# To Face One's Doom



## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

To face one's doom,
To see the storm
Envelop all-
To gaze on death!
_ So, this is my first story I've been brave enough to publish here. It takes place in an alternate history of 30K, where the Eldar Empire was bigger, and bad stuff happened in their Fall. Note: I don't own 40k, or the associated trademarks.

NOTE: Since I started on this, it has changed genres; it's more of a small-f fantasy work now than science fiction, though it does take a few elements from 40K. Also, the stories of Angron, Mortarion, and Perturabo are unlinked and will probably remain so. That's unfortunate, but so much interesting stuff is happening on Desh'errea, Barbarus, and Olympia that anything else would be overkill._
These are dark times.

I say these in full knowledge that the times to come may well be even darker, yet I must repeat it: these are dark times.

I have read of the Golden Age of Technology, of the height of Mars and Terra, of the greatness before the fall. I have read, too, of the Eldar Empire, that nation which once held the Ruinous Powers at sway but became their greatest aid.

Some of them remain- how else could it be? Those that renounced the decay and tried to stop it were exiled and shunned for their beliefs. Now, though, they are shunned hundredfold for their ultimate failure, for what they caused.

And now, our greatest hope has been lost.

Now, the Ruinous Powers have taken the Primarchs.

-Malcador the Sigilite, 800.M30

Fourteen. Fourteen of my brothers are yet unfound, two are dead, and one might as well be.

My father has searched all of the Ultima Imperium for signs of us. He found seven. The four that remain- myself, Alpharius, Omegon and Vulkan- carry the hopes of the Imperium on their, our, shoulders.

 How many others still live?

When the Primarchs first departed, my father was sure that even those that had landed in the Eye would stay loyal. But the Traitor disproved all of that. Gathering two others, he attacked Tau itself, seeking the destruction of all we have fought for. Horribly twisted, they batted aside normal defences, fighting those of us that had remained.

They lost. The two others were stricken from the Imperial records. The Traitor escaped.

His name shall never be forgotten, and neither will his twisted glory.

Why, Lorgar? Why?

-Roboute Guilliman, 836.M30

I.​
The lakes of blood were boiling. A great war was coming to Desh’errea, and the nobles had relished it. To prepare for the bloodshed, then, they had called together the greatest gladiator fights the world had ever seen. They had promised that the arena would be filled with blood and that just one of the gladiators would survive the battles. They had sworn that this would be a never-before-seen scale of destruction, and that they would gladly sacrifice themselves if they had failed.

They did not honor their oath.

Two gladiators, indeed, remained- Angron, the giant from space, and Grakix, an escaped daemon. Unfortunately, in the capriciousness of the gods, the gladiators had trouble dying and bleeding. Many were still alive, and even those that had been killed seemed to rise again. The favor of the gods was not with Desh’errea today.

For now, though, the watching crowds were not any less overjoyed in watching what they would soon depart across the stars to do.

“Now.”

Angron and Grakix lunged at each other, but after a misstep Grakix’ axe flew out of his hand and into the stands, cleaving an important noble in half. The daemon attempted to fight with his claws, but the advantage was clearly Angron’s.

Then the city’s ruler, the Daemon Prince Hurbjek, gurgled and fell out of his seat and towards the arena.

Hurbjek began to drop, spreading his sixteen arms in fright, understanding that his favor with Khorne was lost; below him, the crowd of daemons, humans, and aliens watched the location where he had fallen from to see the would-be new ruler of their town.

Half of them never saw her.

The murder of Hurbjek was followed by a gigantic explosion from below the decks, with the bodies of gladiators flying out from below. To the survivors’ surprise, these bodies were in fact very much alive, carving trails of destruction thru the stands. Angron and Grakix had long stopped fighting each other, and were now invading the spectators too, claw and sword slaughtering together.

“BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!”

Angron’s bellow was echoed by his people, the blood indeed flowing quite abundantly, along with other bodily fluids. The targets were more often than not high-ranking officials, who had moments before watched the gladiators fight each other with detachment.

The ones that were not being slaughtered didn’t attempt to stop it; they knew that they would fight when their time came, and for now they didn’t care from where the blood flowed, much like the patron deity of the planet.

Some of the less insane denizens began to flee, rushing to survive later; the rest watched in wide-eyed amazement as Angron ran to the top of the coliseum and jumped off, followed by a throng of loyal gladiators, tailing the escapees. Others stayed, continuing the massacre: eventually they would be defeated by the actual forces of the city, or turn on themselves and be doomed, but that was mostly because both Angron and Grakix had already left, and the most powerful fighters wouldn’t die easily.

Change had come to Desh’errea.

* * *​
Standing above Barbarus, Mortarion gazed at his father’s dominion. The sky-tall mountains mixed into the atmospheric haze, and that haze- so painful and stinging- was permeating thru his mind. Barbarus wasn’t a kind world.

Below, small villages crowded in the valleys. Despairing, the living there were subservient to his father, and the infected and dead were no more than loyalty. The acrid smoke didn’t reach there, but the diseases were as potent below as above.

What right did his adopted father, Tnays, Champion of Nurgle- what right did he have to rule, other than brute force and devotion? Was being infected with a thousand contagions truly enough? The diseases that they had weakened the body, yet strengthened it simultaneously. The diseases of the poor did not have that. Those brought weakness alone, degrading the doomed and eventually killing them, the souls to join with the Plague God and their bodies to become shambling automatons. Of course, the various plagues had different outcomes, and Tnays could never be sure whether a certain slave would become his servant after the end.

Mortarion, for one, had always wondered about those unfortunate beings. They lived without the blessings of the Grandfather- but was that truly the greatest difference? And, most of all, where did he stand?

It was a question above all others, for in all of the strangeness that his world had seen, he did not see himself. He did not follow the Plague God, though he did not oppose Nurgle either- that would be the height of stupidity. He was not like his father in any form- ever since he fell onto the planet’s surface from space, something was alien about him.

Who was Mortarion?

He would find out tonight.

For now, Mortarion merely gazed from the parapets at the wavering surface below. The planet was wrong, offended his senses, and generally felt strange even after he had lived there all of his life. It felt strange to his father too, for that matter. Barbarus was that way.

Walking down into the castle, Mortarion thought back to earlier days. The beginnings were hazy, but he knew that something about life itself and Barbarus felt like agony, that the smell offended his nostrils, that the taste of the food was painful. He was beyond that now, but nevertheless his impending escape would- he knew- bring back memories of that. There would be people younger than him below; there would in fact be people below- not just himself, his father, undead slaves and daemons. It would be companionship, perhaps, or hatred. There were still rebellions, although the Warlords had defeated each one. He was a powerful fighter, though. He would be safe.

“Mortarion?”

Mortarion nodded, having noticed Tnays a second before. “Yes, father?”

“It’s time for you to choose a deity, a patron. I understand that you have some prejudices against Nurgle, but even if you leave this planet- I care for you, son, and I cannot allow you to reject the gifts of the Gods much longer.”

“I understand. In a few days, Father.”

Mortarion stepped away, and the clapping of his feet on the concrete floors resounded through the hallway.

* * *​
 Perturabo had always looked on his father with awe. The Tyrant was power-hungry and strict, but he loved Perturabo nevertheless, and although Perturabo viewed the entire situation rationally and isolated himself from similar emotions, he respected his father for more than that.

Dammekos had refused Chaos.

Perhaps the Tyrant of Lochos was afraid for his power, or perhaps it was a moral worry, but Dammekos had never given in to the whispers of the Chaos Gods. Perturabo had the suspicion that their planet was the only one without daemons in the universe, but even alone, its light of logic and honor shone above the surrounding darkness. Perturabo, of course, followed his father. The Chaos Gods were- all of them- lacking in logic to the extreme. They could not be comprehended, and therefore they could not be used- and, of course, there was the matter of driving followers into insanity.

Therefore, his father’s actions were disturbing him greatly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said: your father is dealing with one whom I suspect to be a sorcerer.”

Perturabo momentarily froze, then thanked his servant and rushed towards Dammekos’ section of the palace. Baeton had never been wrong before, and if his father was indeed falling to the insanity and destruction of the Chaos Gods-

Perturabo, if worst came to worst, would kill him personally.

It would be for mercy.

The doors were, as always, locked, but as Dammekos’ favored son Perturabo of course had the keys. Voices were coming from the armory, and the heir to Lochos gritted his teeth- how did they dare to defile such a place with whispers of Chaos?

Then he bit back the emotion. It was illogical: Chaos was a disease, but not a physical one, at least not its majority. There was nothing right with discussing Chaos anywhere, and there was nothing sacred about the armory.

Dammekos exited the room first, as a cloaked figure rushed off in the other direction. Perturabo made to chase after it, but Dammekos grabbed him.

“What are you doing, boy? You are not so young as to be chasing after insects, but does that mean that you should chase after my ministers? NO!”

“And which minister is that suspicious figure?”

“That, son, is Myxerh, the new Minister of the Warp.”

Perturabo nodded. It was a believable explanation: Myxerh was indeed new, and Perturabo had never before seen him. There was still something strange, though, about the man.

“Be careful.”

“Perturabo, leave. Now. I have personally slain many assassins; I can assure you Myxerh has the best interests of himself and the nation at heart.”

Perturabo meandered back into his room, thinking about what had transpired. He had already made clear that he would not fall to Chaos, and had not been tempted. Therefore, if a coup was brewing, he would be eliminated- for example, at the feast tonight.

“Baeton, bring me more paper. I need a plan, soon.”

The servant nodded and rushed off to wherever. Perturabo grimly thought back to the encounter and forth to the feast. Something Chaotic would happen there, he knew.

He would be ready.

(To be continued, hopefully.)​


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## Karnax (Sep 23, 2010)

Have some rep for writing this, it is really good. Can't wait to see some more.


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## Shogun_Nate (Aug 2, 2008)

Interesting story bud! What I've read was pretty good. One thing, you need to space your paragraphs and dialogue lines more. As it stands now, it's one giant blob of letters, broken on occasion by asterisks. Adding more space will make it easier to read. Beyond that, I have no other nit-picks LOL! Keep up the good works and I hope to see more soon!

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

re: Karnax. Thanks! The next bit will be about Angron, and the entire story will focus on these three Primarchs- I think.

re: Shogun_Nate. Thanks as well! About the paragraphs- they were better-spaced in Word. I'll change them.


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## Shogun_Nate (Aug 2, 2008)

Looks good bud! Sometimes the formatting gets mixed up when you copy and paste from certain documents. Now, how about a next part? :wink:

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_So this is the second quarter of Chapter I. I'm not entirely satisfied with it, so any suggestions on improvement are welcome._
Angron was running.

It was new to him, the sensation- he had dreamed of it before, but the implants and the sheer anger of the overseers had prevented running, except charging at an enemy. He lacked freedom then over his body, the freedom he had regained now.

He lacked then, too, freedom over his mind.

His thought was short-circuited by the overseers and priests to default, in times of stress, to rage and pure anger. The mechanism prevented any successful escape attempt. Whenever he attempted to plan a method of escape, he would fly into blind fury, preventing any ideas from coming into being.

He was stuck, for as long as the chip controlled him, its creators would as well.

Thus he prayed. All of the escapes without planning had come to naught, so he asked for one of them to be successful; any plans were impossible because of the chip, so he asked for it to falter. One day, his prayers were answered.

The feathered being had come to him during the few hours of sleep. It taught him of ways other than war, of hopes other than blood, and Angron listened. The chip broke soon after, and each kill that Angron made in the arena afterwards he sacrificed to his new master, Lord Tzeentch.

The ideas took shape. Gladiator after gladiator was convinced, and those that were not were eliminated. If two of Angron’s gladiators would fight each other, they wouldn’t kill, for there was no use in killing those who were, for now, allies.

It had all come to fruition now. Grakix being captured by the slavers helped the situation tremendously: masquerading as a Bloodthirster, he had made the escape succeed that much sooner. In the last clash, when almost all of the gladiators had been turned, Angron and Grakix pretended to fight.

After that, they fought, but not each other.

Now Angron ran. The city wasn’t safe: it was clear that the gladiators were weak compared to the police and army. Later, when the struggle for power would turn the streets into a battleground again, when the ambition and lack of reason would combine to ruin the city, when the neighboring towns would desire independence- then Angron and the gladiators would emerge from the iron forests and take over a ruined empire.

For now, the steady beat of his legs and of the ground (Angron had no idea of why the ground beat, but it was likely an imitation of a heartbeat) were the best insurance of the future he could have.

Angron was being followed by a group of other escapees- Grakix had taken half of the former gladiators, hopefully to safety. Angron, for his part, would treat his half well. They had fought for and against the same masters, and they would do so again. There was no need to turn his allies, his tools, against him.

“Angron, where are we?”

The question came from one of the child gladiators. His tiny form was at risk of getting trampled by the larger figures at any point, but as Angron stopped and looked back, he could see the fire in his eyes.

“We’re almost out of the city by now.”

The boy nodded, and Angron broke into a run once more.

The city’s walls were built of swords topped with skulls, packed so thick it was almost impossible to get through them. Angron paused when he saw them: it would take far too long to pull them out. They would have to pass through the gate, unless they had a means of defense and weapons.

Both of which were, of course, conveniently provided by the wall.

Angron screeched to a stop, and even as his feet were scratching the rocks he was pulling out a sword from the ground and tossing it to a lieutenant. Killer was well-known for his hatred of the government, and would make a perfect rearguard.

Killer smiled in grabbing the weapon as Angron began bulldozing through the other swords.

“Don’t forget to put them back after we pass the region! The guards will have as hard a time as we’re having.”

Killer waited for the throng of warriors to pass before beginning to put the swords back into place. Angron didn’t have time to look at what was happening behind him, but it was clear that Killer could easily defeat several of the starving guards. The city was still in chaos and everyone strong enough to defeat Killer had better activities to undertake at the moment, such as dealing with the situation inside the city itself.

Then Killer cried out, and Angron remembered the ancient sayings about the best plans.

He didn’t stop with the swords: he couldn’t, not if they were to escape. It appeared someone strong had a vendetta against them, or perhaps a large force was exacting revenge for Hurbjek. If Killer couldn’t hold them off, Angron could by making sure there was enough space between them.

Turning around once, he saw Killer lying with two holes in his head. There was no time to digest his friend’s death. Gladiators had never been trained in ranged weapons, and more importantly they didn’t have any. There was no way for Angron to, at the moment, fight.

A couple of those who had fallen behind were fending off the attackers instead. The boy from earlier was actually one of them, clearly struggling with a heavy sword but managing to fight well nevertheless. They would have to defend for some time further: Angron’s supernatural speed in uprooting the swords was impossible to match in putting them back in. This was intentional- to Angron, here, escape was more important than stopping the enemy’s attack. Few would exit the city here anyhow. The gate was much more convenient for chasing them.

Angron gazed into the slavers’ mind as such with distaste, but it was better than falling to their strategies.

The struggle behind ceased, as evidenced by the rearguard again, loudly- especially loudly to Angron’s sensitive ears- beginning to stick swords into the ground. Angron decided against looking at what happened: it was clear enough that they had won the skirmish, and based on the number of screams in voices he recognized, Killer was the only casualty.

The end of the wall came unexpectedly: Angron was pulling sword after sword out of the ground, and then there were no more. Jumping aside (and kicking a final weapon down), Angron watched as his group emerged from the passageway and into the iron forest.

There was time, now, to look at and regret Killer. His long-time friend lay impaled on several blades, and a permanent expression of shock could be seen on his face. Killer had been worried that he had failed, even as his sacrifice allowed the plan to succeed after all.

“I’m sorry,” mouthed Angron, “but you did what you had to. Farewell.”

The moment of contemplation passed, and the former gladiators finished replacing the sabers. They were few: there was a total of thirty-one now, after Killer’s fall. More had been taken by Grakix, and the vast majority was weaving their own way through the streets and houses. They would likely head towards the gate, where they could overwhelm the few sentries, or hide out in the city in wait for the time to strike.

The path was open now to head into the woods.

The trees here were not complex: there were simply iron towers, with a few pieces of fruit hanging from them. The trees widened at the top, eventually- several kilometers from the town- merging to form a second surface, an iron plane above the ground itself. Most of the blood-lakes were located upon such canopies, but in general there was little there save for blood and battle, neither of which Angron desired now. The caverns below, on the other hand, were full of food and even clean water- a rarity on Desh’errea.

The world, of course, was pledged to Khorne. This made survival for Angron and his group rather difficult, but it was clear Tzeentch would be quite glad to turn Desh’errea. Angron was also aware that his lord had some interest in the giant himself.

The trees began to appear from the ground, and Angron paused to look at his future home. Tzeentch hadn’t lied: the towers were almost exactly as he had seen during the visions. The solid iron had specks of rust in it, but the regularity of the structures was absolute: there was no sort of deviation from an exact cylinder. The gods alone could craft such perfection- though, in Angron’s opinion, the simplicity was rather boring.

Angron started walking again, and the train followed him.

The canopies of the trees started, as promised, to close up and unite to create the surface above. Dripping sounds could be heard around Angron, and a few drops even landed onto him. Slowly, uncertainly, the last holes in the roof began to shrink, close up and disappear to give way to total darkness. The dripping was as slow as before, but a few children started hanging on to Angron.

“Do not be scared when you follow me into the darkness. Light would allow the slavers to find us. I’ll get us out: the darkness here is not the darkness of the arena. We’re safe here, I promise.“

A few cries of assent were clear, but no one said anything understandable. It did not matter. Angron would save them, as the true battle would come soon.

“How long will we need to stay here, Angron?”

“What is your name, child? I’ve noticed your strength in defending us all when we traversed the wall.”

Angron suspected the boy was smiling. “I’m Kefrev.”

“Very well, Kefrev. We shall stay here as long as is needed, that is, several days.”

The giant bent down to taste the water. It was clean, almost metallic, a far cry from the bloody mix that had been given to him as a fighter. There were substances not meant to be consumed there, and many gladiators that would have survived the pit fights likely died from the food and drink.

“I can feel a lake here, and I can see- even in this darkness- that it’s big. We will make camp, and then we shall rest. I thank all of you for your vigilance and aid.”

Angron gathered the dirt and metal into a small pile by the waterside, then took off some of his rags to use as a headrest. The ground was softer by far than that which he had felt in the pits- after all, the surface inside the arena was dirt but hardly ground, being trampled by thousands of legs and uninhabited by any creature or daemon. Even on unfamiliar turf, though, the escapees’ leader quickly fell asleep.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_Third quarter of Chapter I, featuring Mortarion._
The smoke thinned below, in the valleys. Mortarion had often heard that said, and believed it, though he suspected he didn’t understand the words’ true significance. He had only twice before gone down, both times only for a short while with his father.

Now, he would find out.

Now, the silence around him seemed to be anticipating something. Mortarion knew that his fate would be decided soon, whatever that meant. He was fully aware of the importance of the moment, of the action.

He had disobeyed his father.

Completely.

Slowly stepping down on the colorless steps, Mortarion made little sound in his descent. Tnays wouldn’t notice anyway. His father was asleep and not willing to be woken up. Mortarion was more concerned about the daemons that scurried around in Tnays’ palace, because they weren’t sleeping and would be very concerned about this escape. Daemons, though, could be fooled with protections from sorcery, and one of the main reasons Tnays was not yet a Daemon Prince was the champion’s reluctance to completely give himself to the Warp. Mortarion shared the distrust, manyfold- for all he knew, there was no reason to trust something so omnipotent as a Warp God, and if there was, he would find out soon. He didn’t know how, or why, but he would.

The staircase ended, and Mortarion continued forward, being hurtled forth by a force that he couldn’t understand. It didn’t actually exist, of course, but Mortarion rushed forward anyway, feeling a strange sensation well up within him for the first time.

It was called freedom.

The slope tilted awkwardly, Mortarion carefully avoiding the rusty building material scattered around him. Even at night, even in the smoke, the castle was visibly about to collapse. Mortarion understood that entropy and decay were the domain of Nurgle, and he wondered if the eventual collapse of the castle would also be part of the Plague God’s and Tnays’ plans.

Mortarion would prefer not to be there when he’d find out.

The nails he had tried to avoid scraped his boots, but fortunately he was still careful enough in stepping as to not damage his feet. The cloud of debris ended, and now far below his father’s castle, Mortarion broke into a run.

He knew some of the villages’ locations, and headed for one of the higher ones. The trip would still take hours, though, even at his current pace. He wanted to run faster, actually, because after all that had happened he couldn’t take time to think it all over- he could decide to turn back!

Torn by the uncertainty and fear of uncertainty, Mortarion let his legs dominate him. It didn’t take long for him to accelerate to faster speeds than he had ever used before: it appeared that he was underestimating himself. Simultaneously, he wondered what the reaction would be to his arrival, as well as to the first person he would meet. He was excited, and his body ran even faster with that state.

The end to the acceleration was predictable. Mortarion’s endurance, celebrated by his father, didn’t automatically make him more careful, and ignoring the guardrails in the darkness and fog was not exactly strange, as after all Mortarion hadn’t been following their directions anyway.

The cliff that the runaway fell from was, unfortunately, quite tall. As Mortarion’s horizontal speed slowed, he hurtled directly down. He thought there was a light below, but couldn’t quite tell exactly where he was falling before the hard landing.

The villagers (he saw houses upon impact) would be impressed for years, thought Mortarion, considering the size of the crater.

At the bottom, the fallen giant reconsidered his situation and decisions. He was alive, although the pain was quite serious. It was possible he wouldn’t be able to get back to Tnays in time, especially if the villagers were rebellious. Still, he felt a need to exit. How could he stay in the depression? He had to act, especially if the villagers were, indeed, rebellious and planning to kill him.

With a groan, the runaway faced the world again.

Sitting up, Mortarion saw the landscape lock into place once more. The houses were silhouetted and easily visible in front of something unknown burning behind him. No one was outside that he could see, although a few voices could be heard from the fire’s vicinity.

The structures were built quite plainly compared to Tnays’ palace above, although Mortarion had to note they were collapsing less.

Mortarion clawed his way out of the hole, almost colliding with a child above him. Her hands were bandaged, and her pale face was so afraid of the giant that had almost smashed her that Mortarion couldn’t stop himself from feeling pity.

“Who are you?”

Mortarion’s initial, planned introduction felt wrong now. The girl hadn’t angered the Plague God, and if she had, could she truly be wrong? There was something unnatural in her punishment, something that shouldn’t have been.

“My name is Mortarion.”

“Why were you up there? No one can breathe up there.”

Mortarion shrugged, the hypnotizing effect the girl had had on him and that he had had on the girl both largely gone as he started talking. “I can. My father has his castle up there.”

“But the Champions aren’t human, and you are.”

Was he?

It was hard to truly know what he was. His size and strength were, apparently, abnormal for a human. His father had never truly cared for what he was, though, but accepted him in any case.

Accepted him as a prisoner.

Mortarion felt that he was doing the wrong thing by simply sitting there, but could think of nothing else to say. He didn’t want to leave the girl, however. He needed something to talk about, or something to do, or some way to interact with others.

“What’s happening over there?” he asked, ending the uncomfortable pause.

“Old Jerdel’s house is burning, and they can’t put it out.”

Mortarion nodded, already in his mind sprinting to the scene. His body followed seconds later.

There had never been much fire above, and as Mortarion looked at it he felt a sense of awe at the destroying monster. Still, the other people were trying to put it out, and the new arrival couldn’t desire to do anything else. If he was to earn anyone’s trust, this was the way to do it.

He suspected that his massive form made some of the inhabitants fear him, so without words he began helping carry water to the site. Mortarion suspected that this was done mostly for cosmetic purposes, as there was no way to easily put anything out now. Instead, he concentrated the water on corners and connections, to prevent the fire from spreading. There was the faint feeling of making a mistake inside him, but Mortarion didn’t care whether he was putting out the fire correctly. The important matter was putting it out together.

The flames didn’t even waver, but Mortarion felt that there was a dimming going on. Perhaps the fire had already exhausted its fuel, if that was indeed how a fire worked; he knew little about flame, living as he had at an altitude where such concerns were unlikely and in a well-watered castle.

A voice cried out from the crowd: “Jerdel’s still in there!”

The voice became a chant, and the chant became a rhythm, even though everyone knew within the first seven seconds that Jerdel was, indeed, still in there, burning up inside his own home and likely suffering greatly.

Not a person rushed in.

Mortarion knew he was immune to many illnesses, but he had no idea about his body’s protection from fire. This would, he realized, be a chance to find out. He would almost certainly survive, and it was not a deed that could cause problems for Tnays, meaning he would be able to return if he desired.

Slowly, but gaining speed, Mortarion smashed into the dwelling. The flames warmed him, even burned slightly, but he felt his innate resistance surface again.

It was different inside the dwelling. Tongues of red licked the walls, and the furniture was smoking. Batting aside doors, Mortarion saw a small body on the floor. He had no idea if it was Jerdel, of course. He had never been here before. Still, the recent fugitive lifted the unmoving object up onto his knee.

Jerdel still had a pulse.

As Mortarion hurried towards the exit, feeling slightly worse, he looked down at the ancient in his arms. The man looked younger than Mortarion would have thought, but his face was riddled with sores and his legs were bloated beyond reasonable bounds. The bandages that covered the young girl’s arms covered Jerdel’s entire body, and the hands in particular looked scarred even under the covering.

This, Mortarion knew, was what his father supported. The Plague God did this to those he found unworthy. It had always been right to Mortarion, the destruction of the weak and disobedient, but when this man was apparently considered an ancient- how could everyone be weak?

Mortarion knew weakness was wrong- but were Tnays’ desire to rule and destructive trail not weaknesses as well?

Ramming his skull into an iron bar, heated incredibly by the fire, did nothing to stop Mortarion’s decisive mood. This was the signal he had been waiting for. Tnays’ teachings, which for years had fooled the impressionable Mortarion, now stood as the nonsense they were. The Plague God was omnipotent, perhaps, but apparently could not use omnipotence for the improvement of the masses. He was enslaved by his own beliefs, as Tnays was. What was the purpose of life under Nurgle, if not blindness?

Nevermore would Mortarion be stupid and led by pointless beliefs, he decided at that moment.

The support bent under the force of Mortarion’s impact, and he stopped running. Jerdel was brought out into the night smoke, Mortarion setting him down among the stunned crowd.

“He shouldn’t have been able to survive that!”

“Is Jerdel even still alive?”

“Who is he anyway?”

The last cry became especially prominent among the questions hurled at Mortarion, until a figure emerged from the back. She had no aura of pride or satisfaction that the arrival had always seen as the mark of leadership in Tnays, but nevertheless it was somehow clear she was the leader.

“Who are you?”

“I am Mortarion, son of Tnays.”

“Then why do you come here? Our poor village has done nothing to anger the powers above, save for a few voices of dissent.”

“I do not come for anger: I come for experience. I do not know my fate, but I know that the fate this world now bears is wrong. We must stand strong against the powers of the Plague God. My father never understood the problems with his teachings. I do.”

The sound that came from the crowd seemed new at first, but Mortarion soon recognized it as clapping.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_The end of Chapter 1. There'll probably be some time before I continue this. Also, comments? Anyone?_

As Perturabo entered the room, he squinted.

The banquet hall had to have changed. In the end, Chaos did not- in Perturabo’s experience- leave a place unaltered. If they desired to be secret, these signs would be hidden, but like some animal the daemon-worshippers left their insignias everywhere.

There were many clear alterations. This made Perturabo’s job harder, as finding the relevant sign among the multitude of banners was likely to be near-impossible. Unfortunately for Dammekos, Perturabo knew that there were good reasons to suspect Chaotic intent, and the room had been modified to a far greater extent than necessary. The additional stone columns were the most revealing of the fact that Dammekos had something to hide.

The search was fruitless. Perturabo considered the possibility nothing was going on, but stayed on guard as his father advanced to give the first speech of the night.

The food was drugged for certain, and Perturabo was wearing his best armor. He was aware a few people were directing surprised looks at him, as his large size was even further increased in armor.

Dammekos- the Tyrant of Lochos, Perturabo’s father- began his speech.

“My dear allies! It has been far too long since it was last possible to meet so. The war with Ntaolus came at an unfortunate time for our nation, during a period when we were barely recovering from economic crises and political turmoil. We came forth then, saved the country, resisted the tide of Ntaolus and won the war. We will never forget the sacrifices that the war consumed, but in all it is fortunate that we are able to feast here today.

Now, we are gathered again. It is unfortunate that some have denied the power with which we won the war, the mighty capabilities of our soldiers. The reformers that have suggested we give up our military capabilities, even after the attack against is proved so devastating. I thought for a while about their execution, but I am a kind ruler, and have settled on a compromise.

There is a power that will allow us to rule this world even better than before, that will quash any attempt at dethroning us by the other kingdoms, that will ensure our continued domination of Olympia, all while allowing us to reduce the size of our army. Let us recognize its strength, and erase the last remnants of resistance from this world, in the name of that which we will support. For Chaos!”

Two seconds. It took two seconds for a hall previously filled with rational discourse, devout listening, and careful eating to devolve into full war. Perturabo was tired of this: he had seen plenty of that during the conflict that they were celebrating the end of. This would end. He could not allow Lochos to devolve into civil war.

Perturabo raised half the table up and threw it at the left corner of the room. This was the seat of the reformers, the supporters of peace. They were extremely disappointed politically, not only furious in principle, when Ntaolus attacked. They were the most likely allies of Myxerh, and they would die today.

Gunshots and sword-strokes rang again his armor. Perturabo could feel some wounds, but none were deep enough to cause him any persistent troubles. Pushing aside a couple more tables, the Prince of Lochos cursed at not being able to do more, for not comprehending this would devolve so quickly. Still, this would suffice. His father wasn’t expecting his foreknowledge, but surely some other plan had been cooked up in the malodorous kitchens of Chaos in the meantime.

That wasn’t what he was worried about. The plans of Chaos were overcomplicated and underperformed constantly. The problem, rather, was the threat that his father was simply stronger due to whatever “gifts” the Ruinous Powers had bestowed upon his insane father.

A pair of guards, their helmets strange and likely mutated, rushed towards Perturabo. They were batted aside. The wrathful son would not be stopped from reaching his father.

Perturabo charged.

“For Lochos!”

Behind him, a dozen men fell into step. Tables and columns collapsed as the enraged Perturabo ran through them. The banquet hall was falling apart, but in truth he didn’t care: it was after all tainted by Chaos.

Perturabo had no desire for a direct confrontation with his father: although he had always defeated Dammekos in sparring, there was no telling what mutations he had received since. Even worse, the insanity meant that his father might not even care for his own survival, creating even more problems in reasoning a victory. Perturabo had no desire to fight his father, but he saw no other choice.

Fejgil stood in his path.

“Perturabo. Brother. Why?”

Perturabo’s adopted brother had spikes in his hair, which was itself bleached an unnatural shade of white. His hands were more like tentacles, and his eyes seemed to be a dark violet, most certainly not their natural color.

“Fejgil, this is no time for discussion. You betrayed everything we stood for.”

Their blades met, but even with mutation, Fejgil was no match for Perturabo. The Prince’s mace collided with his brother’s armor, caving it in. Raising Fejgil up, Perturabo gazed at the traitor without emotion.

“No, Fejgil, not today.”

Tossing his brother aside, Perturabo stepped on his skull, even as he felt a strange wind in his sole. The armor was pierced, but fortunately the weapon didn’t touch his flesh. It was, after all, most likely poisoned.

He advanced. Covering up the hole in his lower legs’ armor, Perturabo realized very well his vulnerability. It would be the perfect place for Dammekos to strike, and he would need to be prepared for that.

The stage had held a brutal melee seconds ago, but now only Dammekos and Myxerh stood atop a pile of corpses.

“Son. You have betrayed me.”

“No, you betrayed me. You have given up the principles that have governed Lochos and brought it this far. Would you have Olympia a Daemon World?”

“You do not comprehend the power of the Gods!”

“I comprehend fully the power of daemons!”

Myxerh stepped out, as if to mediate the conflict. It was patently clear to Perturabo that the false Minister simply desired to kill him by some foul sorcery.

Having his head crushed stopped his advance.

Perturabo turned to his father, making an effort not to grin. “You have done enough.”

The first blow came as Perturabo expected it, and he parried it easily. The clanging of his father’s sword against his power-mace filled the hall, and there was a slight feeling of pressure from the eyes boring into them.

Ringing, the weapons clashed yet again. Perturabo looked for his father’s defense, but had no time to concentrate due to yet another maddened strike. Still, Dammekos was slower by far, and each meeting of the weapons reinforced that.

Perturabo had one weakness- the crack that Fejgil had created- but the Tyrant was not attempting to exploit it. Instead the blows came at random, even if they were as strong as Perturabo’s. Chaos was a weakness, not a strength.

Dammekos stabbed the empty air, and Perturabo swung again. The blow connected, shooting a wave of electricity through his father’s body. Arching back, Dammekos swung his power-sword directly upward, the weapon flying out of his hands and into a corner of the room. Perturabo wrenched the mace, the twist causing Dammekos to flail before collapsing on the floor.

The man, so much smaller than Perturabo, now looked pathetic before his gaze. Dammekos had been a worthy father and a great ruler, but now he had been diminished by Chaos. The Tyrant of Lochos had by all means lost his rights.

Perturabo considered allowing his father to live, even as he knew that Dammekos would only stab him in the back. Knowing the battle was won, Perturabo sighed. Though Dammekos might have only adopted him, his upbringing was entirely due to the one that he would now destroy.

“This is wrong.”

Perturabo understood the evil and unnatural problem of what he was about to do, almost feeling ungrateful. But he had decided this question long ago, and there was not any other way.

The Prince of Lochos dug his mace into his father’s head.

Dammekos screamed his pain for a second, then fell silent.

Perturabo looked at the room that had once been a hall for feasts. The walls were about to collapse in the ferocity of the battle, and the floor was marked with blood and organs. The tables and columns were either destroyed or defaced. Chaos had wrought havoc on Lochos.

“Will any fight for the Ruinous Powers now?”

None answered, not with screams of approval or yells of challenge.

“I rule Lochos now, and soon all of Olympia. It is my greatest regret that this had to end the way it did, but one must have no mercy for daemons. It is a fact that those corrupted can be redeemed; unfortunately, it is a rare event. Execute all who fought for my father today. They have become a liability and a danger to our realm.

We must remain vigilant, for Chaos is covert as well as overt, such as when my father was corrupted without myself even knowing it until today. We must remain strong, for the power of Chaos, though ultimately self-destructive, is dangerous to all. We must remain logical, for insanity is either the first sign of Chaos corruption or the surest way to it. We must remain, for besides Olympia, there are few who still honor the true ways. And by all that is good, we will remain!”

No single speech, nor any number of them, could heal the wounds that Dammekos had made in the world. There would be rebellions as well as plots. Still, intelligently applied brute force was always a valuable commodity, one that the new ruler of Lochos had plenty off.

Perturabo left the stage, viewing a few corrupted attempting to resist their bonds. The walls were damaged, but not destroyed, and there was thus no means of escape; still, Perturabo lent a hand to handcuffing one of the traitors.

She spat at him. “You! Weakling!”

Perturabo shrugged. “It is ironic, then, that the weak won today. Let it continue to be so.”

The woman was led away, and the Prince of Lochos walked out of the main doors. Outside, it was spring, and the music of the construction machines let him relax. This was a dark day in the history of Lochos, but it would pass. His land would be reborn.

And he would be the cause.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_Well, it's been a while.

A quick note: some people will probably say I didn't make daemon worlds Chaos-y enough. I recognize this. Personally, though, I would prefer to leave the incomprehensible madness place of the Warp distinct from daemon worlds. Thus, here, a daemon world can have rivers of blood or towers in a Mobius strip, but it doesn't have to.

So:_
Time had passed.

Time was a valuable commodity everywhere, Angron suspected. In any case, time was valuable on Desh’errea. His gladiators had not been followed by any sentries, and contact had been reestablished with Grakix as well. The water was clean, and food- though not plentiful- was sufficient to allow his small camp to survive. Few Khorne daemons came here: it was too deep, too dark, and most importantly too lonely.

Under the massive columns, Angron wondered why the plan had to move forward. Would it be so impossible, he wondered, simply to live out the rest of life here, in peace?

It would. He knew it would.

Grakix was already getting restless, and Angron’s plan asked for action soon. More importantly, though, this idyll could never last forever. The cities would band together again, eventually, at least into some semblance of the league they were previously in. Any free republic would then be doomed.

It was for that reason that he now stood before his group, ready to say a few last goodbyes before the “scouting” mission.

“Kefrev, Bertgak, Reftog, everyone. I am leaving; I might not return. While I am absent, Reftog will be our leader, but remember this: a leader is only the first among equals. Otherwise, he is a master.”

Angron ignored the shouts from the crowd as he swiveled, the bare foot leaving a mild dip in the soil. They were mostly fond cries of farewell, but Angron did not demand worship- that was reserved for Tzeentch alone. As such, he simply walked, the black ceiling- so distant as to be invisible even from the campfires- hung over his mind.

The first rays of light, Angron almost didn’t notice. He was too concerned with wondering why he- a leader and a giant- had decided to go on, of all things, a scouting mission.

There was only one reason, and he knew it. He was the only one he could trust in executing this step of the plan.

The next few rays, Angron noticed. They were harbingers of the open space in front of him. Above, holes let the radiance into the cave-like space of the camp. To his front, however, no light could yet be seen; the canopy stretched on for a while longer.

The walk would be long- far longer than their retreat here, in thought if not in time. It had been easy to run, but walking required focus.

Focus, Angron had never lacked.

The city rose up ahead of him, still impressive despite the dirt, still visible despite the distance. Its red walls and blood-anointed spears were clear, a signal that invading armies were not welcome. They came anyway, of course: Desh’errea was a world filled with such stupid conflict, with such destructive waste.

“Nothing should serve one purpose only. That which serves no purpose at all is abhorrable.”

The tunnels outside the walls were not easy to get into, and even less safe. The blood seepage and sheer instability of the underground would have taken their toll on his escapers. Nevertheless, the passages- for those reasons- were largely unused, and thus secret.

The ground collapsed under Angron’s feet, dropping him into a low-depth tunnel.

Well, sort of secret.

* * *

“Are you sure this was a good idea?”

Mortarion shrugged. “My father’s tyranny is no better than this. It is true that farming is nigh-impossible, it is true that daemons keep popping up, it is true there are rumors of a larger army coming- yet we can survive, and we will survive.”

“Mortarion, you saved me in the fire. You have spoken wisely ever since. I was among the few to openly suggest rebellion back before, and your foremost supporter since. But how can we survive like this?”

“Jerdel-”

“I do not suggest surrendering. I do not suggest ending this. I merely say we need-”

“A change?”

Jerdel sighed in agreement.

“The people stand in support of you, and so does Chief Wakrawa. But- but you should not be a tyrant. We need the strength of doubt.”

Mortarion nodded. “I’ll call a council. We’ve sent out ambassadors, I assume?”

“Why?”

“We can’t topple them by ourselves. Other villages need to be-”

“One of many ideas you should bring up at the council.”

Mortarion exited sharply. It was just like Jerdel to point out a critical flaw in his plan, then put off solving it.

The streets were dark, and despite the fog- which was not any more virulent, so far- the village could clearly be seen outlined ahead of him. A few pops were audible to Mortarion’s right, the symbol of incubating daemons.

They came from below. Somehow, this was important.

Whatever the case was, the new leader rushed to the site of the attack. The frequency was increasing, and that was disturbing: in the end, Jerdel was right about the situation being unstable.

The plague monstrosity was a small one, and Mortarion grabbed it with one iron-gloved hand.

“Why? Why are you here? Why do you attack us?”

“Because the rot must spread,” it spoke in a gurgling voice.

“And why? Why? What do you live for?”

“To follow the Grandfather.”

“And why must you follow him?”

“Because the rot must spread.”

It was simply an automaton. Mortarion crushed it in disgust, throwing off his corroding gauntlet simultaneously and hurling the objects to the waste pits. The discussion had been a mistake, but Mortarion needed to understand.

Everyone listened to him, looked up to him. That was more due to his martial skill than his ability to think, of course, but he knew he possessed both. Still, even Jerdel had felt it necessary to apologize before contradicting him.

He needed an equal. He needed someone who could stop the uprising from failing when he would.

He needed someone to talk to.

The Council would be soon, and on his way Mortarion barely noticed the stack of spears near a wall. The children running around them were sparring- playing an practicing at the same time.

This was the next generation, he knew. He may be immortal, for all anyone knew, but the others were not, and battle- true battle, the type which would come soon- would take its toll. If all else failed, he had given instructions to the children to run towards other villages.

To keep the dream.

* * *

He had sworn, once, not to let Lochos fall into civil war, not to allow the empire Dammekos had built up into a dominating power to fall apart into the squabbling enjoyed by most of Olympia.

This was easier said than done.

Perturabo led the capital, of course, and iron rule had been reestablished. Unfortunately, Lochos was not as simple to take as the capital. Irod and Kaleot had declared independence in the south, and Jesthen in the north. Worst of all, Talna in the west was not only rebellious, but had fallen into Chaos.

Perturabo couldn’t even deal with those rebels directly- there was a greater threat in the rump Lochos that remained. Myxerh’s allies had organized a resistance within the mountains of Lochos itself. Without their leadership, they were a hopeless group, but Chaos didn’t need to conquer. It desired only the destabilization of Perturabo’s regime.

In this, it was succeeding.

Perturabo pressed against the walls of the throne room. Pacing, he had run into these boundaries again and again, but he simply turned around and started again. He would not deviate from the straight course. Similarly, surrendering to Chaos would make everything worthless.

The foe could not be compromised with. Perturabo knew this. The rebels, though, weren’t frustrated with him personally. They simply saw the disorder as a convenient window in which to take power. As for the theoretical revolution running around his caves- they weren’t all Chaos either. Many were simply nobles unhappy with Perturabo’s dominance, either considering his takeover illegitimate or simply desiring a more representative government, as was found in- for instance- the rebel Irod.

He couldn’t just acquiesce to their demands, though. He needed to be both popular and strong. He had to preserve- something, at least.

“Is something bothering you, my lord?”

Perturabo looked at the new arrival. Terion was the reason the East had remained loyal to him. He’d once been saved by Perturabo, when on an expedition to the summit of Lymepus- the highest mountain on Olympia, never before climbed, the namesake of the entire world.

Now, Terion was not plotting against him. This didn’t mean Terion had no plots, or that he could be trusted- allegiances could be changed at a moment’s notice- but Terion was unusually honest and truly grateful to Perturabo. The Warp-mines and farms of the eastern reaches formed the heart of Lochos’ economy, but instead of forging his own path, Terion chose to throw in his bid with the person that seemed least likely to take the throne.

“Terion, you know. The possibilities for retaking my father’s conquests are lowering every day. I need a propaganda victory against the resistance, to ensure-”

“Such as a successful war?”

Perturabo grinned. “The reformers will not be happy, but they’re in the resistance anyhow. Let’s see- I’ll write a document about the dangers of Chaos, and then, well. Who should we have attack us?”


“Jesthen is most isolated geographically and politically.”

“Yes, and it sided with Ntaolus during the last war. It’s perfect, really. “Queen” Knaire is power-hungry, and- basically, yes. Can we be sure no one overheard this?”

“Well, you’re in charge of Throne Room security, so yes.”

“I hate it when people think I’m omnipotent.”

“I know.”

The two friends stared at each other for a couple of seconds, then separated.


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## Hammer49 (Feb 12, 2011)

Good work.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_Hammer49: Thanks!
Here's Chapter 2, pt. 2:_
“But it’s Hewrta’s own fault. She should have been ready!”

“They’re coming! There’s no way to stop them!”

“We’re doomed!”

“This is no time for gladiator battles- yet you insist on watching them!”

“Well, what if they rebel again?”

“Do not fear!”

Beneath the arena, Angron smiled.

The Khorneates were idiotic enough to start up another gladiatorial tournament after his escape wrecked half the city. There were aggression chips, and their breakdown was again not noticed.

The night before, he had visited the barracks to cheer up the slaves. They were excited at being able to think again, and impressed by Angron. They knew he would lead them to freedom, and Angron knew he had to. They might not have been his battle-brothers, but after one night he already felt some of the same bonds.

Now, he was lying in wait under Hewrta’s chair. The city’s new leader was a great warrior, and a better speaker. She had been Hurbjek’s second-in-command, and could easily command the loyalty of the city.

She had no one designated successor; if she died, the remnants of the government would easily collapse.

Below, a bout was starting. Angron released a pinch of powder: it caused coughing, and would make Hewrta confused for a second. It would also underline her weakness: this was supposed to be a return to normal, a triumphant resurrection of the city as it was before the rebellion.

That would never happen.

“True, armies are converging on our great nation, but never fear. We will defeat them all. We have devised new aggression chips, ones that impede reasoning only slightly but greatly increase strength. They shall be-”

Hewrta coughed several times, drawing unwanted attention, but bravely resumed her speech.

“They will be implanted into every citizen of the city, making us all even better killing machines. Of course, the true leaders must retain their reasoning ability in full and will not be affected.”

Angron suspected that there were no changes whatsoever being planned, that it was merely an attempt to eliminate all competition by making them all unreasoning beasts. That could actually help him, by creating more chaos. Unfortunately, it would also make the city impossible to rule for anyone but Hewrta (who would certainly include loyalty chips to her in the implants) and besides was ruinous.

Desh’errea could not be allowed to regress, not even if Angron died.

“So it will have to be now.”

Hewrta’s security was laughable. She expected only a direct attack, and thus positioned guards only near the arena.

The throne suddenly gained a new hole.

A thousand guns were pointed at Angron as he spoke.

“And do you truly plan to stop at that? Wouldn’t it be so much easier to simply enslave the city, to put the normal aggression chips in each and every one of them?”

Hewrta roared and leapt at Angron, who swatted her aside.

“You will fail. All of you.”

The gladiators were already swarming the barracks, a repetition of Angron’s own rebellion. This, though, was different.

“This city cannot know stability until it accepts peace! It will never know peace until it accepts the evil and stupidity of war! It will never know these until it accepts THE BLOOD GOD IS A MORON!”

Hewrta plunged into the stadium, arms and legs flailing hopelessly.

The gates were flung wide open, gladiators unleashed upon the city once more.

A thousand bullets spun towards Angron, who leapt away from all of them. The few that impacted made no dent in his blue-white armor.

Catching the pavement with his hands, Angron slid down the wall to the arena. Hewrta’s lifeless body lay splattered upon its rocks.

“You’d think they would learn to position the throne better.”

Taking out a spear- a tiny one, seeming as a child’s toy against Angron’s huge hands- the former gladiator threw a chunk of Hewrta’s flesh into the air.

“If any desire this fate, let them have it!”

He lurched again, causing the owners of two hundred guns to whistle sadly. The other eight hundreds were by now devoted to either infighting or attempting to get the escapees.

It was all in all despicable how horrible their aim was. Perhaps twenty bullets would have hit him had he not moved. To add to this, the bullets flew slowly.

Perhaps this was because of how used Khorneates were to melee weaponry, or perhaps they were shocked by their queen’s death.

Angron leapt across a locked gate and found himself on the streets again. There was one other matter he had to attend to, and it carried a far lower risk of getting shot.

The map of the city he had used in his escape was still with him. It had been created by Grakix with a pair of wing-swipes. Now, it showed the way to the factories.

They were covered in spears, the walls being effectively made of weaponry. Each one was responsible for a different manufacture, as shown on the map, but from outside they seems to meld together into a building even bigger than the arena. It had a circular shape, though inside it would be a spiral; the metal was carried in to the middle via tunnel, then was created into various tools as the spiral continued. The first few loops were devoted to producing machines to guide further forging, then weapons were made, and in the outer circles more complex things appeared.

Such as aggression chips.

Angron had been spared from the hated machine’s effects by the grace of Tzeentch, but even Chaos Gods were not omnipotent. Besides, he would not want to ask his patron to aid every escaped gladiator individually when there was a much more elegant solution.

This was the only city that produced the chips, the knowledge being lost outside it. It guarded its secrets closely, selling the ready product only with gladiators attached.

He should have done this earlier, but then he hadn’t thought of it. That mattered little. His patron would assist the ones fallen during the time lost; he would save the ones in danger during the future.

The factory walls gave way to Angron’s real spear, buckling before the giant’s strength. The first hole was simply a point of light, but soon after the entire interior became visible.

A pair of guards took up their swords and ran in the direction of the breach. The walls, though, were rather weak outside the weapons. As a couple of axes- if they were axes; Angron really didn’t care- tumbled down behind, the massive hall with heavy machinery shuddered. Then, fragments of the wall began sliding towards the base level, shining a light behind the entering rebel.

The machinery abandoned by the guards hummed, and one of them ran back to turn it off. The other was silenced by a hurled javelin pinning her to a wall.

The aggression chips were produced close to here, and Angron turned left. The machine not turned off screeched, sand flying into the remaining guard’s face.

Well, they weren’t really guards. They were workers, though always prepared for an attack. Regardless, they were the enemy, though a rather weak one.

Angron marched on, stepping on a couple of likely important tools. The room where the aggression chips were made was open.

“Well, who’s in charge here?”

The supervisor walked up to Angron, leaving the workers. They were twisting and screwing various things into place, not even looking up at the arrival.

They were, without a doubt, slaves. There was pity to be had for them, in the end.

“Are you-” he pointed at the supervisor- “actually improving the chips? Because it doesn’t look that way to me.”

The leader smiled. “Does this place look any different to you? We do it the same way as always. Hewrta was lying- but that doesn’t matter. No one will believe you.”

Angron took out his gun.

In moments, the scene of labor faded to utter chaos. Smoldering bodies were mixed with a scent of burning oil. Angron himself was unaffected, of course, but he suspected that the pain he now felt would indeed leave scars.

The inferno raged. The people died quickly: the nature of the weapon made it so. It was a special flamer, made to destroy as big a territory as possible without harming the owner.

The design was unsuccessful- what Angron had was a prototype. The owner was affected quite a bit. It had been given to the gladiators to be a useful tool of destruction, and Angron had used it once.

That had been enough.

The flames calmed down. The workshop was entirely metal, and no wood was present to burn. Besides, even the heat dissipated quickly.

Angron stepped across the bodies to see the remnants of the blast. There were none, only a crater where the factory’s heart had once been. Below it, a tunnel led outwards, the perfect path to freedom. It was still wet and prone to collapsing, but it was also calm, with none of the madness that the world above had been filled with.

Filled, in truth, by Angron.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_Part 3 of Chapter 2_

“I am happy we are all gathered here, at the start of a promising night, yet again.”

Mortarion was not particularly interested in the introductions. There were more important things- the substance of the meeting was coming.

“Our most recent victories against the daemons have been important and glorious indeed…”

They had been. Tnays still wasn’t taking them seriously. He almost certainly knew of Mortarion by now, and yet refused to send true hordes of daemons, instead allowing the ones that sprung up anyways to attack.

There was something important in this. Perhaps Tnays was having other revolts- but then again, why would they begin now? Perhaps Tnays always had rebellions, but they were consistently quashed and thus this was nothing special to him.

Mortarion was clutching at straws, and he knew it.

“and thus, we may need to slightly alter our strategy, as the next speaker will explain- Mortarion!”

Cheers greeted him, even now, as the rebellion he spearheaded was whining in pain and slowing towards a full stop.

“Thank you. My suggestions will be brief. First of all, it will be difficult for us to win this alone. We must send representatives to other villages, convince them to join us, and coordinate further action together.

Second, we need to find the source of these daemons. They seem to pop out of the ground- perhaps they spring from caverns that can be sealed? We know nothing of why or how they appear, and we cannot win while we do not understand what we fight against.

Finally, we must remember Tnays will soon unleash an army of daemons against us. No matter what, the deciding moment cannot be far off; a tyrant cannot ignore a rebellion, especially not one that incites further unrest. What we do will seal our fate unless we fortify the village. This, of course, is obvious, but we must not only defend from the sides but from below.

I have no more to say.”

Applause. For whatever reason, many of the people revered him, seeing him as superior and giving him all sorts of authority. He had no desire to become a tyrant, even a tyrant of the willing, but they still hung on his every word.

“Does anyone oppose him?”

Wakrawa was the most notable offender.

Jerkel stood up.

“I would agree with Mortarion, our savior, on the first and third points. We must do better, there is no doubt. Yet when he says we must understand daemons, I become doubtful. Does not the very name imply they are incomprehensible? I do not see how even someone as great as Mortarion can know what is by definition unknowable.”

“Do not despair.”

Mortarion’s reply was quiet, but everyone still swiveled to listen.

More than their support, a lack of their support worried him. He believed his policies should be implemented with the same frequency regardless of the weather, but from time to time people would doubt him where they had not a day before and would not a day after. It was frightening, and it was far from a dependable base.

“Do not despair. The daemons- you said they are by definition incomprehensible. But we are not fighting a definition. This battle- this struggle for survival- is not against the concept of a daemon, but about the real beasts. And these fall far short of the concept, I assure you.”

Assurances were cheap, of course, but Mortarion knew this for sure. He had killed daemons. Perhaps, as the legends said, they would return after some thousand years. Until then, though, some partial understanding of them could exist- at least an understanding of how to get rid of them.

“Does any object to Mortarion’s suggestions?”

No one rose. Jerdel didn’t want a prolonged debate- that much was clear.

“In that case, let those interested reconvene here in an hour to determine those assigned to each task force. Until then, let us rest and prepare.”

It was a short meeting, as they often were. Mortarion stumbled outside, thinking of which task force he wanted to be in. The first would be interesting, but he would be useless there- diplomacy was for others. The third was necessary, and he would help with it. Still, it was menial work. That left the second- a rather interesting idea.

He wandered out, the gates of the village left behind in the blackness. The hour of rest was the darkest of the seven-hour standard night. Of course, the actual darkness was highly variable, coming during the day as much as during the night.

The plains outside were normally filled with farmers, though much less of them nowadays. The cliffs rose up to Mortarion’s back: the village was pressed against them for defense, and it worked. A few monsters fell from above occasionally, like Mortarion, but quite rarely.

The other three directions provided the food that didn’t come from animals and plants within; they also provided additional daemons, so as not to make the food boring.

The ground burst.

Another daemon.

It smashed through, and Mortarion idly observed the hole was much bigger than it should have been, drawing his gun at the same time. It was partly a gift from his father and partly his own creation- the ability to shoot almost any kind of ammunition was its primary advantage, and its power was the second one.

The being rose. It was a sack of rotting flesh, bigger than Mortarion or anything he had seen; the head seemed cut off from the body, the arms and legs had virtually no skin, and altogether it seemed anything but alive.

Appearances could be deceiving.

Stepping back, Mortarion poured three shots into the daemon’s face. Anything this big was dangerous enough not to touch.

“Why do you do it?”

The daemon- a Great Unclean One, Mortarion recognized, as only one of them could be this big- was unperturbed, the rockets stuck within its head without effect.

“I am service.”

Mortarion shot two more times, aiming at the eyes. One orb indeed went blank.

“I live for the Plague God. He gave me existence, heh, heh! I am him, but you mortals- you can’t understand.”

“I understand enough!”

That was a blatant lie, but it didn’t matter. The Great Unclean One reached out, and Mortarion realized he was going to lose. Grapeshot flew at the monster, but it didn’t seem to do anything.

This thing had to have some weakness! Hitting a daemon with enough ammunition was typically enough to kill it.

Regrettably, Mortarion didn’t have enough ammunition. He could use something else, of course, like-

“I do not come to kill you! I’m just telling you, heh, heh, that you shouldn’t escalate. You’re amusing Nurgle right now. But don’t make him angry! Bye-bye!”

Before this information could penetrate into Mortarion’s brain, the daemon dissolved into the air. Nothing was left to mark its strange appearance, save for a wilted patch of grass.

That thing could wilt Barbarus grass.

A final shock, and gas filled the hole left behind by the Unclean One’s disappearance. The traces of this incursion would be gone soon.

There was still something, though. It had claimed that this wasn’t a true war- that far fewer daemons were coming than could. It told him not to expand the revolt, not to involve other villages. That, of course, would be sheer stupidity- it was surprising that hadn’t been done yet.

Regardless, there were a couple lessons to take from this, most notably that the fortifications would need to be improved.

Stepping forwards, Mortarion looked into the hole the Greater Daemon had made.

It was a circular opening, leading down to a cavern. Violet smoke swirled inside, concentrating in an area just outside Mortarion’s view. It was a line, a strangely offensive one- a violet break...

A rift.

That explained everything. The otherworldly energy dissipated across the cave’s floor, bringing with it multicolored abominations. These wandered around inside the basement- in all likelihood, new ones sometimes emerged from the rifts, and others burst through to get out, causing all sorts of problems for Mortarion and everyone else.

That was the reason!

The second point was worthless now- at least, it would have to be significantly altered. The caverns had to be explored. Some of them would have to be collapsed, and others could be calmed. Perhaps the rifts could be closed.

What the daemons were was no clearer than before, but what was clear was that Mortarion would need a weapon- it was dangerous below.

A sword, perhaps, but those would be impossible to find. Guns were used, but they were better against people. There had to be something- efficient for cutting, easy to lay enhancements on, not corrupted by the Warp already but able to defeat it, and present in the village. A spear- but those were piercing, not cutting. Perhaps a sword could be made.

Ruminating on these matters, Mortarion re-entered the village. Until the hour was over, he would simply walk around, helping as he could. It was a convenient way to help, to relax before an important moment.

It took a while for the giant, by then aiding in the repair of some wall, to comprehend how truly important the events of a few minutes ago had been.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_Before one reads this part, they should consider:
1. I am not an expert on the military.
2. This is Olympia, not Earth.
That being said, if anyone finds any massive issues they should say so.
Thus, Chapter 2, Part 4. There will be a delay before Chapter 3._

Perturabo knew that war wasn’t glorious.

Ntaolus, of course, had been different. That had been an attack on Lochos, a world war which Lochos had no desire for, a patriotic victory and a demonstration of their perfection. Still, for Ntaolus, it had been an ordinary war. The multitude of erupting rebellions, too, had been perfectly normal. None of them were fighting for freedom, no matter how much they could claim that.

Invading Jesthen, too, was a pragmatic step. It would give Lochos access to a number of resources, as well as a safer northern border. It would help reunite his father’s kingdom. Finally, it would galvanize the population and perhaps even stem the tide of Chaotic rebels.

It was an utterly pragmatic decision to send people to die.

Knaire, the self-styled queen of Jesthen, might not exactly understand this. She was a staunch patriot and possibly the only person in the province that wanted its independence simply because of a belief it was right. She had been called insane, and the inbreeding in the Jesthen ruling family could indeed have produced that.

All that, however, was secondary now. Now, Perturabo stood at the head of a massive army on the borders of Jesthen.

“Warriors of Lochos! This is not the time for inspirational speeches, as you all know what must be done. Jesthen and its self-styled queen have thrown away their loyalty for a second time in a year! They must be rejoined to our empire, simply because they are traitors.

Forward!”

It was as simple as that. Perturabo stepped forwards, armor clinking. Next to him was his cousin Kertios, his heir (as it was well-known, and shown by scientific tests, that the weirdness of Perturabo’s body rendered him effectively sterile) and general aide. Terion had remained behind to manage the kingdom; Kertios, meanwhile, had to learn the ways of warfare.

Strategy had been discussed the evening before, and now Perturabo was planning a straightforward attack on the outnumbered Great Army of Jesthen (whose force had been siphoned away by the Knaire-led Grand Army of Jesthen and the defending Giant Army of Jesthen).

It was unimaginable that they hadn’t been noticed, and their strategies were in all likelihood also known to the Jesthenian leadership. Regardless, their foes’ strategies were also known to Perturabo, assuming his spies hadn’t lied.

“Charge!”

That had been the Jesthenian left flank, striking- as expected- to Perturabo’s back and right. In front, meanwhile, was a small wall. The shooting from behind it convinced Perturabo that his information had been mostly correct.

“Kertios, stay behind.”

“Tyrant-”

“Use your head. Stay safe, because losing both of us in a single battle will certainly ruin Lochos!”

With that, Perturabo waved his psykers to summon a kine-shield, before taking out his own power-shield and stepping forth, into the fire.

His army followed.

After a few seconds, as Perturabo had virtually reached the wall, the kine-shield wavered from the fire being aimed it. Most of this fire had already stopped; most likely, ammunition had been limited.

As Perturabo slammed the first of his gauntlets into the wall, the psychic shield failed.

A barrage of las-bolts slammed into his followers. Most were stopped by armor, personal shields, and helmets. A few penetrated the well-defended Lochos warriors, but only a few.

The wall gave way, and after three impacts crumbled like it was pre-daemonic. A fog of dust obscured Perturabo’s vision, augmented as it was by his helmet.

The Jesthenians had it worse. For a split second, las-bolts flew in every direction- from the clouds to the caverns- before the dust floated down to the ground, revealing a terrified encampment.

From then, a series of moments passed through Perturabo’s vision slits.

A Jesthenian screaming in terror and jumping off the wall. Lasers focused into a single place in his armor, a potential kill, but scattered by the dust. The sky glowing red with fear of daemons. A transforming soldier, throwing off his uniform to reveal spikes and whips. Friendly fire by the enemy. Fallen daemons. Melee. Swords clinking on swords, only to be destroyed by Perturabo’s mace. A Jesthenian screaming in terror with hands in the air before being impaled on a spear from behind the ruined wall. A sword raised in triumph undercut by a low strike. A sword dropped in surrender rammed through its owner. Murder. Killing. Death.

All remaining Jesthenians screaming in terror and running away, Lochos’ lasers reaching through the growing dust and smashing through their deepest innards, emerging on the other sides only to cook a couple more unarmored defenders.

And Perturabo himself, too, never falling into the chaos of battle. Daemons rammed through and electrified. Foes ran down with a thrown boulder. Each enemy was no more than a target now, and each one unbroken a target that had to be hit.

When it was over, the soldiers of Lochos stood, enveloped by the white dust, in a field of rebels.

“That,” Perturabo said, “should teach them.”

As per the plan, the victors turned right. The path the wall had traced was a curved scimitar, ending in a small grove. No one was resisting inside; forwards, though, things were different.

The hill was being stormed. Kertios, of course, was in the lead, despite Perturabo’s gravest warnings. His armor bore the brunt of a hundred shots, a few of them penetrating. Still, his cousin fought on, even though the playing field was even.

The Tyrant roared as he rushed into a wall of spears- rushed into it from the side.

The line fell in an instant, many not even understanding what had happened. A few las-bolts from the front hit the pack still behind Perturabo, but they fought nevertheless, fought like wolves.

Wolves. That was the problem.

There was little of the discipline that was so important now. Perturabo knew, of course, that it was not required anymore, but the fires of battle could stoke other, darker fires.

“Retreat!”

To their credit, most of the detachment did indeed return to the grove. A few raged on, berserkers in a sea of blood.

That was not good.

The Jesthenians took the opportunity to retreat. They were mown down again by the fire of Lochos, mostly from Kertios’ line. The prince, of course, was resting now- no less than five actual wounds marred his armor.

There were a few Jesthenians that would still be resisting, on the other flank, but they were probably retreating as well. It would be an organized fallback, but an inevitable one.

The berserkers continued their chase, their hunt. They weren’t completely insane, but they were of no more use to Perturabo. Some were corrupted by Chaos already, of course, but most would fall in the closest weeks, corrupted by their own bravery and conviction. It was a fate which Perturabo had been responsible for, at least in part.

He shouldn’t have continued fighting like that. He shouldn’t have destroyed his own troops within minutes of taking the wall. The victory- the dominating victory- would have doubtlessly been an embarrassing defeat if the Jesthenians hadn’t become a mess themselves.

But Knaire’s mistakes should not have been the only thing that saved the Tyrant of Lochos.

Perturabo had much still to learn.

Behind, he heard the sounds of battle disappear, replaced by cheering and a few select strikes. It was over- truly over. A normal rebel would have sued for peace, and Perturabo might have accepted, though most likely he would have simply run through the palace. Jesthen, though, would resist to the last- at least Knaire would, until she was overthrown or slain in battle.

The Tyrant of Lochos knelt, looking at the chewed-up hill, itself injured in the blood of the day.

The sky, for a long time red, faded to a nondescript gray once more. The daemons were in equilibrium.

“We have won, Tyrant.”

“Barely, Kertios.”

“Barely? It was overwhelming!”

“We lost discipline, organization, and sanity. I believe many among us would have fallen to Chaos had the wall skirmish gone on any longer. Remember, Kertios, that we were not simply fighting the Jesthenians, for them alone we would have easily defeated.”

Kertiol nodded. “I saw it. Quite a few daemons were in their forces. That’s to be expected, though. Jesthen is a straightforward enough kingdom, though, and destroyed its own daemons. The forces of Chaos weren’t a big presence.”

“Kertiol, let’s take a walk.”

The giant and the prince stumbled into the dusty grove.

“The Chaos among their forces was easy to kill. But remember this- fighting Chaos, and daemons, outside is easy. It is far harder to destroy them from inside. The daemons of one’s heart are the deadliest ones of all- they are anathemes to any warrior, or healer, or politician, or artist. We are all tempted by Chaos, and it would do well to remember this.”

“But you defeated Dammekos!”

“Dammekos, yes, I killed. But Chaos is ever-changing. You know of the god of war- Khorne. Well, all warriors can fall to him. This is one reason discipline is necessary- the other being that it’s a good way to win.

I failed today. I won the battle, but many disobeyed my commands, drunk in battle. I didn’t stop the bloodthirst- that was my failure.”

“Of course, but sometimes bloodthirst is necessary. How else does one achieve glory?”

Perturabo sighed, the stench of iron- from blood and armor- on his lips.

“We do not fight Jesthen for glory. Our goals, as you know, are political and territorial. Glory is a nice distraction for many, but it is not the aim of war. Simply put, war isn’t glorious.”


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_Here we go again. Note: Post 1 has been updated with a few of my thoughts on the story.

Chapter 3, Part 1._

Reftog watched Angron return to the campsite with much relief.

Part of the relief was of course because their leader- their true leader- had safely returned. Reftog admired Angron, and Angron appreciated him. The greater part of Reftog's relief, though, owed itself to a promise of united leadership.

The giant was gone somewhat longer than Reftog would have liked- more than a full day. In that time, Uberburner- and she refused to take a normal name- had consistently challenged his authority. She desired to send out groups to search for Angron- a ridiculous idea, first proposed two seconds after Angron went out of sight.

Not having to officially talk to her anymore would certainly be convenient.

"Welcome back!"

Uberburner interrupted Reftog's words immediately. "Please forgive Reftog. He is not aware-"

In the faint glow of the fire, Reftog could best read his leader's expression as confused. Nevertheless, Angron quickly recovered. "Let's not argue after this triumph. My mission was successful, and soon we will be ready to fully take over the city."

Somehow, this quieted Uberburner. If only Reftog had such skills.

Angron began to mingle, talking to some escapees, listening to others. Words flowed, and Reftog, too, strained his ears to understand. It was largely idle chatter, but Angron let slip some careful tidbits of exactly what he was doing in the city- far more than scouting, as Reftog had already guessed. It was an interesting issue, and though Reftog suspected he was not supposed to know much about it, he still listened.

It was just too interesting.

Reftog's eavesdropping, though, was quickly stopped by a muscular hand grabbing him. After the initial response to hit it was suppressed, and its identity was ascertained to be Angron (it was just too big to be anyone else- even Bertgak was not this massive), Reftog asked the obvious question.

"Why-"

"You know why," the leader said, "so let's take a walk."

The voice had a slight menacing intonation to it, and Reftog agreed with a curt nod.

The walk in question led the former gladiators out of the site's area altogether, deeper into the woods. The fires were now surrounded by darkness, flickering as some eddy in the sky. It was a peaceful setting, calming the mildly frightened Reftog down significantly.

"You really shouldn't have listened."

"Perhaps. Though you were not whispering those facts; you were declaring them for all to hear."

"Yet none would hear all. Except you."

Reftog suspected this meant that no one else tried to piece together a complete image of Angron's mission. At least, he understood the parts that he could understand that way.

"But let's stop for now."

With this, Reftog couldn't argue.

"Grakix," Angron observed, "is getting restless. We must do something. And yet we cannot simply do what he expects us to. Reftog, I will take over the city that enslaved us. You will have a different mission." There was a slight pause. "Unless you refuse it, of course."

"What is it?"

"We need to surpass Grakix' expectations. In this direction from the camp lies Fedan Mhor; on that great peak lies a town. If you capture Fedan Mhak..."

"And if I don't?"

"You will have unlimited time. But no matter what, Reftog, remember this: you were my chosen deputy for a reason."

Reftog grunted. "I accept, of course. But be careful, Angron. You have become too much like a slavedriver for my taste."

The giant held back a reply, though Reftog had no idea what it was.

The walk back was a long one, with Angron explaining that the forest in these parts was three-layered, three domains of iron columns holding up a roof of blood. Reftog did not listen. Too much had changed. For though Angron had convinced him that the trip to Fedan Mhak was a mission, the young human knew that it could be easily viewed as exile.

* * *

Kefsr had left Wakrawa's village a while back. Mortarion had sent him to get help; thus, he was getting help. It was as simple as that.

Well, not quite that simple, but close.

The fields had come to an end, and only a hole-ridden plain extended towards the next mountain range. Kefsr was walking that plain, trying to glimpse a bit of another inhabited location.

A map of the area would really help now. But people rarely walked far, and however much it offended Kefsr's sensibilities, they were apparently okay with depending on intuition and luck for finding anyone else. That was bad enough normally, but attacking daemons made it even worse.

It was fortunate that, so far, Kefsr had only been charged once, and that was by something that exploded with the first shot.

Now, he trudged under the mist, trying desperately to spot anything that looked like a house. It was getting lighter, and to his right he thought he saw a wall rising. Approaching closer, his forehead's thump ascertained that the structure was indeed a wall.

"Come in!"

The gate guard, standing somewhere above him, had apparently noticed Kefsr. Perhaps that person had very good eyesight. Either way, as the gate- some distance to his left- opened, he got into the village.

The space enclosed by the wall had far better visibility than the mist-cloaked plains outside. Far ahead, the street ended with another wall; it was similarly styled, but if indeed there was one wall that encircled the settlement, it was a massive town. The houses were tall and even decorated; symbols painted on the walls warded off something or other. Wooden and stone ribs stuck out, making passage through the streets somewhat of an ordeal. The entire thing radiated an atmosphere of opulence compared to Kefsr's home, though it still did not compare to Mortarion's tales of his father's palace.

"Welcome to Farel," the guard said.

Kefsr nodded. "This place is... huge."

"Only as huge as it needs to be. I mean- pardon me, we rarely get visitors. I'm Pelrika."

"Kefsr."

"Well, you can stay at an inn, I suppose, or something. I mean, well, you're free to go."

"Actually," Kefsr replied, "I have something to talk about with the leaders."

"A diplomat? Are you from Tnays?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, in any case, the city hall is straight down the street, to your left. It's the big violet building. Now, excuse me, I'm going back up." Pelrika scrambled around Kefsr, who was standing still in some amazement at the massive size of the not-actually-village.

Then, he walked again. The obstacles made the roads as hard to traverse as he'd feared, but with some combination of scrambling, ducking, jumping and shoving he was able to get each one out of the way. It still amazed him why these Farelians had to make their streets so hard to pass; their village was at war, and they still didn't create such annoyances.

Though, of course, they didn't have the time either.

At last, beginning to collapse from tiredness, Kefsr saw the violet square of the city hall rise above him. It was a rather intimidating structure, covered in lines and spikes of all shapes and sizes.

Taking a breath, Kefsr walked in.

* * *

Sarebna wasn't afraid; uncertain, perhaps, and doubtful, but not afraid. Nothing would happen to her, not now. She was safe in the Irodian palace, protected by many walls and the sheer bulk of a loyal army.

She was, however, worried. In the near term, nothing would unseat either her or Irod. But soon, the tyranny of Perturabo's Lochos could prove overwhelming, and there was nothing Irod could do about it.

So she sent emissaries. Kaleot had roundly dismissed any talk of an alliance. Great empires like Ntaolus would rather swallow Irod than help it. Her land- once again a nation- was isolated.

The assembly's step, though, was ridiculous.

"Archon Tesrol, surely you are not truly considering an alliance with Talna?"

"My Queen, you may not understand this, but Perturabo will not calmly sit on his throne of steel. He will attack us once again, and try to subjugate us."

"But Chaos-"

"Chaos is a minor thing. Both our glorious nations are struggling for freedom. Do you not understand that? Or is your love for Kertios so strong that you would give up-"

"Stop."

The archon nodded. "My apologies for the undeserved insult. Surely, though, you understand that I am the one who has true power. I was elected, and I will struggle to fulfill the hopes of those that chose me."

Sarebna couldn't argue with that. Tesrol and the rest of the Council were the true rulers of Irod; she was merely a figurehead. It was the best possible system, or at least better, she believed, than the autocracy of Perturabo.

But that autocracy had at least avoided falling to the Dark Gods.

Walking out onto the balcony of her council room, Sarebna gazed north. No titanic mountains rose that way, no great forests; after a small hilly section, the land became a rock-strewn desert.

Sarebna looked down, as well. From the busy street, some children waved to her; she instinctively waved back, even as her eyes focused on the assembly building to the left of her. It was more ornately decorated than her palace, which wasn't saying much; her home's roof was supported by gold-painted columns, and that was about it. There were better things to spend money on.

To her right was a market; in between, the walls, followed by those hills and the desert.

The queen of Irod easily heard Archon Paresses approaching by his loud footsteps. His shoes were the only such in all of Irod, and probably in the entire world; they were wooden, their top side plastered with nails sticking outward. Paresses wore them specifically to ensure a bad fit, claiming that they made him more devout in his service to the people.

"Your Highness, I have this for you."

Sarebna took the object. It was a letter, with the royal seal of Lochos plastered onto it. Kertios' name was legible from some distance in a corner. She had to prevent herself from undue excitement; Kertios was an enemy now, and what love they had had was now over. Anything less would be a disservice to Irod. Thus, she tore her mind off the message.

"Interesting," she noted, "but how did the vote go?"

"I understand your feelings on the matter, my Queen, and I was able to convince the Council not to accept an alliance too quickly. Talnan diplomats will arrive in a few days, and we will negotiate any terms then."

"Very well," Sarebna said, "in a few days."


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_Part 2 of Chapter 3._

Reftog had said his goodbyes a long time ago.

There hadn't been many of those, of course. Many in the camp had been glad to see him go; the feeling was mutual. Reftog's relations with the others had only gotten worse after Angron's return.

So they went. Gareffi and Xeborx were two of Reftog's closest friends, and they had volunteered. No one else had expressed any desire to come, and the last thing Reftog wanted to do was to force them. That would be anathema to all they had fought for.

Then again, what they fought for was becoming increasingly unclear. The official motive was the obvious one- to free Desh'errea from tyranny. In truth, though, Angron was increasingly keeping to himself. Political arguments were destabilizing the refugees. Offensives were few and far between.

And how the god- Tzeentch- fit into this was still completely unclear.

The confusion was becoming too much for Reftog to process. Angrily bringing himself to focus, the revolutionary squinted his eyes in an attempt to see the end of the iron forest.

To his surprise, a few such holes were visible. They showed a way out, a path into the open space where Reftog had not gone for many days and where he did not particularly want to go. There was the town of Fedan Mhak.

There was the future second city in Angron's realm.

Reftog nodded to his companions. No other gesture was required; they all knew the plan. The three of them would covertly attempt to gain control of the town by any means possible. No disguises were needed: Fedan Mhak was an isolated town, built into the slopes of the most inaccesible mountain on Desh'errea. No one would know who they were.

But for now, they were alone. As such,there was no need to pretend. They were simply acting naturally, walking, Gareffi drinking from a canteen on her back and Xeborx breathing heavily. Neither would be allowed in the arena. Had they already forgotten what they had escaped?

Reftog hoped not, as to him it was unforgettable.

As Fedan Mhak came into view, Reftog knew the town was designed to equally etch itself into one's memory. Sky-high golden walls contrasted with cannons of impenetrable shadow, and onto these cannons dripped scarlet rivulets. Across the surface of the walls, an indcipherable script proclaimed something or other over and over. The letters repeated themselves in a short pattern, each time changing unpredictably in size. Below, small doors were clearly visible in a particularly large rendering of the motto.

After a second of staring, Reftog walked towards them.

Xeborx instantly broke into a run behind, heavy footsteps hurting Reftog's eardrums. From Gareffi, though, Reftog heard nothing. Risking a look back, he witnessed her gazing at the letters in wonder.

"Come on!"

The woman turned. "Can't you see? The walls are so beautiful!"

"They just say the same thing over and over again!"

"Yes, but so what?"

Xeborx at last caught up with Reftog. Then, the companion gave a sigh.

"I wouldn't mind a rest...."

Reftog was growing angry. He was the leader here, not them! But then again, he reasoned, he was not a master. He could not allow himself to become one. If someone wanted to rest, they could- there was no point in hurrying anymore.

"Fine. But I'll go in."

He did. Glancing around for any sign of trouble, Reftog came through the unsealed entrance. The space inside consisted of five glittering towers that rose along the wall to about half its height, as well a village of one-story wooden buildings. It was for the latter's center that Reftog headed. The towers, after all, seemed uninhabited, though not abandoned.

Fedan Mhak was, it appeared, a strange town.

And the strangeness was not limited to the buildings. The streets were empty of humans. A pack of feral daemons ran along one alley, clearly heading for one of the towers. A larger one, blood dripping off its elbows, crawled in the same direction.

Actually, now that Reftog thought of it, that could be the reason no people were walking outside.

One way or another, though, the daemons didn't attack Reftog, and thus he was able to continue to an inn. The language of the signs was in the same odd lettering as the writing on the walls. Then again, Reftog only knew one writing system, and that only roughly. Angron had explained it to him for about two days; then, other matters had taken precedence. There was no actual proof Fedan Mhakians spoke a different language; Reftog hoped they didn't.

In any case, though, the large size and average shape of the building showed its purpose. Reftog walked in. Inside, it contained a large reception hall, a counter sweeping across to Reftog's right. To his left was a fireplace with two large benches to its sides; next to it stood a rack of swords.

"Hey stranger! What're you doing o'tside during Demonrun?"

Reftog grinned: the language was the same.

"What's Demonrun?"

The innkeeper grinned too, teeth trying to carve her face apart. It wasn't clear if she was trying to look ridiculous, but she did. Reftog wondered, for a second, how wide a human could smile in principle; it was clear that this merchant did not have the record, but just how close was she?

After that moment of contemplation, the innkeeper restarted speaking.

"Price's one pr'son's w'rth of blood."

"Kill the dwarf!" screamed one of the young men sitting next to the fireplace. His hair was a mess and splattered with a bit of blood; stepping closer to him, Reftog tried to pinpoint the liquid's source. It revealed itself as a highly mutated corpse with its legs in the fireplace.

Around the dead body, five people were on the benches. Two were younger women, one was an ancient-seeming man, one was the screamer who had given recommendations and the fifth- seeming to be a child, but with adult proportions- was frowning while gazing at Reftog.

"Actually, I don't think I'll do that."

"Come on! He's the easiest target."

Reftog nodded. "Perhaps. But I'll check."

Walking up to the sword rack, he took one of the longer blades and weighed it in his hands. It fit. He had other weapons, of course, weapons he had brought with him, but it was not a good idea to reveal them now.

That still left the issue of killing somebody.

Reftog had done that for a long time; the gladiatorial arenas were based on ending life. Still, before there had never been a choice. Now, though, he could simply leave the hotel and sleep outside. None of those people had done anything to him (though the young man was quite annoying); murder had to be done only to keep his disguise, to allow Fedan Mhak to be turned to the ways of Tzeentch.

And indeed, the man didn't have to die even for that. Xeborx and Gareffi were still around, still able to fulfill the mission without him. In this case, killing was an entirely selfish act.

"Is this even worth it?" Reftog muttered.

Then, a stinging pain erupted in his right shoulder. Looking back, Reftog glimpsed the old man withdrawing a spear from his back. The pole was long and bloody, and Reftog suspected that this was the end.

The blood flowed, its dripping heard under Reftog's laboured breathing. Angered, he tossed his sword in the old man's direction, but insteaad it merely bisected his spear. The end that had killed- for there was no more chance of recovery- Reftog cluttered to the ground.

Red fluid continued flowing, and Reftog tried desperately to continue thinking. It couldn't end like this! It couldn't!

But it could. He fell to the ground at last, finding only the strength to point an accusing finger at the elder.

Then, something shifted and everything exploded.

Bolts of lightning shot through the room. Reftog willed them on, dimly aware their destination was the old man. The ancient convulsed, then fell, his back arching before breaking apart. Blood spurted from a dozen of his orifices, along with other bodily fluids.

Then, the lightning slowed. Reftog had avenged himself.

"Heal," he thought, and the lightning flared again. This time it impacted against Reftog's back, and a latticework of pain spread across his dullest part. It slowly escalated, then pleasantly concluded.

Waveringly, the spy stood up.

The surroundings were much the same. A new broken corpse was lying near the counter. People that had been sitting were now standing, staring at Reftog's ressurection.

No, not the ressurection. The lightning.

"Er, whatever you j'st did, I'll show you your new quarters. One b'dy lasts a week, by the way."

As he was ushered on to his room, Reftog tried to understand. What had happened? How had this chaos come about? What had he done?

What had he become?


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_Pt. 3, on Barbarus
_
"No."

Kefsr sighed. "But why? You have not yet managed to explain your reasoning to me."

"Do I have to explain anything? Do I have to explain that I don't want our children to be torn apart by Tnays' daemons? Do I have to explain that I don't want our farms to become hole-riddled battlefields? Do I have to explain that I have no need for Tnays himself to come down and wipe us all out? You can fight your war all you want; Farel has no need of it."

"Mayor Hekre, your children are already being torn apart by Tnays' diseases. The farms are giving less and less good food with each passing week. And do the tribute collectors not circle like vultures to steal all you have left? There is no loss in fighting against-"

"You cannot win." Hekre frowned, his rich chair seeming to repeat his gesture. "I am not loyal to Tnays; but I will not oppose him."

"I understand."

Kefsr had plenty of respect for Mayor Hekre, gained during their short meeting. Hekre's room was well organized and perfectly clean; Hekre himself, though bearing some signs of illness, covered them up; indeed, Hekre even had a personal filter to protect himself from disease, something few people used due to the inconvenience. In Kefsr's mind, no inconvenience was so great that death was preferable, but morons would be morons.

And Hekre's reluctance to help Mortarion was perfectly understandable as well. It was the sort of thing a wise ruler did. One should not make decisions without first thinking about them. Farel would not stand with them; but though for Kefsr that was horrible, for Hekre it was just one more important choice.

"Well, at least you considered it."

"That I did, but it was a ridiculous idea. Still," Hekre said, "I wish you luck. We all suffer under Tnays- under Nurgle- one way or another. You will be ground into dust; but the longer you endure, the better for the rest of us."

"Let us hope not."

Hekre shrugged, then got up. The orange chair's surface vibrated, emitting a disturbing note.

"It always does that. I have no idea why."

The mayor left to go into a private office. Kefsr thought of going back immediately, but chose to stay for now. He looked around at the walls, decorated with beautiful paintings of fog-covered mountains. These were the summits of Barbarus, where the tyrants lived.

The more he looked at them, though, the more suffocating their aura became, until it seemed that they were reaching through their frames and choking Kefsr. Coughing, the ambassador averted his gaze.

The chair emitted another note, this one lower. Carefully, Kefsr walked up to the furniture before sticking his pole-spear under the seat. There was no sound. Now boldened, the envoy cracked open the entire seat.

The chair creaked before finally cracking, giving off an insanely high-pitched (but soft) whine. A moment later, though, the screech stopped and Kefsr opened his eyes, which he had not even realized were closed. The space below the seat was a goop that smelled like a combination of the landfill and a corpse, as well as some odd mechanical components. The latter consisted of various glassy views, something that looked like a recorder, lots of wiring, and a lot of rust.

"What is this?" Kefsr called.

The mayor did not reply, so the "diplomat" repeated his words, this time louder. Now Hekre came running, a collapsng stack of papers in his hand. A teenaged woman was with him.

"My aide, Lafra. Now- what did you do to my chair?"

"I broke it open, trying to see what was inside. I'm very sorry."

"You had better be! What did you put inside it?"

"It was there already."

Lafra sniffed the mixture. "Definitely linked to Nurgle."

"Whatever. Now please get out. This was a rare chair, and I don't want you destroying all of my paintings as well. Seriously, go away."

Kefsr did. Walking back on the town's main street, he tried to understand why he had failed. The answer, as far as he could understand, was simply that he wasn't persuasive. He could live with that; it was merely a mistake to send him, rather than someone else. This was over, he was coming home, everything would be okay. He would survive, and so (separately) would Farel.

Then, to Kefsr's left, he heard an ascending rumble. He knew that sound- typically, it preceded daemon attacks. There was a moment of hesitation, though: he didn't know for sure if the noise held the same significance here. Perhaps it was a daemon coming to negotiate, or even a human.

Turning to that side, he confirmed his suspicions: people were not running away from the newly-formed hole, but merely looking at it in doubt and curiosity. The daemon that crawled out of it was met with more negative emotions, though. It grinned, then stood up on the back two of its eight legs.

"You have thought of rebellion. You will pay!"

Then it unleashed a mass of slime. It drooped down its scaled body, pooling at the bottom of its legs. The six of these not being used for standing fused together, morphing into two giant, transparent wings.

Aloft, its anatomy could be seen more easily. It looked not unlike a giant fly, though it had only two large legs, dangling to its back and down. Much of its body was black and grey; the head alone, a near-featureless ball with only two small eyes, was a glowing yellow. Its upper stomach dripped greenish slime down as it flew, which in turn dissolved pits in the pavement.

The citizens seemed to just stand there, even as the fly swooped down and stuffed an old woman into its mouth. The mouth then disappeared back into the yellowness of its face.

Something had to be done.

So Kefsr did something. The invader was large, but apparently not that powerful; in any case, if it was strong, he was going to die anyhow. Taking careful aim at the monster-fly, which had sat down on one of the buildings, he hurled his spear.

It pierced directly through one of the daemon's wings and its head.

Bile dripping from its insides, the plagueling jumped down from its perch, finally eliciting a reaction from the passerbys. Several people ran away from the impact site. Still, one man didn't, and was crushed under the insect's weight (or dissolved by its slime).

Quickly, the daemon fell apart, nothing left of it but pieces of skin. Those, too, slowly flowed under the ground.

"What was that thing?"

"A daemon- but why did it attack?"

The murmurs exploded, and the crowd began screaming and loudly talking. A mess of noise floated above Farel. His work done, Kefsr prepared to leave, then realized it was not over.

Tnays was now attacking this city. Whether they had wanted it or not, they were rebels.

Hekre walked into Kefsr's field of view. "Ambassador? Kefsr?"

"Yes?"

The worn-out mayor nodded. "The thing in the chair, Tnays was using to spy on us. He heard me sympathize with you, and- well."

"I did this?"

"You doomed our city!" Hekre yelled. "Thanks to you, I'm probably the last ruler of Farel! But," the mayor added, calming down, "I will not surrender. We may not be rebels by choice, but we will not lie down and die!" Hekre was virtually screaming once more, but this time with joy rather than anger. "You may have caused this, but we will support you! For if this is the end, then we will ensure that it is the end not only for us, but for them! Farel will stand!"

The crowd- gathering, now, about Kefsr and Hekre rather than around the fallen daemon- cheered.

"Kefsr, I- I am sorry for screaming at you. You would have ruined nothing if I had simply turned you away without a word. It was my fault, and more than that, the fault of Tnays."

"Well, then let this be remembered as the day Tnays made a great mistake!" Kefsr replied.

"Then let it. Prepare Farel for war! Reinforce the walls, get weapons, redouble your signs. I will lead the strategy meeting, at town hall, in five minutes. Anyone who wants to can come. Lafra- where are you? If you're here, come with Kefsr to their village, to help centralize. We are fighting together, and let us not forget that!"

It took all of two minutes for Hekre to leave, walking back to his building and broken chair. Lafra came too, and together they pushed through the wall of people.

"Well," Lafra noted, "this was... enlightening. So what's your town like?"

"Village. It's a village."

"Who rules it?"

"Well, Wakrawa is in charge, but really it's Mortarion. He's a giant that came from the tyrants, but he rebelled against them. Now he leads us."

Lafra scowled. "So you're still ruled by a tyrant? Are you serious?"

"He's not a tyrant. He rebelled against them!"

"He just wants to use this war to profit, then. He wants to take over the rebellion and rule in Tnays' place. Mark my words: you are fools to follow him. For sooner or later, you will understand that you have given your lives to overthrow a tyranny, only to replace it with another."

They walked the rest of the way in silence.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

_End of Chapter 3._

The Talnan delegation arrived in style, that much was certain. Sarebna had watched massive engines roll towards the city, each carrying only a few men and women on it but bedecked with beautiful, and slightly unsettling, posters. Everything exuded a feeling of wrongness, but it was mild; the alien nature of Chaos had not become completely ingrained in the diplomats.

But though only partially corrupted, the Talnans were certainly fully decadent- this delegation ate up more resources than most armies, judging by its size. The four mega-tanks each had a general color scheme- red, blue, yellow-green or magenta- and each was intricately detailed, so that even when they stood directly outside the city their full shape could not be understood.

Regardless of the shape and beauty, though, Sarebna recognized the machines as what they were- a behemoth threat. It was fortunate she had prepared countermeasures.

The need for these was underlined when only about half of each crew left their engine. These walked through the gates, greeted by trumpeters. The archons led four hooded figures towards the assembly building from whose highest floor Sarebna now watched the proceedings.

"Impressive," Kilises noted.

"That it is," Sarebna noted to the servant mechanic, "but not in a good way."

They watched as the four faceless ones entered the grand doors, and Sarebna nodded to Kilises.

"I have to watch the assembly."

If she were a king rather than a queen, the conventions of Irod would permit her to speak freely during official receptions, but even then only sparingly. As it was, she had to simply greet the visitors and look on as a treaty that was likely to destroy their nation was created.

Not that she was planning on doing that, either.

Fluttering down staircases, Sarebna arrived just in time. Only formalities were left before the real discussion could begin. The throne sat on the second level of the great hall, positioned perfectly for observation; below it, the entire assembly was gathered. At its front stood the four leaders of the Talnan delegation, each entirely covered by a cloak the color of their engine. The red-cloaked one was by far the tallest, while the green-cloaked was either insanely overfed or pretending to be. The pink-cloak might have been a woman- it was hard to tell.

"Welcome, guests," Sarebna declared from her podium, "to the kingdom of Irod."

She heard whisperings among the archons; some of them had probably realized that in this case, procedure for introductions should not have been followed.

"For what you have done, you have been damned already, and you seek to drag the world down into oblivion with you. I do not know whether you will succeed. In any case, though, remember this,"- the mumbling now covered the entire audience- "that no matter what, those of us still loyal to the concept of freedom will not surrender as easily as you think! Thank you."

It felt perfect, even though Saberna knew no new voters would be convinced by her rant, and some might even be pushed away. That would weaken- but there would be nothing to weaken if she failed now.

Sarebna seated herself as the whisperings died down, and then the discussion began in earnest. Proposals, statements of purpose, and greetings flew by. The floor was in mild confusion, but with time order was again reestablished.

"We thank the Talnan delegation for arriving. Now, let us move to private negotiations. This assembly will meet again in three hours; until then, it is dismissed."

Sarebna was ushered out, softly but unmistakably getting pushed out of the room. Nekwera, her chief maid, met her as she was ascending one of the back stairways, heading back to her room.

"Going back to the balconies?"

"I've spent a long time watching lately, haven't I?"

"It is for the better." Nekwera paused awkwardly, then backed away. "But- but it is also for the better this ends here."

Nekwera's skin shifted, and a pink-skinned daemon leapt at Sarebna.

The queen yelped as she dodged the first attack; this was ridiculous! There were assassination attempts, but never before had anyone tried to kill her so soon after arriving. Besides, she couldn't work out how seeing her mangled corpse would lead anyone to make an alliance with Talna.

"We know you sabotaged the cannons," the daemon growled, standing up once more, "and we inform you that the cannons are not the only weapon we possess."

"I did what?"

That was a lie, of course; though Irod's queen had not personally broken the wiring, she had ensured it would be done. Despite doing her best to be secretive, it appeared, she had made it clear who the orders came from- somehow.

Thinking of politics distracted Sarebna for long enough that the daemon shot off a volley of spikes. Two of them hit her, piercing her feet and pinching them to the floor. Fortunately, each needle was a thin one, but they hurt nevertheless.

The assassin prepared to launch another series of shots, then promptly disappeared.

"What?"

"Your Highness, what happened?"

Sarebna looked down at her feet, quickly healing the damage that had been dealt to them. The spikes were gone, having disappeared with the assailant.

"Daemon..."

Sarebna felt faint now, and barely understood what had happened as the handmaids carried her to the hospital. She barely saw the lights and instruments above her, made to detect anomalies. She barely heard the healer talk of her situation to someone in the distance.

"Lots of Warp-toxin... small container... sure she'll... prognosis... prognosis..."

She could barely observe anything by now, her entire body feeling as if it should have lost consciousness a long time ago. It stubbornly refused to do that, though. For some time she lay there, lost in her own cloudy thoughts.

Then something pierced the clouds, and with a shriek of pain Sarebna was truly awake. It felt as if her insides were being torn out; but she allowed the pull, even welcomed it. Irodian healers could treat the early stages of daemonic issues; such skills were needed when living in the Warp, and the queen knew she was being their target now. Perhaps she would survive the experience if she just pushed-

And she did. Black swaths of her soul were torn away, cleared off. This was the daemonic essence that had attacked her; this was what had to be destroyed.

"My Queen," Archon Paresses noted from her side, "the operation is successful."

It was. The black mass- though why Sarebna thought it was black, she did not know- was gone.

"Thank you." The words had been directed at the healer, who was concluding her spellweaving. It took a moment for Sarebna to recognize what had happened: she had been attacked, and Paresses- why was he here? "How did I not hear you coming?"

"You were completely out of consciousness, your Highness, to the point where it was impossible to talk to you. The poison tried to drag you with it, to- to the other realm. To the Warp."

"It failed, though, didn't it?"

"There should be no aftereffects."

Sarebna lightly hopped off the bed, but Paresses stopped her with a gesture. "It's over. You can remain and rest: the Talnan delegation has been sent away in disgrace. Our wards have shown the assailant was in fact a daemon, as if anyone would have thought you'd lie." Paresses grinned. "Well, this episode is over."

Screaming from outside interrupted the archon's gloating.

Paresses dashed to the window, and Sarebna turned, only to see a scene of massacre. The street was enveloped in carnage, though no shots were being fired. The howling winds seemed odd- somehow- and then the queen saw it.

From the great engines, now filled with their full crews, a miasma seeped. It had already enveloped the territory near the gates, and bodies littered these alleys. The murder's mechanism was unclear, but it was obviously painful.

Then, as Sarebna watched, the tide turned. With a resounding explosion, something slammed into one of the engines. The miasma slowed its advance. Now revealed, the guard fire continued its fire.

"They're right next to the engines. Why didn't they fire before?" Paresses asked.

Sarebna knew why. In the clearing smog, bodies were visible in direct proximity to the enemy. Some held small rocks in their hands, others torches. One was carrying a handheld cannon.

They had been rabble, common citizenry secretly pushed to rise up against Talna, surely seen as discontents by the protected tower. The hope had been that the cannons would explode, meaning the delegation would fire but no casualties would occur. Now hundreds of innocent people were dead, their blood spilled by their ruler.

This was her doing. This was her plan.

An engine exploded, and the other tanks fled the town at a velocity that was quite impressive for their bulk. Red wreckage remained.

So did the bodies. They had fallen to save the rest of Irod, but it was not a voluntary sacrifice.

"This should never have happened," Sarebna whispered.

Paresses shrugged. "And yet it ended in victory."

That it had. And this- the ruined street, the shriveled corpses, the rivers of tears- was what victory looked like.


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## VulkansNodosaurus (Dec 3, 2010)

It's been a while since I updated this. I'm thinking about continuing it, but reading back over it, there's quite a lot I'm not satisfied with.

So does anyone particularly want me to continue, or should I concentrate my limited energy on other projects? I ask because I don't want to abandon a large project like this, especially if anyone was actually following it.


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