# The rider's ascension



## Tau22 (Apr 27, 2009)

Hello, there, mortal.
This is the beginning of a tale most delightful. A story about a servant of the dark mistress, Slaanesh. About one, who rides a steed of metal and whose head is on fire.
Shall we look into the prince's past? Or are you scared of the endless delight within?
I do hope you'll enjoy it!

(Please, feel free to point out grammar mistakes, especially in the 'capitalization' category.)

*******
Intro
*******

Bentala, the capitol of planet Maklos. A few days ago, it had been a grand, beautiful marvel of imperial architecture, totally devoted to the God Emperor of Mankind. Now, however, it was little more than a massive ruin. Corpses, civilian or otherwise, littered the streets, while streams of blood flooded the sewers. The attackers rejoiced.
Marching forward, the sinful host was truly an image of terror. Protected by desecrated armour and warpal hides, their every step spread the corrupted essence of Chaos into the ground. The legion was armed not only with rounds and shells, but also with something their ears perceived as the most glorious of choirs. The fallen marines and their daemonic allies searched for survivors, eager to cause even more suffering. They were the most perverse of the fallen ones, fanatically devoted to their one and only dark mistress. Hated enemies of the the Imperium, yet His children.

But even such foes can miss a few survivors. Within one of the city's rather intact structures, hid a small group of space marines. Six of the Emperor's finest, armed with bolters and their sergeant's power fist. Their power armour was of a dark blue, with a white mark, omega, on their shoulder pads. Called to the planet's defence, the Ultramarines had answered. And failed. There were no excuses for their loss. Now and then, they gazed outside, watching the sea of heretics. Except for one, who merely sat there, propped against a wall.
“We are doomed,” he spoke, silently.
All the others turned to him, but only the leader replied:
“I'd rather be doomed than without hope, like you.”
“Hope, brother? Such an emotion left me when I first saw their numbers. No one is coming. We all know that. We knew that even before their shells turned buildings to dust. I say we go outside and banish as many as possible back to the Warp. Better to die in glory than like cowards hiding from their enemy.”
Silence ruled over the room after that, with each of the supersoldiers contemplating the pair of options. To fall in battle with heretics, or be hunted by heretics and then killed? Indeed, the first option sounded far more glorious. One of them looked outside again, but this time, the blue among rubble was only too noticeable and the marine just in time to avoid several shots sent his way. Sarge was not pleased.
“Damn them! Are you ready for your doom, brother?”
The marine rose, his weapon already aimed at the room's entrance.
“Ready to die at your side.”
Rapid footsteps could be heard and the door was soon flung open, revealing several figures. Each carried what looked like a lasrifle and was afflicted by varying sings of mutation. Clad in standard-issue combat vests, the traitorous guardsmen aimed at their former allies and opened fire. The las-shots, while effective against flesh, did little but heat the blue ones' power armour. The bolter rounds sent back, however, proved more than effective, as the heretics were reduced to little more than lumps of flesh.

And there was an absence of noise, save for a few shouts from the outside. But then, came a mighty racket, which dwarfed all others. It became even louder, a sound of a mechanical engine mixed with terrible wails of many damned souls. And then, it was gone. Along with the cries. Then, there came the sound of armoured boots crushing the stone ground beneath them. Slow, purposeful, the steps came ever closer.
The Ultramarines could hear another door, beneath them, get torn out of its hinges. Their sights were on a staircase heading up to their level. A shadow appeared on the wall and grew. Disfigured, daemonic, even the finest could somehow feel... afraid. The being's dark aura could be sensed from far away. As the first hint of pale skin appeared, they unleashed yet another volley.

In a few seconds, their clips were empty and the hallway was filled with dust. A blob of plasma suddenly exited the cloud and buried itself deep within one of the finest's faces. The warrior screamed and fell to the ground, twitching in pain for a few more moments. The daemon then ran straight at them, in his full, warpal glory. Armour similar to that of the traitors outside, just of a dark blue hue, adorned by the symbols of Slaanesh. His face was almost featureless, with only two blood red eyes and a mouth adorned with sharp fangs. Two horns could also be seen, with searing, blue flames rising just behind them. The creature's left hand wielded a plasma pistol, which shot at another of the marines, hitting the supersoldier's neck-joints. The scream was cut short, but a grin still appeared on the daemon's face. A large daemonic blade was held in the other and soon bit deep into the flesh of two more, leaving only the sergeant, doomsayer and warpal entity alive. The prince of the Warp laughed maniacally, then shouted:
“Foolish mortals! Let me free you from your slavery to a rotten corpse,” the sword was thrown with incredible speed and embedded itself in the regular marine's chest, sucking the very soul out of the soldier. The last survivor charged at the daemon prince, connecting the large power fist with his jaw. His head merely moved to the side and then looked back at the sergeant, ”not bad. My turn!”

The marine tried to strike again, but the immortal's palm effortlessly stopped his weapon. An armoured gauntlet then closed around his helmet and yanked it to the side, which was accompanied by the sound of ceramite getting torn apart. The blue piece of headgear then fell to the ground and a headless body landed next to it, spraying blood at its surroundings.
He turned and slowly walked outside, where the massive crowd was celebrating victory. The great one was greeted by screams and laughter. One of the marines exclaimed:
“Good thing we got you instead of Lucius!”
“Indeed,” he replied, “that fool would have already died twice.”
All the surrounding fallen ones laughed and then went on to pillage what was left of the city. Oh, how he hated that stupid excuse for a champion. With no abilities other than not quite dieing all the time. Such a pathetic worm did not deserve the mistress' attention, yet... His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a female voice. Seductive, calm and well-known to him:
“Lord Doomrider.”
The prince to see a daemonette of a humanoid body and features, except for three, back-curved horns on her head. Dark purple skin, golden eyes, long dark blue hair and strategically-placed garments. His grin grew wider as he replied:
“Aaaaaah, Kischa! I have been looking for you!”
She revealed her forked tongue.
“You flatter me, great one. I see you have won yet another conflict.”
“It's not like I did all the work, but I'll take the praise, heheheheh. Where I go, Chaos is the victor.”
“Indeed, my lord. Shall we head back into the Immaterium? I believe the corrupted ones can take care of things from here.”
“Right you are,” he walked closer to his vehicle. Some would call it an attack bike, but it was far more than that. Painted in the same hue as its owner's armour, it had many adjustments. Three massive, sharp ramming blades were at the very front, strong enough to pierce through a predator's plating. Slightly above them, rested a twin-linked meltagun, if the target didn't like standing in place. Then there were the daemonic denizens trapped within. 'One can never have a ride too pimped out' as he had once said. Doomrider got on and grabbed both of the bike's handlebars, before turning to her, “hop on, sweetie.”
She did so with joy, grabbing him around the waist almost immediately afterwards. And, with one last fit of psychopathic laughter, they blasted off, vanishing from the mortal realm in seconds.


----------



## Inquisitor Varrius (Jul 3, 2008)

Tau22 said:


> *******
> Intro
> *******
> 
> ...


Some of my critiques are more stylistic than anything, but I fixed what grammar I saw. Your DP (Doomrider) seems to have split-personality issues. If that's what you're going for, do it, but otherwise the same character probably shouldn't say "Foolish mortals! Let me free you from your slavery to a rotten corpse" and "One can never have a ride too pimped out." There's too much personality clash, it makes the character a little weird.


----------



## Tau22 (Apr 27, 2009)

Hah, thank you for the quite thorough rectifications within the text, Inquisitor! Hope it's good now.

I wanted ol' DP to seem rather unstable. Also, I always try to somehow add tiny lighthearted moments into my work. No tale should be completely dark, if ya ask me. Seemed like a fine opportunity. Have any suggestions for replacements?


----------



## Inquisitor Varrius (Jul 3, 2008)

I was just making sure you were intentionally doing that; some writers forget what their character sounds like. If he's mentally unstable (which, IMHO, most DP's are) then that's ok. It's your story & characters, I was just making sure that was intentional.

Incidentally, I like the cackling laugh for a biker daemon.


----------



## snarst (Aug 22, 2009)

That deamon has a pimped out ride. :biggrin: funny


----------



## Tau22 (Apr 27, 2009)

@ teh Inquisitor: Again, thanks for the help, mate! Hope the future chapters don't bore.

@ snarst: Ahaaaah! Exactly the effect I was hoping it would create!


----------



## Inquisitor Varrius (Jul 3, 2008)

I apologize for my lack of humour. I'm more into Agatha Christie and Mark Twain, both of whom rarely use the phrase "pimp." I'll help out with grammar, but I'll leave the jokes to you hip & happenin' youngsters.


----------



## Chaosrider (Feb 3, 2010)

hey, this is really good. Only thing i spotted is you called him "doomsayer" when you first introduced him in the fight against the ultras, and then called him doomrider. not exactly hard to work out which one he is, but it makes it inconsistent.

anywho, have some rep.  looking forward to more


----------



## Tau22 (Apr 27, 2009)

Hope ya like chapter 1!
As before, all constructive criticism is welcome!

**********************
Chapter 1 - Taking the fort
**********************

“He is a marvellous creature. Ruthless, powerful, yet driven by a diabolical cunning. And always prepared to appreciate the nature of fine art, whether it be a monumental structure or defiled corpse. A true follower of Slaanesh, completely devoted to the one, true goddess. And my creation.
Yet it had not always been so. No, his beginnings were quite small, humble. No one else could have imagined the greatness he was destined to become.”

******

Malkor. A jungle world, located dangerously close to the Ultima Segmentum's edge. Still an untamed, primal place, filled with poisonous plants and exotic, yet deadly creatures. A place of little importance to the Imperium, with only small amounts of minable resources and an equally minimal human population, housed within a small fortress in the only deforested area on the planet. There, the people lived simple lives, devoted to the Emperor, but oblivious to the dangers of the galaxy.

Oblivion lead to downfall.

All contact with the planet was suddenly cut off one day. No warp storms, or anything. There was simply no reply. A small detachment of the Imperial Guard's troops was sent to investigate. And was never heard of again. Several psykers, however, reported feeling a strange, corrupting force around the entire planet. Chaos.
Upon hearing this, the nearest Space Marine Chapter was sent to foil their fallen kin's plans. Those brave warriors, were part of the Scorchers, a successor Chapter of the White Scars. Experts at lightning-fast and brutal assaults. Their mettle would be tested, yet again.

******

A battle was raging around the planet's only fortress. Countless heretics shot at the Emperor's finest time and time again, with lasguns or outdated bolters. Grenades landed all around the marines, but the marines did not slow down. Nearly a hundred stood before the walls, returning fire, keeping the traitors within occupied.
Their power armour made all of the enemies' attacks useless. Split in half, the suit's left half was a bright orange, while the other was a pure white. On their shoulder-pads, the head of a dragon could be seen. Its scales were green, with solid blue for its eyes.
A thunderous sound filled the area, as assault marines took to the sky, landing behind the cultists mere moments later. Chainswords tore them apart mercilessly, spreading the Emperor's judgement.

Battlecries suddenly came from the jungle and several dozen figures appeared from among the flora. The fallen ones wore black armour, with hints of purple and tainted by Chaos. Their weapons were also enchanted by the dark energies. Some merely caused more damage, but specialised servants of the Mistress spread the very wails of the Warp across the battlefield with their sonic blasters.
The loyal ones were caught unawares and several fell to the chaos marines' assault. But the disadvantage was only temporary, for the roar of engines soon came, louder than the heretics. Attack bikes rode from the jungle, their riders eager to enter the fray. Upon seeing this, the slaaneshi troops paused for a moment contemplating their options. As a hail of rounds was unleashed from the bikes' twin-linked bolters, it became apparent, that there was only one solution. A very rapid tactical retreat, during which, they would have to try not scream like little girls.

And so, the battle was won, with the last remaining traitors scattering within the jungle, yet again. But the war for Malkor had just begun.

******

Several groups of marines made their way through the fort's insides, searching for more heretics. Now and then, shots could be heard, proving, that the search was successful. One of these squads was unusually small, consisting only of two marines. No, not mere marines. Two battle-brothers, whose friendship had been forged during a few dozen conflicts in many distant parts of the galaxy. Both were also experts in fast assault, on bikes, of course.

Every pilot or rider needs to stretch his legs and make sure he can still aim a bolter correctly, which is why they were in the rather narrow hallways, ready for a filthy sinner to run at them any moment. But no such scare came, rather, the corridors were eerily quiet, with no signs of life. Finally, they reached the end of the long path and a steel door stood before them.
With a brief look at each-other, one moved to the right and approached the door's console, while the other stuck to the opposite wall, his weapon ready. With a few clicks, the metallic plates slid to the side, permitting entrance. And nothing else happened. No battlecries from cultists, no enemy fire.

Cautiously, they entered the room, twisting in every direction, looking for danger. The oval room, however, was empty. Lowering their bolters with relief, one of them spoke, both t his comrade and every other marine in the building, via comm-link:
“This is Dualshell. Sector B clear. No enemy resistance,” no response came, which was typical of the sergeant. The marine turned off the link and turned to his brother, “well, seems like we're done for now.”
“Yeah. Good think, too. I need to clean all the tainted blood off my bike.”
“Same here, heheh. Is the air here safe?”
“Sensors are not picking up anything strange. Safe as can be, Damien.”
Without another word, the other marine unlocked the safeties on his helmet and slowly removed it. A face belonging to a rather young man was revealed, with short, black hair and light blue eyes. Damien breathed in the air, before speaking yet again:
“Aaaah, nothing like some rather fresh air. Try it, Algar.”
“Very well,” the second man was older, with many wrinkles on his brow and a strange wisdom in his brown eyes. He scratched the skin on his bald head, before continuing, “you are right, breathing without a respirator is much better.”
“Indeed,” Damien's eyes looked around the chamber. The steel floor was covered by a simply, white carpet and a single light hung from the ceiling. Nothing special. But the walls were covered by things quite extraordinary. Paintings of all kinds and styles were all around, some good, some terrible. And it became apparent, why none had stayed here. They wished for the gallery to remain intact, “interesting.”
“I suppose. I've never been one for art.”
“You have to admit, even though they do all those disgusting things, they know how to spend their free time.”
A booming voice suddenly filled the halls:
“Perhaps you'd like to join their ranks and experience it?”

Both marines turned towards the gallery's entrance and saw a new figure approach. The figure's armour, unlike theirs, was completely black and heavily decorated with skulls and holy inscriptions. The skull-shaped helmet was turned to them, a bit frightening even to the seasoned soldiers. Algar spoke, quietly:
“Chaplain Isaac.”
The old space marine moved closer and looked straight into Damien's eyes.
“What are these heretical words, which leave your mouth?”
“I assure you, brother, that I still despise the slaaneshi scum just as much as you.”
“That is good to hear. I'd hate to torture such a promising pilot,” Isaac's stance became much more relaxed and he raised his crozius, “sergeant Barius is leading a group of flamer-equipped brothers on a small purification run. I need one of you to stay here and make sure no one gets into the room.”
The youngest of them smiled.
“I guess that's me.”
“Yes, you were a probable candidate. Now, then, Algar, go to the mech-bay and clean your vehicle, before its machine spirit gets angry.”
“Yes, chaplain.”
With a nod to the chaplain and his friend, the bald one left. The chaplain spoke one last time to Damien:
“And feel free to shoot one of the paintings, if you want.”
“Wouldn't that be a waste of ammunition?”
“True. Cut them with your knife.”
“Orders acknowledged,” Isaac silently chuckled, before turning and slowly walking away. The only marine left stood there, at the gallery's entrance, mumbling to himself, “I just had to open my big mouth.”


******


Fly on the dragon's wings,
fly to endless glory.
You shall see a fate most gory,
which his breath brings.

Enemies of the Emperor, have fear.
For the dragon's teeth are near.​ 
- folk song from the Scorchers' homeworld, Yucatan. Sung before battle by all battle-brothers.


----------

