# Every Silver Lining Has A Cloud.



## LongfangFenrika93 (Jan 22, 2012)

The Death of Innocence​



Ibn Coruhn watched as the dreaded devils he had dreamt about milled around him. They were covered from head to toe in solid plates of polished hard-stone, the colour of worn silver. Two massive shoulder-plates, the size of Ibn’s flimsy bronze shield, protected the demons’ neck. His chest plate rose and fell in heavy breaths, like the brooding of a malevolent spirit. They were huge. Impossibly huge, Ibn thought. They could not have been born of the womb like Ibn’s tribesmen and him. They have been crafted, he thought, by the Archfiend himself, _Diobolhus_. They moved in the likeness of men. No they didn’t, Ibn corrected himself. They moved like giants, slow lumbering footsteps, efficient and delicately, albeit thunderous and frightening. 

The hard-stone around their legs was as thick as the trunk of a _whaka_ tree, with veins of solid black material snaking between shin and thigh, hissing like snakes. The joints whined like the death cries of one the flightless birds from the plains. Their metal-masks were the very vision of terror. Great iron-grills covered the space where their mouths should have been, and steaming air poured from them like a frozen stream breaks ice during spring. Their eyes were like the stars in the sky, only they shone with an inner light that seemed to be from _Ether-realm_ itself. A deep blue, almost purple shimmered and left hazy trails in the lowlight when the demons moved, and glowed against hard-stone, wrapping the black helm in a ethereal light. 

They carried heavy-looking boxes with handles and buttons. They looked menacing. Ibn shifted his war-staff and gulped. His tribesmen had gathered in a small hill, led by their king the Great Doyen Ibn Narsarch-Cal who stood atop the highest point. Flags and banners fluttered in the coarse wind as hundreds upon hundreds of Valley-Dwellers stood to hear the words of the Demons-from-the-stars. They numbered only around ten, and they eyed Ibn’s fellow tribesmen warily, as if waiting for a loose arrow-tip, or a cry to attack. Narsarch-Cal was dressed in _larach_-skins, the head of the slain beast dropped over his brow, and two large fangs came to rest at his jaw. His face was covered in the war-paint, blood-red and in a swirling spiral pattern. His beard was long and thick, white as the twin moons and braided with pearls and rubies.

More men were coming, from across the other valleys and plains and coasts and woods. For now Ibn was content to studies these strange giant-men. Their leader stood away from his men, and was only distinct in that he wore an open-winged two-headed eagle across his breast, shining like freshly moulded gold. His shoulder-plate was trimmed in the same shade as his twin-headed eagle, and he wore a cloak of deep black, nothing like the rags that Narsarch-Cal wore. Ibn chewed on his _kaffa_ grass as he looked down to his own garments. Barely covering his thinly built frame, his rags were soaked in oils and perfumed with grasses and herbs from his around his small hut but two days from this gathering place. He smiled as he thought of Klara and his boys, helping out in the land and playing with their wooden figures. They were growing up quickly, and Ibn feared the day they would be called into the service of the Great Doyen, just like he had. 

The air had a gust of importance about it; the atmosphere was tense, like the eve of battle. The chants and roars of more tribes came with the wind, rising like the wailing of children in the night. Ibn looked to the demons, but they never flinched as they were faced with hundreds, if not thousands of possible angry warriors. Ibn couldn’t figure out if that scared him or not. 

**

Arte looked out over the savages and increased his grip on his bolter ever so slightly. They dressed in rags and wielded wooden staffs, but there was over a thousand out there, possibly more and Commander Sethre had yet to say a word. What was he waiting for? Arte scoffed in his helm and wandered over to where Teucer was standing, his fellow Astartes similarly disgruntled. The Great Crusade was still being fought and here they were, trying to communicate with a tribe of fucking illiterate subhumans. Let Lorgar and his sycophants deal with them, or better yet, Angron and his butchers. 

‘What are we doing in this shithole, sir?’ Teucer asked; his frustration evident. For fifty years they had been following these Terrans around. Arte’s Primarch was the greatest being he had ever seen, but the decisions to let the Homeworlder’s lead the rest had rankled Arte and his fellow Tyrrhenioi. They had bled with their father on the cold ice flows of Numencia and they had given their lives to free their world from the depredations of the hated xenos. 

‘I don’t know Teucer; it’s the Primarch’s orders. Terra knows what he wants from these people.’ He looked out across the crowd of shaggy-looking tribesmen. ‘We should be battling Greenskin and tearing them from their fucking pits’. Arte was sick of hearing of Horus’ war victories, or Russ’ Wolves trampling across resistant worlds and bringing more and more planets under the Emperor’s new Imperium. The Second Legion would fall behind if this farce continued, and they deserved so much more. But they were but a shadow in the eyes of the rest of the Crusaders. They didn’t even merit a name. Whatever their gene-father had said to the Emperor as he came to Numencia had cursed them in his eyes, forever tarnishing the Legion. The Primarch’s brothers shunned him, or so it was said, for Arte had never even seen an Astartes from a fellow Legion. Never had they fought and bled with their brothers in the distant parts of the galaxy. 

Alas, they were shepherding savages in this reeking backwater. 

Arte slid his ceramite-encased fingers over his boltgun, checking that it was ready to fire if necessary. He wiped away at blemishes on the dull silver coating, unadorned and bare. His hair flapped in wind, his tight braids clicking against the cold metal of his armour. His helmet was attached to his belt, the cold blue lenses of its eye-slits staring back eerily. His face was hard and lined, even for an Astartes. His thick jaw was cut from stone, solid and sharp, while his nose was a mesh of scar tissue and misshapen bone. The skin on his face was pale, paler than, they were told, the Blood Angels and the Night Lords, whose faces were renowned for their cold unlight. His deep golden-tinged eyes flickered as he gave the large crowd of tribesmen another quick glance. He was almost itching for a fight, to shed blood and split skulls. Aargh, why couldn’t they just kill these vermin, he thought darkly. 

Such fine Imperial citizens they would make. 

The tribal leader descended from his natural dais, walking slowly and purposefully, as if he were performing on a Numencan Stage. He was surrounded by huge men; even for unenhanced wild men they were large. They carried large wooden staves, pitted with sharp spikes of bronze, and topped with heavy balls of metal, large enough to split a man’s head. Arte watched as the old, but strong, warrior-leader took his time. Arte scoffed, disrespectful louts. 

Their commander, Commander Idris, began to approach the aging warrior with his arms wide and hands spread, his weapons left at the dropsite near Arte as a sign of respect and goodwill. His flowing golden locks were the opposite of Arte’s oil black mane of hair. The natives surrounded the commander in a semi circle. Arte was uneasy; even an Astartes of Idris’ calibre would be hard pressed in a mass of angry, muscled wildlings. He spoke on the vox to his warriors, telling them to prepare for any eventuality. The Second Legion would not be caught unawares by some uncouth tribesmen. 

The commander conversed with the old man for what seemed like an age, and Arte’s frustration grew with every passing moment. The Primarch wasn’t party to this madness surely. Either these men would submit to Imperial rule or they wouldn’t. Even Teucer began to pace, much to the obvious discomfort of the warriors watching the irritated Astartes. Arte smiled, he hadn’t noticed their worried looks. 

He stopped in the midst of his pacing at the sound of raised voices. The old man was shouting at Commander Idris. What was more unbelievable was the sudden shifting of the cloud of people surrounding the commander. The huge warrior-guardians wielding the heavy spike-staffs ran towards the commander, screaming. Their heavy wooden staffs swung down at him, hoping to crush his unprotected skull; the commander broke them upon his wrist-guard, punching the first through his animal-mask, a mist of blood exploding where his head once was. He kicked another in his skin, the ear-splitting crack of bone unmistakable. Commander Idris roared to Arte before he was lost in a mass of legs and fists and clubs and staves. 

‘Lock and load Tyrrhenioi, we have world to burn.’ Arte shouted gleefully, his grin almost audible through his vox-piece. He fired his boltgun first, the round exploding into chest of the old tribal leader. The first ranks of the savages covered the heath in thick red blood as they screamed and fell into each other, their bodies collapsing in a haze of visceral ruin. The boltguns of the Second Legion barked and howled as they cut into the ribs, thighs, heads, chests and stomachs of unprotected natives. He heard Teucer shriek in laughter, the sound unnatural, guttural and not his own.

Arte stopped to reload his bolter, turning as he felt a presence behind him. He looked up to the shadow that covered him, his heart thudding as it always did when he seen him. His grin reached up to almost his eyes as he stood before the avatar of death that he loved with all his heart. He found himself, as always, peering into the eyes of a god in all but name. The being that stood before him was the very aspect of death in all its forms. He was over a chest and a further head taller than Arte, and was said to be the tallest of all his brothers. He was wrapped in a _lionata_-skin, a thick cover of fur that was fastened to his shoulders. His armour was blacker than the cosmos itself, an unnatural black that absorbed all light. It was pitted with the scars of a thousand battles, and bare ceramite was uncovered in places, making him all the more frightening. His chest-plate was covered in the pattern of Numencia, a blazing green star falling into a spiral of stars, which was interrupted by further scars and dents. His arms were thicker than a mortal’s chest, his shoulders thick and strapped with black ceramite. No armour adorned his forearms, it was left bare, the muscles pulsing and throbbing. His fists were painted a faint silver-bronze, and they held tightly onto two weapons. One was a great blade, its length curving inwards slightly with a point that was molecularly sharpened, able to cut through almost any material. The other instrument of war was a short barrelled pistol, of archaic and ancient design, with fighting lions spiralling around the hilt and body of the gun. The being face was a mask of terror, unlike anything that had ever walked. His eyes were mismatched, blue and green, one colour for each of Numencia’s moons. His mouth was full of fangs, not like Russ’ wolf fangs, for they were shaped like a canine. No, this being teeth were sharp and thin, like that of a creature that hunts swiftly and darkly, between shadows and light. He smiled at his son.

‘Greetings Arte, I see Idris has his hands full’, boomed the Primarch, his voice like thunder, cutting through everything else. ‘Shame, I suppose it will be sad to see another _brother’s_ end.’ He tapped the skulls clinging under his cloak, gigantic and Astartes-built. 

Arte recognised them all, even without their skins. Terran skulls, Terran Astartes’ skulls. He smiled back at his father. ‘It is an honour my Primarch, shall we continue?’ 

‘Indeed.’ The Primarch laughed darkly. Behind him, the hazy forms of one hundred, terminator armour-garbed Astartes shimmered into life. They all displayed the colours and sigils of the Second Legion. Their advance shook the ground, and Arte turned back to the squealing tribesmen, and began to laugh. This would be fun, he thought. 

The Primarch of the II Legion, Lucaferus, raised his sword hand, and as one his terminators unleashed their fire upon the horde of men falling back like a frightened herd. 

**​


I just wrote this a day or so. Just a wee backstory to the thought inside my head regarding the fate of the second legion.


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## Shogun_Nate (Aug 2, 2008)

Nice story bud! It's well-written with a nice flow. Will there be more or is this a one-off just to get it out of your head? :biggrin:

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## Dave T Hobbit (Dec 3, 2009)

I agree with Nate; it really cries out for a continuation.


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## LongfangFenrika93 (Jan 22, 2012)

Ibn scrambled back to the safety of the tall reeds when the devils started to fire their boxes. Men fell like rain from a storm as the mass of Ibn’s people shifted away from the killing shrieks of the demon-men. A boy no more than fifteen-cycles-old exploded in a burst of organs in front of him, showering Ibn with blood and the inner workings of a human being. He screamed, a terror-filled guttural thing, a sound piercing the nearby silent terror-struck mumblings of frightened men. He threw his staff away, its weight holding him back. His rags and tooth-necklace chattered against him as he broke into a sprint. Faces of the recently haunted ran past him with spittle flying from their mouths as they shouted their prayers into the heavens. More figures wandered aimlessly in the tall reeds, lost in their confusion, faces as white as the demons that had assailed them. 

Ibn broke out of the reeds and began to half-climb half-run up a small mound overlooking the maze he had come from. He stared in utter disbelief, jaw hanging wide. The heath where he had been standing a mere five minutes before was painted crimson. Bodies littered the ground, broken and shorn in ways a person should not have been. Tribal flags and banners lay stuck in the ground where their holders had slumped beside them. It was like a new growth had suddenly covered the area, a bloody red growth. Ibn cried in horror as hulking white monsters appeared over the hill, firing from their arms streams of white and orange lightning, cutting down the remaining warriors who were still scrambling to reach the reeds. The air was cold, but it fell colder as Ibn witnessed a terror of the night lead the hulking demons. Cast in cold metals of deep obsidian and solid build, and wrapped in a wolf fur larger than Ibn had ever seen. His grin was visible from this distance, and he wielded fear and war in both hands. Ibn watched in revulsion as the warrior-thing stuck his curving sword, longer than half of Ibn’s body, into the soft mud and reached down for the nearest of Ibn’s fallen tribesmen. The warrior plucked the head from the soft ruined body that he had reached for, and pulled out a short knife. It was completely silver and superbly crafted, more beautiful and deadly than any blade that Ibn had ever seen. The vomit was already falling free from Ibn’s mouth as he watched the monster begin to skin the severed head. 

Ibn ran. He ran quicker than he ever would, than he ever had, in his life. The fear of death chased him, but a darker, more primal fear hounded him. He remembered feeling this fear once, when he was a boy. He was in the land of dreams, it could not have been light in more than a couple of hours, but Ibn was deep in sleep. He was running through the fields of his youth, leaping over grasses and mounds and rocks as he sped on his bare feet. His light brown mane of hair was flowing in the wind, fluid and waving. But as he neared his homestead, and his mother welcomed him with her arms open, the golden twilight and orange sun turned dark and cold, and all light seeped from the land. Ibn remembered stumbling in confusion, darkness drawing in. He looked at his mother again. Her face was distended, like the jaws of a vulerine, with great teeth glowing yellow, and a swallowing darkness. Her open arms had shifted into dripping talons, their points sharper than knife-edges and their length black. The bodies of his siblings lay half-eaten by her side, and he screamed in terror, running back into the darkness. 

It was this fear he felt as he looked upon this leader of demons. He ran along a small stream, he hoped would lead back to the small collection of huts he called home. He looked at the water as he ran crouched, the sounds of thunder followed by shrieks of pain and death carried on the wind, and he noticed its colour had changed, a tinge of pink staining the banks. 

Bile surfaced again in his stomach, as he smelt blood, and realized he was knee deep in his kinsmen’s blood. He kept his head low, and crept under a low bridge that leads to his hamlet. The smell of burning bodies was fresh in the air, and death screams stained the wind. He peered over the banks of the river, looking upon what he once called home. It was a blazing inferno. A great pillar had been erected, crossed at the top with a long pole of metal, and Ibn knew his people had not built this crude thing. Ibn retched in horror as he noticed the figures hanging by their necks from the metal cross, women, children, and the elderly. The bodies were aflame, and the setting sun cast its rays in patterns between the dangling bodies. 

Ibn Coruhn sank to the ground, too heartbroken and lost to cry out. His knees sank into the wet mud; it was watered with the blood of his family. He pulled out a small stone necklace his boys had made him, a small oval piece of quartz. How they managed to make him it Ibn knew not, but he smiled. A single tear struck the stone as his grief took him. 

Great metal birds roared over head in the distant skies and beams of light burnt distant valleys all across his homeland. Smoke filled the air from a thousand different massacres. Ibn grew cold, for a shadow had fallen across him. Ibn turned slowly, his dread slowing his very mind. 
The creature that he had witnessed scalping the dead man stood over him, rigid as stone. He was so fearsome and mighty that Ibn’s bowels emptied, and his breathing stopped. He saw the beauty and perfection behind this alien killer. And he saw that he could only have been crafted by the greatest mind in the heavens. Ibn knew at that point, that these creatures were not devils, or demons. They were angels, and they were sent to redeem the tribesmen of the valley. They were here to judge Ibn and his people, and they had fallen short of redemption. 

The Angel smiled. It was a cold thing, formal and emotionless, like the stones of the earth. He flicked his forefinger over a small metal button on the hilt of his boxed weapon. It hummed and sighed, a small blue flame spitting from the end of its muzzle. 

The warrior aimed his weapon at Ibn’s face. The colour drained from the tribesman’s face, and his muscles sank. He stood and faced the being, determined to stare it in its mismatched eyes. He croaked a few words, the accent heavy and clipped, a crude version of _sky_-speak. 

‘Where... I... go?’ He rasped, all resistance gone. 

‘Death is the end, my friend. There are no more paths for you to tread’. Lucaferus replied after a moment of silence, drowning the small man in a fire of promethium.


**​
this parts a bit smaller, but im beginning to form a little plot.


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## Shogun_Nate (Aug 2, 2008)

Great addition! This is looking like a real good read bud! 

One thing though. This paragraph kinda sticks out at the end.

_The warrior aimed his weapon at Ibn’s face. The colour drained from the tribesman’s face, and his muscles sank. He stood and faced the being, determined to stare it in its mismatched eyes. He croaked a few words, the accent heavy and clipped, a crude version of sky-speak._

If I might suggest, change it up a bit. I think it's the mention of 'face' in succession that throws it off. Also, the following line seems out of sorts with it. He stands and faces the astarte with determination and then suddenly loses the will to resist. You might want to expand a bit here on why he gives up. Maybe he realizes the utter futility of it all, maybe he's just too damned tired to give a tinker's damned anymore. Either way, I think there needs to be a 'step' in between determination and surrender.

Still, you're doing a fine job bud! Keep up the good works!

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Hi*

I think the writing is good, the story is cool and the personae is well represented. 

Some of the grammar is a bit rushed, but we all do that sometimes when we are in a hurry, so don't be in a hurry. 

Also you may want to make smaller paragraphs. 

Keep it up.


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## LongfangFenrika93 (Jan 22, 2012)

_Victorious_ hung over the devastated world, silent and ominous in the darkness of space. The flickering lights of a million stars filled the void of night, while the vessel itself seemed to glow, bloated from conquest. Lights danced behind small view-ports, a flickering assemble of fluorescent embers in the endlessness of space. If any passing star-ship drew near, their vox would be flooded with the sound of chanting and ritual. And any star-ship captain, Imperial or otherwise, with any semblance of sense, would undoubtedly turn their vessel around and reenter the warp. 

The Second Legion had just sated their hunger.

**​
Arte howled as his Primarch threw another of the Homeworlder's into the bonfire. It rose nearly two stories high, the flames licking along the promethium-resistant floor, and spitting sparks and burning fragments all over the main hall. The Space Marine screamed as he was consumed alive by the fire, the sound screeching and unnerving. But Arte heard none of it. He was intoxicated by the scene before him, and the gallons of Numecan Ale he had drank. 

His fellow Tyrrhenioi lay passed out around him. The body of an unfortunate mortal was pinned to a wall behind Arte and his men, fastened in place and bleeding from a dozen wounds. He was moaning and murmuring something incoherent, head hung, while his tormentors argued over who got to finally end his suffering. 

Lucaferus, in all his monstrous glory, laughed among the men. In the blazing light of the sacrificial fire, he looked like an avatar of battle, the very epitome of bloody conquest. He stood in the Legion's midst unadorned, naked from the waist up. His form was perfect. Tattoos depicting the Salvation of Numecia spiraled and twisted around his torso. Damn Fulgrim and his marble features, this being transcended such things. Arte chuckled as he caught himself smiling.

He straightened as his Primarch coughed as if to speak, kicking his brothers awake nearest him. 

'My sons,' Lucaferus said, arms raised high, 'you honor me!' He roared these last words, and nine thousand Astartes voices echoed around _Victorious_'s Great Hall. The sound was deafening.

'We have bled under the _esteemed_ Emperor for fifty years now, my warriors. Fifty years of mistrust, and not an ounce of respect. I have Titans by my side!' 

'We are shunned by the Imperium that we give our lives to serve.' Lucaferus spat, gesturing at the smoldering corpses of the Terrans. Not true warriors of the Second. 

The salvo of barks and cheers from his warriors slipped to not even a whisper, and Arte felt his double hearts skip a beat respectively. Anticipation dripped from every pore in his body. Was this it? Had he come to fear this moment? He brushed such thoughts aside. 

Teucer swayed beside him, similarly on edge. He knew what was coming too. They had lost themselves on Thirteen Sixteen. Butchered humans, and burned an entire world. And they had murdered every Terran-born Marine in the fleet, in the entire Legion. Their fraternity, their brotherhood, their family, their entire _lives_, were on the precipice of untold destruction. Or untold glory. 

A path of their own. An Empire ruled by the Trryhenioi, with the Savoir of Numencia at its head. The Second Legion would fulfill its destiny or be consumed by it.

Leave the Imperium to over-extend and burn out, for what did Arte care? Where was the Emperor when the aliens piled his parents, and his brothers' heads upon each other? Where was the Emperor and Horus and Russ and all the rest, when Numencia burned for two whole years? Lucaferus led the Numencans from the darkness into the light, not the Emperor. No, Arte thought, the future would be ours.

Lucaferus opened his mouth slowly, pausing and hesitating, on the cusp of betrayal. Silence lingered like death, and the fire quietened. Every being, every Warrior of the Second held his breath.

'Our lives no longer belong to him. And I would rather burn the galaxy than forge madness with these strangers, and false brothers.' 

The Primarch staggered, as if a great weight had been lifted from his superhuman shoulders. 

'For the glory of the Second!' 

Arte and Teucer lost themselves, chainswords and bolt pistols firing wildly. Similar scenes rippled across the hall. Astartes beat their fists against ceramite plate, ripping out floor plating and throwing each other into the warm, smoke-filled air.

**​
Lucaferus sat upon his spartan throne. The view deck was deserted, save for a couple of servitors in the dank corridor outside. The ripples of deep and bone-shuddering drums still percolated throughout the ship.

His personal communicated chimed in, embedded into the collar of his black cloak. He flicked it on. Nothing but static greeted him, mocking him in his confusion. 

He scanned upwards, stiffening quickly. Surprises weren't commonplace in the Primarch of the Second Legion's life. His entire surroundings had been transformed into glittering emerald fields. 

'Don't do it, brother.' The Cyclops said, his voice filled with sorrow and despair. 'We have already lost one, do not be the second.'

'It has already begun, Magnus.' The Primarch of the Second replied. 'He was weak, the Second will not fall. Get off my ship, _brother_, and beware of the wolves barking at the gates of your beloved city.' 

**​


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