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Post by Ilairon on Aug 18, 2005 23:05:28 GMT -5
The emotion was so sheer in its scale that it was palpable even to those without psychic ability. There was hate - loathing even - that resonated from the minds of the twisted beings surrounding their victims. Fear simultaneously ran from the minds of those few unfortunates who had survived the onslaught. It was raw fear, primal, instinctive; some truly despicable work was afoot, and there was no living being on the planet who could not sense the presence of pure and utter evil.
Mewling infants were cradled tightly in the arms of their mothers, who sobbed brokenly in their despair. Some of the people stood, eyes vacant, resigned to what would most certainly be a horrible fate. These were the innocents- the virgins, the children, the devout, the pure of mind and soul. All the better sacrifice, the blood of the unsullied.
The stench of urine, vomit, and sweat hung over the crowd, but the tainted beings surrounding the unfortunates paid no heed. They seemed to feed off of the humans’ fear; their stances were tensed in anticipation of some macabre event that had yet to take place. Rusted ceramite plates groaned as they attempted to find more comfortable positions. Servos whined, and ragged breaths drawn and released were amplified from ancient vox casters set in arcane helms. They held their bolters at the ready - twisted creations, once the embodiment of the Emperor’s divine wrath, now items that brought only pain and suffering to those who were undeserving of it. But the Word Bearers cared not; their dark masters bade them to inflict suffering on humanity, and gleefully they complied.
The square was tiny, yet somehow the Chaos Space Marines and their captives fit comfortably inside. Chaos was thick in the air, the line between reason and insanity blurring and beginning to fade altogether.
The captives numbered in the hundreds. They were unharmed, for the moment, but blood was on the minds of the scores of traitors surrounding them. Their fingers were tight on their triggers, but the Marines dared not fire. To anger the Revered was to invite death, no, demand it.
He was larger than the others; Corelia had noticed that as soon as she had set her eyes on him. Not just physically, either - this man, if it could be called a man, emanated power. Malice, greed, zeal, hatred, and every other impure emotion poured from his mind, and though the psyker had seen much of these emotions in her relatively-short lifetime - much directed towards herself - the sheer scale of emotion this demagogue radiated was staggering. He was clad in baroque armor, terminator armor, if Corelia’s memory served. She had delved into the minds of those who knew of such things, and was well-versed in Imperial lore.
Corelia did not appear unusual at all. Her auburn hair was tied behind her head in a pony tail, and her bright green eyes were capped by thin brows. She had a fine nose, thin lips; many would have called her pretty, but there was something about the young woman that did not sit right. Normally she would draw stares from those around her, but none even spared a glance today. Their eyes were fixed on the raised dais in the center of the square.
The psyker’s eyes wandered around the square. Marble pillars surrounded her, framing the square in a façade of magnificence. At least, they would have had it not been for the desecration wrought upon the holy place. The pillars were pitted and scored by bolter fire, great gouges torn from the finely-artificed structures. The great white cathedral at the head of the square was no longer light and pure; a huge bonfire of burning corpses piled on its steps had stained its structure black. Other bodies were crucified around the square, hanging on lamp posts and from the pillars, entrails hanging to their ankles and heads bowed as if in prayer. Crude chaotic symbols were daubed on every flat surface in freshly-spilt blood.
Death was in the air, the stench of blood and the sweet smell of burning and rotting corpses thick in Corelia’s nostrils. It was all she could do not to gag, but the spectacle at the center of the square was even more sickening. A man had been tied to an iron stake that had been hammered into the center of the dais. The platform had once been home to a golden statue of the Emperor; it had been cast down and trampled beneath the ceramite boots of the Word Bearers. The unfortunate man was held firmly to the stake by a roll of razor wire, and his every movement, no matter how minor, caused it to slice deeper into his flesh. A steaming pile of his own entrails hung at his feet, and his screams of anguish and pleadings for mercy fell upon the deaf ears of his torturer.
The Dark Apostle (Corelia had freed the title from the mind of one of his minions) held a wicked-looking mace in one hand, a spiked star topping its haft. His arms were raised up above his head, and his face was upturned to the reddening sky, pallid lips mouthing a heretical prayer. Several tense moments passed- every eye in the square was on him. He lowered his arms, satisfied with whatever answer his blasphemous prayers had received, and grasped the dying man by the neck. Pleading blue eyes begged for death, and the Demagogue complied with a sneer.
Coated in arterial fluid, the Demagogue turned to his stunned audience. “The time of dark absolution is at hand!” He spread his arms once again, a wicked grin etched upon his cruel features, and began rising into the air. “It comes!” he shrieked to the adoring cheers of his minions. “IT COMES!” Corelia’s mind reeled as the intensity of the psychic waves buffeting her mind multiplied tenfold. Pure, unadulterated hatred poured from the demagogue now; it was almost a physical thing, and even the audience recoiled as they felt its touch. Corelia recovered quickly; she was what the Inquisition called an Alpha level psyker. She was tired of hiding, tired of playing these games as people suffered around her. True, she had suffered herself at the hands of the Imperium, but she had long-since forgiven all who had wronged her. An eternity at the Emperor’s side was a fate infinitely preferable to damnation and pain at the hands of Chaos.
She reached behind her head and tugged off her hair restraint, allowing it to fall loosely around her shoulders. No one noticed; they were too busy paying attention to the now-glowing Dark Apostle. Cornelia had seen this before, though not with her own eyes, and damn her if she was going to allow it to happen. With purpose now, Corelia began pushing her way through the audience. People spared her single glances but remained rooted to their spots as if this would save them. She rolled her eyes and stretched an arm before her, fingers tightly closed together. The psyker then spread her fore and middle fingers apart, cutting a clear line through the crowd as they were inexplicably drawn to either side.
Her way clear, Corelia strode purposefully toward the dais. The Apostle was gyrating now, beams of phosphorescent violet light pouring from every orifice in his armor - from his eyes and his mouth as well. Around her, Word Bearers began to notice her. Sneers of contempt on their features, several lowered their arcane bolters and their fingers tightened on their triggers. The crowd behind her screamed as they unleashed a volley of high-explosive bolt rounds toward the crowd- then gasped as the missiles halted in midair, then dropped to the pavestones. Corelia twisted her wrist; every Word Bearer dropped to the ground, spines shattered.
The metallic impacts of metal on stone reverberated around the square. The audience’s mouths were agape in shock and awe, but Corelia moved on, jaw set as she approached the Dark Apostle. She raised her bare arms and prepared to launch a psychic assault to utterly destroy his presence, but he simply cackled at her.
“Fool! You meddle in affairs which you cannot-” he then broke out in screams of delighted agony as an almighty ripping sound issued from his torso; a claw was suddenly protruding from his breastplate. The almighty crescendo unleashed by the Daemon’s impending entrance into reality ceased abruptly; utter silence descended on the packed square, and Corelia knew she had acted a moment too late.
The Dark Apostle ruptured in a shower of blood that obscured him completely. A set of black wings emerged from the pulsating sphere of crimson first, followed by a ram-horned canine head, cloven hooves, and immensely-muscular arms that held a broad-bladed axe. Its balefire eyes glowed with animalistic fury as they looked upon her, and Corelia felt fear.
The Daemon raised its gargantuan axe in one hand and roared, spittle flying from its mouth. Red vapor trailed in its wake, and Corelia realized with a start that the daemon was not fully-formed. She still had a chance, this one chance to destroy this evil and find a place by the Emperor’s side. And if she failed… she glanced behind her at the hundreds of people crowded into the square, whom the beast would surely feed on to sate its bloodlust after it was through with her. The creature swung its weapon at the comparatively-tiny figure standing resolutely before it.
Corelia concentrated with all her might on the axe head, stopping it just inches from her face and steadily forcing it back. The Daemon bellowed and swiped at her with its free hand, clipping her shoulder and sending her spiraling meters away, landing with a thud on the ground and breaking her wrist. How could she possibly stand before this?
It was as the beast closed in on the psyker, her kind being its most hated foe, that Corelia noticed a dilating warp hole behind it. Maybe, just maybe… the woman pushed herself to her feet and delved into her mind to dig up her entire psychic potential. She cut through her memories of her childhood, of her parents, setting aside accumulated knowledge from three decades of existence, until she found a compressed nugget of psychic energy hidden deep within her mind.
The daemon was close now.
She focused hard on that energy, forming a needle and ramming it through the sphere. Psychic energy coursed through Corelia’s body - ready now, she channeled that energy into the warp hole, concentrating on closing it as if it was the only thing that now mattered - which, indeed, it was. The Daemon, sensing what was happening, stopped short and swung its axe in a mighty double-handed blow. Corelia braced.
The strike never landed. The Greater Daemon was drawn inexorably back towards the warp gate it had spawned from, roaring and clawing at her in its efforts to drag her to hell with it. Sucked into the warp hole with a hideous ripping noise, the Daemon glared at her with its baleful eyes, denied of its victory. The message those red eyes sent was unmistakable: I will return.
Too exhausted to do anything else, Corelia collapsed to her knees. It was done - the Daemon was banished. But only banished, some voice in her mind told her. She was an Alpha psyker, the only human being who could hope to defeat a creature of such power, and she knew how banishment worked. In a matter of years, the Greater Daemon would be back, stronger than before. It was powerful, immensely so. The only reason she had been able to best it had been its incomplete transition to realspace.
There was only one way. It might cost Corelia her soul, but if it would save those of all around her… she looked to the now-free people behind her, who watched silently in a mixture of awe and fear. Emperor help me, she thought. She turned to the warp gate and began walking toward it, stumbling slightly as the enormity of her fatigue overcame her. She collapsed onto the gore-stained ground and allowed herself to die.
Corelia's essence was drawn into the glowing warp gate, though the body remained sprawled on the ground. The gate shimmered for a moment, then, without further energy to feed off of, closed forever as the alpha psyker - the bane of humanity, as some would have men believe - sacrificed her eternal soul for the sake of mankind.
~Originally Posted by Brother Mortes
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Post by Ilairon on Aug 18, 2005 23:06:32 GMT -5
The Halls of Reclusion were empty except for two sets of beating footsteps. Captain Marius Errand and Eparch Vladven were walking through the empty halls, only accompanied by their thoughts and the echo of their shoes as their feet landed on the silent marble floor.
Eparch Vladven was right of Captain Marius, each man distinguishable from the other by the clothes they wore and they manner in which they walked.
Marius wore a white smock uniform, ceremonial grade, with light-blue epaulets shaped like the aquilla over his shoulders, signifying his station as a guardian of Saint Corelia’s mausoleum. His pants matched the rest of his uniform, white as pure snow. He walked with economic grace mixed with doses of Imperial stoicism, giving him the appearance of an armed aristocrat. Marius was, in reality, quite the common man.
The Eparch wore royal vestments fit for a king, which was, in effect, what he was. On the Cardinal planet Sanctifo Corelia, the Ecclesiarchy ruled, and the Eparch was the head of the Ecclesiarchy on Sanctifo Corelia. He had a prideful, pious gait to his step. His every breath was taken in reverence to the holy halls he walked through.
The Halls of Reclusion were filled with holy artifacts; all of them were trite compared with what rested in the great mausoleum-church that dominated over a quarter of the landmass on Sanctifo Corelia’s main continent. The epochal scale of the Corelian Church neared that of the Emperor’s Palace on Holy Terra itself; Saint Corelia had made a similar sacrifice to the Emperor’s – she had sacrificed herself for the good of humanity.
The Corelian Church was a strange sect of the galaxy-spanning Ecclesiarchy in that it viewed psykers, when properly trained and conditioned through the ways of the Church, as holy shades of Saint Corelia. As a side effect the psykers of Sanctifo Corelia were harbored by the Church and later joined combat units led by Sororitas and PDF. But the psykers had been acting strangely lately, and both Marius and Vladven knew it.
“Eparch, I think we both have an idea as to why you called me here – it’s about the psykers,” said Marius, his voice echoing through the stonework and carrying in the wind as an indecipherable whisper that could only be heard by the Eparch.
“Yes. Yes it is,” Vladven sighed, “As you know, Saint Corelia was a psyker, and through her powers – granted to her by our beneficent Emperor – she saved this planet from the taint of treachery and the Dark Gods.”
“Every child knows this. It is taught to us by our parents and when we first arrive at Schola Imperialis. It is the reason the Church harbors psykers and through our knowledge and understanding we have learned that psykers are not to be abhorred like other mutants.”
“That is correct. Psykers are far different than other mutants…yet different they are. Just as the Adeptus Astartes are different from man so are psykers. Both are there to serve and protect the rest of humanity. And both should be honored for their sacrifice…and they are honored, to be able to serve the Emperor, just like you and I.”
“Yes,” replied Marius in a matter-of-factly tone.
Marius and Vladven walked down another hall, passing several bronze caskets of myriad defenders of the Ecclesiarchy. Most of those who died in the service of the Church were entombed in the burnished bronze, placed in the Halls of Reclusion, and preserved from decay through technology that few could actually claim to understand. As they passed the caskets, they turned into a narrow alcove and reached a flight of marble stairs that rose in a spiral.
The Eparch led the way, the bottom of his regal robes like a shadow of his previous step as he climbed the narrow staircase. Marius followed, staying three paces behind Vladven as a gesture of respect. The walls of the staircase were a giant fresco that depicted the Emperor’s triumph over countless foes.
As Eparch Vladven reached the top of the staircase, leaving its confining embrace, Marius caught a glint of moonlight, shining down just above the older man’s silhouette. He climbed the remaining steps – still maintaining a respectable distance – and stared up at the midnight sky, illuminated in the moon’s ghastly light. The air was cold, and a chill gust blew against Marius’ face, like thousands of sharp needles piercing his skin…Marius found the cold somewhat refreshing after hours of drilling his soldiers.
Vladven and Marius walked several paces, the Eparch’s stride short and refined; Marius took steady, martial steps, his shoes booming with imperious brevity as they hit the limestone tiles that spanned the entire roof of the Halls of Reclusion. Both men came to a small, overhanging balcony.
Vladven pointed towards the sky, noting overcast clouds and lightning storms. The storms had been interfering with communications for several hours, causing the planet-based populace to lose touch with most of the satellites in orbit around Corelia Sanctifo. The area Vladven’s finger pointed to was one of the few open areas, free from the suffocating cloud-cover.
“There are very few stars out tonight.”
“It is just the clouds,” said Marius, suppressing a yawn – he needed to catch up on his sleep.
“And they are not as bright as usual.”
“You don’t think it has something to do with what is bothering the psykers, do you?” asked Marius.
“I’m not sure…but, but I feel something. Something doesn’t feel normal, as if something is wrong. That is why I called you here.”
“Yes, Eparch, what is it?” inquired Marius, with a hint of anxiety held in check by a tone of respect.
“I’m worried. I have been talking with the psykers and what they have seen and what they have said is not optimistic. I’m worried that this world is not as safe as we wish it. I ordered the Astropaths to send a message requesting additional men, two entire regiments, but they won’t be here for many weeks at the earliest, assuming they have a safe trip through the warp. I would like you to ready your troops. Prepare them for a possible war.”
“Eparch, excuse my boldness, but is this really necessary? I mean, perhaps it is just a phase they are going through. With all that is transpiring in the Eye…sur-surely that could be causing the psykers’ unrest.” Even as he spoke, Marius began to question the validity of his statement. He was not an expert when it came to psykers and the warp, and was not even sure if what he suggested was possible.
“Perhaps, but it never hurts to be precautious.”
Vladven sighed as his eyes stared out, descending on the city that was overshadowed by the epochal Corelian Church. The capitol city of Corelia Sanctifo, Corelia Primus, was the largest hive city on the planet.
After a long and awkward pause, the Eparch continued, “The city is unnaturally quiet tonight.”
“That it is. I’m sure after the Arbites broke up the original riots over the static-filled communications equipment everyone decided to return to their homes and back to bed.”
“Which reminds me: I’m keeping you from getting any rest. Captain, I suppose you haven’t had much sleep as of late. I suspect you’ll need it for tomorrow when the drills begin.”
Marius waved his hands in an abasing manner, trying to excuse himself for letting his fatigue catch on, but the Eparch nodded. “It’s alright.”
“You are sure I’m not needed?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Danger may be lurking in our future, but not tonight. We have plenty of time, and it would do you some good to make use of it while you can. The coming days might be stressful.”
“Thank you Eparch. Then I’ll be off. Good night to you.”
“And to you,” replied Vladven before Marius turned and walked away.
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Eparch Vladven stared out at the bleak and dismal darkness of the dusk sky. The air stopped moving for a second, followed by a sudden warmth travelling through the wind. When the refreshing breeze returned, it felt as cold as the embrace of death, numbing Vladven's skin.
Everything looked calm. Too calm. The calm before a storm.
The boom of artillery fire followed by shells exploding in the city were the first signs that something was wrong.
~Originally Posted by Ilairon
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Post by Ilairon on Aug 18, 2005 23:07:22 GMT -5
Sergeant Tarmos Mero was sweating profusely. The battle had been raging for Emperor-knew how long, but it was not going well. No one had heard from the combat units sent into Corelia Primus, but the screams that echoed all the way to the Halls of Reclusion sent chills up Tarmos’ spine, and put the hairs on the back of his neck on end.
Standing on the balcony where Eparch Vladven and Lieutenant Marius had stood previously, Tarmos was staring at a far different scene than the uneasy calm that had pervaded most of last night. The city was burning, fires blooming left and right, and ashes from great pyres dedicated to the Dark Gods rising into the sky.
The sky was pitch-black, as if it was night, but Tarmos’ wrist chronometer read 8:13. Of course the chronometer had stopped working hours ago, likely a side effect of the strange and billowing darkness that had come in advance of the enemy attack.
Flames flickered, illuminating another part of the city, where great towers had been erected – siege towers realized Tarmos. Grabbing a pair of optic-enhancers, Tarmos looked at the towers, and saw that they were a strange pale, pinkish color. It looked as if the battle for the Corelia Primus had been lost.
The battle for Corelia Primus had been lost once before, leaving the city to bear witness to wanton destruction unleashed against it, only three thousand years previous, when the traitor marines had littered the old-church steps with bodies and turned the streets into canals of innocent blood…until Saint Corelia had sacrificed herself to save them.
Static crackled over the squad’s radio, and Tarmos immediately turned his attention to the noise but was dull to the sound. He had an idea what would be said.
“This i-ain Marius Errand, Major Vlad-s dead; I am taking command.” The radio crackled out of life as quickly as it had sprung to vitality.
Tarmos was getting used to the rapidly changing hierarchy of the military structure, as the heads kept getting cut off. Lieutenant General Arson had been the first to die after leading a frivolous assault into the now-burning city. Major General Rothe had taken control of the armed forces after that, until he too was killed in the fighting. Some Colonel had taken command after that, and command had subsequently gone down the ranks as more men were killed, no doubt heroically, no doubt in terror from the horrors of the enemy. Now Captain Marius was in charge. Tarmos actually knew the man, but he had no doubt that Marius, would – like everyone else before him – die.
Tarmos realized that the army that had marched from the Corelian Church into Corelia Primus was dead, or far worse. To much fanfare inside the halls, catacombs, spacious chambers, and gargantuan squares of the Church, the army had marched out the main gates at the front of the Halls of Reclusion. Holy pennants had been held aloft, and raised palanquins carried the priests of the Ecclesiarchy into battle, to deliver sermons of faith and inspire courage in the ranks. The Sisters Sororitas had marched behind them, carrying with them a gold-emblazoned statue of Saint Corelia.
All of it was for nothing. The enemy army was marching uphill towards the thirty-feet-tall walls and the twenty-feet-tall bronze gate, which was designed to be a miniature version of the Eternity Gate on Holy Terra.
"Emperor protect us," whispered Tarmos as the flames flickered again, revealing refugees from the city, running in terror, trying to reach the gates before they were cut down. The forces of the Dark Gods – traitor guardsmen and those devoted to the Four – fired on the fleeing. It was as if an entire wall fell down, civilians dying in a bloody orgy of destruction as their bodies were blown to bits. Roughly one thousand survived the fire and made their way to the Gate of Reclusion while the traitor forces slowly progressed towards the Halls of Reclusion, almost leisurely.
The Gate was opened, and the civilians let in. Tarmos knew something was wrong when the screams began.
“Vox-link down and find out what’s going on,” shouted Tarmos to Corporal Daros Reed.
“No response, sir.”
“Damn it. Get down there now! Let’s find out what’s going on…”
“No need.” said one trooper, although Tarmos couldn’t tell whose voice it was.
A group of civilians was climbing the steps and came out roughly twenty meters from Tarmos’ squad. Tarmos realized they weren’t civilians; rather, they were chaos cultists. Fresh blood soaked their ragged clothes, and they held crude blades in both hands. Their rags were filthy, augmenting their own dirty existence.
“Mutants!” shouted one trooper.
“Abominations!” shouted another.
“Fire!” shouted Tarmos.
Without hesitation las-fire created a small nova in the utter darkness of the battle, eclipsing the burning fires from the desecrated city below. Tarmos had an auto pistol in one hand and a las pistol in the other, and he was firing both simultaneously, taking down several unarmored mutants.
Even as the last of the mutants fell, killed in the quick fire-fight, their surprise assault yielded fruit. Tarmos heard explosions behind him, and turned in time to see much of the Church’s artillery destroyed in a massive corona. “By the Emperor!” shouted Tarmos.
Tarmos turned in time to see the approaching siege towers. He held the optic-enhancers to his eyes and stared at the approaching army. It was immense, and behind the countless traitor guardsmen, Tarmos made out the distinct wine colored power armor of the traitor marines who were leading the attack…leading from behind albeit.
Turning his attention back to the siege towers, he realized why they looked pale. The siege towers were covered in stretched human skin. Thousands of faces stared at Tarmos and screamed of unspeakable horrors that were yet to come and that had already transpired, and the Sergeant vomited at the horrible repugnancy of the flesh towers. On top of each tower was an eight-pointed star formed from black iron and decorated with hanging bodies of unfortunates who were – against all that was natural – still alive.
Shrieks and screams formed a cacophonous war-chant, and Tarmos found the music insane. It seemed to echo in a manner that defied rational explanation. Tarmos heard the boom of artillery from behind him and knew what remained of the loyalist artillery would not be enough to cause a serious dent in the tide of malice that was quickly approaching the Gate of Reclusion. For all he knew, the Gate had been destroyed in the explosions that had crippled the Imperial artillery.
Vttiri Delyn, the psyker attached to Tarmos unit, shouted in a voice not accustomed to speech, “Sergeant, we are being ordered back.”
“Back?”
“Yes, back, we are to regroup at Penance Plaza and meet up with the rest of Fifth Platoon as well as other elements from the Seventy-Second. Captain Marius is ordering a full retreat from the Halls of Reclusion, immediately.”
Why’s he doing that, thought Tarmos to himself. They had a lot of running to do if they were supposed to get to Penance Plaza, almost half of the Church-complex to be exact.
“Let’s get going people. Unless you like holding the frontline.”
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Captain Marius was standing in a small chapel that had been expediantly converted into a war-room, looking out a window from high in the spire-like Cathedral, far from the actual fighting. Holding a pair of optic-enhancers to his face, he saw the retreating soldiers making their way to various locations in the main Church-complex.
Marius had ordered the retreat - a strategic retreat - to lull the enemy into a false sense of security, but also to keep his men from being slaughtered. The remaining artillery, which was primarily reserves, was just in front of the Cathedral spire. The plazas were filling up with guardsmen and tanks.
Marius was flanked by two Seraphim guards. No one wanted to admit it, but everyone knew that no one had survived the attack on the Corelia Primus, and now very few Sororitas were left alive. Those that were were no more than the size of a small police force, numbering in at less than one hundred. They were stationed in the Cathedral and the Mausoleum of Saint Corelia, but there were too few of them to aid in the epochal clash to come.
Marius stared out at the Halls of Reclusion again, noting its emptiness. The siege towers reached the walls, and mutants and traitor guardsmen clambered past one another, hoping to be the first into battle. But they met no one. No resistance. After apparently receiving some sort of order, the forces of the Dark Gods began desecrating the Halls of Reclusion. They would not move on until the Halls were nothing more than a defamed nightmare. Marius had expected as much, and his plan was based on it.
It had been a tough decission to make but ultimately - after a vehement debate between the Eparch, Marius, and the highest ranking Seraphim - Marius had won through.
Marius spoke a single word into a vox-caster: "Reciprocity."
Staring at the Halls of Reclusion, Marius waited a few seconds. Suddenly, a giant explosion boomed, shaking the very Cathedral foundation, and making Marius' ears ring for a few seconds. A super nova of heat and light replaced the Halls of Reclusion, and Marius smiled, a bittersweet smile. The explosion had bought the Imperials some time, and Marius was sure that it had killed countless traitors. He hoped it would be enough.
As the dust settled, Marius prayed to the Emperor for forgiveness in destroying the sacred relics inside the Halls of Reclusion.
~Originally Posted by Ilairon
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Post by Ilairon on Aug 18, 2005 23:08:34 GMT -5
Inquisitor Rafael Baldasarre shifted slightly. The Thunderhawk was rocking from side to side, and an ominous rumbling that was unusual to hear whilst on board put its thought ill at ease.
"Techpriest!" he shouted over the rising noise of the descending craft. "When will we land?"
"Planetfall is in approximately 4 minutes, my Lord."
"That is of no significance. There is no trouble with the craft?" intoned Baldasarre.
"Of course not, my Lord."
Opposite Baldasarre, in the seats running down the starboard side of the cockpit, Flavius sat. Baldasarre's acolyte had a extremely zealous look about him, enhanced further by his shoulder-length black hair, straggled and ignored. His concerns in life lay elsewhere, thought Baldasarre, which was a good thing, for the Inquisitor.
Inquisitor Baldasarre, rarely known as Rafael to any others but his closest comrades, was a young initiate into the Ordo Malleus, recently accepted into the hallowed ranks of Inquisitor. He looked fairly young, around roughly forty-one Terran years, clean shaven, with shoulder length brown hair, albeit cleaner and much more looked after than Flavius'. As such, he is fiery and courageous, but never misjudged or in anger at his compatriots. He is mistrustful and defensive of the things that the Emperor warns against, most of all daemons. Of course, psykers, who he may have to deal with on the planet, are not an area of his particular speciality. Baldasarre had considered this before he departed on this mission, and reasoned that any organisation that could harbour psykers is one to watch, but not necessarily be suspicious of.
The Inquisitor and his one-man retinue were ravelling across space and time in the name of research and training; Flavius was to examine the events and circumstances surrounding the banishing of a Daemon on Sanctifo Corelia, the details of it, Rafael had forgotten already. He was wrapped up in his own thoughts about the report they had recieved earlier in their journey, that communications were patchy between the planet and the voxnet, along with rumours that there was a psychic disturbance.
The Thunderhawk rocked once more, this time heavily, banging and scraping over nothing. The stratosphere was putting up it's own fight, but the twin engines of the vessel were victorius, settling down to a steady rumble once more, nourished by the arcane forces of the Mechanic-Magus spirit presiding over the vessel from some unknown metal chamber.
"Proximity; Corelia Primus. Ah..." The Adept stopped. Rafael leaned forward impatiently, his ancient armour whirring as it powered his own movements, and its pious scrolls flapping as he stooped towards the fore of the cockpit. "What is it?" he said impatiently.
Hesitantly, the Adept co-pilot broke the news that was flashing up on his auspex display and short range comms.
"Landing Area is hostile. It appears it has been so for some time," the Adept called out without turning his head. His companion appeared to be wrestling with the controls; the Thunderhawk responded only with a light nudge upward. Dull metallic clanging echoed up through the closed hatch to the cargo area. Fire was being direct toward them, but it mattered not to Rafael.
"Choose an alternative," the Inquisitor orded, bluntly, ignoring the tension.
The ship veered sharply toward the vast Ecclesiarchal Church, avoiding the now devastated Halls of Reclusion, teeming with the twisted laymen and battle-brothers of the ruinous demagogues. The weapons system panel lit up in front of the co-pilot. Baldasarre looked forward curiously. The gauntleted hands jabbed at several buttons, and the ship jolted backwards as several weapons were fired; two missiles streaking toward the ground, to a target out of sight, then the crack and roar of the heavy bolters attached to the fuselage. What they were shooting at, Rafael had no time to see, for he had other tasks.
"Flavius, are the short-range vox channels open? If so, open a vox channel to the Main cathedral."
The acolyte stood up and mused over the panel that lay between them, before pushing two buttons. There was a brief crackle of white noise, then a hasty but stern voice.
"Captain Marius Errand here."
"Inquisitor Rafael Baldasarre, I have been journeying to your planet on other errands. You will not have heard of me, but I see that you are in need of aid."
"My Lord Inquisitor, I implore you to land in Penance Plaza and aid my men at once. I apologise for my lack of ceremony, but the consequences of you not doing so are dire."
"Very well, Captain. A wise man is one who listens," the Inquisitor echoed one of his favourite litanies.
"Thankyou, my Lord."
Rafael nodded at Flavius, who closed the vox link and spoke to the Tech Adept pilots in a clipped tone.
"Penance Plaza, immediately. If you do not see it, set us down where there is fighting."
"We follow your master's wishes," the pilot answered, quite ambiguously.
The Thunderhawk's engines now throttled back to a quiet drone, but as Flavius moved to open the hatch leading into the cargo bay, the noise rose again like some wild banshee being released from the depths of the machine. Flavius plucked his psycannon from the weapons rack behind him, and shouldered his backpack of equipment and books, moving to the ladder. When Rafael stepped up and set his foot onto the ladder, the vibrations could be felt, even through his armour clad boots. Lowering himself down the ladder, and what met him was a cacophony of sound unleashed upon his ears. The engines were much more than droning down there, much more like a choir of damned souls screaming endlessly, from the shrill alto of the air whistling through the dank cavernous space, right down to the bass thrumming of the turbines.
Suddenly, the ship must have been hit by something, or hit something itself, as the deck beneath them shook violently and Baldasarre had to clutch Flavius' sturdy shoulder to avoid being catapulted into the adamantium bulkhead. He did not know what had happened, but he was eager to get off, whether they had landed or not.
“The door, Flavius.”
Before the Inquisitor had even spoken, Flavius had realised the same thoughts.
Both the acolyte and Rafael were minor psykers, able to detect the intentions, but not the thoughts of others. Rafael could defend against psychics attacks, for a short while, and Flavius less so. He did not waste time in using his powers for offensive purposes, that was the realm of daemons, though he held no prejudice against those who did.
The Inquisitor turned back to his protegé. Flavius had slammed the controls, a little violently for Rafael's taste, but he did not comment. As an acolyte of Rafael, Flavius was there to learn and to accompany, not to receive lectures on his method, for he would be well indoctrined by now. Oddly, Rafael found himself fast thinking about Flavius’ potential as an Inquisitor just like him, but he shook this thought away as a distraction from the present.
The door now seemed to part itself from the ceiling of the craft, and the bay lights were turned on automatically. This highlighted the drizzle of rain falling through the narrow gap, and Rafael could see a bleak sky above, the door slowly edging its way to a level position. From the craft’s movement, the Inquisitor could only guess that the ship was still flying; although it felt steadier, and so could be within the ground’s effect, putting them between 10 and 50 feet off the ground.
He had guessed correctly, the ramp lowered more to reveal a vast roof of a grand building opening out before him; and columns stretching to the ground, covering a cloistered area. It looked deserted except for the lifeless stone statues. A courtyard was then revealed, and Flavius stepped forward onto the ramp. From his grimace, Rafael could guess that this was where the fighting was. He stepped forward.
They were mere feet off the ground, and Flavius was already preparing to leap. He did so, and the Inquisitor followed him, landing deftly on large marble flagstones, then straightening to view the scene around him.
Guardians of the Cathedral rushed left to right, mostly right, toward the far end of the vast courtyard, where a hastily erected barricade was being defended against a light enemy attack. The Inquisitor guessed that this wasn’t the only fight, and also guessed that it wasn’t the real strength of the enemy revealed either. Even in his short experience, he knew that there was often a sustained assault by the forces of Chaos, only withdrawing through casualties on their own side. The defenders of the barricade must have fought valiantly to earn themselves respite from the most devout warriors in the galaxy.
Flavius sighed heavily and lifted a hand to his psycannon, flicking some switches.
"I shall learn of the daemon later, Rafael."
The Inquisitor looked at him, amusedly.
"It seems that is so."
He hurried forward to the barricade as he heard artillery open fire somewhere in the wreckage of the Halls once more. He only paused to look up at a regal, yet simplified sign, hanging from the side of a glorified hab-block. This was Penance Plaza.
~Originally Posted by Beorn
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Post by Ilairon on Aug 18, 2005 23:09:41 GMT -5
Sergeant Tarmos Mero and the rest of his eight-man squad had hitched a ride in a Chimera transport carrier, and – after several hours of sitting in the crowded interior of the light tank – they had arrived at Penance Plaza. Tarmos had seen the explosion that resulted in the destruction of the Halls of Reclusion, and the destruction of the sacred gates to the Church-complex had wracked him with doubts, but seeing the force arrayed at Penance Plaza filled him with hope. Thousands of guardsmen, entire tank battalions, and a cadre of no less than one hundred combat psykers – nothing could stand against the combined might of the force raised in Penance Plaza, and according to psychic communications, it was one of many squares, plazas, and gardens where Captain Marius had decided to hold against the enemy.
Tarmos understood the general layout of Imperial forces. The various squares and plazas formed something akin to a crisscrossing bunker network that was shaped into a crescent surrounding the central Cathedral spire. Most of the artillery was deployed between the frontlines and the Cathedral, and they were raining a constant barrage on the advancing enemy. Ammo was – for the moment – a plentiful resource.
“Daros, any word from Captain Marius on the location of the enemy?”
“None. Why, Sergeant..?”
“I suppose I’d rather fight the enemy than just waiting here is all.”
“Aye, same here. I don’t like running away. We all know the Sutras of Faith. The Mutant is to be abhorred. The traitor is to be abhorred.”
“Have you ever wondered why they fight?” asked Corporal Vttiri.
“Of course not!” replied Corporal Reed, “Why the damned fight doesn’t concern me. So long as they die along the sights of my hellgun is all that matters to me.”
“Such questions are a fool’s errand. Vttiri, you think too much. They are damned – they will die – the Emperor will judge them. It is that simple.”
“But are you sure?” asked the psyker Corporal. “They fight with daemonic fury, and they fight even though they are assured death and the Emperor’s judgment; surely they do this for a reason. What promise could make them do so much? What potential power? I find it intriguing…”
“Corporal Vttiri, shut your mouth! What you speak is close to heresy. Say another word like it, and I will report you to the Eparch.”
“Assuming we survive, or that he does.”
“That’s it! I’m putting you on report.”
“No time for that now,” replied Vttiri, “the enemy is approaching.”
The sounds of enemy artillery accented Vttiri’s statement, and a quick ‘Aye’ from Corporal Daros affirmed it. The enemy was on the approach.
“We’ll finish this later,” said Tarmos, his voice filled with cold finality. Vttiri didn’t reply.
“Daros, is the vox-link still down?”
“It’s been down ever since the explosion at the Halls.”
“Men, hold here until I find out our orders.”
Tarmos walked, accompanied by Daros, towards the Platoon CO, Lieutenant Tenoreck Dawn. When Tarmos and Daros reached the Lieutenant, Tenoreck span around to face them with an almost prescient quality to his movement.
“Lieutenant, what are our orders?”
“Squad six…hold the line. Don’t worry. Nothing should be able to stand up against the force we have here.”
“He’s lying, don’t listen to him. He knows that he’s lying. Nothing can stand against what is coming. You are all going to die,” whispered a voice inside Tarmos’ head, causing the Sergeant to look left and right.
“Are you alright, Sergeant?” inquired the Lieutenant.
“Yes, I just thought I heard something. It’s just nerves.” “No, it’s not, and you know it. I’m real, and I speak the truth.”
“Calm down. Everything is going to be fine.” “No it won’t. Everyone is going to die.”
“I’m fine.” “No you’re not. You know the truth. You know that you are all going to die. You will suffer greatly, and then you will die to have your soul devoured by daemons. You will die, Tarmos Mero.”
Tarmos heard roaring engines above, and he looked up, spotting a Thunderhawk with the Inquisitorial “I” on it. A ramp descended from the Thunderhawk and two figures jumped out, landing on the Plaza’s marble stonework.
“Excuse me, but who are-” Sergeant Tarmos, Corporal Daros, and Lieutenant Tenoreck all stopped mid-inquest when Inquisitor Rafael Baldasarre brought his Inquisitorial ring into view. There was little need to say anything…but they did anyway.
“Inquisitor,” mouthed Tenoreck.
“…it appears you picked a bad time to come…” followed Tarmos’ voice.
“…to Corelia Sanctifo,” finished Daros.
“The Emperor works in strange ways…” mumbled Tarmos, receiving a nod of agreement from Daros.
“Indeed He does,” replied the Inquisitor, “I am Inquisitor Rafael Baldasarre, and it looks as though you are in need of assistance.”
“That’s quite an understatement if ever there was one,” whispered the voice inside Tarmos’ skull.
Lieutenant Tenoreck was just about to issue orders or relay a command when rockets roared towards the Thunderhawk, causing it to veer away. The dark sky bit at Tarmos’ soul, and he tried to shrug it off as he heard the ring of artillery explosions in the distance.
The whine of artillery shells through the air was followed by yells of ‘Get down!’ Tarmos wasn’t sure who pushed him down, but it didn’t matter. He held his hands over his head and neck, for what little good that would do against plague-ridden shrapnel. Tarmos saw men cut to visceral slices, bodies turned into red mush. Others, further from the explosions, only received minor cuts, but their wounds quickly festered, and they shrieked in terror and agony as their skin began to rot and die, falling away and exposing fresh sinew and bone to the bitter air.
Tarmos and Daros rushed back to their squad, and Vttiri gave them a disturbing grin. Another wave of shells flew threw the air, and Tarmos shouted “Hit the dirt!” primarily as an indoctrinated response. When the shells didn’t explode, Tarmos looked up, and saw black gas emanating from canister-like artillery shells.
“Men, masks, now!” said Tarmos even as he put his own gas mask on.
The ‘black death’ swooped down, falling upon them in an almost graceful manner – chaotic fluidity kept it together. The brackish blackness consumed most of the Platoon, and continued to spread out across the entirety of Penance Plaza, slowly evaporating into the air as it went. Thoughts of doom, despair, death, and decay crept into Tarmos’ mind, and his lungs felt weak, even though the mask filtered out most of the harmful toxins.
The blackness gave way to an eerie green, and Tarmos saw those unfortunate enough to not have a gas mask on. Men and women stood, blood gushing from their eyes, ears, and nose. Some were bloated beyond belief. Others were rapidly deforming into abhorred mutants. Lesions rapidly spread across most of those exposed to the full effects of the chaotic carcinogens, viruses, and toxins.
The few unfortunates that survived the first minutes of cellular death died slowly. No doubt painfully, thought Tarmos. They fell to the ground, blood still flowing from open wounds, cuts easily forming on exposed sinew. Some of their appendages broke at impossible angles that defied any geometric sanity, as if a mad surgeon was seeing how far he could stretch the human body before it broke. The unfortunate few rolled into fetal balls and began mewling like an Imperial infant. Their tears, altered at the very genetic level, became acidic. Meant to wash away blood and clean the eye, tears burned through the cornea, pupil, and iris and melted through the auditory nerves. The disease ridden bodies sat there for a few seconds, sickening the few Imperials who had survived all around., causing most to vomit, the gastric juices finding no exit because of the gas masks. Some fools, forgetting the death around them or assuming it was gone because they could no longer see it, took off their masks, breathing in the still-venomous air. They quickly joined their mewling comrades. Tarmos swallowed his bile back down, the distinct acidic taste burning his tongue and esophagus.
Some of the Imperials grabbed flamers and burned the still, somehow-living bodies. Others shot their unfortunate, now-unrecognizable comrades in what they believed to be between the eyes – it was hard to tell. Some didn’t die; instead, they shrieked in pain and terror as they were burned alive or shot to death. Their vocal cords were turned to dust and ash that fell into their bleeding lungs, and their wails for remorse came out as rasping wind.
A tide of mutants and traitor guardsmen alike followed in the wake of the ‘black death.’ The remaining Imperials fought valiantly, and lasgun fire in the thousands shot down the advancing tide of traitorous bastards. Baneblades and Shadowswords opened fire, sending thousands more to their collective death and damnation. The traitors returned fire with their own warp-spawned weaponry, firing a hail of strange, unearthly projectiles, killing countless guardians of the Cathedral. Many of the combat psykers openly used their powers against the encroaching enemy, but to Tarmos it appeared as if Vttiri was merely waiting, biding his time.
The opening assault gave way, and the traitors turned to run, most being cut down by the Imperial arsenal. Some redoubled their efforts, and Tarmos saw strange dark prophets leading them in worship to the Chaos Gods. Suddenly their bodies altered, and they were infused with daemonic strength. Some still looked human, whilst others turned into ravenous beasts. More daemons were summoned from the Warp, and Tarmos felt a chill pierce his heart as they headed towards the Imperial lines. Lasgun fire proved ineffective, and tank fire was too little. The daemons, daemon vessels, and daemon hosts reached the Imperial lines in Penance plaza. Ravenous hoofed beasts with swords constructed from warp-spawned energy charge into guardsmen from the Platoon, killing them in a melee bloodbath. Daemons that looked almost seductive reached the tanks, their pincer-hands rending armor with disturbing ease. Tarmos thought he heard the call for retreat – he wasn’t sure. Turning to his men, he noticed only Vttiri, Daros, and two others were left.
“Fall back, fall back to the Cathedral.”
Tarmos turned and retreated towards the Cathedral spire, the others following him. Hundreds of other guardsmen were falling back towards the Cathedral spire, and a group of Sentinel combat walkers was moving to the fore, shooting the daemons from afar to buy the guardsmen time to retreat – the attempt was futile; most never made it back to the Cathedral. Tarmos and perhaps thirty others, including the Inquisitor and his acolyte, were the only survivors from Penance Plaza.
_______________________________________________________________________
Captain Marius held his prized power sword in his right hand, an equally-prized bolt pistol in his left. He was still dressed in his ceremonial uniform, but it was dirtier than before. Soot and ash and grit and dirt had sullied the pure, pristine white of his smock jacket and dulled the color on his pants. Medals of gold, silver, and bronze were pinned to his undershirt, but they all looked tarnished by sweat and dust. A white cape billowed behind Captain Marius, but it was frayed along the edges from where a sword had struck it. Blood dressed his white boots, and scorch marks from daemonic fire that had come close to burning the Captain decorated the boots he wore. Marius cape whipped behind him – he was running.
The Captain’s plan had fallen to ruin, much like most of the Church-complex; the forces of the Dark Gods had broken through the immeasurable ranks of guardsmen with an ease that sickened Marius. The traitor guardsmen and mutants had been on the verge of collapse, destruction, and retreat before the daemons had arrived, culling countless with the swing of warp-spawned swords and claws.
Marius had seen the men fall back, leaving their posts at the plazas and garden squares that had been ringed with marble minutes earlier and were now ringed with corpses on an epic scale. He had ordered the Sisters Sororitas to the fore, to allow the broken guardsmen time to retreat and regroup inside the Cathedral walls – he was leading the counter attack.
“Sister Superior Solstive, we need only hold long enough so that the guardsmen can reform at the Cathedral walls. Once that is complete we will withdraw to the walls ourselves,” said Marius in the confined space inside the Immolator that currently functioned as his transport vehicle.
The Cathedral was surrounded by a one kilometer-long moat, and the Immolator was crossing the gargantuan bridge that spanned it. On either side, the immolator was flanked by other tanks, and the whole advance of armored steel was small compared to the great gateway of the Cathedral-spire. Gold filigree was stenciled in the shape of angels and cherubs along the outside of the wall, and emblazoned bronze busts of Saint Corelia formed a reliquary that overlooked the gateway from an observant post. Lined-marble columns held the great reliquary aloft, and Imperial gargoyles stared, warily watched the bridge with eyes of pearl, guarding the gate below and keeping evil spirits and daemons at bay…or so ancient stories claimed.
“The penitent engines will cover the retreat,” replied Sister Solstive.
“Alright. When the retreat is called, we’ll need to reach the Astropath’s Temple in the Psyker’s canton of the Church. We must send a distress signal, and there’ve been no replies via vox-link from the Temple.”
“The Sisters of the Penitent Cross will follow your command, Captain.”
Sister Superior Solstive grabbed a red metal cross that hung from a chain around her neck, placing it between her index finger and thumb, her gauntleted hands carefully turning the metal over and reading the inscription on the back, written in a divergent dialect of Imperial Gothic: “Pénitence rémunérée n’est jamais assez,” – ‘Penance paid is never enough.’
Sister Superior Solstive’s white hair crisscrossed over her pale face, veiling scars from past battles. She brought her right hand up to push the strands of hair out of her vision as she let the red cross fall idly against her breastplate and grabbed her weapons – a pair of lightning claws with attached flamers. The claws slid on over her gauntleted hands, and she locked them into place. The Immolators, penitent engines, rhinos, and Sisters Sororitas passed the Cathedral bridge, passing groups of fleeing guardsmen as they went. Marius’ group of three immolators, several combat servitors, and penitent engines moved forward towards Penance Plaza as the other Sororitas forces spread out, each moving to cover a different group of withdrawing guardsmen.
“Get us between the guardsmen and the enemy,” said Solstive to the driver.
“We already are,” replied Marius as an assault ramp crashed against white marble stonework.
Marius, Solstive, and four Seraphim Guards rushed out of the Immolator and into the heat of battle. Combat servitors did battle with daemons, and penitent engines fired at advancing enemy tanks, while Marius, Solstive, and their guard rushed into a tide of traitors.
The Immolators sent a wave of liquid promethium towards the heretics, burning them alive until their skin turned to ash. Meanwhile, Marius rushed at the heretics with righteous fury. He had been raised in the Church, and seeing it burn around him pained his heart. His soul ached at the destruction around him, and he wanted to avenge the dead in the name of the Emperor. Half of his battle was keeping the hatred from overwhelming him; instead, it overwhelmed his opponents.
He fired his bolt pistol, sending explosive rounds through flesh. One traitor’s face was completely emulsified as a bolt exploded within his skull, sending fragments of flesh and brain tissue flying about his damned comrades. Another bolt punched through one traitor’s chest, killing him, and exploded in another’s face, explosive force tearing away skin and sending the traitor’s nasal bone up to impale his brain.
A traitor tried to get inside Marius’ guard, but the Captain’s kneecap connected with the traitor’s abdomen, knocking the Emperor-damned fool to the ground. Marius hit the firing stud on his bolter, and a bolt subsequently exploded inside the traitors kneecap, immobilizing him. Marius made a clean arc with his power sword, completely cutting through the immobile traitor’s neck.
Marius replaced his bolt pistol in its holster and held his sword with two hands. Sliding between two traitors, Marius span in a full circle, cutting each corrupted man in half, his sword burning through armor, and cauterizing wounds as it went. He moved through the melee with drilled efficiency, cutting down opponents left and right, halting the traitorous advance…but it could not last.
More traitors followed their dark brethren in death, but more came to replace them. Penitent engines were being overwhelmed, and combat servitors were losing the battle against warp-spawned horrors. Sister Solstive and Marius were being forced further back. Taking a backward glance in part of a calculated maneuver to bisect two traitors, Marius saw that the guardsmen had made their withdraw to the moat surrounding the Cathedral spire. Now it is time that we make ours.
“Withdraw! Back to the transports, back to the Cathedral!” shouted Marius, his voice echoing over the vox-link.
Marius and Solstive made their way back to their Immolator, accompanied by two less Seraphim Guards. The servitors fought on, buying time for the Sisters Sororitas to retreat to the relative safety the Cathedral offered. Nowhere is safe anymore, thought Marius. As the Sisters made their retreat, and the servitors were overwhelmed, Imperial bombardments opened up on Penance Plaza. Mortar teams and basilisks fired into the Plaza, assured a hit merely because of the wealth of targets.
“To the Astropath’s Temple,” shouted Marius to the driver, an unnecessary action; the Immolator was already on its way.
The Immolators and Rhinos moved towards the Cathedral’s bridge. Two broke off – Marius’ and another – on their mission to send a distress signal. The other Immolator was destroyed by an enemy rocket, but Marius’ continued towards the Psyker’s Canton and the Astropath’s Temple. The Immolator came to a halt outside a building complex that looked similar to a relatively small palace – a stray rocket had impacted with the front of the armored transport carrier, wreathing the drivers in flames and the controls in sparks, immobilizing the Immolator in its tracks.
“Get out!” shouted Marius and Solstive even as they clambered to push their way out. The controls for the doors did not work, and the entire vehicle had been turned on its side, making exit out of the rear or side hatches both complicated and perilous. The Seraphim Guards managed to get the top access hatch open through a strength leant to them by the Emperor, and Marius and Solstive followed their guards out of the burning transport. Marius was still somewhat shaken from the toppling adventure inside the transport’s belly, but Solstive seemed fine.
Marius couldn’t believe his eyes. Mutants, as large as an Ogryn were charging at them. Their bodies were grotesque, and they resembled corpulent caricatures of human beings. They fingers were stretched and bloated, resembling flails, some five-headed; others four-headed, three-headed, six-headed, or seven-headed – the mutants had multiple abnormalities. Some reached for the Seraphim, trying to grab them and squeeze out their life force; others tried to whip them with their formidable fingers. Marius unholstered his bolter and fired at a particularly large mutant that was charging him, causing only minor blisters where the bolts exploded without actually penetrating the callous skin. Marius replaced the bolt pistol and drew his sword, and it buzzed to life as he thumbed the power rune. He dispatched a quick vox message into a headset he had worn since arriving at the Cathedral all those hours ago: “Reach the Astropaths. Send a distress signal.” He repeated the message over and over again even as he fought against the barbaric brutes that wanted nothing more than to squash him like a bug and – more disturbingly – eat him after the fact. This will be interesting… was the only thing Marius thought before attempting to roll underneath the mutant that was charging him, keeping his sword held above him in the hopes of letting the abhorred mutant’s innards fall out.
~Originally Posted by Ilairon
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Post by Ilairon on Aug 18, 2005 23:17:23 GMT -5
“Quite a view,” Corporal Daros Reed murmured to no one in particular. Sergeant Tarmos stood beside him, resplendent in the dress uniform he had somehow managed to keep spotless. “Yes,” the Sergeant said distractedly, “Quite a view.”
Daros could not blame his friend for his limited attention span, not at this moment. Corelia Primus had been a beautiful city at one time, the sight of its towering cathedrals surrounded by verdant gardens and marble buildings enthralling any who looked upon it. The Corporal briefly experienced a flashback to his childhood, playing hide and seek with Tarmos and his other companions beneath the gnarled branches of a forest of weeping willow trees.
The soft caress of the sagging branches and the sweet aroma of the genetically-engineered orchids were almost palpable to Daros at that moment, but he was quickly torn back into the present by the unearthly screech of warp-blessed artillery rounds.
“Down!” roared Tarmos, somewhat unnecessarily as every guardsman in the vicinity had already hit the dirt.
The Corporal and the Sergeant crouched under the half-buried hulk of an Immolator tank, a last reminder of the slaughtered Adepta Sororitas garrison on Corelia. Daros covered his head with his arms as the temperature of the air around him rose abruptly. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up beneath his ornamental helm, which amplified the already-unbearable noise emitted by the daemonic artillery.
With a flash of lightning blue and a rush of superheated air, the shell hit the line, sending body parts and debris pinging off of the overhanging Immolator chassis. An almighty crescendo of noise at an unbearably-high pitch accompanied the detonation. Several guardsmen were driven mad by the experience as the warp melded with reality, their immortal souls tattered and ruined.
Corporal Reed, a soldier of the Emperor once more, mouthed a brief prayer as the effects of the Chaos artillery dissipated. Glancing at Sergeant Mero, Daros noticed that his friend was completely unfazed. How he had grown accustomed to the blasphemous methods these heretics practiced, Daros could not comprehend. It may have had something to do with the fact that Tarmos Mero was engrossed by a headset he wore, pressing the speakers tight to his ears as he attempted to decipher the chatter of a thousand frantic broadcasters across Corelia Primus.
Daros rapped on the vox caster he wore on his back in an attempt to assist his friend, but was rewarded with an annoyed scowl as the static seemed to grow in volume. He adjusted his helmet, taking care not to ruffle the horsehair crest atop it, suddenly abashed. A few tense moments passed, and Tarmos’ eyes seemed to stare straight through his lifelong friend.
When Sergeant Mero finally slipped the headset off and replaced his helmet, the look on his face told Daros he would not like whatever was coming.
“Let me get this straight, Tarmos,” Daros said incredulously. “I’m about to be spontaneously appointed the head of a squad, then sent into the teeth of the enemy lines to send a distress signal offworld.” This drew a shallow nod from the Sergeant, whose face was the color of sheet of rotten parchment, and Daros continued his exasperated monologue. “And in order to send that signal, I need to rely on that bastard Vttiri to guide my raggedy-ass squad to the astropathic chamber, where we’re hoping at least one astropath survived to get our plea to the right ears.”
Tarmos nodded, looking every bit like a judge who had sentenced an innocent man to death and not being able to do a damn thing about it. He opened his mouth to speak, lips fluttering soundlessly as he groped for words. None came, and he abruptly shut his mouth again.
Daros hung his head in his hands. The Corporal had known he would not be surviving the battle, but to have his life thrown away on what sounded suspiciously like a suicide mission was something he had not bargained on. And to have it assigned through his lifelong friend – fate was cruel, Daros thought. He realized that his silver helm had fallen from his head and onto the floor in his despair; thoughtfully, he leaned down and scooped it back up, placing it on his head.
The Sergeant looked up finally. “I’m sorry, Daros.”
“I understand. And I will do my best.”
Tarmos stood and held out his hand. Daros took it in a firm handshake. The friends stood there for a moment, hands clasped together in a final farewell, before Tarmos spoke again.
“We will meet again, my friend,” he said, voice choked with emotion and eyes glazed.
Corporal Reed nodded, broke the handshake, and jogged from the shelter of the ruined Immolator Tank into the crimson wastelands to gather his men.
“This way, Corporal – follow me,” Vttiri said for what seemed like the hundredth time.
Daros rolled his eyes, though Vttiri could not see the gesture… or could he? Either way, Daros did not find himself caring. The wrongs inflicted by these heretics had to be avenged, and everyone knew that would not be happening on Corelia in its current state. Someone had to know about what had transpired here – for surely, the actions of these heretics must have a purpose.
The Corporal motioned to the squad behind him to follow, and stalked after the Psyker, Vttiri. Their uniforms, Daros thought, seemed utterly ridiculous in their current predicament, what with the light blue trousers and epaulets, their once-spotless white tunics, the knee-high leather boots, and the horsehair-crested silver helms, said to be inspired by man’s first attempt at ornamental, but functional, headgear.
But at least we have lasguns, Daros thought optimistically, even if they were dressed for the parade ground rather than the killing fields. He took a last look at the eight men creeping after him, though stealth seemed a ridiculous idea with their uniforms in mind, and turned back to Vttiri.
Ahead of them was a domed structure, the reddened sun reflecting ominously across its marble surface – which now glowed a threatening shade of crimson. The Corporal knew it to be the Astropathic Chambers, where a commune of twelve psykers broadcast important communiqués offworld. But never in their long years of service had they sent a message as important as the one they would shortly.
The chambers were still a hundred meters ahead, but as far as Daros was concerned, they were home free. He motioned for the squad to keep their heads low and made his way to Vttiri’s side.
“So?”
“What?” the psyker snapped.
Daros bit back an angry retort. “Do you sense anything?”
Vttiri’s face blanked for a moment. “A single squad of heretical PDF hold that building. No heavy weapons, and they have not yet begun to erect any kind of defense. They’re simply guarding the astropaths’ chamber. I cannot feel the psykers, but they may be shielding their minds – besides, why would the heretics be guarding the chambers if there was nothing to watch?”
There was something in Vttiri’s voice that Daros did not like, but before he could utter a word, the shriek of yet more Chaos artillery filled the air above them.
“Better get moving,” Daros said. “Squad! With me!”
He rose from the embankment they had been taking cover behind, lasgun held tightly to his breast, and sprinted across open ground to the ivory structure beyond. Several explosions issued behind him as the artillery rounds found their marks in the trench the squad had just vacated, and Daros muttered a prayer of thanks as the smell of burned corpses filled the air.
Breathing laboriously, the Corporal, Vttiri, and the rest of the team made it to the walls of the Astropathic Chamber, backs pressed against the corrupted marble surface. Daros was tempted to remain and catch his breath, but with heavy guns zeroing in on their position, he thought it best to dispense with comfort for the moment.
“Let’s go!”
The squad followed as Corporal Reed sprinted along the wall, clambering over rubble and bodies that choked its length. Half a minute later, the Imperials had arrived at the entrance, a marble-columned affair with a broad archway leading into the building itself.
Daros lowered his voice. “Be wary, men, we don’t know for sure what we’re up against here.”
Several cautious nods in response. Daros raised his lasgun to his shoulder and darted from cover, sprinting into the entryway from column to column. Vttiri was behind him, lasgun drawn and eyes roving as if he expected someone to show up at any moment. Daros pushed his suspicions from his mind; Vttiri was a bloody coward, and there was no way he would put his own skin at risk, even if his loyalties were questionable. If something was going to happen, Vttiri would be in harm’s way… and that just wasn’t like him.
Meeting no resistance, the men made their way to the gilded doorway leading to the circular Astropaths’ chamber.
“Haran, get a charge on this door,” ordered Daros.
A brawny trooper emerged from behind a column, carrying a small satchel charge at his waist. A few moments later, the satchel was held securely to the door’s crenellated surface. Daros held up a lighter and lit the crude fuse protruding from beneath the opening flap.
“Fire in the hole!” he yelled, diving behind a column. He covered his ears, just remembering to open his mouth slightly as the detonation rang out. The rush of superheated air pinged harmlessly off the column he had taken shelter behind, and the absence of screams and moans of pain told Daros that the squad had remembered basic training as well.
“Go! Go! Go!” the Corporal ordered, a bit unnecessarily as the entire squad had sprung from cover and were darting into the room. The mangled remains of at least two heretics were splattered across the opposite wall, but several dazed cultists were still sprawled around the room, helpless without their senses.
There were six at the most, and quick lasgun bursts to the head silenced them swiftly.
Daros glanced about for an astropath. Several dismembered corpses were tucked away in the alcoves reserved for their commune in life, and he despaired for a moment, but then noticed a single battered psyker who still drew breath. He holstered his gun and ran to the astropath, who seemed unscathed, if a little dazed.
“Are you alright?” he said loudly. The psyker looked up at him with wide eyes, not quite believing he had been saved, but said nothing. Impatient to get done with his mission and fearing that chaos reinforcements may be on their way, Corporal Reed repeated, “Are you alright?” The psyker seemed uncomprehending. Realization dawned on Daros.
“Frak,” he said. “His eardrums are shot.” He looked around, thinking fast. “Anyone have a quill and paper?”
He should have known better; of course no one would have a sheaf of parchment or a quill pen at a moment like this. Daros looked to Vttiri, who was staring vacantly at the entryway. The corporal had no time for this; he turned back to the psyker.
“You have to listen to me!” he yelled, knowing the man still wouldn’t hear him. He resorted to sign language, military stuff that the psyker probably couldn’t hope to comprehend, but this was desperate. “We need a message sent offworld. Here, look at this,” he said exasperatedly, brandishing a coded data slate from his backpack.
The black plastic case was roughly the size of a sheaf of parchment, though much thicker, and was coded to answer only to the DNA signature of an astropath. The astropath nodded suddenly, reaching out and snatching the device from Daros’ hands. He placed his thumb on a pad, wincing as a needle punctured his digit and drank deep of his blood. A sheet of parchment was ejected from a slit on the top of the case, and the psyker broke into a trance, pressing his wrinkled forehead to the paper and mouthing words Daros couldn’t understand. A couple of tense minutes passed, but the psyker didn’t look up, seeming to strain against some invisible force.
Daros looked around uneasily; something was afoot. As if answering his silent musings, several shadows played across the chamber from the doorway. Some muffled thumps indicated short range gunshots; Daros raised his lasgun, knowing the sentries he had posted were dead.
Something burst into the room. It was huge, wearing wine-colored plates that Daros recognized as Astartes Power Armor – albeit warped and twisted beyond belief. Curved horns protruded from its helm. A wickedly-curved combat knife was held in one gauntlet, a huge bolter with a fang-mawed gun barrel in the other.
The gun barked thrice; three more soldiers of the Corporal’s squad went down, rib cages hanging agape, cold lasguns falling from their dead fingers. The remaining imperials returned fire, all but Vttiri and the Astropath attempting to save their lives with a hail of lasgun fire.
The crimson lasbolts scored the traitor marine’s armor – it was impossible to miss – but seemed to inflict no real damage. The combat knife flashed as he reached the Imperial soldiers; the remains of the squad fell with sprays of arterial blood. The Word Bearer roared in triumph and raised his blade to fell Daros, whose lasgun was running dry, and completely ignoring Vttiri and the astropath, who remained stock still as he attempted to transmit the vital message.
“Enough!” a powerful voice commanded. A figure strode into the room; Daros recognized a figure he had seen from the battlements, what seemed to be the leader of the Chaos incursion.
The Marine, or ex-marine, was decked in magenta power armor like his minion, but his was more corrupted, if possible. Human skin formed the “parchment” of the purity seals that decked his form. Blasphemous litanies were written out across every surface of the armor. A mace of some kind, bladed and wicked, was held loosely in one hand, and the other clasped a rusted bolt pistol.
His face was the most terrifying aspect of his appearance, though; yellowed eyes, slitted like a cat’s, glared malevolently from his face. An eight-pointed star was branded on one cheek, and scars and burns from promethium adorned his terrifying visage. This traitor must have had a run-in with a flamer, for his ears were non-existent, replaced instead by lumps of honeycombed flesh.
A sneer was directed at Daros, revealing sharpened teeth and blackened gums. “My greetings,” he rumbled.
Vttiri, Daros suddenly noticed, had knelt, head bowed in fealty. He spoke, “My Lord, I have brought you an officer of the garrison to prove my loyalty.” The psyker’s voice was ecstatic, and Daros fought down a wave of revulsion.
“Scum!” he spat, drawing on a hidden reserve of courage despite the presence of these terrifying behemoths. Vttiri laughed, and Daros desired nothing more at that moment than to wipe that gloating smile off the traitor’s face. He dimly remembered the laspistol he had tucked into his back-holster and made sure to keep the traitors at his fore.
The Dark Apostle cackled. “Hah, this one had integrity – courage. A fine sacrifice he will make.” He turned to Vttiri. “His rank?”
“Captain,” the psyker lied.
“I am Corporal Daros Reed of the Corelian 5th,” Daros announced rebelliously. Vttiri reddened.
“Hmm,” the Apostle mused, stroking his chin with one hand. “A strong soul, indeed. But rest assured, young one, that your essence is naked and defenseless against the might of my Gods. We are but breaths in the mighty gale that is Chaos Undivided. To resist us is futile, but do try. It makes my ministrations so much more enjoyable, to break those whose faith is firm – or so they believe.”
Daros barely took in a word. A seething hatred had drowned out any comprehension he may have had of the Traitor’s words. He glared at Vttiri, hand wandering to his back.
The Dark Apostle noticed the Astropath for the first time. “Ah, what is this I see?” He leaned to one side so he could see past Corporal Reed, who stood defiantly in place as he reached slowly for his holster. Vttiri continued to grin idiotically.
The Apostle continued, “A psyker, even better!” He glanced knowingly at the other Marine, who stood with his head bowed to one side. “A fine offering we shall make this day!”
“Amen, it shall be so, my Lord,” the Chaos Marine hissed from behind his visor.
Daros’ hand reached the holster; he unbuttoned the flap holding his laspistol in place and whipped it out in a double-handed grip. He aimed for Vttiri’s forehead, knowing that he couldn’t hope to kill either of these Chaos Marines. The Corporal could, however, dispatch Vttiri. He had earned marksman’s medallion on the firing range for his uncanny ability with a pistol, and he did not plan to miss now when he needed his skills the most.
He tightened his finger on the trigger – the Chaos Marine’s knife flashed downward. No shot came, and Daros looked at the stumps of his hands, horrified as the blood began flowing freely. The Corporal stared at his useless hands that lay on the ground before him, twitching as their nerve endings fired. Vttiri began to cackle, which stung Daros more than the pain.
The Dark Apostle smiled. “I told you,” he stated simply. His minion holstered his weapons and grabbed Daros by the arm.
His master continued, “It is time. Come – though you have no choice in this matter, you may yet be able to appreciate what you are about to do for us.”
When Daros awoke, he knew what was happening could not be good. He attempted to move, but couldn’t; he was bound to an obsidian obelisk with eight sides, chaotic sigils carved into its surface.
He looked around. The Dark Apostle stood before him, this time wearing his crozius holstered at his side. In its place was a gleaming red knife, a foot long at least, and serrated to cut through flesh and bone easily… and painfully. He was intoning some blasphemous litany, and Daros was increasingly aware of a sense of dizziness.
It dawned on the Corporal that he was before the walls of the cathedral, the final defense of Corelia Primus. And he was naked. He could just make out the last defenders of the garrison watching him from the walls, helpless to do anything to assist him. He was out of lasgun range, and the last of the marksmen had been killed in the retreat.
A sea of traitors, mutants, and Word Bearers were before him and the Dark Apostle, all with their eyes on their master. Their mouths moved in prayer; their heads were raised to the skies, allowing an oily rain to wash over their faces.
“This we pray, and with thy strength in our veins, thy will be done through us,” the Dark Apostle finished. He took a step forward, dagger held loosely at his side. “You are about to experience the ultimate in human sensation,” he hissed, smiling as he twirled the dagger in one hand. “I would say be prepared, but… well, there is nothing that can ready you for this. You shall be cut apart piece by piece, still living of course, and the Daemons shall feast upon your flesh a bit at the time. And the best part is – you get to watch it all.”
The dagger flashed, and the Dark Apostle set to work. Daros felt his sanity evaporate through the pain, barely aware of his screams of utmost agony, and he knew as the last vestiges of his cogent mind disintegrated that he was utterly alone, his soul utterly doomed.
~Originally Posted by Brother Mortes
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Post by Ilairon on Aug 18, 2005 23:19:11 GMT -5
As the battle raged on in the holy city, the rain continued to lash down; a thick, oily substance, coating the world beneath it in a layer of lubricating slime. It was barely water now, having been tainted by the darkness that followed the attacking forces. It lay in puddles in the streets, torch light and las fire shimmering on its surface, being cast back in a distorted reflection. Some say they saw things beneath the surface, even in the shallowest puddles where no beast could lie hidden; men went mad as they gazed in wonder into the seemingly endless abyss and saw horrors, the horrors of their mind given form, so that they could see them with their own waking eyes. The gibbering wrecks lay at the roadside by abandoned defences, curled into soaking, sobbing balls of fear, clutching at the last threads of their sanity with torn fingernails and red raw fingertips.
Only the Mausoleum now stood in Imperial hands, but the defences were more stalwart than had been seen elsewhere on the planet. The Lady was watching over them, pulling each fallen soldier back to his feet with gentle hands, whispering words of wisdom, of courage, of honour, into the ears of every guardsman; when orders rang out, they were not with the barking tones of whatever officer was still standing, but with the sweet song of her voice. Valour filled the hearts of the defenders, and swathes of cultists fell before their heaven fulled wrath; for the Emperor and their Lady were with them.
Above the mausoleum, high in the night sky, the Dreadclaws burst into flame as they pushed, screaming, through the upper atmosphere. The anti aircraft cannons burst into life, roaring their vengeance at the drop pods thundering through the heavens towards them. Ranks of men formed up and loaded their weapons, stalwartly and silently waiting for the moment when the doors hissed and blew open, allowing the maroon armoured horrors to burst out.
A cheer erupted as one of the shells hit home, shattering one of the pods in a ball of red flame. The debris fell to the ground far below; parts of the passengers falling onto the mausoleum steps.
Pvt. Gabriel gritted his teeth again as he fired another burst from his heavy bolter emplacement into the swarm of twisted freaks in front of him. He felt the rain of blood drop onto his uniform as the corpses from the pod hit the floor with a crunch. His attention was grabbed as a loud crack echoed besides him, and he turned for a moment to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that had landed there. A helmet lay, rocking back and forth, a hollow where the protection for the front of the skull would have once been. Gabriel faltered. The sickly thud as a burnt torso followed the same path as the helmet brought him back to the present, but his mouth curled open in horror as his eyes fell upon the Imperial fatigues it wore. The lady had forsaken them.
The defenders broke with little trouble as the Chaos Marines stormed up the steps, ledy by their prophet, their apostle, in all his fury. The ground tainted beneath his footsteps, and those that followed him broke into a frenzy of destruction as their boots touched the horrible ground. Bullets and lasfire bent about his form, barely touching the shimmering aura around him; confusing the eyes, almost opaquely black one moment, transparent the next. Changing hues of all colour; light broken by the runes on his armour. Bodies flew from the force as he swung the massive crozius; a twisted artefact, the head of which was moulded from the fused skulls of old saints that he himself had desecrated on the Legion's flight back to the Eye.
The Word Bearers stepped uncaringly over the corpses of the dead or dying; sometimes placing admantium boots in the skulls of those too wounded to move, other times stooping low to collect still beating trophies from their victims. The apostle continued on.
-- When the Dreadclaws had hit the mausoleum roof, the structure had collapsed inwards. Shells and heavy firepower it could deal with, but the fury of the ageold constructs smashing into it was too much. But those who had lived through the collapse were barely sane enough to deal with the contents of the Dreadclaws.
When the smoke cleared, and the dust dissapated, the doors had blown open, scattering their contents onto the rubble sprewn floor. The desecrated and tortured bodies of the guardsmen throughout the city who had not made it to the last defences, some still alive, insane, moving in agony, their spirits broken from being carted into an enclosed space with the bleeding corpses of their companions. The Lady had forsaken them. --
The moat had been easy enough to cross; when all Imperial forces had fallen to behind the walls, the Chaos forces lined up in the surrouding ruins, waiting for their moment. A strike force, a second Dreadclaw mounted force had dropped just behind the walls; taking out the bridge control room with ease. Though protected by rank upon rank of guardsmen, there was no stopping a marine strike, especially not a lightning fast one. It had proved easier than the Imperials would have liked to think to cross the moat.
The apostle ignored the destruction, instead making his way into the heart of the construct. The squad assigned to destroying the last remnants of the guardsmen stood still and silent, their task completed; and now the rest of the force was busy executing and torturing the High command. No guardsmen stood here now; just empty, windless corridors, alcoves home to statues of long dead martyrs.
He came to a stop before a door that stood beneath the largest alcove, home to a statue of the Emperor. He sneered with barely controllable hatred at the figure. Slowly and carefully, he pulled off one of his seals, tearing it from his armour, and with a smile, placed it at the foot of the statue. Almost immediately, a black crawling spider web began to creep across the marble.
With a crushing blow from his crozius, the inner doors gave way; and a column of light fell onto the tomb of Saint Corelia. A slab of rock that had seen no light for Millenia.
The Apostle smiled, a smile filled with horror encased in his blackened gums and needle like teeth. He set to work; there was a task to do.
~Originally Posted by Angron
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Post by Ilairon on Aug 18, 2005 23:20:09 GMT -5
Space seemed brighter in this sector of the Imperium. The Ultima Segmentum was what could be termed as the center of the galaxy, a swirling mass of stars and planets that formed a bright corona in its eye. Bright light poured from the countless suns, bathing anything that dared enter their domain in their luminescent glory.
Half a dozen dark shapes reflected the light from their crenellated surfaces as they cut through the vacuum. Immense guns – lance arrays and the like – protruded form every surface of the ships, whose hulls were a glossed pitch black. Leering gargoyles peeked from between the gargantuan weapon tubes, watching and protecting the ships from the predatory creatures that dogged them in the warp.
Three of the warships were larger than the others, each a kilometer long. They were sleek but deadly, an orbital cannon jutting from their chins beneath twin prows. At their sterns they widened. Behind them, the vacuum lay warped and twisted by their passing, their incomprehensible power leaving an indelible mark on the fabric of space. Command bridges, raised daises towards the stern and mounted on their dorsal structures, were built into the shape of double-headed eagles, wings spread wide – beaked heads looked to either side, one to the past, the other staring unflinchingly into the future.
To the fore of the feared Strike Cruisers – the Templarum Crux, the Ira Contentus, and the Vigilas - were the pickets, comparatively small frigates that could be expended if need be. They were dwarfed by their larger sisters, but contrary to their size, were quite powerful… and deadly. Each of the ships bore the Templar Cross, emblazoned on every flat surface and declaring their allegiance to every ship their paths crossed. This was the Black Templars Darilus Crusade, and they feared no foe. The stars averted their gaze.
Deep in the bowels of the Templarum Crux, a company’s worth of Space Marines went about their tasks. The barks of holy bolters echoed about the corridors as some practiced their firing rites. Other Black Templars were in their quarters, meditating and resting so that their duties would be performed all the more efficiently. But every one of those activities was aimed towards furthering their cause: to bring death to enemies of the Emperor. Thanks was given to him at every turn, praise offered up to Dorn and Sigismund for instilling the Space Marines with a purpose.
Brother Godfrey was perfectly content to kneel in his Spartan quarters and recite his litanies and prayers, but his routine had been disturbed today – though the change was by no means unwelcome.
“This brings me back to my days as a young Neophyte,” the Marshall cheerfully said over his shoulder at the Marine and his Neophyte trotting along behind him. “Youth, a wonderful thing.”
Godfrey had never thought of Marshal Theoderic Venite as an old man. True, he had seen nearly three centuries of service to the Emperor and Dorn, but there was still a spring in his steps. In his chest beat the hearts of a young marine, and that fact gave the Marine comfort; the Marshal was someone he could relate to, not some distant figure that inspired fear and awe in equal measure.
No, there was awe here as well – but it went hand in hand with respect. The Marshal had actually requested Godfrey’s presence, a fact that vexed him. It was quite unorthodox for a Battle Brother to be tagging along with such a high-ranking officer. But then, Venite had always walked the unbeaten path. Questioning the way of things was the reason he had lived so long and risen to such an esteemed position.
Still, his choice in what amounted to an apprentice was a source of confusion to Godfrey, who considered himself just a piece of the puzzle, a cog in the machine – he was not special. What did the Marshal see in him? The fact that he had been chosen should have cheered the young Marine, but instead it weighed heavily in his heart, dragging him down further into his troubled mind.
Godfrey started; Theoderic had his head turned slightly, gazing at him out of the corner of one eye. The initiate silently chastised himself for losing his focus in such esteemed company. His feelings must have shone clearly in his green eyes, for the Marshal broke into a reassuring grin and turned away.
Remembering that the Marshal had addressed him, Godfrey said, “I beg your pardon, my Lord. I forgot myself.”
Marshal Venite waved a gauntleted hand to silence him. “Of no consequence, lad. I was much the same as you in my younger days.” With a knowing look in his eye, he continued, “You have difficulty finding your place. You are unsure of yourself, Brother, and that is perfectly understandable given your age and relative lack of experience.” He laughed at the sudden look of indignation on Godfrey’s face.
“Walk beside me, Godfrey.” The initiate’s mood mellowed once again and he quickened his step, motioning for his Neophyte – Ahren – to stay behind him. The marshal kept his eyes to the fore, pretending not to notice the silent exchange. It was considered impolite to interfere with the business of a Neophyte and his mentor.
Godfrey matched the Marshal’s pace. “What do you ask of me, Lord?” “Brother,” Venite corrected.
“Of course,” Godfrey said, adding with difficulty, “Brother."
“Much better. As I was saying, you have your doubts, and that is good. There is no harm in questioning. You are surely aware of my disposition towards those who are so firm in the old ways as to refuse to acknowledge change. It is a necessary part of our existence; without the ability to adapt, our Imperium would have fallen inward upon itself long ago.”
Godfrey nodded, drinking in the Marshal’s every word, unusual as they may have been.
“I see your doubts, but I see strength in your mind and heart. You will find your place, Brother – you may be sure of that. Question, but keep it within reason.”
“To doubt is the road to heresy,” Godfrey said slowly, perplexed at the contradiction between Marshal Venite’s words and those of the Chaplains. “As some would say, yes. And in part, they would be correct. Those who turn from the Emperor’s light delved too far into mysteries they were not meant to understand. They doubted His power, His strength and glory. And they denied their obligation to Him and the Imperium. These are things you must always remember; while flexibility can be a tool for the betterment of mankind, it has also been the undoing of many.
“Be able to avoid blind faith, but at the same time your heart must remain pure and unsullied as it is now. That is true wisdom.”
The Initiate rapped his knuckles on his breast plate as a sign of respect, humbly saying, “I shall remember your words as long as I live, Brother.” “That is all I ask.”
Something in the metallic collar that ringed the Marshal’s neck beeped: a vox bead. A sudden look of focus came into being on Theoderic’s face; he keyed the mic with a thought impulse.
“Marshal Venite here.”
A monotone voice that Godfrey recognized as Servitor’s came through with a hiss of static. “Urgent transmission, my Lord, for your eyes only.” “Inform Admiral Dwight that I shall be on the bridge shortly,” Venite said quickly, stopping in his tracks. He cut the connection with another impulse and began walking back down the corridor. “It seems we will have to partake in that marksmanship contest at another time, Brother Godfrey.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Godfrey said, “Perhaps I should take my leave. I have meditation to perform in my chambers, and my Neophyte…”
“Nonsense, you shall be accompanying me to the bridge. I am in need of a bodyguard, and I am confident you both shall perform quite adequately in the absence of my entourage.
Godfrey resignedly followed the Marshal, avoiding the billowing cape slung beneath the man’s power pack, his Neophyte right behind him.
The elevator doors groaned open as a harsh crimson glow globe pulsated from the lift’s ceiling. Marshal Venite stepped out onto the bridge, followed shortly by Godfrey and Neophyte Ahren, their boots ringing on the grated floor.
Turning to face the new arrivals, the Marine bridge crew bowed their heads in respect to the Marshal, who did not lose a step as he strode up to the raised foredeck at the front of the chamber.
They passed numerous stations, all manned by servitors. Some control stations were embedded in the walls to either side, while others were bolted to the floor in a sunken section in the center of the bridge. Sightless eyes were trained on green-tinged panels that displayed information beyond Godfrey’s comprehension. Tech adepts huddled in the shadows, censers in their augmetic hands glinting eerily in the half-light of the chamber. Pipes and wires trailed across the metallic floor, seemingly at random, and Godfrey was careful to avoid trodding on them in fear of damaging some vital system.
A brass-railed platform dominated the foredeck. To one side was a strange adamantium structure, about the size of a land speeder, presumably the Navigator’s bubble. In the center of the bridge was the Admiral, a tall Marine with ebony skin that very nearly matched his black power armor. Steely blue eyes peered at them from beneath a heavy forehead and non-existent eyebrows.
“Marshal,” he rumbled in bass tones, “good of you to have joined us.” “As the Emperor wills,” came the reply. “What news have you?” Admiral Dwight bowed and motioned for something in the shadows to come forth. A gnarled and twisted man stumbled from one corner of the bridge, clad in the white robes of the astropath. Hanging from his thin and abnormally long neck was an aquila on a golden chain, and his hunched figure suggested that it was weighing him down.
Godfrey fought down revulsion; psykers were everything a true servant of the Emperor had been taught to despise, Godfrey himself being edified by one of the most dogmatic chapters in the history of the Imperium. At the same time, though, he remembered the Marshal’s strong words on open-mindedness and flexibility. He looked to Venite, who, to his surprise, was staring at the psyker with unmasked suspicion. Feeling justified in his abhorrence now, Godfrey lent the psyker his ear.
“My lords,” he rasped, sounding like a narc addict denied of his chem inhaler, “The choir has received a transmission from the Corelia system.” “Of what nature?” the Admiral piped in impatiently.
The psyker bowed even lower. “It was a distress call. Corelia is besieged by the traitorous Word Bearers as we speak. The Corelians’ last bastion is on the verge of collapse and they have requested assistance from any available forces.”
At the mention of the name “Word Bearers”, every Marine on the bridge hissed, the deck hands catching the words thanks to their augmented hearing. Godfrey gasped and made the sign of the aquila over his breast. He had never faced the traitorous legions before, but they were an anathema to everything the Adeptus Astartes represented, and the Initiate was filled with righteous indignation by the fact that they had sallied forth into the Holy Imperium as if they had a right to do so.
“So it is left to us to take up the banner of the Imperium and crush these foes beneath our boots,” Marshal Venite stated. “We shall answer the call.” He whirled to face the admiral. “How far are we from Corelia?” The Admiral traced a route on a navigation board with his finger. “Six days is my best guess.”
Godfrey heard Theoderic curse under his breath. “Not enough time. Push the fleet harder, make it five.”
The Initiate mused. He knew that the Crusade was battle weary from its recent campaign against the Orks of Charadon alongside the Ultramarines. Despite the assistance of Guilleman’s sons, the fight had been hard-won. The orks were no easy victory, but they would be child’s play next to the coming battles against the treacherous Word Bearers. “Your will, Marshal,” intoned the Admiral with another bow.
“Godfrey, return to your quarters. Battle preparations will begin soon and you must gather with your Brothers if your preparations are to be complete. Emperor go with you.”
The Initiate bowed and made his way back to the lift.
Behind him, he heard the Marshal saying, “Now give me everything you have on this ‘Corelia’”.
~Originally Posted by Brother Mortes
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Post by Ilairon on Aug 18, 2005 23:22:20 GMT -5
Ahren had sat in the chamber, a frown of utter concentration veiling his face with age. The look of focus on his face disguised his true age, for he was young. His black and white armour glinted in the soft light of the room. Every inch of it was painstakingly inscribed with litanies, a recent addition by Ahren himself. The words had been sliced into the armour by hand, and they were clearly visible in the soft light. The light made shadows in the pits of the letters, and shone brightly around the raised edges. The armour itself was quite old. It had been worn by many Neophytes before Ahren, and likely many more after. The plates were cratered with holes from past encounters, and the litanies were inscribed around them, and separate ones inside each crater. It was truly a unique piece of scout armour. The marine inside it was no less unique. Ahren had been recruited by the Black Templars from a nasty background, and his new faith in the Emperor was unquestionable. The litanies on his armour were only some proof he had faith in Him. Some would call Ahren’s belief blind faith, but to him it was not so. Some would call him over-zealous, but he felt it was his duty to serve.
His feverous faith was stronger than his armour, and he performed tasks with as much efficiency as he could. The way he sat, his face totally contorted, his body unmoving except for barely noticeable breathing, made it seem as though he was a statue, fixed to the ground. His black hair did not fall about his face; instead it lay back, giving it a windswept look. It ended in spikes, not normal for a marine, but it was his way. The metal grids reflected light back up, giving the marine an under lit look. The room was fairly small and basic, no more than Ahren needed to perform his daily tasks.
With a soft hiss, the door slid open, and the thud of an armoured boot brought Ahren out of his trance. The Neophyte looked up, and nodded. In front of him stood Brother Godfrey, his mentor. Godfrey was the marine instructed to teach Ahren the ways of the Black Templars, and so far he had done a good job. Ahren was moderate in combat and always improving, and had proved himself loyal to Him on several occasions. Ahren stood up, and gave another nod to Godfrey. The two had become warm to each other, after rather a rough start.
“Lord Venite has requested my presence for a marksmanship contest, and I wish for you to watch, your skills with a bolt pistol, I daresay could improve” stated Godfrey, with little emotion.
Ahren knew that, without Godfrey saying it, he was rather confused about this. Obeying orders, Ahren quickly put the bolt pistol and chain knife back into his belt. Following Godfrey, Ahren mulled over in his mind what the Marshal could want with them. He felt honoured, and would definitely show the Marshal who dedicated he was. However, when they did meet the Marshal, Ahren was rather shocked. Ahren was so perplexed; he did not pick up on Brother Godfrey being confused in his silence. As he stayed behind Venite and Godfrey, Ahren listened to them, hoping to glean something of use to his faith from their conversation with his superior senses. The tech adepts had been rather confused when Ahren was first brought to them. His enhanced senses were greater than most marines were, a useful oddity.
He was confused at the Marshals tone, and attitude. He was not like the highly respected Chaplains, but Godfrey liked the man. Ahren did not however, although he showed no sign of this, and kept his face quite clear of emotion. The statement that commanded Godfrey to call the Marshal Brother truly disgusted Ahren. He believed strongly in superiority. The fact that Godfrey strained to say Brother after each comment somewhat helped Ahren’s mind, but it was not completely free of revolt. Also, the fact that Godfrey knew that doubt lead to heresy lightened Ahren hearts, although Ahren was offended by the blind faith comment.
While deep in his thoughts, something happened, and they were now hurrying somewhere. They got to the bridge in no time, and Ahren soon found his place again. The eerie light flickering from every screen lay on the servitors’ unseeing faces, and they were completely oblivious to the world around them. Ahren stood at the wall when they arrived on a platform railed with bronze poles. He did not dare try to listen to the conversation now. He placed himself too low on the superiority scale to think he would be allowed. However, even he could not prevent himself from hearing the worlds “Word Bearers” spoken by the vile, frail Astropath. Ahren hated every inch of the crooked figure. Psykers were unnatural, and had to be destroyed.
Ahren and Godfrey were dismissed as the leaders began to make battle preparations, and a righteous passion swelled in Ahren’s chest. The battle would be theirs, the Emperor would guide them!
~Originally Posted by Nightbringer
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Post by Ilairon on Aug 18, 2005 23:23:22 GMT -5
Flavius was three paces ahead of Rafael. Even with his psycannon and pack, he was making large strides in the beams of the searchlight, and the Inquisitor could barely keep up. His breath echoed into the respirator that engulfed his lower face. His eyes were a little glazed, but he still moved down the tunnel, auspex held out in front of him, bolt pistol held languidly at his side as his arms pumped into a jog to catch up with his eager acolyte.
"How far do these crypts go, and how can we be sure the Word Bearers will not find us here?"
Flavius stopped and turned, giving a facial expression as near to a shrug as possible. Never one for tangled words, he added, "If they find us, we'll fight, my Lord."
"Of course, but I was planning on them not finding us before we can get out of here and..." Rafael held his voice, half sighing.
"You believe help will come, my Lord?" Flavius echoed Rafael's sentiments.
"By the Emperor's will, yes. And swiftly, might I pray..."
The searchlight attached to Flavius shoulder was swinging about, lighting up a narrow, long area ahead of them, but only dimly showing the edge of their path.
"Where are we? We have been travelling far, and long, have we not? Open up that lamp, let the Emperor's light envelop the darkness..."
As Flavius turned the notch on the searchlight, it threw up a great wall of light, reaching the the wonderful marble ceiling, also revealing many statues hidden in alcoves amongst the walls. The crypt looked disused, but there were no signs of grime or general decay. Rafael thought there might still be some alive down here.
The Word Bearers had come upon them quicker than he thought, and the fighting was scare. Before the guards had even raised their weapons they fell, and Rafael prefered to mete out the Emperor's justice at a much safer oppurtunity in the distant future. He was thankful that Flavius agreed with his proposition. He was also grateful that the Word Bearers were vigorously attached to their task, and overlooked the few that might have escaped into the crypt.
There had certainly been more than just them. Almost immediately, Inquisitor Baldasarre and Flavius came across a group of injured guardsmen, and he had to leave them in haste, lest the Word Bearers followed like hounds of the hunt.
The floor of the chamber they stood in was a fine gravel, that crunched when they moved, Rafael had suspected this as they were down here. The gravel covered the floor, but raised stone structures also dotted the floor off the main pathway. He moved toward one.
He beckoned Flavius closer with the light. He read the inscription, that boasted of the relatively mediocre deeds of a previous Eparch, and Rafael was not interested, he was still facinated that these tombs might be maintained by someone, or something.
Once more, wordlessly, he held up a hand to his Acolyte and stepped back to let him continue. Flavius tirelessly took up the walk, moving his weapon slightly. Rafael raised the Auspex, scanning every now and then, but fruitlessly all the same.
There was still hope for Sanctifo Corelia as long as the forces of Chaos ignored their objectives and sated their own lusts, and that gladdened him, but from now he realised that he would have to play a waiting game, and that if they were discovered, there would not be long before they were overwhelmed by the barbarous forces of the Ruinous Powers.
Moving carefully along the passageway, he heard Flavius murmur ahead of him. "May the Light of the Emperor preserve us."
Rafael could not help but echo his sentiments.
~Originally Posted by Beorn
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