm cannons hit their marks, reducing swathes of necrons warriors to dust and engulfing the monoliths in vaporizing fire. The barrage lasted two whole minutes and the noised coming from the weapons even echoed to where he was. 

But when the dust cleared, the pyramids were still there, their necrodermis frames took the brunt of the attack and bore little to no damage. Their gauss weaponry, now fully charged, flared angrily and unleashed another wave of emerald energy as fresh new armies were marching from the gates built onto their structure.

Two or three titans were critically crippled by their second volley, but not before a swarm of missiles were launched by the demi-maniples and arched towards their targets. The tons of explosives on each of the warheads detonated on impact and rocked the foundations of the commecria while causing a wall of dust and ash to rise and block Astor’s view. 

Lowering his magnoculars, Astor massaged and stretched his straining arms just as the titans released another note from their war horns. The smoke from their attack was starting to clear when he looked through the lenses again and the remaining demi-maniples started to walk around. Their foot falls shook the earth whilst avoiding the Skitarii who were taking up positions underneath them. They encircled the formation as their manifolds were searching for a target.

Without warning, a viridian beam lanced through the obscuring smoke. It didn’t hit any of the titans at first and instead hit the foundations of a nearby spire. But it suddenly swerved, and its intense heat decapitated the titans of an entire demi-maniple from the waist down.

Howls of tortured metal and explosions echoed as six warlords crashed to the ground in pieces. The screams of the skitarii was one blaring note as they cried and screamed in terror when the frames of the titans fell on top of them. The reactors went critical a short while later and blew, vaporizing a huge area of the commercia along with friends or foe.

The maniple blew their war horns in anger as the monoliths emerged through the fire and smoke. One of the larger variants in the center of the phalanx was glowing ominously – Its main crystal was the source of the necrotic light. Two dozens of pyramids were surrounding this variant and Astor surmised it was responsible for the latest kills.

It lumbered slowly across the commercia just like the others, its gauss faux arcs searching for targets to kill. But upon closer inspection, Astor saw that damage was now evident on it hulls as sparks of eldritch energy were flickering from the cracks. The same could be said for the other monoliths as scores of fissures were slow to fade. Their necrodermis frames were now punished beyond their programmed threshold. 

Astor panned his lenses when he saw movement at the edge of his vision and saw the warhounds emerged from their positions. 

Flanking the Necrons from all sides, they unleashed a hail of mega-bolter shells and plasma beams, straining the already damaged necrodermis hulls as the battle titans unleashed another volley. The surviving skitarii regiments on the other hand, coordinated their attack with the scout titans and laid down a swathe of sustained suppressive fire as more of the undying legions were marching forth from the gates of the monolith’s hulls. 

The largest of the monoliths in the center of the phalanx responded to the attacks by erecting a shield matrix. It was a strange construct. It was a pyramid that was bifurcated while a platform of strange design connected the two halves. On the platform was a glowing and writhing figure but it was too far to see what it truly was, even with his magnoculars. 

The imperium’s volleys, after the shield blanketed the phalanx, were nullified – no matter how destructive they were. The Necrons behind the shield on the other hand, were being nourished or strengthened by the matrix, as the wounds they sustained were knitting faster than before and their rate of fire doubled, felling entire companies like crops to a farmer’s blade. A pack of warhounds was even reduced to burning husks and a reaver was toppled, one of its legs was completely vaporized and caused it to collide with another titan. The two fell with an almighty crash and flattened scores of skitarii that were supporting them. Minutes later their reactors blew as well and took out another demi-maniple along with their auxiliary forces. 

The intensity of the Necron’s attack soon doubled even more as their wounded were now whole and the monoliths were as good as new. A volley or two from the center pyramids saw the end of three more battle titans while their legions exacted a punishing toll to the skitarii.

Praetorian variants of the Mechanicum’s soldiers were being stripped off of flesh in seconds before they could unleash their fury in close clombat. Tribunes were being assassinated by well placed deathmarks, causing disarray through the ranks of the Mechanicum soldiers. The surviving scout and battle titans on the other hand were now being driven back, one step at a time as the monoliths were tearing at their hulls as if they were paper.

But just as the Mechanicum was at the brinks of routing and the Necrons advanced on them like a tide of green death, the entire center of the commercia was leveled by a salvo of quake and volcano cannons. 

Astor’s quickly zoomed out from the battle field that was now filled with incendiary and chocking smoke. His was view then filled with the adamantium reinforced carapace of three of the largest titans from the maniple, and they were still unleashing batteries of quake and volcano shells at the monoliths and along with their forces caught in the barrage. Their hellstorm and plasma annihilator cannons soon added their volleys to the destruction and the intensity of the attack caused dust and smoke to obscure the battlefield entirely. It doubled when the rest of the legion took up vantage points and fired their weapons as well. Meanwhile remnants of the Skitarii regiments were on full retreat to avoid the searing fire power that was being unleashed.


“God-Emperor…” were the only words that left Astor’s mouth. 

He slowly lowered his magnoculars while his hands were shaking and holding the lenses as if to break them. Cold sweat was trickling down his brow while he fought back the shiver that had nothing to do with the brisk air. 

His thoughts were swirling and he can’t get over the fact that before their ship made that fateful jump, humanity reigned supreme. Battles and wars were raging across the galaxy then but the armies of the Imperium ensured that their enemies were kept in check. Now however in this bleak future, with even their god-machines achieving nothing more than phyrric victories against the full might of their foes, he was beginning to see that the Imperium’s dominion was nothing more than hubris. 

An alarum suddenly blared somewhere up high and broke his reverie. It echoed across the eastern defensive line and changed the flow of activity in the battlements. 

Sleepy guardsmen became alert and scrambled about their billets, checking the magazines on their lasguns and making last minute adjustments on their sights as their commanders shouted orders. Idle tanks and transports started revving up their engines, releasing black acrid smoke in their exhausts as main gun turrets and pintle-mounted stubbers or autoguns were checked and re-checked by their gun crews. 

Tech-priests, clad in their scarlet robes, swung their thuribles and intoned religious passages in their arcane lingua technis as they walked amongst the vehicles. Their eyes of flesh and steel were scanning the hulls for breaches and integral damage, while their mechadendrites slithered from their spines and were plugging into cogitators and auspexes to check on the machine spirits. 

Trans-systems went online and monorails pushed rail cars filled with fuel pods, ammunitions and stockpiles of ordnance to and from bastions built across the line. 

Through it all, the klaxon that signaled the preparations slowly waned, and a deep rumble from the walls of the imperial palace, took its place. 

Astor knew what was to come and looked up. 

One of the defenses overlooking the eastern defensive line was a support column that sported five lances. These were huge laser batteries that were being moved and aimed by gun crews whose shouts and curses echoed over the battlements.

Though they were very faint, he could hear the determination and drive in their voices as they moved the ancient weapons. He felt a pang of shame slowly overcome him, as he realized that the men on the parapets were afforded with a bird’s eye view of the battlefield. That in their every waking moment, they could see the one sided battle that their armies were fighting, yet there they were, undaunted and resolute as they powered up the lances.

He turned his attention from the wall and saw the nearest of his men already manning the parapets of the trenches, guns aimed at no man’s land, their eyes set and unblinking. 

He shook his head and quietly laughed at his own stupidity.

“What the frak? This isn’t the first time they’ve cornered us.” he thought as he closed his eyes to help him focus.

Meanwhile, the noise of the batteries slowly rose, and the keening sound of plasma reactors fueling the batteries soon joined the crescendo. He opened his eyes and readied himself.

“Cover your ears and close your eyes men!” he ordered as he stooped down on the trench’s firing step.

A thunderclap erupted from the column a second later and five bright lances of pure energy surged towards the north. It illuminated the battlements like the sun and gave off an overwhelming stench of ozone. 

Another second later, an explosion was heard from afar and the daemonic screech that echoed thereafter told him that the volley hit one of the corrupted titans.

He rose from the rising step as the men around him cheered. He did not join in and instead, raised his magnoculars and stared at the horizon. He searched and searched and eventually found the remains of the corrupted titan. It trespassed into no man’s land, which prompted the palace’s defenses to open fire. Around its corpse were armies of heretics that pushed on, despite losing their massive armour support. 

Like the Skitarii, they were like a sea, but unlike the orderly ranks of the men of the mechanicum, he knew that the heretics would be a disparate collection of rambling fanatics, traitorous space marines and…. daemons. 

“Here they come” he said as he lowered his magnoculars and placed them inside one of the pockets of his webbings. He then slung his lasgun and descended the firing step. 

He immediately started barking orders at those who have yet to man the parapets. 

“No time to celebrate you fraks! Scale those ladders! To arms!”

The guardsmen obeyed and started manning the firing steps. He then went east, to where the bulk of his company was located and voxed his officers to sound off and gave them the same orders. 

A squad was huddled not too far from him, while the others were scrambling towards the firing steps. They were clearly not obeying his orders. 

“What the?” he thought as he let the rushing soldiers pass before approaching the squad.

When he was near enough, he noticed the insignia on their shoulders. It was a crude painting of a megaphone with a line diagonally bisecting it. Understanding their predicament, he tapped one of the guardsmen. When the guardsman faced him, Astor proceeded to do sign-cants, explaining to hurry up on what they were doing and prepare for an attack. He also added that an artillery barrage will soon begin.

The guardsman replied in kind and hastily commanded the others to end their prayers. Astor then saw them tucking away litany papers that they were reading in their webbings while one of them grabbed a golden idol in the center of the group and hid it in his pouch. They hurriedly slung their lasguns and followed the men who were already manning the parapets but not without saluting Astor who returned the gesture. 

He then grabbed one of his officers nearby and berated him on the spot for failing to see the squad and relaying his command. 

A few minutes later the klaxons for the artillery batteries came alive and slits along the walls slowly opened. There were about fifteen batteries all in all. Each one consisted of five basilisk artillery pieces.

It would take about an hour before the enemy would reach the middle of no-man’s land, by that time they would be in range of even the artillery from the rear. Astor made sure that that reality was fully understood by his officers when he voxed them again while he jogged. He also ordered them to look out for their audio-impaired comrades. 

A few yards onwards, he encountered another squad. But they were already taking up positions. They merely showed him the sign of the Aquila when he passed but he stopped and inspected their equipment. He also checked on their morale and had to do everything by sign-cant.

It was a pain doing it, he admits, but it was necessary due to the lack of resources to replace the ruptured eardrums of all the guardsmen affected by shelling, and you had to make the right expressions with your face to get the message across.

But that wasn’t the only thing he had to learn, or relearn to be exact. 

During their advance in the battle-strewn hives of Terra two months ago, he and Price were already used to the hit-and-run tactics they applied to overwhelm larger armies with their own meager force. In the eastern defensive line, it was different. It was trench-warfare all over again, purely static and bloody, bloody attrition. 

He wasn’t happy with it at first and the fact that the army guarding the line could have been used to support their advance, didn’t help. 

_“You gathered them all in trenches and for what? We were losing men out there! And you didn’t even send us reinforcements!?”_ he remembered shouting at a general when he and the colonel arrived at headquarters for debriefing. He was quickly restrained by a couple of staff members for his behavior, but not before pummeling the general out cold. Price meanwhile was knocked out when he wouldn’t stop kicking the general’s ribs.

“Make sure those mortars are properly calibrated!” he shouted when he was now checking on one of the redoubts. He went on to order the men to also check on the pintle-mounted stubbers as he looked back and watched the guardsmen on the trench behind them. They were also milling around with the defenses whilst thousands more were doing the same across the line. He couldn’t see them but the noise they were making was staggering.

The entire defensive line was composed of man-made canals that were hastily dug up by land crawlers during the siege. It consisted of three main jagged lines that were bordered to the east by the defenses of the Annapurna Gate and to the west, originally by the defenses of the Lion’s Gate, but now a carcass of a gargant was blocking the way. To the south were the very foundations of the palace walls while to the north was no man’s land which was filled with rubbles from destroyed hives and carcasses of millions of vehicles that stretched on for thirty kilometers. It was then interconnected by a labyrinth of supply trenches. 

The first line was twelve feet deep and five feet wide. This was where Astor was stationed along with about one hundred and eighty thousand men. The earthen walls were riveted by wooden panels and sand bags. Firing steps and scaling ladders adorned the parapets while the ground was covered with wooden frames to provide a drainage channel underneath. 

Redoubts and pillboxes, made out of sandbags and scavenged adamantium hulls, were then built on strategic points along the line. Most of them, like the one that he was inspecting, were armed with mortars, autocannons and heavy stubbers. 

The second line was fifteen meters behind them. It was located on a series of ridges that provided good elevation for supporting fire. It was also twelve feet deep but almost six feet wide and had the same lay-outs as the first but the difference was that some redoubts were guarded by functioning vehicles, mostly the exterminator and vanquisher variants of the leman russ while some were chimera transports that sported multi-lasers and heavy flamers. 

Also, the squads assigned to guard the redoubts there were equipped more heavily than their brothers-in-arms in the first line. Heavy mortars were primed with melta and inferno ordnance in some of them, while heavy bolters and lascannons on others cast a steady gaze across the expanse of no man’s land.

The men stationed in the second line numbered over two hundred and ninety thousand and were manning the parapets en masse.

The third line on the other hand was the largest of the three and was situated forty five meters from the second line. But it was on the reverse slope of the ridge, providing a good defilading defense in case the 1st and 2nd lines were overrun. It was also about half a kilometer from the base of the palace walls. 

It was fifteen feet deep and over twenty five feet wide because it housed a series of bomb proof bunkers that were made out of ferrocrete and were armoured by reinforced adamantium plating. The bunkers served as the headquarters for the entire eastern defensive line and as well as storage for ammunitions and rations.

Dug-in batteries composing of manticores, medusa, thunderer and self-propelled basilisk artillery pieces were stationed across the line with mountains of stockpiled ordnance. Redoubts and pillboxes here were here more numerous than the 1st and 2nd line to exploit the defilading front. Manning the firing steps or patrolling the entirety of the line, were four hundred and twenty five thousand men.

“A waste of resources, all of this.” he recalled telling Price for the umpteenth time after they were released from their cells. They were lying on a burnt out husk of a chimera, smoking lho-sticks. 

The activity in the eastern defensive line was at it heights then even at dusk, as men, supplies and tanks were pouring in from the fronts and were being distributed along the line.

“They could at least order those red-coats to mine the wrecks in front of the first line”

None bothered to reprimand them for loitering, even the commissars. They were too busy with keeping the morale in check than to waste time on the officers, especially with the two of them. 

“Frakking shitheads if you ask me” was Price’s only reply before taking a swig from his bottle. 

His eloquent description of the command echelon was proven right the day after, when the commanders decided to assign Astor to Sector 2DF-V.

It was smack dab in the middle of the first line and strangely, Astor was the over-all commanding officer of the men there. Over two thousand strong and were composed mainly of battle-wearied and deafened soldiers armed with stub guns and barely functioning lasguns. 

The look on Astor’s face was comical when he read the communiqué. He was even convinced that either the commanders were smoking obscura when they wrote the orders or were never told of his actions the day before.

“Well that’s what you get for kicking and screaming” the colonel jokingly said when he read the communiqué which officially promoted Astor to colonel despite him being of the Imperial Navy. Astor in reply, smacked the colonel across the head.

Price on the other hand, was strangely awarded as well. He was given the cash-grox, a retinue of storm troopers. The squad was composed of three Cadians, a grenadier from a Death Korp and two Terrax Guard. His own communiqué explained that he received the bodyguards due to his fame and brave actions during the withdrawal from the Word Bearer’s legion. He was also awarded with the command of two thousand men. 

“We should beat up generals more often Astor” he happily proclaimed when his storm troopers reported for duty. That earned him another smack from Astor but Price replied in kind, much to the chagrin of his bodyguards.

After that scuffle, Astor last saw him emerging from the command bunker, with orders to send a message to the Annapurna’s defensive headquarters, which was located deep inside the palace walls. His retinue came out of the command bunker after him. 

They weren’t able to talk because the orders were to be done immediately. Astor merely shouted the words “Kick and Scream Colonel” right after he boarded a chimera. Price heard him and waved his liquor bottle in reply before the chimera thundered away.

That was two days ago, and three days after the primarch attacked them. 


_“Lorgar”_ Astor recalled the name as he journeyed east. Just the mere mention of it sent a cold chill up his spine. He quickly pushed the sensation away just when he reached another redoubt. 

The guardsmen there were a mix bunch, men and women, some deaf and some weren’t and most of them were very young. He decided to do a short speech there and told them one of Price’s jokes.

The redoubts was filled with laughter after that and Astor sign-canted the words “the Emperor protects” at the guardsmen before leaving. He did the same thing as he passed by several pillboxes and squads of men who needed a little bit of encouragement and push as he made his way.

But at the back of his mind, he felt compelled to recall the memories of that day. Because he still can’t imagine how they survived an encounter with that four-horned daemon. 

Astor remembered its image, a blasphemous scion of the Emperor who was clad in warp-tainted armour of crimson red and ashen grey. Barely human and towered over the forces arrayed against his legion. His twisted smile, even from memory, could make Astor sweat, especially when he recalled how the primarch effortlessly swung his colossal mace and massacred his foes. But the most maddening of all the memories, was the moment Lorgar personally flayed Jocasta alive. 

He remembered how she screamed as Price dragged him by the collar away from the conflict. The colonel, who always found something funny in almost any situation, was dead silent. Astor was wounded at the time. A cultist got lucky and blew a cauterized hole through his thigh. He was left with firing his lasgun while lying down as Price was trying to get him to safety. 

The rest of the guardsmen were following Price’s action, but retreating to where, Astor did not know. 

The Astartes however went in the opposite direction. Bearing the liveries of their proud chapters, they threw everything they had, even their lives, at Lorgar’s legion. Astor hasn’t seen such vitriol or anger in all his life as they shouted all manner of curses at the Word Bearers and at the First Heretic. They emptied their bolters at point blank range, grabbed combat knives or chainswords and hacked with abandon, and the most desperate amongst them, used their own bare hands to tear their foes limb from limb. 

He remembered casting one last look at Jocasta’s ravaged corpse before Lorgar swung his massive mace and reduce it to pieces. A squad of Blood Angels then engaged him with Lucius at the lead.

After that Astor remembered nothing but blackness.

It was only after he woke in a med-bay that he was informed of the losses they sustained that day. He grimly accepted the news that barely a third of his and Price’s men were alive and that Lucius didn’t survive his encounter with Lorgar. He was also informed then, of a cycling message that was being broadcasted through the voxes. It was calling for the complete withdrawal of the imperial armies to the last established defensive lines, underneath the very walls of the Imperial Palace itself. There were also standing orders for any Astartes chapters, armoured regiments and titan legions to provide covering fire for the retreat.


“Hostiles at twenty three kilometers and closing.” his vox came to life, snapping him into reality, and he listened intently. 

“Guardsmen at your stations. Artillery bombardment will…..” the transmission was interrupted with static. Astor stopped in his tracks to check on his comms to see if the cause was the atmospherics. But before he could even access the comms link, a deep and rumbling voice replaced the static and his blood ran cold.

”Is this how you welcome a son of the Emperor?” it was Lorgar.



“An army in front of me instead of a red velvet carpet, the noise of battlements instead of a choir singing my triumph, and the Annapurna and the Lion’s Gate, closed when they should be opened to welcome me.” he smiled as he felt the fear that exuded from their souls and drank it all in. Its taste was exquisite, making him shiver with bliss. 

“How different it would be if Guilliman was in my place? How different it would be if it were the Lion or even the Khan, if he were to return from the Labyrinth?” he continued and laughed, relishing on the fate of his brothers. 

“No matter” he said after a while “I will pardon this offense for I am not a conqueror nor am I a war-monger. I am a seeker of the truth and its ambassador.” he paused, for dramatic effect on his part and for the defenders to listen closely.

“Terra is under siege and we are not the only ones marching against its defenses. 

Legions of the Undying are laying waste to your cities. The Upstarts are spreading their dogma through the barrel of their railguns. The much hated Eldar and their Dark Kin are manipulating the destiny of our people to suit their ends. While the swarm of the Tyranids and the hordes of the Orkz, care for nothing but carnage and slaughter.”

He paused again but this time, to let the stark reality overwhelm their pitiful minds.

“Unlike them we are different.” he raised his hands to his chest as if they could see him. 

“Though yes we marched against you, but we do so for your salvation." he pleaded and laced every syllable with passion and conviction.

“The Gods want nothing more than that and they have sent me to deliver their message” he extended his hands as if to reach out to them. 

“Lay down your weapons and join us. Welcome my vanguard, your brothers and sisters that are now marching towards you, help them open the gates, and help them smite down the False-Emperor.

Break your oaths to him who has forsaken you. 

Do not throw your lives away so needlessly for a god who is willing to see you annihilated, so that he may live.

Do this and with his death you will be saved. With his death, the Primordial Truth will be realized and you will have earned its absolution.

The Gods reward the faithful and they, unlike him, can give you a life worth living. 

You have my word.” he lace syllables again, this time with the essence of promised glory and untold riches and cut off the link with but a thought.

The screams of agony and the shouts of adulation from the millions of prisoners and converts filled his ears after his senses stabilized in real-space. The smell of brimstone, prometium and cooked human flesh followed and he relished in it as if it were perfume. His vision came back last and was afforded with the view of the Imperial Palace, just as he remembered it twenty centuries years ago. It still had the breaches made by Perturabo’s unyielding bombardments, gaping holes caused by Angron’s maddening assaults and siege-marks caused by his own anarchic attacks.

“I think it is foolish to entice them when they are this close to their carrion lord.” said a hulking figure beside him. 

He was encased in crimson terminator armour, adorned with eye gouging decorations of his twisted faith and strips of human skin that flapped in the wind. He was Kor Phaeron, Black Cardinal of the Dark Council, and he was looking at the palace with contempt. His face was pallid like that of a corpse at the point of gangrene.

“I don’t agree First Captain” said another on his other side. Unlike the Black Cardinal, the speaker was encased in power armour but was also festooned with the markings of Chaos and the dark words of the Gods on human hides. He was Erebus, Dark Apostle and the Architect of the Horus Heresy. Also unlike Kor Phaeron, Erebus’s face had no skin and his musculature was exposed to the air as it constantly bled. His temple was adorned with a collection of bloody metal spikes. 

A palpable tension immediately grew between them and Lorgar could taste its bitter tang.

“How many times do I have to tell you, to never call me by that title?” Kor Phaeron hissed and rounded at the Dark Apostle. Dark magic flared menacingly in his eyes as he made ready his halberd.

“Several times First Captain!” Erebus dared as he matched the threats of his peer while gripping a crozius that matched Lorgar’s personal weapon. Like Kor Phaeron, his eyes too were glowing hot with twenty centuries of harbored hatred.

“Father, let Erebus speak. He was merely teasing you” Lorgar laughed and broke the tension by placing a hand on each of their shoulders. By appearance, the primarch was like the father of the two as he gently restrained them. 

They on the other hand, felt their power drained by a degree at his touch and felt his impatience underneath the laughter. Though each one was a Master of the Warp and has garnered several blessings from the pantheon, both knew that Lorgar was now blessed with the Gods’ unwavering favor just like his brother then. 

To defy him or even anger him was to invite the wrath of the Gods. 

So even when the two harbor jealousy and contempt for not being chosen to lead this last Black Crusade, they have to obey the pantheon’s will. They were faithful servants after all.

Kor Phaeron, realizing this, merely grumbled at Lorgar’s remark but Erebus hid his own gripe and bowed, saying: “We should do as you will lord. Your message may have converted a few, especially if salvation of any kind is offered in their darkest hour.”

“You think so my son?” the primarch mused at Erebus’ sycophantic words and played with his chin. The simple action caused his ancient battle plate to groan and whine as ancient servos and daemonic tendons mimicked his movement. 

“Horus didn’t give them such a luxury before. That ended with a siege that lasted almost 2 months.”

“Give them an hour, and then we attack.” Kor Phaeron interjected. “And like you said my son, we are not the only ones who are after the carrion’s head.”

“The Gods are with us” countered Erebus and pointed at the hive cities around that they reduced to sacrificial spires where millions upon millions of civilians were being offered as gifts on altars of bone and obsidian to appease the pantheon.

“With these many sacrifices, I’m sure they will give us the armies that we need.”

“Then why are we just sending a vanguard? Why not our entire host?” the Black Cardinal heatedly argued.

“Patience father, let’s not make the same mistakes that Horus made” replied Lorgar. 

Miles from where they were, the heretic army was marching on. It filled the entire width of the eastern defensive line and numbered to almost half a million. Mob after mob of cultists were dressed in makeshift uniforms with eye-gouging decorations as they cradled lasguns or stubbers while thumping their chests to the beat of the war drums. Chaos champions meanwhile towered over the cultists in their ancient power armour imbued with desecrated symbols of the Imperial Creed. They brandished their weapons as they marched and roared defiantly at the defenders arrayed against them. Their war cry was mirrored by the bellows of the metal constructs that were the biggest amongst their ranks. They were called daemon engines, amalgamations of tank chassis and warp beasts that came in all shapes and sizes. Some were six legged killing machines with upper humanoid bodies, insect-like appendages or canine like carapaces. Others were hulking bipedal monstrosities while there were those who flew like wyrms from the ancient mythos of man. 

All of them possessed hearts that burned with eons of hatred and hungered for the slaughter to come


All the while, Astor made it to the center of sector 2DF-V. He was a little shaken by the primarch’s message but shook it off once he reached his men. He immediately gave out orders to them and linked up with his officers through his vox.

“Companies and platoons to the parapets!” he shouted. “Prepare yourselves men!”

Not all of them obeyed him at once. Some looked at him as if he were mad. Those that obeyed did so halfheartedly, dragging their boots across the wooden panels and taking their time when they climbed the scaling ladders. 

Whatever fire or drive they had before the Lorgar broadcasted that message, it was gone. 

Astor saw it on their faces.

_“Price, where are the frak are you when I need you!”_ he needed to say something, anything to get them off their feet.

A guardsman stopped short of the firing step and knelt. He started weeping and Astor saw him. He immediately went to the guardsman and slowly held him up before his men. He dusted off the grit and dirt from the soldier’s uniform and wiped the snot off of his face with the sleeve of his own shirt. 

When he was done, Astor grabbed the guardsman’s shoulders and looked him in the eye saying: “Come on, don’t tell me you believe him?” 

He then sign-canted his words as he looked at all of them and smiled.

“Don’t tell me you believe the bastard?” He continued while thinking:_ “Just frak it like Price!”_

He then cast them a look, his eyes boring into each and every one of them and threw his fear and caution to the wind.

“About absolution or whatever? They’re all grox-shit if you ask me.”

He turned and looked across no-man’s land.

“We are at death’s door men, there’s no denying it.” he gestured to the cities that were burning and sighed. “It’s all in front of us”

He then faced them and continued “But this is not our first time.” 

“We’ve done this before, haven’t we? We’re not some fresh green-asses who can’t fire a frakking gun.” he placed a hand on a guardsman’s shoulder and gently shook him with a smile.

He sign-canted the guardsman the word “translate” and he nodded.

“So what if we are cornered?” he asked while turning to the rest of the men. “So what if the enemies we’re facing are the undead or the bio-killing machines from hell?” 

“So what if he’s a primarch?“ 

He paused and allowed the guardsman to finish his sign-cant but also notice that some of the guardsmen were doing it as well for the hearing impaired.

“We’ve killed daemons several times before right?” he continued and they nodded “So I don’t see why a primarch would be a problem.” 

He started walking amongst them and they began to hold on to his every word.

“No matter what this galaxy has thrown at us. We always ate it up and spat it out. We’ve been doing this since frak knows when and we’ve always won. Don’t believe me? Look at the walls!” he pointed at the curtain and they all looked. 

“Look at the gashes and the breaches there! They’ve been here before. They came here with legions of heretics, cultists, daemons and space marines who have broken their oaths!” 

He turned his back on the wall and started walking towards the firing step as they watched him continue.

“Granted there were also loyal space marines who fought on our side but nine primarchs were leading the attack. Nine! The defenders only had three. “ he said as he faced them again.

“But the guardsmen, the millions of guardsmen that supported our astartes fought on! Guardsmen like you and me!“ he hammered his fist to his chest and they nodded again.

“They didn’t care if the enemy had nine or nine thousand, they stood their ground! And when Horus fell, they chased the traitors all the way back to frakking hell!”

He paused again and only noticed now that the vox-link to his officers was still open. He set it to max volume, hoping they would order their vox-officers to tune in to his link, and continued. 

“Now, they’re back, meaner and uglier than before, and brought the rest of the galaxy’s shit with them! But like last time, the Emperor’s guardsmen stand in their way! 

We stand in their way men!” he roared and they nodded once more while some readied their lasguns. 

“So are we going to just let those frakkers pass!?” the men vigorously shook their heads, others replied with a no but it was faint, some didn’t even reply.

“Oh come on, I think you can do better than that” he shouted in response as he ascended the firing step and walked along the line. The guardsman, who was sign-canting for him, did as well. 

“Again! Are we going to just let those frakkers pass?!” he shouted once more and raised his lasgun

“NO!” they finally shouted in unison but he saw there were still a few that didn’t. 

“That’s more like it!” he replied and focused his attention at those who were still uncertain and asked.

“Are we just going to give in to the whoreson’s promises?” they shook their head, while the rest of his men shouted with another resounding NO.

“Damn right!” he replied with satisfaction and shouted again “Are we really afraid of just one primarch? When our ancestors faced nine altogether?!”” 

“NO!” the men, all of them this time, roared defiantly.

“No we’re not!!” he then looked around again and walked to and fro on the firing step. He was looking at each of the faces of his men, the same faces that had a look of defeat moments before but whose eyes were now filled with fire

“Lorgar said that our brothers and sisters are coming.” he lowered his voice a little but was still audible for all to hear. “Should we welcome them with open arms?”

“NO!” they roared, some were raising their weapons like him while others were thumping their chests.

“You bet your asses we won’t!” he then raised his lasgun again and roared “Because we’re going to kill them and make sure that the last thing they see and hear is the wrath of the frakking Imperial Guard!”

Sector 2DF-V exploded with a war cry that echoed across the line. 

Regiments near them quickly switch their channels to that of Astor’s men, and were surprised with the chatter of orders and battle-cants of formation. There was no degradation of morale or whispers of desertion. His men were ready to die for the Emperor.

Commanders from across the line and even the command echelon voxed-in on Astor and asked him what happened. 

His only reply was: “I just told them to kick and scream”​


----------



## waltzmelancholy_07

This is just the first half... There's a continuation... Sorry for the super delay... Can't let you guys wait forever... XD....


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## CommissarHorn

You're a hero Waltz, nothing short of a bloody hero.


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## gothik

CommissarHorn said:


> You're a hero Waltz, nothing short of a bloody hero.


that is seconded and thirded too


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## waltzmelancholy_07

A thousand apologies for my tardiness and I will ask for your patience on my piece... 

I'm at present, having difficulties with the battle scenes and its flow... So I'm just going to ask a favor... 

Can you guys continue on but leave Lorgar and the Eastern Defensive Line to me... I know it's kinda selfish, and I again a thousand apologies but I promise you I will deliver...

And because it'd be stupid to just post this message and nothing else... Here goes...​
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

_One hour later_

“None of them turned” said Kor Phaeron as he faced Erebus and flashed him a malicious smile. 

They were standing on top of an altar made up of fused bone and obsidian as they surveyed the battle in front of them. 

Erebus was as motionless as a stone, but he bristled at the words of his peer. 

“Then they are foolish.” he simply replied.

The Black Cardinal laughed at that and goaded on. 

“It has barely been a millennium ever since you wrestled the galaxy from my grasp and yet, here you are, groveling at his feet.” he nodded at Lorgar, who has left their presence and was now crouching a few yards away from them. He was tracing intricate sigils on the ground and was flanked by an endless line of marching cultists. Even with his low posture, he still towered over his followers like a small hill. They were screaming his name as they passed him while swinging their banners and raising their weapons. They even sang twisted hymns that made their ears bleed, yet he merely nodded at them to give them his blessings.

“If the gods will it, then I will simply obey” Erebus replied through gritted teeth. The exposed musculature of his face was tensing as the anger inside him was boiling over.

Kor Phaeron laughed again and shook his head in disappointment but spoke no more. He grabbed one of the totems that clung to his neck and watched the battle in silence while ignoring the radiating anger from the Dark Apostle. 

Thousands of muzzle fire twinkled like blinking stars before his eyes and the collective noise they emitted seemed like the sound of the leviathans of old, waking from their deep slumber, but Kor Phaeron’s trans-human abilities could easily picked out the distinct quaking report of the basilisks artillery pieces, the searing emission of the five colossal lance batteries, the chatter of autocannons and heavy bolters and the incessant note of thousands of lasguns that were ferociously pummeling their vanguard that hid behind the foundations of a hive city. 

The defenders were putting up a fierce defense but how long will that last, only time will tell. 

From where he stood, he could see their followers and fellow chaos astartes struggling behind the colossal bulwarks as they attempted to break the deadlock by erecting kine-shields while the unborn used warp-crafts but the daemon engines on the other hand, simply braved the fire storm and defiantly unleashed their own salvo at the imperials. 

“Something still bothers me chaplain.” he said after a while and began toying with the totem.

“What?” Erebus asked in annoyance, expecting another malicious retort.

“Why did we only send the servants of the Blood God and the Dark Prince as part of the vanguard?’ 

“What are you talking about? Didn’t you see the Forge’s servants and the Sorcerers? Even the Eight marched with them.” Erebus asked in surprise but his tone was still hostile. Kor Phaeron ignored it.

“I did, but we didn’t send the Blight Mages. They could have been more useful than the fodder we sent with the vanguard” he replied and as fate would have it, they witnessed a kine-shield being shattered by an earthshaker round. The screams of their dying followers didn’t even faze them.

“The Plague-father’s servants are indeed potent but they will be saved for later and be spared from all this.” replied Erebus as he waved his hands before him, indicating the battle.

Now it was the Kor Phaeron’s turn to be angry.	

“By who’s cursed command?!” he asked but quickly regretted it, for he knew the answer.

“Who else Black Cardinal?” was Erebus simple answer.

Kor Phaeron growled at that. The command was ludicrous. Why spare the nurgleites from the battle when one spell or even a drop of their tainted blood could erase half the guardsmen guarding the wall. 

“Theatrics? Again?”

“As if you haven’t done the same?” Erebus rebuked him.

“Be that as it may, if we’ve sent the mages the first line would’ve been riddled with bloating corpses!”

“I’d choose my words carefully if I were you.” Erebus quickly warned and looked at him “To question the wisdom of his command is to question the Gods’ will.”

“Oh spare me your spurious concerns first chaplain!” Kor Phaeron raged but Erebus was barely affected. “I’m only speaking my mind and while I’m at it, why are we even besieging this colossal coffin!?”

“You’ve seen their words yourself.” Erebus countered as he stood his ground. “They have need of his remains and for whatever purpose is a mystery that is only privy to the Great Four.”

Whatever response he had in mind vanished when he heard those words. He glowered at Erebus for a time and the Dark Apostle returned his gaze. 

“There was once a time when we were not shunned from such knowledge” 

“Our time has ended.” said Erebus with a tone of finality, hoping the matter was closed as he surveyed the battle once more.

“Yet we were the first to bow!” Kor Phaeron hissed defiantly.

Erebus faced him again and asked “Why do you speak these rebellious words? Why are they spilling from your lips like pus from a wound?” 

“You know why.” Kor Phaeron averted Erebus’ gaze and looked at the black and white skull icon in his hand.

“Enlighten me.” insisted Erebus and Kor Phaeron breathed a sigh as the lance batteries unleashed another salvo on their vanguard.

“Very well” he began and started playing with the totem. “We have always fought for their favor, you and I. Offered countless sacrifices, spread their faith and annihilated whole worlds to appease them. They knew full well the weight and depth of our devotion.” the black cardinal enclosed the totem in his hand and clenched his fist. Blood slowly dripped from the cracks of his fist and fell to the ground.

“Yet, he was chosen” Erebus replied and nodded at Lorgar, now fully aware of the source of his peer’s bitterness.

“Aye he was chosen, when he merely sat and meditated in a room while we waged war against the carrion’s armies.” the bitterness in Kor Phaeron’s voice was more evident now.

“You didn’t complain when he was chosen as their herald then? Why now?” Erebus asked.

“We were faithful zealots” Kor Phaeron simply said “We were pups begging for scraps at the table”

Erebus didn’t respond, but continued looking at Kor Phaeron, noting the change of tone in his voice. 

“But now, we are more illuminated. We are blessed with knowledge and secrets so dark that the stars quiver when we speak of it.” 

“I don’t see where you’re going with this Kor Phaeron” 

The Black Cardinal laughed. It was only at times of great apprehension that Erebus would dare address him by his name.

“I’m saying that there is another unlike the four, one who may be deserving of our worship.” Kor Phaeron then smiled when Erebus finally understood.

“Tread carefully Black Cardinal. The wrath of the Gods should not be trifled with.” Erebus warned again but this time it was filled with genuine unease as his exposed flesh twitched incessantly.

Kor Phaeron laughed again at that and replied “You are ever so faithful Erebus.”

He then stepped forward and inhaled the stinging miasma that came from the sacrificial pits.

“I will not abandon this crusade, do not worry” he suddenly announced “But when everything here is but ash and dust. I will have what is rightfully mine.”


Lorgar was still tracing the sigils and marks of the Pantheon upon the sand, paying no heed to the noise and din of the assembled armies who sung adulations to him or praised the names of the pantheon. Instead, he was more interested in the words spoken by his lieutenants, even when he was several yards away.

He was sketching an elaborate nurgleite symbol when he heard his foster father’s proclamation.

He simply smiled deeply at that and said 

“It was never yours to begin with father.” he then got up and looked for worthy sacrifices.​


----------



## waltzraphsody_07

2DF-V-S23

Near a mound of tank wrecks, reality suddenly shifted. Its surface rolling and twisting into impossible folds, and stretching like an old man's skin. The wind wheezed in tandem, creating echoes akin to the breathing of abused lungs that eventually gave way to the whispers of enuncia and unsound. 

A second later, a whoomph of displaced air was heard, followed by the sound of shearing skin as reality gave birth to a warp rift. 

Sergeant Argon Fahmer spotted it through his magnocs.

"Lt. Albren this is Sgt. Argon! Requesting suppressive fire on area bearing zero-one-zero, fifty meters!” he shouted through his vox, his voice barely audible over of the noise of whipping las-shots and the thunder of the line's artillery. 

"Request granted my boy!" came the energetic reply of the lieutenant and redoubt R1-25 to their right, re-tasked one of its gunners to engage.

But before the gunner could even rack the heavy weapon, a horde of cultists spilled out of the rift like an endless tide of pus. They shouted and wailed like rabid dogs, advancing towards the line with reckless abandon and flaring lasguns. 

The engagement was mirrored all across the Eastern Defensive Line. Regiments engaged warp rifts that appeared in ones or in clusters several meters from the 1st line. They belched out platoon sized elements of cultists or covens of the unborn to ravage the line's several sectors. Some warp rifts were even large enough to vomit out tanks and daemon engines by the dozens. 

This was the only means of attack for the enemy since the wall and 3rd line batteries opened up. Their shells literally blanketed the entire width of no man's land and bifurcaed Lorgar's vanguard, leaving the 1st and 2nd line to slaughter the half caught between the barrage and their guns in the opening salvo.

Since then, the fallen Primarch has sent the remnants of his vanguard and the rest of his army via the rifts.

A loud bang made Argon turn and he saw Trooper Sol falling backwards to the trench floor. His nearest squadmate scrambled after him to staunch his fatal neck wound. 

"Corpmen!" he heard the guardsman shout.

A field medic hurriedly ran towards them, ducking low and opening up his pouch to grab some gauze.

"Lieutenant!" Argon voxed while raking the cultist who shot Sol. "We need that rift plugged!" 

"Patience is a virtue Fahmer" the lieutenant voxed back, his voice hoarse amidst the sound of stubber fire and a woman screaming. "Trooper Nia lost an arm!"

Argon then heard the lieutenant racking the heavy stubber himself and firing it.

The loud rythmic staccato of suppressive fire went wide at first, but the lieutenant soon compensated for the cumbersome recoil and dragged its cone of fire into the heart of the milling cultists. 

Six, nine and eleven of the heretics were instantly riddled with bullets holes, their bodies rupturing like wet sacks before they can run for cover. One twisted where he stood and fell, his right shoulder reduced to splinters. Another dived behind a pair of battle tanks but not before his skull was obliterated by a stray slug. Blood and brain matter sprayed the ground while the rest of the warband scurried like rats for fox holes and anything that could protect them from the heavy weapons fire. 
It wasn't long before they began firing back at the line but mainly focusing their attack on redoubt R1-25.

"Sergeant, I think we should ask the colonel to reconsider air support!" shouted trooper Elias to Argon's immediate left while reloading. His pale face and dark matte hair were covered in grime while his eyes were sheltering behind a pair of goggles.

"Don't be such a frak Elli" trooper Mekha interjected across Argon while shooting the fuel line of a flamer's promethium tank. It erupted a second later, vaporizing the cultist wielding it and overturning the chimera he was using for cover.

"We can handle these lunatics" she heartily added as the fireball highlighted her short crimson hair while she continued firing at the enemy. 

Here they go again, Argon thought.

"I'm not saying we can't!" Elias replied with effort as he lobbed a grenade over the parapet. They heard it explode five seconds later and were soon showered by smoking gravel and what seems to be fragments of intestines and viscera. "I'm just saying it will make our jobs a lot easier, and stop calling me Elli!" 

"Is this really a good time?" complained Argon as he saw trooper Jena beside Elias shoot a cultist armed with a rocket launcher through the neck. 

The launcher suddenly misfired under the cultist's death grip and sent the krak missile spinning into the ashen metallic hide of a maulerfiend. 

The gigantic daemon engine whinned in pain before crumpling to the ground.

"But Ely started it sergeant" whinned Mekha with a pout while still sighting down her lasgun. She slowly squeezed the trigger and a cultist was knocked back while peeking behind a salamander scout tank. The target was about a third of a klom away. 

Why she never asked for a long las, Argon will never know.

"E-L-I-A-S!" Elias spelled back, punctuating each letter with a las-shot before crouching below the firing lip when the enemy retaliated with a volley of their own. "Honestly, what's with you and nicknames Mekha?"

The trooper just smiled at her fellow guardsman when she crouch beside him and said "To better annoy you sweetie."

"Stop teasing him Mekha" Argon scolded and faced Elias. 

"And to your request guardsmen - Denied." 

As if on cue, a series of bright columns of energy lanced above them and struck a defiler and a brass scorpion assaulting redoubt R1-23. They simultaneously blew in spectacular explosions that showered their nearby allies with a withering rain of shrapnel.

"Air support is sorely needed at the palace gates where the fighting is thickest, you know that. We basically got the short hand of the stick trooper but we have the redoubts of the 2nd line to keep us company."

"But we also have a primarch attacking us so yeah" countered Elias as he peeked over the firing lip. 

He took notice of a party of cultists advancing on them with thick scavenged tank platings. Las fire from the line pinged off harmlessly from the make shift shields while the heretics' own flared repeatedly from conveniently welded out firing slits. A company size group of cultists was then sheltering behind the testudo as it advanced.

"And his army of fanatics" indicated Elias incredulously while slamming a fresh mag into his las-gun and seeing a guardsmen from the 2nd line having a quarter of his head blown off.

"So what?" replied Mekha with relish while rising and steadying her aim. 

She always loved a challenge, Argon realized, and the tiny openings on the shields were too enticing for her to pass up. 

A controlled burst erupted from her las-gun. Two or three las-shots flashed and hit the rim of one of the firing slits. 

One or two cultist saw her las flash and quickly responded in kind with a fierce volley from their fox holes that forced her down.

"Shyt!" she gasped and crouched hard, almost spraining her ankles.

"'So what'? really?" Elias asked agaped, ignoring the fact that she nearly lost her head. "Are you daft?" 

Mekha just nodded laughing "Come on Elias, did you forget what the colonel said? Nine or nine thousand we'll jus-"

"Kick and scream" said Argon with a singsong voice and the two looked at him

He was priming a pair of krak grenades.

2DF-V-S17

In sector 2DF-V's section 17, Sgt. Dezric was also encountering the testudo elements of the enemy. Three were advancing on his section with a band cultists behind each one.

He cursed under his breath at seeing their shots pinging harmlessly off the shiels and so opened up his vox, linking up with his section battery.

"Sergeant Dezric to Sergeant Basch, come in." his voice was low but clear.

"You hailed Sergeant?" came Basch's sing song voice. Dezric could hear the steady report of mortar fire in the background.

"Testudos bearing zero-one-two, twenty five meters" Dezric indicated.

"What are those bastards doing?" asked the sergeant incredulously.

"Being bloody frak apparently" replied Dezric.

“So do you want me to flatten them or open them up?”

“Just open them up, leave some for us Basky”

"You know, you’re like your sister with those nicknames of yours." the sergeant teased.

"Oh frak you!" Dezric replied with a grimace and closed the link but not before hearing the sergeant’s hearty laugh. He really was getting annoyed at anyone mentioning Mekha's antics. 

"Now now, mind your language" said trooper Aly beside him who flashed him her most winning smile. 

"Shut up." said Dezric but rather bashfully that made the trooper giggle despite the battle raging around them. 

Nearby, redoubt R1-19 was surrounded by a coven of daemonettes but were being bracketed by stubber and mortar fire. The latter was slowly redirected and when the shells shrieked over the sergeant and his men moments later, the testudos burst from the inside in a fiery fashion. Viscera and bone fragments went through the shields like missiles in every directon. Dezric wasn't even sure if the heretics had time to scream in the deluge. 

"I told him to leave some for us"

"You should've been more specific Dez" trooper Nev chipped in beside Aly. He was steadily adjusting the sights of his long las.

"Yeah, since when was Basch a groxhole keen on sharing his kills?" countered trooper Krix on his other side who cradled a plasma gun.

"That's a very good question” Dezric smirked as the mortar fire finally waned and ceased.

Smoke and dust covered the area where the testudos were last seen. Of the cultists inside, only a smear of crimson on the ground amidst dented shields remained. 

Moaning and dying groans reminded them of the other group of cultists that followed the testudos. They were not spared and Dezric saw the first of the bodies when the smog cleared. 

They were a tangle of carcasses and mewling wretches on the verge of dying. Survivors were struggling with the simple effort to stand or hold a gun. At this point only about three dozen or so were limping towards them.

The slightest nod from their commander unleashed a deluge of tracer fire that raked the heretics. 

Five of of the survivors lost their throats to Dezric and Aly. One in particular was still alive when a las-bolt went through his jugular but instead of killing him outright, the searing shot fused his wind pipe to his esophagus and he slowly died of strangulation. 

A couple had their heads punctured by Nev's precise shots, one between the eyes and the other through the ears. Four were soundly thrown backwards by Krix and his mate, Beta, with center mass shots. 

Again and again, wounded cultists fell and died in droves, often times shouting undiscernable words at the guardsmen in frustration.

"Report in!" voxed Major Mkfen right at the moment when the last of cultists was dead and the main enemy force was on the backpedal. 

Field medics were rushing left and right behind Dezric on the trench floor, ferrying wounded guardsmen towards the medi-habs while troops fresh from the supply lines were flowing in the opposite direction.

"Testudo elements encountered sir." Dezric replied while reloading. "Got wounded but no fatalities."

"Roger that Sergeant, have your section ready for withdrawal to section 2DF-V-SL40 at 15:00." was the major's reply and Dezric thought he misheard. 

"Withdrawal Major?" asked Dezric as he checked the map he was given in his early dossier. He didn't see any such order before the start of the engagement and the new coordinates was right below the parapet of the 2nd line. 

"What about the men streaming in sir?" he asked. 

"They will support the redoubt teams in dismantling the strong points and acts as your rear guard." the major replied through the vox. The news stunned Dezric. 

"Permission to speak candidly Major. " he said. 

"Go on and be quick about it." the Major replied while las fires shrieked in the comm's background

"There were no such orders before the fighting sir and there are no reports of breaches. We've pushed them back countless times. Why the sudden order for retreat?" 

"Withdrawal and retreat are not the same sergeant but I don't have time to lecture you on so a tedious subject. Now do as you are ordered and follow the chain of command." the major replied and cut off the link. 

Dezric could only blinked in surprised at that and it was not missed by his men. 

"What did the major say? " asked Nev and Aly was also asking the same question with the confused look in her eyes. 

"We are to withdraw to section 2DF-V-SL40. " 

"Withdraw?!" asked Nev

"But that's all the way back there! " 

"Don't you think I asked those same questions?" Dezric replied. "Now shut your mouths, gather your guns and kit and prepare to withdraw! 


"Major Mkfen reports the loss of fifteen fire teams and testudo elements were spotted colonel. He also reports that his companies will withdraw to their designated positions at 15:00." said Lt. Randon while adjusting the settings of his vox. "Major Kasteen reports the same for her companies but reports that Captain Ivann's company is down to half its strength." 

The lieutenant was Colonel Astor's vox officer while Maj. Mkfen was over all commander of the companies to the left of Astor's quadrant and Kasteen was in charge of the right.

"We on the other hand, lost ten fire teams Colonel and are awaiting your orders." replied Corporal Meera who was wiping the iron sights of her lasgun with a ragged cloth from her webbing. She was Astor's adjutant.

Astor was taking all the news in while standing behind the firing lip and looking through his magnoculars. 

He panned them west to east, seeing black acrid smoke from the bombardment dominating his field of vision. It slowly crawled on the battlefield like a ghostly avalanche while the smell of cordite and cooked human flesh came with it. 

It's been getting thicker and thicker since the start of the engagement, making it harder to spot the larger rifts from afar but also masking the entire Eastern Defensive Line completely from the enemy's sight. 

On the other hand, the incessant heat wash from the battery gusted behind him like a tempest, making him sweat.

He was about to wipe his brow when his vox chimed.

"Sir enemy formation bearing zero-zero-two." came Sergeant Danvil's hurried report from his section battery.

Astor quickly scanned the battlefield and found them.

"How did these bastards get all those tank platings?" he remarked as twelve platoon sized shield formations were approaching his sector. Predator tanks and packs of forgefiends were advancing between them. 

"Say the word colonel" voxed the sergeant.

"Hold fire" said Astor as he assessed the size of the enemy force. 

The two dozen mortars of his section battery can't handle the advancing group, particularly the armour elements. They needed more firepower.

"Link up with Sergeant Kry of S5" he ordered. "Coordinate with his battery to bracket them long enough for the 2nd line to target the armour."

"Roger that." said the sergeant.

Astor then look through the magnoculars once more and surveyed the entire battlefield as Danvil's and Kry's batteries opened up. 

"Randon, get me a link to high command. I need to send the general a report." 

"Only 30 minutes before 15:00 colonel." reminded Meera.

"I know how to read a chronometer love and get me the link lieutenant. " Astor retorted and returned the magnoculars to his webbing. He then turned and looked at the palace walls, at the lascannon that took out the corrupted titan and never fired again.

3AB-X-S01

"So they have mustered their army here, precisely because of the sole Praetorian?" said General Yanti Gohnus, commander of the infantry elements of the imperial guard in the line. He was the general that promoted Astor and the recipient of the colonel’s articulated comments regarding the trenches. The bruises from that earlier scuffle were thickly covered by mascara that did nothing to hide it.

He was seating with the rest of the general staff around a hololith-table. Their retinues, sub-commanders, scribes and vox officers, were all standing and sifting through the incoming reports from the field, inloading them to the table whenever they were of great import. 

Almost if not all, were from different regiments judging by their uniforms, the generals were not exempted, and are now by necessity, amalgamated to form a functioning army for the EDL.

"That is correct my lord." said Ephraim Sterm, his Master of Vox and Logistics, as he consulted a data-slate. He bore the hallmarks of belonging to one of the regiments of the Vostroyan Firstborns while his superior was clearly of Cadian descent.

“So we established that, can we now unleash my tanks?" said General Tholem Sother, barely hiding his venomous tone. He was the commander of the armoured elements of the line and was very visibly brooding behind his rebreather mask. He was strongly against the continuous bombardment that was steadily depleting their already limited stockpile, and was also strongly againts the formation of the EDL, despite being a commander of a Krieg regiment. 

In the holo-map in front of them, they can see a thick scarlet line that ran across it. It represented the impact zones of the artillery and to its north were markers for the warp-rifts while on the south was the vast legion of the fallen primarch.

"Not yet general, the artillery bulwark must be maintained until all of our units are in position" replied Magos Xelyu Qux nonchalantly, earning the general’s bitter grunt when the words left his vox-throat. 

The tech-magos was commander of the mechanicum skitarii reserves and their attached cybernetican cohorts. He was also in command of all the techpriests managing and maintaining the armour elements. His face was sheltering behind a scarlet cowl and his two dozen eyes took in his surroundings like those of a fruit-fly. 

"We've gone through this before Tholem." said General Kasander Kraig sternly. He was in command of the artillery elements of the line, the basilisk pieces on the wall and of the people directly garrisoning the praetorian. He was ironically unaffected by their current stratagem despite having a bird's eye view of the theater. "The bombardment is necessary and by my aides estimation, we have enough stockpile to last for another eight hours."

“We could have just engaged them like a spear tip Kassander" Tholem shot back, ignoring his friend's words. "My armour, a century of baneblades supported by leman russes, the infantry at the flanks and your artillery clearing our advance. We could drive a wedge at the center of that cess pit they call an army and rout them upon the Crimson Fields, I promise you.” said General Tholem sardonically to his Mordian counterpart. 

The Crimson Fields was the colloquial term the Guard took to naming no-man’s land due in part to the blood that drenched its surface. 

“And what of Lorgar Tholem?” asked General Yanti while lighting a lho-stick.

“Lorgar?”

“Yes, what would you do to the fallen primarch if we met him on the battlefield?” 

“The praetorian, what else?” Tholem didn’t miss a beat. “If Lorgar would take to the field after suffering heavy losses I'll pin him down with my tanks and have his brother’s creation kill him.”

“Such a tactic is conventional and it won’t work against beings such as Lorgar, you know that.” countered General Yanti.

“It's better than this!” said Tholem through gritted teeth and pointing at the hololith.

“Patience is a virtue Tholem, but so is respect” said a cool voice and they all turned towards the head of the table where another commander was sitting. Unlike them however, he bore the rank that gave him over-all command of this theater and the sole responsibility of defending Zarathustra Wall against one of the Emperor’s fallen sons.

He had cold striking eyes that seemed to bore through one’s soul and his golden hair seemed starkly white underneath the lumenglobes.

"My lord with all due respect, virtues and the like are a luxury I cannot afford at the moment especially now at our darkest hour." Tholem replied with barely a control in his voice.

"I expect you to adhere to them precisely because it is our darkest hour." the lord general shot back, his voice rising "What if a primarch would walk in now and see us, the proud Astra Militarum, descendents of the revered Imperial Army, reduced to squabbling savages simply because of one traitor when the Army faced nine and didn't break?"

General Tholem blanched a little at the words and seem to force himself to come into grips of his earlier candor. 

"My apologies to you all then. The present situation and the visions, all this waiting seem to have affected me in a negative light. I should have known better." 

The lord general nodded at his apology with practiced grace and turned towards the tech-magos saying "Magos Xeylu, your estimation on the time of arrival of the legio?" 

The tech-magos responded by blurting out clicks and white wash noise to the tech-priests behind him. They in turn released a burst of binaric codes akin to nails scratching on the walls.

"Legio Vengarum will reach the staging point Hy-12-R3, in x-minus fifty seven minutes, thirty nine seconds and sixty seven micronds. Their earlier skirmish with a Necron phalanx have greatly reduced their fighting capacity by 25%" the tech-magos reported. 

At that moment, the lord general sat silently while clasping his hands together in thought. His eyes focused intently on the hololith, on the strategem he devised. 

It involved the repositioning of the entire 1st line, with its center almost intercepting with that of the 2nd line while its sides moved ten yards from their original positions. The ground left in the wake of the partial withdrawal was turned into the killing box. 

Markers blinking behind the 2nd line, just below the top of the ridge, represented the staging point of Tholem's reserve armour elements. They assumed a phalanx formation of five leman russes at the front and three to four baneblades at the rear and were near enough to attack the armies flanks. 

The entire thing reeks of conventional warfare, one that even a berzerker or even an ork can see through and it made him uneasy. 

"Has the 1st line forces started repositioning themselves?" he asked General Yanti. 

"Yes my Lord and they will be in position by the time the titan legion will begin its assault" at that response, thr sigil of Legio Vengarum appeared on right flank of Lorgar's army in the hololith. Two dozen engines composed the legio, most were of the war hound class and only about six or seven were of the reaver and war lord class. The Imperator classes were left behind to secure the merchant's quarter. 

"They will spot those titans from a mile away." he said to himself and addressed Kassander "General, you may execute the order at the Ides of the 16th hour." 

"Yes my lord and maybe it will be a piece or two but I'll make sure they see it." the general replied. 

"Make sure it's near the praetorian" added the lord general and Kassander nodded. 

"Lord General, what of the other flank?" asked General Tholem as he indicated the wide expanse of desert on the left flank of Lorgar's army and just five kilometers from a Tau Hunting Cadre engaging an Ork Waaagh!

"Sir general, I have that covered" said a voice from the hololith. A blank insignia suddenly appeared on the left flank but it was moving at an incredible speed, almost like a flock of birds speeding towards the daemonic army. 

"Colonel Price, I take it you are reporting that you found the sisters?" the lord general smiled as he recognized the voice of the colonel through the vox built on the table. 

"Yes your lordship" repied the colonel "They weren't easy to find mind you, with them being silent as the grave and all." they then heard him drinking and most knew what it was but it only made the lord general chuckle and the generals grit their teeth. 

"Don't get drunk on me now colonel, we need your set of skills for this attack." he jokingly said. 

"If you're referring to my set of skills that involve screaming and kicking, then your lordship, I think I can deliver it best with a bottle in hand." the colonel replied and the lord general chuckled as he raised a hand to stop a furious Tholem from interrupting. 

"Then by all means colonel, do what you do best" he then cut off the link and looked at the updated hololith with renewed resolve at the latest developments however it still made him uneasy but for another reason entirely. 

He was about to lure a primarch into making a mistake and that was inconceivable even to one such as him, but he sought to make it so regardless. To give up now was to invite defeat and he will not have it. 

And so, Lord General Hadrian Alexander stood up and looked at each of his generals, his eyes gleaming. 

"Let us make history my lords and to your armies, for tonight a primarch dies." 

A large explosion ripped through the battlements on the wall. Basilisks pieces were torn and reduced to scrap metal. Bodies, burning or otherwise were blanketed by shrapnel and painted the parapets with a sheen of crimson. 

Screams of mayhem emanating from the wall made all the guardsmen in the trenches turn and gazed in horror as the praetorian, the sentinel of Zarathustra, was engulfed in flames. 

Not only that but because of the sudden explosion, the artillery pieces directly below the gigantic las cannon stopped firing as their crew sought shelter from the falling debris. The resultant chaos in the third line created a gap through the carpet bombardment. 

It was almost three kilometers across. 

Lorgar looked up from his ministrations of a ritual when he heard the explosions and screams that stood apart from the battle. He then cocked his head in puzzlement. His eyes surveyed the gap and the battle line beyond. He noticed the far center and the varying distance of the guardsmen as it terminated on both ends. 


"A most bewildering development." he said. 

"My son! Now is our chance!" said Kor Phaeron with an almost maniacal glee as he approached from the land raider. 

"I would agree with the Black Cardinal my lord, the imperials made a mistake" said Erebus and Lorgar noted the strange instance that his lieutenants were with one voice... and were oh so blinded by their impatience.

"It's a ruse" he told them as he got up. 

"Who cares if it's a ruse, we must take this chance for our own!" his foster father demanded. "The gods favor you, and they have already proclaimed your victory!" 

"They did the same for Horus" replied Lorgar and faced his father's slowly glowering face "Destinies are fickle old man and mind your place." 

"What he merely wishes my lord was for us to take the initiative. This may be a ruse but our armies outnumber them." Erebus intervened. "What manner of tricks or ambush can they do with your brother's trinket now in ruin?" 

At that, Lorgar watched the burning frame of the praetorian cannon. One amongst many that Dorn laboured to install on the walls. It was a potent weapon, able to slay beings such as him and titans with one blow. Now it was nothing but a burning metal husk. 

Horus wouldn't have hesitated on seizing an opportunity nor would any of his other brothers, those who were illuminated anyway. 

"So be it" he said at last as a mighty crozius materialized out of thin air in his mighty hands. 

"I will recreate this circle at the walls foundation" he indicated the warp craft on the sands "It will become much more potent with the blood of these blind fools" 

"Very wise my lord" Erebus replied and Kor Phaeron nodded in agreement. 

"But they are arrogant to think me a simpleton to not notice their flanking forces." he said as the foot falls of the titans to the right were now accompanied by the braying of war horns and the ever encroaching nothingness on the left made his head tingle in anticipation. 

"Kor Phaeron, smite those whores on the left, bring the berzerkers with you. And you Erebus, you bring those mechanicum curs to heel with the blight mages on the right" his lieutenants saluted and proceeded to gather their forces while he marched to the front and eyed the wall with anarchic lust "As for me, I will bring this wall to-" 

An icy howl pierced the air and it brought with it an otherworldly coldness that froze him in his place. It was a wolf's howl to be precise but Lorgar knew it was more than just an ordinary call. It was a sound from days so ancient, Lorgar hadn't expected to hear it again. It reminded him of those two brothers, the forgotten pair, it reminded him of another, a great cyclops and lastly, it reminded him of the executioner's ax. 

Even Erebus froze when he heard it but only the Black Cardinal broke the silence "By the gods, what is it?" 

"Impossible" uttered Erebus as he suddenly turned and saw a gathering sand storm behind the army. 

"As I said my son, destinies are ever so fickle" Lorgar hissed and turned, grasping Illuminarum with both hands and walked away from the wall. 

"Where are you going?!" his foster father called after him. 

"Where else but to greet my brother?" said Lorgar as he used his powers to see past through his army and saw a legion of creatures not so different from those that now shout adulations to the Blood God. An army of dogs and curs, of wulfens that are now bearing down on his army from behind. 

Amongst them was a warrior who towered over them, he was clad in the freezing colors of his homeworld and his free flowing blonde hair was awash with the blood of Lorgar's sons as he scythe through them with a mighty sword like a blizzard would across a mountain. 

"How long has it been Leman?" said Lorgar as another piercing howl signalled the Wolftime.


----------



## VulkansNodosaurus

A/N: So I wrote the first half of this addition about two and a half years ago; recently decided to finish it, because why not. Hopefully this thread returns to life… hopefully this site does. Until then, post 1/3: 

* 

The battle of Terra raged on, in desperate fury, into its seventh month. An engagement this long was impossible by all laws of war. Oh, to be sure, campaigns on a single world could last decades; wars between worlds could stretch for millennia. But a battle, with enemy bodies lying on top of each other across the surface of the planet, without any real respite for the exhausted troops, simply could not last that long. Everyone would be dead within a fortnight. 

But this was no ordinary battle. This was the final battle for the central planet in the galaxy. And it was a battle to whom, against their will, more and more ships traveling in the Warp across galactic history found themselves drawn like an apple to ground. 

Space Marines, Imperial Guard, Inquisition and Mechanicum forces, various human alliances from outside the Imperium, the Astartes, cultists, and daemons of Chaos, Craftworld Eldar, Harlequins, Dark Eldar, Orks, Tyranids, the various species of the Tau empires, the Necron dynasties, Rak’Gol, Barghesi, K’nib, Dracolith, Noisome Reek, Draxians, Q’orl, Thexians, Loxatl, even species long extinct such as the Slaugth, Zoats, and Jorgall – all found themselves drawn to this fated conflict. The Hrud alone seemed to be immune, but their absence was little-noted, for there was no time to contemplate such things in the slaughter. 

The battle raged on, both fulcrum and distraction, between future and past, on the crust of all destinies’ plane. And outside it, a galaxy rang with countless echoes. 

The light had gone out long ago; and now, all things fought to ensure they would survive to see it ignite again. 

If not all, then most would fail. 

* 

Such, Mortarion supposed, was ever the fate of tyrants. 

He sat on a throne of mutated bone, looking down on the Plague Planet in disgust, alone – always alone – in this age of dusk. The world was as Barbarus had been before the coming of the Emperor; but where once Mortarion had been the liberator, now he was the oppressor. 

Magnus had told him that the Emperor had returned, reincarnated into a new mortal shell. But Magnus was a servant of the greatest liar in the universe, or had been, at least. 

Magnus – once Mortarion’s greatest foe among his brothers, now the last whom he could call a friend. In the service of Chaos, after all, sorcery was somewhat unavoidable. The Crimson King’s soul was still bound to Tzeentch, but that was insufficient to allow the Changer of Ways to control it. It wasn’t enough to control any of the Daemon-Primarchs, not really. That was why they weren’t the ones to lead the dark crusades: they were too weak to be triumphant, but too powerful to be trustworthy. Lorgar Aurelian alone was truly devoted to Chaos; he had never pledged himself to a single god, and thus saw things differently. 

But Mortarion was only capable of hate and pity, both for himself and for the universe around him (and for his patron, hate alone, distilled ever since that bastard Typhon broke his Legion). Because despite eternity, weakness and failure had become the only constants. Because…. 

“Because everything ends,” Mortarion said aloud, aware of a new presence in his mountaintop gazebo. One too strong for even his home to devour. 

“And yet something endures,” replied the Emperor of Mankind. 

He was in a child’s body, and his aura was not quite right; but he was, at the very least, not of Chaos. Mortarion suspected Magnus knew exactly who this being was, but not being a psyker, he could only hope. And Daemon Princes of Nurgle tended not to hope. 

“What have you come here for, then, if you have not despaired?” Mortarion asked. 

“To bring you back,” the Child-Emperor said, as his golden aura burned brighter. “I offer you the chance to fight for justice once again.” 

Hope, hope which his daemonic body was physically incapable of; so Mortarion could only come to the conclusion that the Emperor was lying. Mortarion was by this point no asset, having failed even at controlling his own Legion. 

“I know,” the Child-Emperor said, “that some of your own sons have betrayed you. So tell me – would you stop at anything to bring them back?” 

And hope, once more, brighter, as the Emperor’s solar flame flared, as truth settled in. He was burning away, Mortarion felt, diseases and ethereal flesh alike vanishing, and he knew that this was a fine way for all of it to end. With hope before hate, and love before fear, for once. His ‘father’ on Barbarus had not felt any sort of peace at his own doom, but Mortarion, for all his imitation, had never been quite the same. Not even as darkness’ soul. 

Except that this was not the end. Because, as so much of Mortarion had died, replaced by mere entropy, now through that same Warp he was reforged. 

No daemon, not anymore; his Primarch’s body re-emerged from the flames, the corruption blown away. He stood once more, holding a pure Manreaper, the daemon-gazebo around him crumbling into dust. 

“Your soul is still Nurgle’s,” the Emperor said. 

“Of course,” Mortarion answered. Saving that was simply impossible. Still, if he could fight by his father’s side one last time before eternal doom, it would be worth it. 

“It is trapped in Nurgle’s Garden,” the Child-Emperor continued, as the gazebo’s ruins faded around them in the teleporter’s glare. “We will retrieve it in time; but for now, Nurgle is one of the stronger Ruinous Powers, second only to Khorne.” 

Perhaps the Child-Emperor was exaggerating the ease with which his soul could be saved, perhaps this was even an outright lie, but the very possibility…. Only his soul did not deserve to be saved. 

“I have still done abominations,” Mortarion felt the need to point out. “It’s not as if I can simply be forgiven.” 

“We have all done terrible things,” the Emperor replied, as a starship’s bridge snapped into reality. “It is the nature of the universe. The crucial thing, my son, is not to lose compassion. To understand, and thus love, those you destroy. And empathy, Mortarion – yours may have been weak at the start, but through those long millennia, empathy was perhaps the only part of you that survived.” 

* 

“WAAAAAAAAAGH!” 

Zhaggricha, Warboss of the Orange Train Waaagh, was moderately confused. His boyz had been rampaging around in the southern part of the galaxy, in the thirty-sixth millennium by the human calendar (he found the human calendar fascinating, and indeed had tried to create his own, Orky calendar in his Waaagh, which had almost caught on before this mess happened), and then when they came out, the place was all wrong. The other Orks said that this was Terra, the human homeworld, and that it was the fifty-first millennium by the human calendar, which would make it the seventy-third wak by his calendar. Weird stuff happened sometimes with the Warp, of course – Zhaggricha had heard the legend about the Warboss who went back in time and krumped himself – but Zhaggricha’s was far from the only Waaagh to land here. 

The main problem in this place was that there was almost no soil left anywhere on the planet, so very few new Orks were appearing, except from orbit. For the most part, however, it was just a really big scrap between everyone, especially the humies. The humies’ big palace was to the northwest of Zhaggricha, and they had drawn a really big ring around it that they were defending. Attacking that ring was not much fun, because the humies had a lot of long-range guns; but there were plenty of fighting to be had outside. 

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” 

Revving his giant warbike, whose noise somewhat drowned out even the warcry, Zhaggricha sped forward, his troops riding behind. In the distance, across a bunch of ruined buildings, there was a really tall black tower with a gigantic humie ear hanging off the top. A ring of tentacles surrounded the ear, and below the tower had no windows and had writing that Zhaggricha didn’t understand all over it. The tower’s cannons fired at the Orks, but after two volleys they stopped for some reason. 

“Evil Sunz!” Zhaggricha shouted to his boyz as they got close to the tower. “An’, well, I guess everyone else as well. Fire at the tower! They’ve got an ear, they’ve got tentacles, they’ve probably got teef as well!” 

“WAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” came the reply. 

The warbikes and other vehicles began to arc fire towards the tower, which immediately responded with a new volley of its own. Up close, Zhaggricha saw that the tower was also shooting the other way, meaning either that someone else was trying to take the teef in the tower or that the people inside didn’t see where the Orks were because the tower had no windows. 

Then, suddenly, the tower shook, and then started to fall as more rockets blew up against it – right onto Zhaggricha’s boyz! 

“Swerve left!” the warboss shouted, as the tower leaned further and further. “Or right!” 

Most of the warbikes did, in fact, swing to avoid the obvious danger. Zhaggricha saw that Nukskk, one of his Nobz, didn’t do so, and instead swerved both right and left, thereby riding straight into the base of the tower. Zhaggricha, himself, had ridden left, thereby getting out of the tower’s shadow. 

Then the tower fell down, and the ground shook with the impact, revealing who had knocked it off. It was a giant fat monster, dripping wet, with two horns on its head and four legs. It looked like some sort of humie farm animal, except it was five times as tall as Zhaggricha (and he, being a Warboss, was quite big himself). 

“Blood for the Blood God!” bellowed the humie sitting on top of the animal. 

Zhaggricha turned to his bikerz, which had stopped. “Well?” he asked. “Chaos humies, eh? Let’s stomp ‘em too!” 

Pulling up before the Warboss, Zhaggricha’s second-in-command Eablatz pointed at the person riding the beast. “That’s no humie!” he explained. 

And squinting, Zhaggricha realized Eablatz was correct. Sure, he looked a lot like a Chaos humie, and he wasn’t wearing his species’ normal stuff, but the figure on top of the beast – 

Was an Ork. 

That was totally bizarre, really. Chaos Orks were extremely rare; they’d have to revolt against Gork and Mork, and why would anyone want to do that? But it was hardly the most confusing thing in this whole mess, so Zhaggricha turned to his boyz. 

“Well,” he said, “who cares if it’s an Ork? We’ve fought other Orks often enough, and smashed them good! And this one –” he paused as more Chaos Orks began to emerge from the water – “these ones aren’t even properly Orky, since they’ve betrayed brutal cunning and cunning brutality. For Mork!” 

“For Mork!” echoed the Waaagh, excluding those who shouted “For Gork” instead. 

“For Gork!” Zhaggricha continued. 

“For Gork!” came the echo, with a few “For Mork”s sprinkled in for flavor. 

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” 

The enemy Orks were silent except for an incoherent grunt-roar. It was a loud one, but nowhere near enough to drown the noise of the Orange Train’s warbikes when those turned on. In the din, hundreds of vehicles streaked towards the ocean, the Chaos Orks running against them from the shore. Zhaggricha aimed his warbike at the presumed enemy leader, the one sitting on top of the beast. He responded by driving his steed forwards, trampling several overeager bikers and a few of his own boyz. 

“Blood for the Blood God!” he screamed. “Skulls for the Skull Throne! I am Greenbreaka, lord of the True Blood!” 

“Gork an’ Mork are da only true blood!” Zhaggricha replied, driving his bike straight at the beast’s dropping leg. It wasn’t really like he cared all that much about Gork and Mork, or even knew exactly what they were. But Chaos Orks were just wrong and utterly un-orky. “I am Zhaggricha, and the Orange Train’s gonna run yah ovah!” 

As the beast’s leg impacted the wet soil, Zhaggricha drove his warbike vertically up it. Arnef had said that this was physically impossible, but Zhaggricha’d done it plenty of times, so he’d ignored the human. Arnef hadn’t been all that useful, anyhow – Zhaggricha had captured the Mechanicum adept out of curiosity, but when Arnef realized that, he refused to tell him everything interesting. Eventually, Zhaggricha had been forced to let the human go, after taking most of his valuable stuff. Still, he wondered sometimes about how much number stuff he could’ve learned from a cooperative human mekboy. The Ork ones worked less by thinking about math and more by trial and error. 

Then the leg ended, and Zhaggricha was on top of the beast. Greenbreaka turned around, a massive bazooka in his left hand, and hurled the gun at Zhaggricha’s bike while sticking the trigger stuck. Zhaggricha swerved left, but he couldn’t go all that far because the animal was too skinny. So he twisted the bike, shielding himself from the massive blast. Still, the vehicle flipped over, dropping him onto the animal’s wet back. Doing a somersault, he leapt up as his warbike was tossed onto the ground in the distance. 

“WAAAAAGH!” he screamed, charging at Greenbreaka, who drew two choppas. Zhaggricha already had his sixteen-headed flail in his hands. It was a large and unwieldy contraption, but he’d used it enough to be intricately familiar with it. 

The first of the flail’s balls swung at Greenbreaka’s head; the Chaos Ork dodged, then ran straight at Zhaggricha, head held low. Zhaggricha answered by tilting his flail, the individual heads jutting up and down. Greenbreaka was hit once, then twice, his head increasingly bloody, but still he continued forwards; then he jumped, choppas glistening, as the flails’ chains caught him. On the flail now, he got into a comfortable sitting position, choppas ready to plunge into the tiring Zhaggricha. 

Zhaggricha dropped his weapon, grasping a knife from – no, his bike was gone! In its absence, he snapped on his knuckles as Greenbreaka ran towards him. The Khornate cultist jumped, and then Zhaggricha, even though he was of the same size as the enemy Ork, was on the beast’s still-moving back, pinned beneath Greenbreaka’s fists. 

“You’re the number Ork,” Greenbreaka said, “aren’t you?” 

Zhaggricha nodded. He was, indeed, fascinated by mathematics. Wasn’t very good at it, by any standards but Orky, but that’d been enough to make a nickname for himself. 

“Then listen,” Greenbreaka said. “All those numbers, all those Gork an’ Morks – they are nothing in the eye of Chaos. We don’t follow any rules. We aren’t scared of anything. Join us, Zhaggricha, and we can get back to fighting enemies of Khorne instead of each other.” 

No. The fight wasn’t over – indeed, Greenbreaka would have killed him already if it was – and the Chaos Ork was most likely lying anyhow. Zhaggricha chose his response. 

“ZEEEEEROOOOOOOOOOOO!” 

Greenbreaka jumped back, surprised, as Zhaggricha snatched his left choppa, which Greenbreaka had dropped in shock. Then they ran at each other, blades crashing against each other again and again, bone flaking off them. 

“The age of brutality,” Zhaggricha said, “an’ cunning, and of orkiness – no matter which year it is, it is not yet past, Greenbreaka. Our true green is eternal!” 

Zhaggricha kicked Greenbreaka in the feet, pushing the enemy Ork back, and then Greenbreaka missed a strike, and a punch later the Chaos Ork was hanging off the side of the beast, which was by this point scuttling sideways. 

“Your heresy ends here,” Zhaggricha said, raising the enemy choppa for a final strike, “Warboss Greenbreaka.” 

Greenbreaka grinned. “I’m not da Warboss,” he said, even as his head was separated from his body in a shower of green blood. Then his arms released, and the body fell into the gray dust below, Zhaggricha raising his arms in triumph. 

As the Chaos Orks saw their leader die and broke off into a disorganized retreat, Zhaggricha and the Orange Train shouted in victory once again, preparing for the next enemy. 

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” 

* 

Karon Jonas of the Righteous Hatred ran. 

Kharn the Betrayer, most feared of the horrific World Eaters, zigzagged down the hallway behind him, the Navigator knew without looking. He was bouncing off the walls, crushing good men and women of the Imperial Guard under his mass and axe, and he was faster than Jonas could ever hope to be. There was no time to consider how to fight back, no time for any intelligible last words. Only terror, and vastly insufficient qualities of adrenaline, as Kharn swung his chainaxe, taken from Primarch Angron himself, and connected with Jonas’ neck, an execution of rage- 

Karon Jonas, once navigator of the Righteous Hatred, awoke in a cold sweat. 

The nightmares had come again, he noted, fingering the scar on his neck. Not from Gorechild, of course – that blade left no survivors. It had simply been a grazing shrapnel fragment from the blast, the last one before he had dragged himself into the escape pod and Admiral Clarris had launched them towards a friendly vessel at last. 

Kharn the Betrayer was, as far as Jonas knew, dead in the wreckage high in orbit above Terra. Of course the accursed traitor was still alive, just like he had survived a thousand other shipwrecks through the millennia; he’d been fully capable of reaching an escape pod, and his gifts from Chaos were probably sufficient to ensure he could survive full atmospheric re-entry. 

More comforting, still, to think the final moments of the Righteous Hatred had ended the being – for Kharn wasn’t really human anymore – that had killed his ship. That they had done at least some good, at bloody nightfall, rather than absolutely zero. 

Of course, the ship hadn’t been his, or even Clarris’s. Jonas didn’t even know whether Captain Astor, in the hellish trenches below, was even aware of Hatred’s loss. Or, really, whether he would care if he was, a position once unthinkable. 

Washing his face, Jonas thought back to the day they had first arrived on Terra. Two years before most of the Ultramarines Chapter was cataclysmically lost in the Warp (brought to Terra, of course, to the end of days). Five years before Abaddon the Despoiler engineered, at long last, the First Fall of Cadia. Twenty years before the Chaos Warmaster vanished, and the Imperium began to struggle back from the very brink. 

Ten thousand years after all of those events, for the outside galaxy. A time when it was effectively impossible to leave the planet so many would once have given everything to reach, because the orbital battle, though far from the apocalyptic scale of the ground one, was sufficient to effectively blockade escape. 

A time when humanity’s (and Jonas’s) homeworld, its ecosystem destroyed decamillennia ago and its population crushed into dust over the months of fighting, played host to one last game of mega-regicide. 

Jonas shook his head, droplets of water flying off. He had become obsessed with the past, perhaps, unable to focus on the fragile boredom of the present. 

The ship he was now on (along with the Admiral and about five other escapees) was called the Triple Meridian, manned by a skeleton crew. Unlike the Righteous Hatred in its last days, the Triple Meridian was well-equipped with weaponry of all sizes, but had dropped every single human being on board that was not vital to the ship’s survival. Knowing what sort of boarding parties wandered in this orbit, Jonas suspected this had been the correct decision. 

He walked out of his chambers (there was no shortage of living space here, at least) and towards the galley. Rations were tiny, grabbed as tariffs from the myriad cargo ships that also found their way into the apocalypse; it was basically piracy, but the Imperial government below (such as it was) had sanctioned it to avoid everyone starving to death. 

Besides, the cargo ships didn’t have anywhere to go except the Imperial Palace anyways. 

Of course, not all ships that came here were from the time rifts; Imperial loyalists who wanted to defend their god, Chaos hordes under the command of Lorgar Aurelian, and xenos working for mysterious causes all converged on the galaxy’s center. Honestly, Jonas suspected most of these were idiotic fanatics for their various masters. Why else would anyone voluntarily come here? 

Not that here, in the specific sense, was at the moment all that uncomfortable; but here in the general sense would’ve killed Jonas twenty times over if all the orbital starships weren’t so utterly lazy. 

“Good morning,” Navigator Terit Tarit of the Meridian commented. 

“‘Good’ morning,” Jonas mumbled, thoughtfully chewing. 

“Oh,” Tarit said, “come on. It’s Winter Day today!” 

“And I’m sure everyone just agreed to a truce for that reason?” 

Tarit chuckled. “Not on the ground, that’s for sure. In orbit, oddly enough, well… the stalemate is holding, at least.” 

Jonas nodded. Truces with Chaos and xenos were unthinkable, officially, and on the ground as well. How they’d reached something (very) vaguely resembling that point in orbit, without any official inter-faction diplomacy, was completely incomprehensible. Not that either Navigator was complaining. 

“Any news from the surface?” Jonas asked. “Is Astor still kicking?” 

“Far as we know,” Tarit said. “The lines seem to be holding. Lorgar sent out a message, called on everyone to surrender.” 

Jonas chuckled. “The Emperor himself wouldn’t be able to stop this mess with words. What about the celestial anomalies?” There had been several of them, ovals and triangles and Mobius strips made of light and lightning across the lower exosphere. Ships had been caught in them and rent apart, but for the most part they didn’t seem to be doing much of anything. 

“There’s a new one over the South Pole,” Tarit answered. “Shaped like half a torus. They’re getting more elaborate, Jonas. Some say they’re sentient.” 

“Just what this war was missing – lightning creatures.” 

“They were present in the Age of the Outsider, in M47,” Tarit continued. “No one knew what they were then, either. After the Europan Catastrophe, they stopped. No sign of them during any of the other cataclysms, but of course none of those were anywhere near Sol.” 

Jonas nodded. It had been a true relief, really, when he had learned that – for all of the ground that humanity had lost over those ten millennia – the Solar System had only been threatened once between M41 and M51. 

Of course, now it was rather worse than a threat. And the Outsider, well, even hearing about its desolation had been terrifying. The madness of realspace incarnate, the monstrosity, reunified from its shards by an unfortunate series of errors by Eldar, Necrons, and humans, turned star system after star system into something utterly abnormal. Yet this wasn’t Chaos, either, because everything the Outsider created was physically possible (though improbable) and psychically inert. Indeed, any psykers in its swath were affected worst of all by the distortions. 

In the end, it had come to Europa, the satellite of Jupiter; and there a united battlefleet, led by the Blood Angels, of humans and Necrons utterly destroyed the Outsider, at the cost of the planetary system, untold lives and unlives, the loyalty of the three-quarters of the Imperium that assumed Terra was corrupted, and the fragile interspecies alliance. At least, that was the official story; many considered it more likely that the Outsider had simply broken into shards a second time. It was a victory, technically, yet it was also without doubt a catastrophe for everyone involved. 

The past; a past unlived, skipped through on fast forward, ignored by so many merely because of its distance. But wasn’t the Imperium built around the past of M31? This was about fate, and as such it had always been about all time. 

Not that anyone on the surface had time for such philosophy. 

“It’s bizarre,” Tarit said. “So much we don’t understand about this mess, yet we go in, guns blazing, simply because we know our foes are evil. And yet I can’t escape the feeling we’re doing exactly what they want.” 

“There is no ‘they’,” Jonas said, “is there? There are a bunch of sides, any two hating each other for their own reasons, any one with several secret plots, maybe. Even us. Whoever the real Emperor is, if he’s active, he’s helping humanity in the shadows.” 

“True enough,” Tarit said, “we can be confident that there are those fighting for good. Both below and around.” 

“Yes,” said Admiral Clarris, hobbling in, “but we’re not joining the fight just yet, eh? To avoid, through doubtful means, getting shot more than we have to.” 

“Perhaps,” Tarit noted, “but we’re just trying not to do anything stupid consciously. We’ve done enough without knowing.” 

Clarris nodded, and Tarit left the galley, leaving Jonas alone with the Admiral. Clarris cut an imposing figure despite his cane; he wasn’t fully recovered, but his hair, at least, had grown back, both scalp and eyebrows. 

“Stability,” Clarris said. “Crucial, Jonas, absolutely crucial in war to have some sort of crutch that doesn’t change. We may not be in battle, but we’re still in the war; so it’s good that we’re still meeting at breakfast.” 

“Yes,” Jonas said, formality having been dropped by Admiral’s order, “it is.” 

“You had a dream about the Hatred again,” Clarris said, “didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” Jonas mumbled. 

“I have them every night,” Clarris said. “The worst day of my career, and my career has seen many days. Good thing Astor wasn’t on board; somehow down there was safer for him.” 

“I’m not even sure if it’s shock or prophecy,” Jonas said. “Navigators are psykers, after all, and I’ve had dream visions a couple times in my career.” 

Clarris shrugged demonstratively. “All I can say, Navigator,” he noted, “is that it’s always good to have a contingency plan.” 

“In case the Triple Meridian falls as well, Admiral?” 

“Or in case something worse happens,” Clarris said. “I still wonder, you know, about why Kharn attacked the Righteous Hatred of all ships. It’s impossible to know a madman’s cause, of course, but still. I’ve been gazing at the other places the World Eaters have attacked.” 

“And?” 

“No idea,” Clarris said. “No symbols inscribed in Terra’s orbit in dead ships, no key materials being gathered. At best, we can say that he chose well-populated ships with large quantities of victims – but again, not in an organized fashion.” 

Jonas grunted in understanding. 

“Our crew was simply unlucky,” the Admiral concluded. 

Clarris left unspoken the fact that the two of them had been lucky; but that was indisputable. Few escaped wrecks the Twelfth Legion was involved in. Jonas was far from the best man on that ship, and his own escape felt particularly undeserved. What use was his promise as a Navigator now, when the Warp was itself deciding where ships went? 

They exchanged a few more words, but soon enough Clarris walked off, leaving Karon Jonas to his musings. In several minutes his shift would begin, but until then, Jonas stood once again by an illuminator and stared at Terra. 

It was a planet covered in smoke, and when the surface could be seen it was gray anyway. But even from orbit, the signs of war were evident, frequently in the form of explosions. And there was more, an unsubtle psychic pressure that Jonas knew not to investigate closely. The forces of the Imperium weren’t the only ones to have psykers down there. 

It was a planet in the grip of desolation. Terra itself, his eternal home. He still couldn’t quite accept it. 

It had been easier before, in a time unbroken. 

Or had it? Jonas’ task had been more straightforward, for sure, because military hierarchy was intact, and he had chosen to mostly follow it. They traveled the galaxy, defending Imperial planets and attacking non-Imperial ones, as the Administratum decreed. In sum, the past Jonas had simply followed orders, without any contemplation to where all of that might lead. 

But he’d known, of course, he’d known like everyone else how hopeless the Administratum really was at managing anything. And nevertheless they’d all done their duty, like everyone else in that millennium. Battles were won and lost. Wars were won, at least the ones Jonas had seen. The wars the Imperium lost left few survivors. Time moved on, greater and greater threats emerging and being cut down. And now, in this shattered epoch, the strain accumulated over ten thousand years had finally exceeded the Imperium’s cohesion, and Terra burned as the rest of the galaxy engaged itself in a three-way civil war. 

It was tragic, twenty millennia of defiance culminating in this. It was also inevitable. Inevitable, perhaps, since Heresy’s coda eleven millennia before Jonas’ home-time. 

He wondered, sometimes, but much less often as time went on, what became of those he knew that had not been on the fleet. His family, above all – Navigator House Jonas. He should have been missing them more, he knew. Especially since the last time he’d seen any of them was a year and a half before the jump. And with the Houses’ records destroyed, he didn’t even know what had happened to the family as a whole. 

Except it wasn’t them that Karon Jonas missed, not really. He hadn’t expected to return to Terra for several more years, after all. No, what he missed were not people, but places. Growing up in the Navigators’ Quarter, he had memorized maps of the region, and in time of the whole planet. Maps which he had correlated with the ship’s radar readings, and despaired at just how little remained. 

Had it been easier before, in time unbroken? 

Yes. Yes, because he had done his duty and no more, just like nine-tenths of the Imperium; and that had led them here, to the last sacrosanct place in the galaxy turned into the last battleground. 

He had been following the path set out for him, and now that the path had been obliterated, he was stuck in a holding pattern, in the skies around the end of ages. A holding pattern that led, unquestionably, to doom. 

No more. 

He would not die in a holding pattern. 

“Jonas?” Tarit asked, having come in as the younger Navigator’s eyes zeroed in on a gap in the smoke, at the location of the former Palace of the Navigators. 

“Tarit,” Jonas said. “Why are we still here?” 

“Pardon?” 

“We’re not doing anything in Terran orbit,” Jonas clarified. “Just watching a planet burn.” 

“Eventually the war will start up again.” 

“And we’ll die. But why are we staying here? We have no explicit orders – Throne, even if we did, they’d be coming from three different factions. The Astronomicon’s gone, but we know each other – together, we stand a real chance of getting out alive, even accounting for the damage we might get from trying to run the blockade. And I don’t think we’ll be shot at, anyhow, given the current stalemate. Everyone will be too confused for that.” 

Tarit stood still, gears evidently turning in his head. “You’re right,” he said, “and I’ll talk to the Captain. But it’s still a nigh-suicidal risk, one we shouldn’t take for no reason. There’s nothing for us on Terra, stuck out of time as we are. But what is there for us anywhere else?” 

“Simple,” Jonas said. “Answers.”


----------



## VulkansNodosaurus

2/3:
It was a time of war, and that saddened Arragen Sarovus; and the fact that the war was a necessary one did not make him feel any better about approving it. He had started the Cult of Eternity precisely to avoid death, after all; and war was better than anything else at bringing death. 

But there was no other way, not anymore. He should have known that Governor Vishisp would choose death before life, and that his doom would inspire others to fight. And even Sarovus’ and his allies’ powers were insufficient to win the conflict quickly. Not that ‘quickly’ mattered, but ‘painlessly’ was not an option either. 

“The battle in Lenia is the crucial one,” Lusso stated with all the certainty she could muster, for what had to be at least the tenth time. 

“But we literally can’t gain any ground there!” Vort near-screamed. “Upper Lenia is a fortress we’ll never breach!” 

It was a time of war, and part of what saddened Sarovus about it was that it had made the Heptad degenerate into a group of squabbling children. The Qusson twins were away on the western front, where they had put the Cult of Eternity on the brink of winning the war. Unfortunately, the five of them (or four, rather, since Rtani made no claim to being a military strategist) that had remained here were apparently incapable of coming to a decision. 

“We need the Khorneates or Slaaneshis,” Shlugde repeated. “Without them, either Lenia or Parolia will fall, and possibly both if we keep dithering.” 

“And that I cannot condone,” Sarovus finished, “because the Khorneates are the opposite of everything we’re fighting for. I’d rather deal with the Tzeentchis. And the Slaaneshis, I will remind you, were crushed a decade ago, and still haven’t recovered to a coherent cult, and any Slaaneshi conspiracy has left no sign whatsoever for us, their best potential allies, to find. No, we’re on our own for the foreseeable future, friends.” 

“How about we stop arguing,” Vort said with a sigh, “and glare at the map some more? Maybe pray to the Grandfather a little for strategic advice?” 

They did that. Not that it would help much, but they did that. 

Sarovus stared at the map. In truth, neither Lenia nor Parolia were critical. His mind wandered. Pray for a little strategic advice…. But Nurgle wasn’t a strategist, primarily. That would be Tzeentch. Nurgle was purely defensive, as Khorne was purely offensive, as Slaanesh defied intelligence entirely. 

Defensive. Of course. 

They’d been thinking about the utility of breakthroughs, which was about the same in both cities. But the flip side was the impact of a total loss. Even if every cultist and every infectious agent in Parolia died, the PDF and Guard wouldn’t actually be able to advance much further without running into the Est Morass. But if Lenia ended in disaster…. 

He hadn’t seen it, before, because it was such a low-probability event; precisely the right sequence of streets for the Planetary Defense Forces to take, precisely the wrong direction of retreat for Maragon’s forces, and precisely perfect luck for the PDF in the battle around Coled Highway. Except the second had already happened, and the PDF commanders were clearly aware of the first, and succeeding in that too. 

And if that happened, then not only would Lenia be crushed, but the Imperials would have an open road to cancelling the Spell of Nightmares, which they would assuredly do; if not the PDF, then their Guard reinforcements. And after that, suddenly the Cult wouldn’t be the favorites to win the war anymore; and in any case it would drag on for years more. 

Assuming, of course, that the galaxy didn’t end by then. But that was a worry for other days. 

“Lenia,” Sarovus said. “We’re far too close to catastrophe there, and Parolia doesn’t matter.” 

“What?” Vort asked, shocked. 

Sarovus explained. “If the Imperium goes south and then west, then blows up Coled and spills us westward, they’ll have gotten to the portal, and if they destroy the portal – and they can certainly get a psyker strong enough to do that, we aren’t that high-level – then Nightmares is lost.” 

“Maragon’s an idiot,” Vort commented as the reality began to sink through, “isn’t he?” 

Even Lusso chose not to elaborate on her triumph – she hadn’t seen this either, not fully. Shlugde seemed unaffected. “Total disaster can happen anywhere,” she calmly stated. 

“Disaster can,” Lusso replied. “Lose-the-war levels of catastrophe? If the Guard can get to the portal before us, they not only get this command center – as they do anyhow if Lenia falls – but also Nightmares, and then the ability – Garden, the ability to untangle the other spells.” 

Shlugde groaned, but in resignation more than frustration. “I still doubt that’s likely. But… you’re right that we need to avoid the risk. We agree Lenia must be reinforced?” 

There were quiet nods in response. 

“Then,” Shlugde continued, “I insist a member of the Heptad lead the operation.” 

“Sensible,” Vort accepted. 

“It must be me, then,” Sarovus said before he realized it. He continued speaking nevertheless. “I know the most about the portal’s power of us all, except for Rtani; and she will not fight.” He, by contrast, already had, though he had not been in field command since Anle. 

“Losing you would – ” Lusso began, then stopped. “No, you’re completely right. We cannot afford to act as if you are a symbol to be protected.” The pustules that spilled like tears below her eyes emitted a brief bioluminescent flash at that; Lusso could not cry after the changes eternity’s touch had wrought on her. She had done so far too much before, as the scared girl Sarovus still remembered. 

They had been at the same schola – one for those who were gifted, but not so intelligent to actually spend effort on teaching them. Lusso (she’d never had a first – or was that last? – name) had been two grades below him, having been a bullying victim earlier in life. She knew the school’s corners well, and climbing between floors had – with Olla Psallei, her best friend – had accidentally found Sarovus and Rtani at one of their first rituals. 

They’d almost run in terror. But curiosity had beaten back disgust, and after that it was the four of them learning Nurgle’s first principles together, leading to occasional harem jokes from Sarovus’s male friends – those who did not know. Some of which still did not believe. They had grown further apart since the Cult had begun, heading separate chapters, but Sarovus still remembered Lusso’s face as she held Psallei’s body, mangled by the Governor’s guards, her tears glowing hot enough to induce rad-sickness in those soldiers. 

Lusso had been there at the start; and Arragen Sarovus would do anything possible to make sure that, unlike Olla, she would be there forever. For Rtani Kabrenavs’s survival, of course, he would do considerably more than anything. 

And for Nurgle’s eternal blessing to greet all of their world before the vague doom that none of them quite understood the nature of but that all of them could see was disturbingly close… for that, Sarovus was ready even to kill. 

The quartet bid each other farewell, and Sarovus walked from the conference room upward through the bunker. The walls, once simple basalt, writhed with vines and microbial mats in ever-accelerating evolution. 

That was part of what Nurgle represented, but at once a simplification and a refinement. Not a correct refinement, of course. Many cultists that Sarovus had in his rise folded into the Cult of Eternity held their own, private interpretations of the Grandfather. So long as those interpretations remained private, Sarovus allowed them; they had come to Nurgle for personal reasons, and if they did not see the bigger picture, they at least struggled to perpetuate it. 

Sarovus had, of course, also found the truth from a personal basis. From the basis of the woman (then still a girl) that he loved, whose immune system had been weak since birth from the Grandfather’s distant touch, who was always said to be a month away from death. 

Death would never find Rtani Kabrenavs, not anymore; and as Arragen Sarovus said the appropriate chants as he entered her room, he was struck again by the absolute nature of Nurgle’s blessing. 

Rtani’s body was woven into a throne of fungal threads, a complex tapestry that made it difficult to tell where human ended and fungus began. In truth, there was no fundamental distinction. Rtani’s mind would survive even if her human body was entirely destroyed, now. 

That body seemed overgrown with sores to the point that one could not see even a millimeter of unblemished skin exposed, with patched-together clothes soaked in blood and pus; disgusting, in some. Sarovus looked better to a pure human eye, he knew; his marks were arranged in somewhat artistic patterns. But his role was demagogue, where Rtani’s was oracle. 

Besides, it had never been her body he had fallen in love with, but her mind; and that was sharper than ever. 

“Rtani?” he asked. “You heard our discussion?” 

“Of course,” she said, in that voice of creeping darkness that she now owned, as well as a painful-to-hear cough. “You know full well how much I hear… even if Shlugde does not believe it.” 

That surprised Sarovus. “Is she becoming disloyal?!” 

“No, merely skeptical to a fault, as ever.” 

Sarovus nodded. Shlugde had been a historian, who had never truly believed in the Emperor and in time became hunted for that. Desperate, she had prayed to a god she did not then believe existed. Sarovus still doubted she entirely did. 

But then… when he had turned to the occult in the desire to save Rtani and as many others as he could, it had not been out of faith in the way the Imperium defined with. If the Cult of Eternity served Nurgle, they served him in two ways – as a panentheistic principle of life, and as a lord who gave his vassals boons. They did not believe in him as the Imperials did, as a god for whose person to lay down their lives without expecting a reward. None of the Gods of Chaos required such devotion. 

They did require other sacrifices; but Sarovus had no misconception that the galaxy, or even the planet, could be cured (or rather infected, with an end to disorder) without suffering. And every one of their sacrifices was still alive, even if some foolishly wished not to be. 

“So….” Sarovus had never been good with goodbyes. In time, Rtani had assured him, he would not need to say them; she would spread her threads through the entire world, and Sarovus would be with her wherever he went. But these goodbyes were not final, at least. 

“Good luck at Lenia, Arry,” Rtani said with what Sarovus thought was a smile, though it was difficult to tell. “You will return, no matter what we have to do to your soul… but please, do ensure you return in body as well.” 

“Of course I’ll return,” Sarovus said. “And you should remember safety as well… we are nowhere fully secure.” 

“Believe me, I know,” Rtani said, as some of her fungal threads dislodged themselves from the wall and circled Sarovus. To an unaltered human, they would given time be fatal. To the leader of the Cult of Eternity, they were merely something to embrace. 

“I love you,” Sarovus whispered as the threads curled around him in a vague imitation of a cocoon. 

“And I you,” Rtani said. “Forever.” 

They stood there for several slow heartbeats, as the darkness of the room around them seemed to deepen, as the smell of fortunate decay swirled in eddies of vindicated faith. As spores, twinkling in the light filtering in from beyond the chamber’s door, floated in the expectation of human bodies to seed. 

They had stepped onto the path of Chaos, a lifetime ago, because it was proscribed and Sarovus had already known Imperial medicine would not save Rtani. They had named Nurgle as their god, when they had dragged his name out of the most forbidden of books, not only out of practicality and symbolism, but also to ascend towards – not death, not change which was as good as death by another name. And not mindless pleasure, of course. 

To ascend towards… not this, not exactly. But this was a step on the trail of truth. 

“Arry,” Rtani said, “I do have intelligence related to the war. Not urgent, but significant. Firstly… Nurgle seems unhappy, his substorms seemingly retreating – not in power, but in mood.” Sarovus had no idea what that meant, and said so. “Though it’s certainly concerning.” 

“Less concerning than the other matter. Do you remember the ancient history of our world?” 

“As if the schola instructors could ever let me forget it,” Sarovus answered. “Or Shlugde, for that matter, even if really those instructors continue their respective drones in my mind…. Something to fix, before our immortality becomes immutability. Either the memory or the distaste of it.” He flexed his arms as he recognized the tangent he’d embarked on. “Yes, I remember. Everyone here remembers. Even if no one off-world does.” 

“They didn’t,” Rtani said. “They had almost forgotten, and recently they have had an especially large amount of other things to worry about, as a million gamblers find they have only a few more hands to play. But it seems that news of our… ahem… ‘defilement of the Emperor-given natural order’ has found someone who remembers, and she is rallying a relief force. Even if they do not know what they’re getting into.” 

“You mean….” 

“As I said, we have time; but I’m afraid it’s true, though it does not imply a necessary defeat. The Sisters of Battle are returning to Dimmamar, in the name of the memory of the dust of Sebastian Thor.” 

* 

Tokugawa Minobu watched the Emperor’s ships dance before the Cadian Gate with practiced eyes. It was a battle for the soul of the Imperium, a battle of faith’s eternal shield against the naïve followers of a charismatic liar. 

And it was a battle the loyalists were losing. The White Scars’ assault had been blunted by the Dark Angels, assisted by far too many of their descendants. Then the Raven Guard had struck the Coalition’s fleet from behind. Tokugawa was not sure how they hadn’t noticed Kegavpir’s fleet, but then the Raven Guard had a way of going unnoticed. 

The Raven Guard’s decision had been a heavy blow; that left only six Chapters of the First Founding as servants of the true Emperor, after the Iron Hands had declared for… whatever the Neomnissiah was. 

But even with the Raven Guard, the Child-Emperor couldn’t have many more forces than he had brought here. He had abandoned the Imperium, not only Terra itself, to the mercy of daemons and xenos, all for this. And his fleet was surely out of tricks. 

Tokugawa wasn’t. 

“Battlegroup Subedai,” he ordered to the White Scars and those ships that had joined them in the charge, “skim the battlefront. Probing attacks. Buy the fleet time to regroup, and try to keep as much of your fleet together as possible.” Reogranization was simply necessary by now. 

That said, though they were severely outgunned, the Coalition’s fleet had two advantages over their opponents. One was that they had unity of command, whereas with the Child-Emperor gone, the false Imperium’s fleet would have a dubious command structure. The overall commander was Kegavpir, the Raven Guard’s Chapter Master – Tokugawa saw his hand in the maneuvers against them. Bolesath, to preserve unity of command, was likely in the Eye. So if Kegavpir could be taken out, his fleet would be in disarray. 

The other advantage Tokugawa had was that while the Inquisition-led fleet had more firepower, his had more Astartes. 

The dotted lines that formed the Coalition’s fleet criss-crossed Tokugawa’s vid-screens in an intricate web. Slowly, over the course of hours, the pieces of his fleet that had been scattered by the Raven Guard attack came back together, forming a defensive formation. The White Scars peeled back from their duty as screen and distraction, and Tokugawa was ashamed to see how many White Scars had fallen already. Subedai was not laughing on his comms, now – indeed he wasn’t answering his comms at all, a subordinate taking over after an explosion on his flagship’s bridge had wounded the khan. 

But the White Scars had not kept the Inquisition fleet (not that there were many Inquisition ships left in that fleet) busy for nothing. In a single, grand sweeping motion, thousands of trajectories changed, and fell onto the Raven Guard fleet from all sides, suddenly cutting their lines into shreds. Boarding torpedoes, many of them colored Blood Angel scarlet, slammed into the Shadow of the Inner Gates, even as the walls of starships began to part once again, before the Raven Guard could fully react. An earlier retreat than was strictly necessary, but Tokugawa was at the moment more concerned with quantifying the damage to his fleet. 

That damage was far more extensive than Tokugawa had expected. Nearly half the ships were carrying significant damage… of course, the traitor fleet was nursing severe wounds of its own. 

“Chapter Master!” came the voice of Admiral Minamoto Heida, moments before Tokugawa’s second-in-command entered Tokugawa’s throne room in body. 

“Brother-Admiral Minamoto,” Tokugawa said. “Any particular reason for the distraction?” The words were said without malice – for one, Minamoto would not have interrupted him without one. 

“It’s the Eye,” Minamoto said without preamble. “My lord… it’s not visible on the sensors, but….” 

“I’ll go to the bridge,” Tokugawa accepted. He always found that a large action such as this was easier to manage from the strategium’s solitude, but adaptability in all its forms was essential to war. 

The walk was short, but Tokugawa could well feel the Kami Saiban slightly shaking with several impacts as he made it. He felt the pain of the barrage against his beloved flagship, but he gave no outward sign of his fury. It was not as if it was much stronger now than for all that the enemy had done before – for Terra aflame, the Imperium in disorder, and the Emperor betrayed. 

But there was still an additional pang of melancholy fury for one additional betrayal, one that Tokugawa had been forced to make himself. 

The hell of the Dark Gods would be too kind for Bolesath. No matter how dire the Void Stalkers’ relationship with their progenitor chapter had always been, for leading the First Legion out of the Emperor’s light, no fate would be horrible enough. And while now he took no joy in destroying those who should have been his allies, he would be only too happy to meet the Chapter Master of the Dark Angels in battle. 

And then Tokugawa emerged onto the bridge, and any thoughts of enjoying battle were pushed far from his mind. 

Before him, a series of narrow viewports showed dancing lights. Multicolored, of course, and many of them fading into the darkness of the void – but identifiable as human ships nevertheless. Between them, ordnance flew, though that much Tokugawa could infer by dim muzzle flashes only because of a lifetime spent leading fleet warfare. In between, pinpricks of nuclear fire. 

And to – in the current orientation of the Kami Saiban – the lower right of it all, a tortured miasma painful to look at, the signature of the enemy of all mankind. The Eye of Terror. 

And the Eye was weeping. 

Great globs of nightmare gathered on its edge, where the cut of the Cadian Gate speared the blight, and one by one – over a timescale of minutes, Tokugawa guessed – came loose from the great Warp Storm, and flew into the center of the battle, directed by… well, who knew? Perhaps it was the will of Chaos, perhaps merely coincidence. 

But that the Eye was weeping at all… that, certainly, was no coincidence. There was no such thing, where the Archenemy was concerned. 

“What happened if one of those hits a ship?” Tokugawa asked without particularly wanting to hear the answer. 

“No one has dared to risk finding out,” Minamoto said. “Frankly, I’d rather die.” 

“The correct decision,” Tokugawa mused, contemplating the scene. “Of course, if we win this battle, the Inquisition will claim it proves that Chaos supported us.” 

Minamoto scowled as he recognized that fact. “But what should that imply for our actions, my lord?” 

Tokugawa did not reply, instead staring – not deeper, exactly, for that was a fool’s course of action when so near the Eye, but rather broader, widening his peripheral vision – at the battlescape. The rain – the Eye’s tears – was accelerating. Slowly, of course, but one by one, more and more miniature Warp Storms were separating from the great blight’s bulk. 

It really did look like tears. But to the ships of both clashing fleets, it was more of a hailstorm… perhaps a hailstorm of solid hydrogen, so cold it could trouble even Astartes and sharp enough to do more than trouble. 

Only even solid hydrogen was innocuous, compared to what these fragments represented. Whoever won this battle would, ironically, lose the respect of the Imperial elite (what remained of it) as a result. But they would also have a dominant military position. And with as many casualties as Tokugawa’s fleet had already experienced, he could not afford to risk feigning a defeat – a course he might perhaps have considered, otherwise. 

“We will only lose ourselves in seeking to play on the Archenemy’s board,” he eventually said, to himself, before turning to face the bridge crew of the Kami Saiban and opening communications to the whole fleet. The faces of Astarte captains and even Chapter Masters came online, many weary, some wounded. All determined. They had all come here, trusted him, followed him to the maw of hell. And if they did not venture into it… well, the tip of the Archenemy’s nose was still far from a safe place to sit. Any Cadian could and would say as much. 

They had trusted him to take them this far, had suffered severe losses in achieving this position, all to end the threat of the false Emperor (if not the pretender’s own life), because Astartes feared failure more than death. 

And it was failure he now had to inform them of. 

“We cannot fight in this environment,” Tokugawa said, gesturing to the Warp phenomena behind him. “I am issuing a controlled retreat.” 

A chorus of shocked, but vague, denial rose up from most of the Astartes. Althevis of the Blood Angels was the first to give a coherent reply. “High Admiral, the boarding crews are successful. The Shadow of the Inner Gates is crippled, as planned!” 

“We can still win this battle,” Aturai Khan, Subedai’s second-in-command, added. 

“We can,” Tokugawa admitted. “And this victory may be worth our lives. But it is not worth our souls, and if we fight here now it is the Archenemy that will emerge triumphant. Retrieve the boarders, and let the child-Emperor’s forces have Cadia… the war will continue.” 

It took minutes for the last of the Astarte lords (Uvavald Firebeard of the Space Wolves, unsurprisingly) to respond in the affirmative, but the assent came nevertheless. The Astartes of the Coalition understood the value of caution – at least those who had lived long enough to take command did. 

They switched comms off, one by one, as Tokugawa ordered vectors of retreat. The Inquisition’s allies remained disorganized, and the few ships that attempted pursuits were rapidly blasted into shrapnel. 

It was nine and a half hours after he had ordered the retreat, with that plan having solidly progressed, that Tokugawa Minobu saw a grinning Uvavald Firebeard reconnect to the bridge of his flagship. 

“Tokugawa, you – ” and the Space Wolf gave out a massive guffaw. “You brilliant bastard.” 

“You’re welcome,” Tokugawa said, allowing a tiny smile of his own. “And we can speak openly now. Even if they hear us now, it’s too late for them.” 

“Guessed as much,” Uvavald grunted. “So am I the last to realize we’re setting up a blockade?” 

“The first, actually.” 

“Huh.” After a moment, Uvavald gave a nod. “Well, let’s make sure they don’t get off Cadia, then. Not that it would be easy even without any of us here. For the Allfather!” 

“For the Emperor,” Tokugawa replied before turning the link off and taking a deep breath. 

And trying to put the image out of his mind – for he knew, deep in his esophagus, that it was no metaphor, that the Eye of Terror really was weeping. 

But for whom?


----------



## VulkansNodosaurus

3/3
Omaekra Ysc, Archon of the Kabal of the Warped Kraken, stood at the prow of her gunship and watched Terra burn. 

This segment of the mon-keigh homeworld had once been called Batagonya, to the south of the great cities of Hy Brasil. Batagonya’s landscape was likewise urban, to be sure, but it was flatter, designed nearer a rectangular grid with more open spaces, which had the corollary effect of making the terrain windier. The reason was that it was close to being on the opposite side of the world from the mon-keigh Imperial Palace, and thus real estate prices were below planetary average by a factor of ten – though still out of reach for all but the most affluent Imperial citizens. Now, that very distance played in the area’s favor: the area surrounding the Imperial Palace had been razed nearly to bedrock, while here civilians still lived in the great lattice of the Hives. A detail that, not coincidentally, Ysc found convenient as well. 

Many of Ysc’s race looked with disdain on learning even such basic cultural details from their opponents, seeing all races other than the eldar – and particularly the true eldar, the people of Comorragh – as beneath them. It was a perspective whose evolution she did not entirely understand. After all, while understanding one’s foes was useful in defeating them, understanding one’s victims was absolutely essential in tormenting them efficiently. 

Yet they acted as if the world outside Comorragh was only a Lda’-like banquet, fit to sample from but not worth more study than the time it took to chew its food. And far too many did not even stop to think whether the banquet had been poisoned. 

And so Omaekra Ysc was stuck in the Khaine-damned maelstrom that was Terra with the remnants of her Kabal, twelve millennia out of time. 

Lady Aurelia Malys of the Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue held Comorragh now – what was left of it. The Dark City was splintered, and frankly starving, not of souls so much as of raw power. Dysjunctions had destroyed most of its stolen suns, and among those who had left to seek independence in their own, separate petty realms, half had likely found themselves unable to get out. Perhaps Ysc could have altered that destiny, perhaps not; but after Kadrel’s betrayal, she and the core of her Kabal had been stranded here, in a time that seemed resolved to not leave any successors. 

And, worst of all, she had been forced to kill Kadrel quickly. Her Hierarch’s coup had never stood a chance of success – she’d really thought better of her second-in-command than to launch a silly attempt of that nature – but under the circumstances properly punishing him had been impossible. It had only taken two hours for Kadrel to die – a genuinely massive shame. 

A screech of pain from behind brought Ysc back to reality, and she turned and walked towards the gunship’s back, looking for Ureile’s newest victim. The mon-keigh in question was in the process of being slightly modified by the homunculus – it seemed the denizens of this area saw insectoid wings as demonic, which had inspired Ureile magnificently. 

“The wings are nonfunctional, I take it?” Ysc asked her ally. 

“No, functional, actually,” Ureile said, turning to face the archon. The captured human whimpered, with no idea of what the eldar were speaking of but the certainty it would not benefit her. Ironically, in this case she was wrong. “She is the infection vector. The results… ah, but it would not do for me to spoil them. Suffice it to say Ahrub will be pleased.” 

Ysc nodded, though she was far from certain how a viral modification to mon-keigh could please the notoriously cantankerous dracon. Nonetheless, she did not doubt Ureile in the least. Her skills had been well worth the political capital spent in acquiring her services, even including the ire of the Fallen Moon. 

(Ysc toyed again with the idea that the Fallen Moon had set Kadrel up somehow, and again she dismissed it. She had almost stayed in power, and even as it was, her counterstroke would make – had made? – the whole plot a net loss for the Fallen Moon. And that was with reputation taken into account.) 

“So,” Ureile asked, “where to next, Archon?” 

“To a stable position,” Ysc answered. “Attack and retreat… it is our way, but it requires somewhere to retreat to. And one of the mon-keigh I recently… conversed with… happened to mention some tunnels. Tunnels that match legends – and legends that have a basis in fact. And at the foundation of it all, a Webway gate. One broken off from the rest of the realm.” 

Ureile’s eyes went wide. “And we are here to wait for reinforcements, because broken off does not mean safe. Did the Golden Trace finally agree to the alliance?” 

“Not exactly,” Ysc said, an instant before a circle of blue-and-yellow metal rose out of a side tunnel. 

The wind, already tangible, suddenly erupted with gusts of stormy fury. Several of the warriors surrounding Ysc lifted their weapons before she could wave for them to stand down. They were awake – that was good. The weapons might yet be needed. 

Still, Ysc waved them to stand down, as the Seer, surrounded by an honor guard of three, jumped off the ramp – when had the door opened? – and nodded to the Archon. 

“Please don’t tell me that’s all the forces he has,” Ureile quietly commented. 

“No more than you’re confined to one gunship,” the Seer answered. “Farseer Adheyme apologizes for her absence, but certain matters came to a head recently.” 

The Seer was clad in the livery of Craftworld Idharae, a minor craftworld known for sage advice more than military strength which had apparently been destroyed at some point in the past twelve millennia. While he was not lost on his present path – his eyes blazed with power, but not the power of a farseer – he clearly bore a high rank (a trait evident in both armor and poise), and given that the Adheyme’s warhost was unlikely to be particularly large, he was quite possibly her second-in-command. 

Not an insult, then, despite first appearances. Good. Ysc would hardly be able to control herself if the craftworlders had given her such an opening. (Of course, they knew some of that… how much?) 

“Certain matters,” Ysc noted, weighing the strategic situation. “May I speculate if this might be connected to the horde of Blood Axes to our north?” 

“It concerns the fact that this horde is gone,” the Seer noted, and Ysc barely controlled her shock. “The servants of decay have secured a stronghold in the center of Hy-Brasil, and they seemed content to defend. Yet something has happened, and they have begun to act as berserkers. The orks have been broken, and if the corrupted choose to move south….” 

“My brain has not rotted, I must note,” Ysc snipped in frustration. “Thank you for your most selfless assistance; now, shall we act to ensure we have a defensible position when the fallen mon-keigh do make their move?” 

The Seer’s blank helmet remained impassive. Infuriating. But there was nothing Ysc could do about it, and she knew how to control her emotions, rather than repressing them until they exploded in delightful but ruinous madness. 

Though they were all in the same place now, were they not? Four paths that the children of Isha had taken after the Fall. And twenty short millennia later, all four had led to fragmentation and the edge of oblivion… yet none had brought those that walked it to their doomsday. Some cultures took strength simply from that fact of survival – some of the eldar, even. Others, and Ysc suspected many of her kabal were among them, took reassurance from the beauty of the pyres that this time brought. And the greatest saw Rhana Dandra’s fiery dawn, and embraced the fact that they stood at the juncture of eternity. They may have had power – but power was nothing if not applied in the right place. 

“Homucnulus Ureile has the biochip with the coordinates,” Ysc said to end the tense silence. “Rendezvous at seven-two-seven?” 

“Seven-two-eleven,” the Seer stated. “There will be a modicum of interference.” And with a conciliatory gesture but without further explanation, he climbed back into the Falcon. 

Ysc waited until the craftworlders were out of view to whirl around and swing the tip of her lash into one of Ureile’s sleeping test subjects, over and over again. 

“Archon?” That was Ralax, the dracon that had been below-decks for… some purpose Ysc didn’t bother contemplating. His own anger was almost palpable. “Believe me, the craftworlders will regret their insults.” 

Ysc could only respond by shifting her whip and sending an agonic pulse through Ralax’s body, sending the dracon instantaneously to the deck and breathing in his torment. He would be fully recovered soon enough, but hopefully would not forget this. 

“They will not,” Ysc said as Ralax writhed below her touch. “We need them no less than they need us – more, in fact. And the most infuriating aspect is that those were not insults. This conversation was below their normal level of insufferability.” 

Ysc looked to Ralax for a reply before remembering to wrap the whip back. Gradually, Ralax stopped convulsing and climbed onto all fours. Ureile stood to the side, expressionless. Knowing her, Ysc would not be shocked if she really did want only to return to her experiments. 

Around them, gusts screamed. A storm was coming. Or, rather, the storm – with its clouds of smog and its acid rain – was already here, just not yet fully coalesced. The Hive top was not a hospitable place in that time, at least to those who did not make a habit of hiding their every surface from the world below armor and helmets. 

Not that Ysc lacked for understanding of why craftworlders and so many alien races made a habit of isolation. Not everyone could enjoy the world as it was. The darkness and pain were what was real; but in enclosed spaces, the semblance of light could be created. Those who searched for and built such phosphorescence had much to say in defense of this path. 

Ysc didn’t consider it to be wrong, exactly. But to the brave, the outer abyss could be enjoyable too. 

“Issue a signal for all military elements to converge at the mouth of the Silverstreak Gullet,” she said to Ureile when it became clear Ralax would take some time to be functional again. 

“All of them?” 

“Yes, all.” Ureile looked cautious, likely inferring Ysc’s mood from her treatment of Ralax. An incorrect inference, but an understandable one. “The craftworlders will take all of theirs as well, except those few tied up in the farseer’s mission. If we do not make a show of strength… there is much of our lives the craftworlders do not understand, but the language of betrayal is one they speak.” 

Ureile nodded in understanding, as Ysc stepped over Ralax’s prone body. “How long will you be?” 

“Until seven-two-six, or until I am needed. And do inform Ralax I intend to give him two mon-keigh as recompense. His incompetence was not quite so severe as to deserve this.” Two slaves would probably outweigh Ralax’s pain, though Ysc was not sure how the dracon himself would weigh such considerations. Regardless, it would send a message – though she did not think anyone of any importance would be foolish enough to risk her wrath on purpose, she preferred her subordinates not to fear doing so accidentally. And if sometimes they did act in infuriating fashion… well, she did not mind reminding them of their place. 

Ureile signaled understanding, as Ysc descended below the decks into her quarters. Even with the customized massive gunship that served as her mobile command center, it was hardly a spacious locale. Nonetheless, it was large enough for her purposes. 

Pushing aside the skin of Gareth, a mon-keigh who had unfortunately suffered brain death before she was done with him (although his capillaries still beat), she called to Karrie. The slave in question scuttled to her side with the appropriate amount of fear and deference, assisting with changing from ceremonial armor into that fit for war. 

Ysc had no reports of hostiles in their target area, but she was hard-pressed to trust that absence of proof. 

Until then, though, and with awareness that her play would be cut short, she began her feast. Not that a feast was a valid metaphor, for all that the Thirst did feel like an alimentary need. Sapients’ torment was far more complex than even the subtlest of delicacies (and Ysc had tasted plenty of those). 

An eldar could devote her entire life to inflicting physical torment alone; there was enough complexity, and the Thirst cared little for the style of suffering involved. Ysc maintained, however, a preference for subtler ways of torment where possible. So now she merely talked, quietly and pleasantly, listening to Karrie’s anxious replies (in both human and eldar – for though Ysc made a habit of teaching her slaves the supreme language, some concepts were better expressed in their native ones) and enjoyed the waking nightmares her words inspired. 

She interrupted the conversation twice, for purposes Karrie knew nothing of – uncertainty had a way of encouraging pain, after all. (Fear was the cruelest emotion of all, except for hope.) In truth it was a matter of adjusting two recent captives who had been uncooperative in more boring ways than her current servant. One, Insele, she had been unable to bend, and had been forced to all but break. The other – Obker – had begun to bend in a fashion enabled by his faith in the human corpse-Emperor. It seemed that even among the mega-oligarchs that called the upper levels of Terra their home, the human religion of weakness could be genuine. Of course, for Obker to see himself as in some ways an echo of his nonsensical god was probably a sign of madness… but his own awareness of that fact made it a less disappointing one. 

Karrie was more complex. Her defiance had been subverted by wonder, of all things; the eldar fascinated her, and the awareness of that, along with the knowledge that she was betraying her own race by providing intelligence on them, had created a beautiful confusion. She was entirely pliant now, though no less potent a source of torment. 

Ysc kept her around for two reasons. For one, she needed a servant she could trust. But for another, Karrie was a firm reminder that pain and pleasure were not mutually exclusive. It was the great lie whose nature the Great Serpent had exposed that suffering and joy were opposites. 

And it was the great truth that the surviving eldar had hung onto that the combination of both ultimately led only to the Enemy’s abyss. If Ysc had possessed Karrie’s current psyche at any point in her life, her soul would long since have been devoured. 

The third interruption to their conversation came from above, as a recovered Ralax cautiously reminded her of their impending arrival. “Nothing has gone wrong, Archon,” he added. “We are still on track to arrive at seven-two-seven.” 

“If the Seers were indeed wrong,” Ysc responded as she walked onto the deck, “I can hardly say that reassures me.” 

Around her, daggers of blood and void carved narrow paths through the lattice of Batagonya’s three-dimensional sprawl. The formation she was now at the head of was composed of five gunships – three of which were recognizable as only slightly modified Ravagers, the other two being hard to ascribe to any single chassis. A few times she caught a glimpse of one of her more distant ships through a gap in the plascrete walls, keeping a parallel course downwards. 

And then, a green flash. 

It took a split moment for her to recognize it as teleportation from orbit. It took longer for her to recognize who it was. The morphing biology of the newcomers was not one she immediately recognized, for their forms – deathly pale, with veins of orange-tinted blood – changed even as they landed on her ship. 

But as they rose into battleform, Ysc realized they were thexians. An amorphous race capable of changing their own shape, characterized by cunning and a preference for trade over fighting, they were nonetheless known as horrifying if enigmatic warriors. Notably, they refused to serve as mercenaries for Comorragh. 

There was perhaps an instant where they could have stood down, where negotiation was possible. But the thexians did not take this opportunity, and so Ysc lashed her whip at the frontmost of them, driving the weapon into combat mode, and then the deck was filled with fire. 

The thexian Ysc had targeted charged at her, seemingly unaffected by her stroke – but Ysc saw it was refusing to morph any further, indicating that it was indeed in pain. They merely retained basic battleform, the shape of a typical quadraped with six arms holding weapons extending out of the center of their face. Peripherally, Ysc saw the other four thexians on her ship charging her crew, saw similar fighting on the other gunships – but most of the thexians had apparently teleported between the ships, and those were making no effort to aid their comrades, instead running in a direction perpendicular to that towards the Webway gate. 

Ysc twisted the whip even as she leapt aside from her charging foe, flicking it downwards to tangle their feet. For a moment the thexian was free of pain, a moment long enough to reverse direction towards Ysc by changing the relative lengths of their legs but not long enough to consciously consider the implications of that modification given the fight’s context. 

And then their legs were fusing together, the inability to concentrate due to the whip turning their morph uncontrollable. Their face became an image of determination, and even as Ysc danced to their side she was worried they would push through the pain in time – but their legs were only beginning to grow back into equilibrium as Ysc slammed the inhibitor to their side, prompting an immediate collapse into restform. 

The archon whirled around, looking for the next fight – but there was no next fight. The thexians were running away, vehicles and all, save for the few that Ysc’s subordinates had managed to capture. 

“An impressive capture, Archon,” Ureile said, walking up to her commander. “Mine slipped away, unfortunately.” 

“Buy one from some sybarite; Vileth knows we’ve captured enough,” Ysc answered in exasperation to Ureile’s unstated query. “This one will remain mine.” 

The thexian under discussion stirred, now forced into a humanoid shape resembling an albino mon-keigh with a slightly uglier, proboscis-dominated face. 

“We’ll have to deal with the rest of them eventually,” Ysc said after a brief pause, “but for now the Webway gate and associated objectives take priority.” 

“All wrong…” the thexian lying at her feet muttered. 

“What was that, slave?” 

“Listen,” they said, convulsing as the inhibitor forced unconsciousness upon them. “Just listen once, before you inflict your sadism on me… before I forget…. This is all wrong. Chaos should have been tilted towards war, as the galaxy ends. But Nurgle has been robbed, robbed by the only soul to stand against Chaos, robbed by the only soul more monstrous than Chaos. It was inevitable, but Annihilation did not know. And because of that the end that was written is no more. Because – you must tell the general of ash this – the end is not in the fifty-first… of the human millennia. No, the end… is now.” 

The thexian’s words trailed off, as it faded into sleep once more. Were thexians capable of psychic talent? Ysc was frustrated, greatly, by not knowing the answer, though the implication from what was before her was clear enough. 

“An attempt to distract its future tormentor, surely,” Ureile offered. 

“No,” Ysc said, with utter certainty. “We know better than to ignore prophecy and destiny.” She paused, taking in the vista – gunship daggers scattered among gray and black tunnels below burning artificial mountains, far above which there raged a storm and something far beyond storms. 

“Especially,” Ysc added, “in this millennium… no, in time broken.” 

* 

The Emperor’s Inquisitorial fleet flew, impossibly, through the unfathomable energies of the Eye of Terror, on a course for the accursed fortress world of Medrengard. And at its center flew the golden flagship of not only that fleet, but of the entire Imperium – the Emperor’s Saber. 

Inquisitor Forson Graves was honored beyond description to even be onboard this ship, no matter that the Vindicatus Maximus had to be left in his subordinates’ hands. Under other circumstances he would have spent his free time on his god’s battlecruiser admiring the elaborate sculptures and meditating on purity. 

But these were not normal circumstances, and so the Inquisitor opened the door, mentally promised penance for the sacrilege he was from a certain point of view committing, and greeted the prodigal son of divinity. 

“Lord Mortarion,” he said. 

“Inquisitor Graves,” the Primarch replied. 

The Emperor’s traitorous son was dressed in a robe, his armor not immediately visible. His scythe – Graves could not claim to know whether it was the legendary Silence – was, by contrast, clearly visible, leaning against one of the cell’s walls. 

Of course, calling it a cell was hardly accurate. Mortarion was not truly confined to his apartments. Graves did not doubt the Emperor’s wisdom – 

But he could not bring himself to transfer that trust to Mortarion. 

Yet in this moment, faced with the grim face of the Fourteenth Primarch, Graves found himself lost for words. The Primarch’s majesty was, after all, not in doubt. It was an aura of quiet efficiency, dark memories, and unflagging will. 

“I….” Graves could not focus quite quickly enough to not make a fool out of himself, and as such he was rather glad there were no direct witnesses to this. But he could focus quickly enough to say what he had to say. “I suppose I only have one question. Why should I trust you?” 

“Do you not trust the one who heads this vessel?” Mortarion motioned Graves to sit opposite him, sipping a cup of something that vaguely resembled tea. “I would offer you a cup, but it would burn you alive.” 

“I would hardly drink it anyway,” Graves frankly answered. “And after twenty millennia of war against everything the Emperor has built… trusting Him hardly implies trusting you.” 

“No,” Mortarion admitted. “But you do not claim mere trust, do you? You claim faith. You claim that your god cannot err… and thus cannot have erred in bringing me here.” 

“Yet He has not forgiven you. And neither have I.” 

There seemed a long pause, as Mortarion took several short sips of whatever concoction he was drinking. 

“I have not forgiven him either,” he eventually said. “For the lies he built the Imperium on – the first of which was that victory need not bring damnation. But what would my forgiveness be worth?” 

That was such a stunning non sequitir that Graves could find no reply before the Primarch continued after a small, somehow dignified hiccup. 

“And my gratitude… which is far greater than my hate… that is perhaps worth little as well. But what matters is that I shall fight by his side, and he will fight alongside me. If it is betrayal you fear, nothing I could say is capable of reassuring you. But if it explanation that you seek, that is simple enough. The Emperor has given me purpose. Nurgle, like all Chaos, opposes purpose of any sort. It represents endings – not always endings through death, but always endings without return. The Child-Emperor has lit a path out – and even if it is not a real path, at least I will be walking in the right direction. For dreams, if not for any specific dream: he who destroys merely for the now is only a butcher.” 

“The Child-Emperor? You do not acknowledge him as the Emperor?” 

“I am not certain as to whether to consider a reincarnation the same person. And I do not have proof that he is the reincarnation of my father.” Another stilted sip. “Though you do not speak of proof, do you? You speak of faith. You came here not because of me, but because of yourself. Because you do not believe that bringing me was wise, but your faith will not allow you to admit the possibility that it was a mistake.” 

“My faith is strong.” 

Mortarion shrugged, as if Graves was as far beneath him as an insect. The Inquisitor was not so arrogant as to deny that might have been true. He stubbornly refused to consider the possibility of a ***** in his faith, however, in the fear that this would make the heresy true – not that it did not seep into his subconscious anyhow. “I will not contest your denial. Yet we are allies now, for better or worse. Impossible… impossible a million times over. There will be a counterstroke, for what he has done in even beginning to save me. Not a counterstroke against him, nor necessarily a counterstroke by Chaos… but the Warp is disturbed, and realspace through it. For me.” 

Not because of me, but because of yourself. 

And Graves knew, suddenly, that his fear of Mortarion had been misplaced. That the Primarch, though far above him, was in no way a threat to the Emperor. Because the Emperor would never have done this – would never have, in such a confrontation, talked of himself rather than of fate. 

Mortarion had needed to talk of his own insecurities, his own doubts. He was in much the same place as Graves himself, doubting – though he would no more admit as much as Graves himself – that his rescue had been worthwhile. 

And, remarking to himself on the bizarre nature of it all, the Inquisitor lay a hand on the hand (it would’ve been the shoulder if he could’ve reached it) of the Emperor’s prodigal son. 

“Have faith,” he said to the Primarch. “You are capable of it once more, after all. We face a myriad of impossible tasks now, yes, and your redemption is one of them. But such is ever the fate of heroes.”


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## VulkansNodosaurus

And an approximate map of Terra:


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