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Rapping my way to divinity in this crapsack galaxy (Skyrim/Warhammer 40K/Some D20 Elements, Semi-SI)

Thread starterGrimmatt

Start dateAug 2, 2022

Tagscrossover dragon dragon si elder scrolls: skyrim warhammer 40k

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Threadmarks The Dragon and the Seer New

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Grimmatt

Aug 24, 2022

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#146

Amdor

Some time before a scarlet plague bloomed across a polluted sea, before oil rusted away the minds of priests and filled their souls with decay, a meeting was to take place between two figures in the depths of Hive Bordeaux. It was largely for convivences sake, as ripples of the impossible began to spread, tales of something being able to banish corruption and possession, of undoing the works of the lord of despair? His was not the only eye to be drawn, the only ear that was all too curious. Of course, as his sword decapitated another of the whores cultists, not all of that attention was positive.

And yet, as he drew near to the meeting place, as he heard new stars in the deep singing a strange song that swept around in gentle currents, the pressures against his soul easing. Which, if anything, only revitalized and reenergized him, because if this was the dragon? If it had a means to ward off the thirsting serpent? How much would he be willing to offer for such a prize? How much would any of his people be willing to offer? If they did not just decide to do something... rash that could lose them this chance entirely.

Which is why he was feeling less and less unsure of this meeting in a secure room, one 'rented' from the Gate Wardens for the duration of the meeting. Because even if he could not see the dragon, and indeed anything in the depths had been obscured by songs of starlight recently, he could tell that this would be pivotal, something which could grant his species the edge it needed to do more than survive against chaos, but to correct the mistakes of the past and correct their sins. Or at least, a chance. Which really, was all he could ask for at this point.

So, he nodded and gave the tokens and signs to the gate guards, the codes that he was in fact, a welcome guest to the shining as if it was new fortress. And that was the thing. The entire layer so far was clean and bright, as if it had just been established, freshly poured, forged and manned... and the wardens lacked all the small mutations that had crept into their ranks over the centuries. The proof of it all was jarring and exciting, as he was led to a conference room, and came face to face with the dragon.

Thankfully in human guise, and already seated at a table. "Amdor, I suspect?" The voice... the rumble that underlaid it, the vibrations and the echoes, the power that seemed to shudder slightly... how would anyone have mistaken it for a human? "I heard you wished to talk?" There was amusement in the creatures voice, an eyebrow raised as its hands were steepled. So, with ease, long slender digits reached up, as he took his mask off, placing it in front of where he was to sit at the table.

After all, the dragon held the greater part of the leverage, and so, best to have some of the cards on the table right at the start. Now, if he could only get the feeling of beating drums out of his head...

The Conversation

For the most part, as Amdor looked at the dragon, currently clad in the shape of a man, the first thought that came to mind was a great grynix, confident and assured in itself, and yet also somehow wary at the same time, as he gestured for the young seer to sit. "Before we talk of business and weighty matters," the creature spoke, his voice calm and smooth, a faint rumble to it that spoke of power as he dipped his hands into his shadow, pulling out a pair of glasses and a pitcher, "I believe it customary for the host to offer a drink?"

And in the offer, implying superiority over the eldar. Which to be entirely fair, Amdor was more than used to. The sheer amount of posturing among the nobility was, all things considered, ridiculous. And yet, at the same time, as he inclined his head, smile on his lips and relief in his heart, something of a relief. He had gotten used to navigating these patterns and rituals, and if the dragon wished to be treated as a noble, or at least put on those pretenses? More power to him.

"I would, but alas, cannot indulge overmuch. While the starsong is most soothing, I am afraid with my circumstances, indulgence is unwise." For a psyker, a muddled mind and unclear judgment could prove to be worse than fatal. For an eldar? Particularly one that made use of the seer path despite being an exile? How easy it would be to go from enjoying a glass of wine, to being sipped and savoured in turn by the serpent. That, and as the dragon-man poured, human drinks tended to be... simple, straightforward and lacked the psychically imbued depth and richness, the complexities and subtleties that purely physical brewing could not create.

Yet, as he lifted the glass to his nose, one needed to smell the drink first after all, he could feel himself drifting, the memory of a warm summer day, the grass underfoot, the laughter of younglings around him as grass tickled his toes, water lapping at him as he relaxes on a riverbank, the sun warm and bright overhead. In many ways, as he blinks, as he looks at the knowing and amused smile of the dragon, as he returns the lifted glass salute, conceding defeat to an unspoken comparison, he moves to drink.

It was if the memory of a warm summer day, of peace and contentment, were somehow contained in the rich and smooth drink, the burn of the alcohol being just enough to warm ones bones, to feel a gentle blanket settle over oneself, or more accurately, the warm and gentle caress of the sun as worries seemed to just melt away. It took will for him to focus on the here and now, even as he sighed. "A most excellent vintage. If you could tell me where you acquired it, simply for the sake of my own house and table?" Because it never hurt to ASK.

Which is why of course, the smugness intensified. "Ah, that would be in a keg I made, after all, when one wishes to have quality on hand, how best to assure that then to make it?" Yet, there is a hum, as once more the dragon man reaches into his shadow, taking from it a bottle of silver wire and blue-green sea glass. "A gift from my cellar to yours." And with that, and the twinkle in the dragons eyes, another blow had been struck in this combat, for if this wine was like the last drink, then it was a rich gift indeed.

And yet, even as he inclined his head, the young seer decided. "Thank you, I shall savour it. Still, with that, to business?" It was after all, polite to ask and make sure, and as a nod was given, the dragons posture and body language clearly radiating amusement and supreme self confidence, lounging like a feline in his chair. "Then I will say that I am known as Amdor, the hidden master of the Black Knives and Twilight Hunters. I am a dealer in information and am devoted to the war against the primordial annihilator."

The dragon raised a hand, indicating him to stop. "Firstly, are you affiliated with the band of habitual dupes and fuck ups known as The Cabal? Secondly, what path do your feet walk little Asuryani?" The dragons words were blunt, even as the first made Amdor blink, confusion gripping him. Because while he could answer the second...

Amdor merely shook his head. "While I am a seer on the path of the exile, mostly by my own choice, I am afraid I cannot divine an answer to the first question, as I have no idea who they even are." And really, he wondered why he would have been considered a potential member, unless this was not the dragons first encounter with the Asuryani? Yet, there was something to ask in turn. "Yet, I would ask, what is your opinion of Farseers?"

Because it was always best to see how badly that well was poisoned, even as the dragon spoke without hesitation. "Tzeentch cultists with no obvious mutations for the most part, unless you can point me to another group who values complexity over the goals they set out to achieve and suffer from chronic backstabbing disorder?" The dragons words are as blunt as a maul to the kneecaps and dry enough to leech moisture from the air.

In many ways, it was a relief that he had not been drinking, as he almost wheezed and coughed, an aborted laugh stuck in his throat. Oh, to have a farseer hear that! "A part of my exile is that while I would not describe them exactly the same..." He lifted the glass in salute and agreement, as that was the sad thing really. "Alas, I can hardly make the comparison to those lost on their path, for it would be do deny the power bought at the price of their mental stability."

Or, an agreement as the dragon snorted, that Farseers were unfortunately, suffering under and mental and spiritual illness, the same as any other lost to a path. "It is part of the reason why I strive to be as little like them as I can be. I do try and be forthright and honest in the majority of my dealings, even if Imperials tend to be rather happy throwing Xeno and witches on the pyre, so some level of discretion is required." Because really, it was.

Yet, as he reached into his robes, taking out a dataslate, the eldar placed it on the table. "A gift of my own, to measure my intentions, to see if my words hold weight. If you would be interested in more, I would gladly await a message after you confirm the information." Because for the potential gains at stake? A few free tidbits of current events was nothing compared to making sure that there was a combination of good will and trust.

Yet, the dragon placed a gleaming black gem on the table, a thought in his eye. "Another small gift, a token. While I use it to trap life energy, perhaps you can find a different use for it." A pause and a nod, before the dragon seems to vanish, slipping away and leaving Amdor with the possible implications. Could life energy be similar to souls? Could this be some form of spirit trap or stone? He grinned at the new questions, at the possibilities.

And then he paused. For a being with no soul, the dragon had been able to send the emotional content in such a fashion that if they had been speaking Aldeari instead of low gothic he would have assumed the dragon was one of his kin. Another oddity, and something linked perhaps to the star song that twinkled and laughed around him?

Ahkroonikaan

For the most part, it had been a productive session, with information and trinkets being exchanged. Or in any case, the Eldar seer buying trinkets for information and a few vaguely worded promises. To be sure, most of said vague wording boiled down to 'I will have to contact my superiors on the craftworld', but there had been a surprising lack of bullshit. Why, the enchantment he had imbued into the stone in the middle of the table to gently zap the seer if he tried to lie or deflect did not even go off once!

Which meant that the Eldar was being entirely honest (a rather novel concept) or was skilled enough in the art of deception to trick the stone. Either one was possible really, and underestimating eldar seers, particularly farseers, was how one ended up wishing for something as sweet as death. Yet, the information given, and his little trick with removing the corruption and mutations... well, he could see how that would be valuable, useful... and how the seer was desperately scrambling for an edge.

Which meant... well, many things as he heard of the Nurglite uprisings, of how the hive city of Volks was currently besieged as forces were converging on it.... and how other plagued hive cities were beginning to fester and spread their own corruption. All in all, something that meant he would have to accelerate some of his plans... and even use a few tricks that he would not have dared in Nirn if for no other reason than they came far too close to a dragon break for his families liking.

That, and as there was the sound of a mirror breaking, as he stepped into the past, his sisters boxed him about the head most ruthlessly before chewing him out. Yet here, he needed the extra time, as he began to move, to slip between even as he met with Amdor. There was work to be done, rituals to enact and preparations to make. The information he had was limited, and yet, he knew this much. Taking on a deamon prince in its lair would be a pain in the ass even AFTER preparation.

As for Volks? After a moment of wondering if it was some sort of Volkswagen reference given its automobile production, his main thought was on keeping the sort of firepower the cultists would be after out of their hands. Because cultists without access to major manufacturing centers were bad enough and caused enough interruptions to his work in uplifting the Tunnel Snakes as it was. He did NOT want them to field vast armored and mechanized legions. That sounded like a hassle to deal with, when he could instead be working on some of his enchanting projects.

He had a few things planned in fact for the Melga, and now that he was no longer needing to be worried about his kin jumping him for causing paradoxes, he could actually make his own Blackreach in the sump! After salvaging the local falmer of course. Granted, as he looked to the sky, he would need a much larger than usual shard of meteoric iron glass. But... well, there was one other serious question. Which hive to purify in flame first?

Choices, choices, it was disgusting that he had choices. Too many chaos cultists, not enough time.

Last edited: Aug 24, 2022

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Aug 24, 2022

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Threadmarks Siege of Volks; Despair Ye Mighty New

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Grimmatt

Aug 25, 2022

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#156

Red Streets

Volks ran red with blood, tears and terror. From a hundred fronts came the forces that would tear it apart. From every vent and crevice came the crawling hordes of rats and spiders, scarlet blooms replacing eyes as they screamed and devoured, rushing forward in suicidal charges. And in death? They exploded into clouds of spores, choking and infecting, 'survivors' soon finding their humanity choked out from vines that grew inside of them, howling hunger and hate as they fell on their former kin and comrades, perpetuating the cycle.

On other fronts conscripts would tremble with terror, only as hidden implants would activate, flesh subsumed by profaned machines and unholy technology. United in silent purpose, they fell on the unsuspecting, hauling them off to be subjected to the transformative oils, to cut away all that made them human and to become mere cogs in a machine of death and war. Respected tech-priests, trusted commanders, all revealed to have been taken and subverted by sleeper agents, twisted under the eyes of all who would watch for this corruption... the ranks of the watchers the first offices to be infiltrated.

Entire hive blocks were whipped into frenzies as they saw the end approaching and decided to purify all of the sinners in their midst, for why else would this be happening? And so, they tore themselves apart in paranoid fever dreams, witch hunts and frothing doom-preachers driving and barely directing the baying mobs. In part, this was a continuation of the food riots, starvation and faith pushing them into action, as wild as untamed fire and just as destructive to everything around them, as the flames danced and rose up.

And yet, in many places, death was hardly the end of things for those poor souls. For, linked into hidden engines long in the laboring, a low and discordant moaning broke out, the weeping cry of countless damned souls meeting endless clouds of flies and locusts. And so each that fell would rise again, screaming and weeping as the moaning pulses gave simple commands, as the dead rushed the living with the goal of dragging those who breathed into the cold twilight they were condemned to, stolen from the peace and grace of the Emperor's light and grace.

And yet, at the height of this, as the city gripped itself by the throat is when there came the laughing roars of the dispossessed, of the exiled and forsaken, as the mutant tribes of the waste rushed into the city to add to the slaughter and rape. Cruelly, did they vent their frustrations and hate on the city dwellers, as they killed and devoured many alive, as they made cruel use of men and women alike, as they reveled in the slaughter and the agonized screams of their prey... only, as the dead rose, for their own screams to join those of their victims.

Chieftains and champions had their bodies ripple and change, black oil dripping like blood as murderous cybernetics were revealed, claws and fangs dripping with toxins that paralyzed, as the oil did its ghastly work. Shamans had their powers, boosted in recent years grow out of control, spikes driven into the soft tissue of their minds as power was channeled and unleashed, bolts of corruption and rot surging forth in waves, leaving decaying flesh filled with accelerated plagues in all it touched as arcs of green lightning danced around their head. A better fate then the ones lead in by the Maiden of Rot.

Scarlet blooms covered them, twisting and tearing at them, shelves of fungal rot the color of blood forming armor on their skin as they twisted and warped, almost like insects that walked like men as they scuttled forward, stabbing with long spears. Yet, never to kill, as they captured their prey, as they lovingly placed spores in exposed wounds, sometimes cutting off limbs with a bone-pale kopesh before leaving their victim to lay there and rot, to be consumed by the plague... or to accept salvation in the arms of the Grandfather.

And yet, as the damned and the rotten poured into the city, they did not have it all going their own way. No, there was resistance in several places, holdouts that pressure was slowly applied to. Churches that held the faithful as they prayed and unleashed the fires of faith. Bastions of the law that unleashed stern judgements and shielded the innocent. A data-storage whose adepts were simple and friendly men of pen and memory, quick to give wisdom they had to all who sought for it, who had laid down the quill to take up the sword to protect their sacred charge. Even a noble estate, having opened its gates for the commoners, allowing them shelter inside as the end came.

All of these hold outs, as Volks was lost to rot and despair, all of them spoke of a ghost that wandered. Some said that it was a saint, for in its wake there was healing and strength, a fire lit in the hearts of men, strength in their limbs as they fought on, as they rose the banners high and as the cowering masses took note. As in the midst of despair and ruin, there was a clarion call. A call to hope. A call to arms, as fear vanished.

Hope Endures

The night falls and despair grips the land. And yet, in the midst of that, there would always be heroes. In many ways, over the centuries, it was these heroes that had captured the attention of Ahkroonikaan. He was mighty, he admitted that and there was no shame in acknowledging that truth... and yet, his was an easy strength in many ways, something inborn or made easier by the nature of what he was. What then, of those little mortals, bound by a short span of years, so frail and fragile in the winds of the cruel cosmos? So prone to falling to ill chance shorn of glory?

What of those, the small and common men and women, who rose? Who in a way shed the bounds of mortality by their own courage and valor, their wit and conviction? Who looked at the mighty and set their feet, blade raised as they drew a line in the stone, fear transformed by the pressure of the situation and their own wills? How could he not love such spirit! Such gems that rose from mortals as they strode from the mundane and into the realm of myth and legend!

And so, he walked Volks, diving between the currents of time, as he began his work. In many ways, no matter how grand it would be, it was because it drew on mortal valor, on the subtle touches, as he shifted and adjusted the song, as he wove the enchantments. It was something many overlooked really. His brothers would simply make a grand display of very obvious power, flames scorching and purifying the city. Or perhaps something more impressive than mere strafing runs. And yet, what would that leave the mortals with in the end? What sort of symbol would be left for them to rally behind?

No, as he approached them one at a time, all at the same moment, one needed to set the stage properly. And so, lit in an aura of gold and wisdom, he offered four gifts. Four keys in a way, to those he thought had the spark. To a young priest who sought to be a bulwark against the profane a Flame Hammer was given, lit with a spark of dragonfire, gleaming red and gold as it blazed with the warmth of the sun... which to the dead, was a deadly thing indeed.

To the young seeker of justice, who had in his heart a love of the law and a belief that the rule of law was all that stood between humanity and abomination was given a shield. In many ways, it was an assuming gift, this thing made from a single great scale. And yet, in the hands of the just, this shield would multiply, ghostly golden copies radiating the Emperor's light, a light that banished the dark and pushed back the lawless, that exposed the damned and offered shelter for those who sought to restore order.

To the scholar who sought the wisdom of the ancients, and who sought to preserve the memory of the ages was given a simple scroll case. Yet, when he took the parchment from it, the silver parchment burning with golden ink, he began to read the stories inscribed there, the prayers to the Emperor and the holy deeds, and from those readings, miracles were manifested into the world. And yet, these could not be drawn on constantly, as prudence was demanded of this awesome power, of cunning, will and respect in which it was bestowed.

And the last of these gifts? To a daughter of the noble that allowed the commoners in, to a daughter that tended to the sick and the ill with her own hands, who was a balm and a comfort, he gave a three phials. They were small, but filled with potent medicines... ones that would restore themselves over time. With these, she could heal and banish sickness, as she lifted her voice in praise and lowered her head in thanks, tears in her eyes. For she was given the gift of healing, and who, on seeing the Nurglite hordes, could claim that a small gift?

These four, this little adventuring party, would be his instruments, as he scattered resonating crystals in the city, as a singing star bloomed to life, defiant and hovering high in the air and away from any strikes the damned could easily muster. Now, let us see what song he could fashion from this, as he began working to bring them together, to strike down the worst of the foes that were already inside of Volks, before reinforcements or relief could arrive.

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Aug 25, 2022

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Threadmarks Siege of Volks; Heroes Rise New

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Grimmatt

Aug 31, 2022

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#176

For the most part, as the heroes made their way through the hive, as they purified with flame and gun, as songs of faith rose to push back the rot and decay, taking back nodes and passages, linking up and securing the holdouts. To be sure, as he fashioned and worked in the shadows, tools for them to find, to root out the compromised and the taken, the compleated agents lurking in their midst, cascading resonating crystals pulsing and banishing warp based corruption after they struck down some of the more highly placed minions of Chaos (for the most part to hide his experiments and to make it look more believable), he made sure that they had a chance.

It would hardly do for them to fail after all, as he guided them onwards. Much of this was adjusting a thousand little steps as future selves informed him of possibilities, as in other locations mirrored selves (past/present/future projection/conjuration/interlinked shards) allowed for the other strains of the song to be melded into a singular orchestra, rather than a mere clashing of notes and noise. To be sure... he was likely going to have to partially step out of the shadows, as meeting a Deamon Prince head on?

A part of Ahkroonikaan wondered just how far he would have to go? Would he have to take the measures he had planned if he needed to fight Alduin? Granted, he had learned and became more, expanded his tricks and skills since the last time he seriously considered open war instead of support in the shadows. That, and he grinned in the dark, staff spearing a screaming woman, well woman shaped rot sealed inside of armor, a scream being torn from her lips as fires raced inside of her veins, it would be fun to test his limits.

And yet, as he moved, as he slipped back into the shadows, he was satisfied with the Heroes of Volks progress so far. He would need to arrange for additional gifts later, upgrades to the arsenal as it were. Granted, the thoughtful dragon considered, it would not do to spoil the children, and so... perhaps when they took down another one of Gix's lieutenants? He did have a stockpile of interesting video game references to get through, and part of the heroes journey was the gathering of loot from the brutalized corpse of ones foes.

Granted, he WAS rather old school in that respect.

Roselyne Delaunay

She was a regulator of Volks, a shield against lawless, a gun against the corrupt and insane that would see the Imperium fall and send all tumbling down in to the abyss. And as she blocked another blow from the rotten abomination before her, the last three weeks had done nothing but stroke her resolve to new heights. After all, no matter how devoted one had been to the Lex before, there was something about seeing the consequences of failure, of the terrible abyss that humanity would be thrown into by the horrors from beyond that tempered iron into steel.

And so, she flexed her muscles, shield knocking the creature back even as the burning hammer wielded by the priest slammed into it, the shrieks joining the chorus as it caught aflame, a reverse blow helping to clear some space around them. The Adept was pulling out another scroll, the words rising into the air, the words of the Creed washing over them, a fire spreading her muscles, strength blooming in her arms and legs as she took aim and pressed the trigger, eyes hard.

The shotguns roar was joined by the ballistic crack of the ganger's rifle, bullets slamming into diseased flesh as they cut and fought their way towards the last reported location of one of the so called 'Maidens of Rot', one that had nearly breached the walls of the Amboise estate and in doing so threatened their current food, water and oxygen supply. Because for all she hated that the estate was this three level complex with an entire forest inside of it, the amount of water that could have gone to support the hive... she could not deny that they had opened their gates and converted the ornamentals into crops.

Besides, it was a petty grudge, a simple thing that had little to no place in the execution of her duties and in the purging of the unlawful elements that infested the hive city. Because the Lex was clear, even to someone who could not consult it at the moment. Sacking an Arbites Precinct Fortress? Yeah, as her gun blew the head off another of the dead rioters risen to unholy life, the only sentence for that was death. Raising the dead to attack an imperial world was not something covered in any of the teachings she had been part of, but she made a ruling, to be sent to the sector capital later.

Any force that reanimates the corpse of a convict for the purpose of making war on the Imperium was to be considered guilty of the same offences as the reanimated party, as an accomplice and accessory to the crime in question. Yes, as she bashed in the side of what used to be a starving child, releasing her soul to the Emperor's light, it likely did not matter over much given how the case would be placed into the jurisdiction of the Inquisition (because if this was not caused by Heretics, using foul sorcery and profane tech-lore? She would eat a bullet), but still, it would be a temporary stopgap in the rising tide of disorder.

A tide that would be broken and shattered on the iron rock of faith and law, as the survivors rallied to the law, rallied to the Throne. For He was the ultimate source of all law, of the Lex itself. And as her shield proclaimed, the law was a fortress that cannot be taken. And so, with a roar of judgement, the shield glowed gold, transparent copies sprouting from it as she began to charge, to push the foes that had been waiting behind the dead off the rail, down the abyss, as they screamed and were impaled on spires of bones and flesh that desecrated this place of work.

And yet, this place would be purified yet, as she appeared on the catwalk above, watching them. Blood red hair, pale skin, scars in place of eyes, red blooms sprouting from along her arms and legs even as there was a cape made of buzzing flies, wings that unfurled to the sound of rasping parchment and screams, corroded blade sliding free from her own flesh. And so, with a prayer, the shield turned from a ram and into a dome, to weather those first deadly attacks.

Imperial Forces of Hive Volks

Even as the five lead the way, the forces of Hive Volks, battered and near broken manage to recover, and so, they follow, providing firepower and security in the rear, fire support as some of the greatest clashes take place. And yet, even as they moved from one defensive position to the next, fortifying and securing the lines of supply, of reinforcement and shelter, as they threw back the packs of the dead, of the feral raiders, of those mad figures were flesh and machine were as one, some among them were able to witness the five in action.

So it was, as they assaulted the manufactorum that produced the chemicals for the Hellhound tanks, now a den of disease and rot, that they were able to witness the fall of the Maiden of Rot known in whispers as Crosia. Tales had been told of how she came forth from her lair, rust and decay in her wake, as she hunted down her victims. Never in a single strike, no, that would be far too kind. No, the rotten one made it a death by a thousand rotting cuts, small nicks and tearing cuts as she hamstrung the poor souls she came for.

Dozens managed to escape, only to find that they were rotten from the inside, infected with the same demonic disease she was a carrier for. And now, as the five head in, a force that scatters all the chaff before them, the soldiers follow, guarding and making sure that nothing comes back this way, flamers and las roaring and shredding all that comes close to the fortified positions. For some time, they have gotten very used to deploying barricades, to channel the worst of the dead swarms into kill zones. After all, those slow to learn soon rose to test the defences.

And so, a lucky scout saw what happened inside the manufactorum, pict-caster blinking as he watched. In many ways, it was a deadly dance between six figures well versed in the art of death. Blows of a corrosive blade met a shield with the tolling of a great bell, a burning hammer harrying a false and decaying angel into the path of bullets that ripped and tore. An adept in simple robes prayed, a holy relic in one hand and scroll of liturgy in the other, burning gears marked with the skull and cog appearing to try and grind Crosia between them.

The fifth was quiet, as she watched, eyes narrowed, occasionally aiming for small strikes with a bolt pistol and yet, as scarlet lotus blooms manifested, and the five vanished under a dome of interlocking golden shields, it would be her phials that would ward off the corruption and decay, the manifold toxins fleeing before her. And yet, even as the metal rusted, concrete slowly decaying with repeated blooms, flowers growing only to vanish in waves of flame, it was clear to see the five were winning.

And yet, it was the Svek man, pale and blond (nothing like an ebony skinned and raven haired Fersi) who struck the final blow, a bullet drilling into the Maiden's eye. Even as with a gasp, her body beginning to break, to decay into red dust drifting in the air currents, as a wave of power, golden and glowing erupted, the dead screaming and dropping to the ground, one could almost swear the Svek say this was for his kin, lost and consumed by scarlet blooms.

Last edited: Aug 31, 2022

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Threadmarks Siege of Volks; Purified in Flame New

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Grimmatt

Sep 8, 2022

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#205

Lionel

For the young priest known as Lionel, life had become clear in many ways over the last few months. Before, life had been simple, it was true, as he tended to his duties, as he discharged his responsibilities with humility and joy. Yet, as he swung the hammer, as flames roared around him and scorched away at the corruption and madness made manifest, as he struck down yet more of the fallen and twisted, whose forms had been infected with unclean powers and technology, his voice was lifted in prayer, a hymn to the very beat of the hammer caving in flesh and metal, slag and ash left in his wake.

And yet, as he moved, as the scarlet blooms and rot had faded so close to the main foundries, the organic filth and corruption fading and twisting to become something more sterile and disturbing. For as the band passed along they purged away hosts of servitors formed from laborers, twisted things bolted to their former work stations, humanity shorn from them as they worked until their complete physical destruction, with no thought, no passion... nothing save the cold iron will of their master from the shadows. They were nothing but shells...

Until, with their deaths, those rose, a screaming chorus of 'WHY' that would tear at the soul, that was fit to shake the minds and faith of mortal men and women, their bodies filled with despair and loss, torn from the comfort and mercy of the Emperor's light. As a priest, what could he do, but offer these souls release, to allow them to return to the peace of the grave, to be freed from the monster shackling their souls to spent and decayed flesh? What could he do, as the wrath of the righteous filled him, tears of rage flowing freely as he pulped another child slaved to the dark.

And so, his voice hammered out the hymns, called out and thundered in tune with the hammer, as he did his best to bring purity to the forsaken, to carry the torch of His will into the the dark places, physical and spiritual. As they shrieked, tendrils and claws coming for him, as he swung and let loose a gout of flame, as the corruption burned away and left nothing but ash in its wake as he kept moving (for to be still was to be swarmed and to be torn apart), knocking more of the lost away.

The sad and glorious thing was that this was likely going to be nothing compared to the fight just three hundred and sixteen meters away, as weapons barked forth their fury and he was joined in his hymn, a staff swaying in time with the words before balls of flame appeared, taking the shape of a great salamander that roared and unleashed its own wave of flame before rushing in, burning and scorching unclean flesh, letting loose two more blasts of flame before exploding, the sheer force of it making the floor quake and heave.

And yet, the lost and hollowed out shells kept coming. Why would they not, when before them was the greatest foundry of Volks, dedicated to many patterns of Chimera? Where from all they had been able to pull from the servants of darkness that the dark master of the attack on the hive was located, from where he commanded the vast forces that worked to consume the righteous, to strip them of everything that made them human and slave them totally to the machine, to a cold and blasphemous existence! And so, what was a loyal servant of the Empire to do, but to bring an end to the slave of the dark?

To purify them all in sanctified fire!

Désirée Amboise

She had been born to wealth and privilege, for the Amboise were family steeped in history. Some of it, from before the family arrived in Volks, or Palaisdesfleurs for that matter, having had to flee due to one of their cousins political ploys having gone disastrously wrong was of course, embarrassing, even if it had been before her grandparent's time. And yet, some lessons had stuck, some traits endured the passage of time.

To be sure, as the Amboise family had taken control of several of the chem processing facilities in the hive, as they expanded their influence and added gardens to beautify the halls they had tried to make things better for the common man. They did not charge fees to enter into the gardens, and gave gifts to those whose work was noticed to be of good quality (always something that could produce edible fruits or nuts, or even purify small bits of water) and opened up their famed forest estate to the commons for several of the holidays.

Why, so long as they did not damage the trees, children were welcome to take as they would of fallen leaves and branches and her uncle Hubert, who had suffered a terrible accident in his youth, enjoyed teaching those children how to carve the branches, noble and common alike. More than one promising soul from the commons had been able to elevate their family out of crushing poverty, sponsored to a remembrancer academy. For while they could only do so much, humility, compassion and charity were the lessons stamped onto the families' soul.

From all of this, as she lifted a white phial to a common soldier's lips, as the miracle medicine passed into him, color returning as gold and amber light shone over them, all of this could explain why a quiet and gentle flower of a girl was feeling burning, murderous rage stirring inside of her soul, as she desperately used what supplies she could, as even with the gifts given to her by the saint, she was forced to triage who she could as the injuries wracked up, and as the litany of crimes could be heard in the blare of The Hammer of Judge Dredd.

Gix, the pistol's roar named their foe. Gix, a fallen one of the Emperor's own angels of death, who had betrayed all that the Imperium stood for, who desecrated the memory of his Primarch Ferrus Manus, a traitor whose iron hands were coated in the blood of worlds. A monster of cold and mechanical un-logic who had turned from the truth, away from humanity and mutilated his very soul rather than face this truth. A wretched creature lost to despair who sought to make all others share in his pain and suffering rather than make the first attempts to move beyond it and heal.

A monstrous liar whose hand snapped the neck of another of the guards, a mechadendrite unleashing a ray that seemed to cause flesh and metal alike to rot and rust, another firing shards of metal that shrieked and burned with horrid toxins. "Do not think to cow me with Logar's words priest. I walked the stars when he did and did not walk into the realms of the warp until after his broken body was placed on his throne. You think I worship or care for the things in the warp?" The beast laughed then, a dark and horrid thing, full of ancient madness and pain.

And yet, the fallen angel continued to fight, to kill and maim and torment, blows blocked by a golden shield, by a nimbus of faith or even fields of power called from scrolls and prayer, tendrils ripping and tearing as guns cracked and spat arcane ammunition. "I joined because the Imperium failed, lost! The Warp and its cancers were and are winning, the dreams of the Great Crusade dead before they could be realized, and then your kind, Logar's spiritual heirs," there was a snarl in the deceiver's tone as it focused on Lionel, "from before the four fucked with his head and he was a choirboy with daddy issues, you just decided to ignore the Imperial Truth, disregarded the inconvenient fact he that he never wanted to be worshiped as a god and promptly set about making sure to hand the peace over to Chaos!"

There was an all too human rage in the monster's voice, as bolt shells slammed into armor, into mechanical parts that had long since lost any flesh or blood beneath them, bursting and shredding the servos in a leg, as the fallen legionnaire is forced to kneel, moving bent over as a useless limb trails behind and it attempts to flee. And yet, as the final bolt cracks, it is perhaps fitting that it is not from a supernaturally empowered weapon, but from a caring daughter and healer of the hive, bolt pistol extended as she looks on with murder in her eyes, with the need to protect her charges.

And yet, as Gix falls, there is the ringing pulse of golden energy, and the last of the dreadful anima chorus falls silent, the dead returned to peace. However, on a quick inspection, there were only three vehicles in the foundry, the rest having left soon before. They had interrupted him only has he had been prepared to leave, the final things being loaded before the doors had been damaged. His ruinous tithe of war machines had already departed.

Ahkroonikaan

For the most part, as the statue before him began to move, eyes now burning with the light of a soul, one just had to wonder. What sort of secrets had Bile managed to share, or at least inspire among the madmen of the Warp? Granted, this one could be somewhat different, and yet that did not spare it anything more, as a rush of white energy coated it, Gix's form pausing, as flame washed over him, melting his metallic bones to slag... and as his soul was dragged screaming into a gem instead of to a prepared shell close at hand.

Because of all of the annoying things that Bile had to pass along to his Consortium was Dark Eldar style resurrection technology. Only the fact that he warned himself of Gix's escape, and several attempts in a few loops to make sure it stuck, had alerted him to the fact that additional measures needed to be taken to prevent some headaches from escaping. "You should be honored you know, I had planned for the original test to be a native of the warp. It is good to see it works as containment at least."

Because that was the thing, as he vanished, moving towards the sumps under Hive Borduex, as he carved and worked on warding a secure vault in the bones of the world. All of the most annoying kinds of enemy were those that simply refused to stay dead. And yet, as the soul in the gem looked with nervousness, as the teeth stretched, that just meant some more test subjects!

Something at least to make up for the headaches, for the five years of work compacted into three months thanks to extremely generous patches of compressed time, of loops and swimming in the currents, as meteors had actually rained in some parts of the world to a near constant song. Delicate crystals had been carefully carved and calibrated, additional sources of magical crystal seeded and worked over, even as he kept some of the other projects running, to say nothing of making the specialized magical items! Of which, the White Phials and Faithscrolls were the most difficult by far.

And yet, they were fashioned, and now there was a band of five heroes baptized in the flames of conflict, ready to lead and inspire... and spread the story of a saint that would help mortals rise. Which, hopefully, would draw attention away from him. That, or assist him in getting sanctioned later. Really, he may not have thought this entirely through to be entirely honest.

Yet, the dragon shrugged, for this is life.

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Threadmarks War of Rotten Flowers; The Heroes of Volks New

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#208

The aftermath of the Siege of Volks had mixed effects on the war that raged for control of Palaisdesfleur. On the one hand, the fact that they had managed to break the siege from the inside and cleansed it of all but a few scattered pockets of maddened cultists, mutants and bio-technic abominations that would either go to ground, flee or be hunted down and purged in the coming years meant that there was no longer a steady supply of horrors to engage with the other hives. Additionally, there was now a lack of new aerial and armored support for other warbands and offensives for the Nurglite forces.

However, companies of serviceable vehicles and several dozen bombers had already been dispatched for various battlefields, including several designs of deamon engines that pointed to the presence of the Heretek known as Gix, a member of Fabius Bile's Consortium and a renegade member of the Iron Hands. Several deamonhosts known as Maidens of Rot had been created and escaped into the wastelands, forming pockets of corruption that took years of effort to deal with, as often those pockets were not indicative of their presence, but left in their wake and home to horrors.

Yet, pivotal in the breaking of the siege were five figures, five ordinary men and women. Chosen by what would in the following decades and centuries to be called 'The Saint of Gifts', each was given items that resonated with their souls and allowed them to tap into the full depth of the potential of humanity. Each of them rose to the challenge and while they are individually powerful, when they fight as a team they can cover for the weaknesses of the others and fight as mighty heroes of the Imperium. The five are as follows;

Roselyne Delaunay, a regulator of Hive Volks and a member of the Arbites. Already well trained, she was known for her passion to the observances to the Lex and her belief that failure to abide by the law was the cause of suffering among the Imperium's citizens, that Evil was in fact a criminal offense. And yet, it was also a shield to shelter the common man behind the greater good, a Bulwark of Law to break the tides and grip of Chaos. And yet, the law must also punish, and from the depths of time, she wields The Hammer of Judge Dredd to bring the wicked to account, as its ancient machine spirit speaks of ancient and forgotten crimes.

Lionel was a young and devoted preacher, one that served with humility and grace and never expected to be someone of any great importance in the faith. And then he was handed The Pyre Maul as corruption and rot came for the soul of his home. And so, he moved. He marched not for his own glory, but also not to martyr himself unless needed, as he struck the dead and the damned with the Emperor's own blazing wrath. And yet, corruption can hide in the shadows, and so he has been given Prayer Beads of Revelation, to allow him to bring hidden heretics to light, to face the Emperor's justice.

Désirée Amboise was the delicate rose of House Amboise, a dutiful and beautiful daughter known for her compassion and works of charity among the lower classes, who had spent as good deal of her allowance on clean water and medical supplies for the needy. In many ways, it surprised none when the saint gifted her with the White Phials, flasks of miracle medicine that regenerated over time and that saved the lives of thousands of PDF troops and civilians. In much the same way, it is only natural that she has flown The Amber Standard, which brings peace and health to all by its mere presence, as it spreads the Emperor's Mercy.

Isaac Lussier was an adept, as were his kin before him, and who had inherited his position, as he transcribed the sermons and legends of the past. It was not just a duty for him, as he was more than once lost in the dreams of ancient heroism, of a time when the stars themselves shook and sang under the mighty tread of the greatest examples of the divine human spirit. In many ways, he lived through those scrolls, dreamed of those days... and so, he was granted the ability to draw on those dreams of wonder with The Faithscrolls, manifesting the miracles of the God-Emperor, Primarchs and heroes of the Imperium through the reciting of their stories. And yet, he does not merely blindly repeat the past, but he learns from it, manifested in the Lore-Masters Staff.

Milovan Karolewski is a Svek man, whose people once formed the natives of Dalekyy dim (the world before the dark skinned Fersi renamed it to further try and erase the native Svek's culture). Hailing from the Underhive of Volks, little is known of his past or tribal/gang affiliations, save that he has the following tattoos; the letters МИР on the back of his left hand, a cross on his chest with a pair of eyes above the arms, a pair of stars on his shoulders, a band of ten skulls around each wrist and a rose wrapped around a dagger on his right arm. He has claimed a personal vendetta against Gix due to the fact that his kin were kidnapped to make Maidens of Rot, and so, wielding the Hunters Justice, he seeks to bring their souls peace. Yet, he always carries his home with him, in the form of his armor, the Skin of the Underhive, which is rumored to posses potent defensive abilities.

Yet, while the five were able to break the siege, they were too late to prevent the armored push that knocked out several forts along Vimmy Ridge to their north-west, and the fighting in the Fields of Calisa reached a new fevered pitch, the pendulum swinging back and forth between General Gerard DuGalle and his former closest friend, Alexi Stukov, who had been compleated by Gix to serve as the leader of the Nurgle Warbands in the region after the previous warlord fell.

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Threadmarks Building a Tower; Deep Foundations New

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#212

Already, he had begun a great project, a mighty working as he shifted through time, as he stepped on the edges and the eddies of possibility. Even as mirrors of himself were busy elsewhere and when, the greatest part of his attention was on the roots of the sump, of the careful alignment of stones as he explored and cleared the many things out from the depths and the mires that lay underneath the hive itself. One could say it was the very roots of the hive, sunken deep and past the bedrock, taking on strange forms of life not possible elsewhere.

And so, he worked, cleaning and erasing it, purging the depths in flame that burned like purity, erasing and scouring the depths. In many ways, as the tidal waves of fire filled it, as the heat rose and the sump became a furnace, a cauldron, patterns and runes carved into the flowing walls of the rock, bubbling and twisting, it was all contained, reflected back in on itself and to a central point. Channels were created, as spires of crystal were sung, seeds of stars planted into them, as they melted and flowed down the channels over the course of months.

If it was just the matter of physical material in this molten landscape, it could be done quickly, as he moved from formation to formation, at each one cutting definitions and meaning, imparting truths and reality into its matrix as it liquified, as it moved according to the mandates to the central point, spirals reaching out recursively, stories and moments forging in the steam, only to be compressed and condensed, conceptual rain cooling and striking out new shapes into the emerging lattice at the core of it all, as gravitational pressures were brought into play, of things far weightier than mere mass.

Duty for one. Freedom another. Choice and Consequence bound into the shackles of Responsibility and Accountability that made them more than hollow nothings, even as Causality continued its ruthless linear sorting of events, remembering and recording what passed into a singular narrative whole and function, a stabilization of Time and and orderly progression of events. The bones in a sense, of meaning, even as limitations, self imposed largely, sprung up to flay way possibilities, to settle paths along the dreaming paths and patterns, to set in and of themselves something like continuity of shape and experience instead of being ever shifting reimagining of the self into substance.

Laws in many ways, that he was copying and borrowing, as the bones of the world flowed into and through the crystals, spinning forward and backwards as they danced and dreamed and hungered. They rose in patterns of remembrance and recreation as they were shaped and assembled, placed inside shrines to honor them in accordance with their dictates. Even as they broke apart to form the structure underlaying the shrines and the prayer itself, reaching into their dreaming marrow to tug and pull, to flip and reverse what was in and out.

And yet, with a word that resonated and pulsed, they turned their marrow and bone sideways, pulling the other half of themselves into each other as they formed mobius loops, Dream and Flesh inside and out as they danced and bowed to each other, the currents rolling and twisting as they gathered high into the air, mirrored currents of molten glass, embracing and desiring each other as they consumed one another, devouring the other and moaning of lost and tragic love, of the desire to possess the other half of themselves utterly as they cut themselves open and climb into each other.

Which honestly, was one of the strangest parts about trying to incorporate linkages to the local dreaming, to the Warp in the foundations of what he was creating, as all save for the central chamber were scoured clean, empty and pristine, untouched rock that had its history rolled up and compressed as it burnt away to be more fuel for the central furnace, even as filters were sung and fashioned, clawed and scraped and frozen into the liquid channels. Yet nothing was wasted, as the waste energies, histories and concepts, the toxic ideologies and conflicting thought patterns were sent down other channels.

Some would rot and decay, mulch and fertilizer for the plants he was to fashion. Others, as they were rendered down into more useable forms and shapes, transmuted through grand displays of alchemy and transmutation, the imposition of change through the perception of what was true in place of reality, and used as raw material in singing forth the plants in the deep, to call for waters pristine and pure, unshackled and unbound from toxins or disease for even of filth and muck. All of it bound to cages of starlight drawn below the world, all singing countless songs that blended into the wild harmony of nature.

All contained in a blazing cage of starlight, of songs of purity and secrecy, of warding off corruption and madness, of a fortress whose first defense was dense choking mists made of acids, of unthoughts and stillness, the moat a deep well of void, of imposed limitations and stability, a trap in many more ways than would first be assumed. And yet, through it all, the reflection that was flesh, that was Ahkroonikaan watched and waited, nudging and singing as was needed to properly blend the harmonies.

After all, he had time to do things properly, the thought occurred six months after he began. He could afford a decade or so to make sure the foundations were laid properly. For this was no tower that fell apart, devouring itself to rebuild itself stronger as they screamed defiance at all comers. No, this was a dragon's tower, and that meant the foundations and the stone would be made properly. Even if... well, he had not exactly participated directly in the creation of others, though he had observed and in theory, it was... complicated but a task he could simply spend time on.

Which, as this was a reflection that shared some consciousness with the other reflections and the one whose reflection he was, they had to spare.

Acting Warden-Commander Zarko Krall

He looked at his subordinates, and then at his bottle of vodka, before he made a motion and poured everyone a drink. Frankly, whatever the dragon was doing in the depths? It was welcome to them, as his job was to guard the gate, not crusade against anything that turned the deepest depths into some furnace were the stars were called and bound under the earth to sing and dance in strange ways that spoke of a new dawn and joy to mankind. Frankly, with all the shit that was happening, he could only raise a glass.

"May whatever that crazy lizard is up to screw over the enemy."

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Threadmarks Valor of Verdun; Opening Salvo New

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#227

Verdun, the great remaining bastion of the Svek people and a Hive City that was devoted to a singular cause, a singular craft. This was the beating heart of the worlds military, a grand bastion from which its tithe to the Imperial Guard was trained and mustered and from where the most effective members of the planets defense forces hailed. It had not changed with the coming of the Fersi, it had not yielded to the soft influence of culture and art, had not succumbed to decadence and misrule. To be sure, it was cold and grim, a place of regimented order, and yet, there was richness there, for one who knew how to look.

It was a place of cold grey walls, of the beating drum and trumpet, of the cracking of guns and the clashing of steel, of marching boots and rumbling treads, of endless volleys and explosions. And yet, it was a place of quiet achievement and simple pride. Everyone knew the part they were to have in the Great War Effort, as tales were told by those who survived their service off world, who had returned to train the next generations of the enemies among the stars, and how they waited only for weakness to strike.

And so, this was a place that sought to remove weakness, to keep themselves strong. And yet, they were aware that there needed to be relaxation, maintenance of the mind, body and soul to prevent it from develop damage from the constant stress, to prevent needless waste of human resources. And so Verdun echoes with martial music and prayer, as adults and children alike practiced gun drills as a family activity and the hives officers made sure to give all a day off each week, even as shifts were rotated and all shared in the upkeep of the hive.

Great competitions were regularly held, both of sporting events and military contests among the young and the old alike. The hive was kept clean, as was the underhive, and so, unlike most of the other hives, there was no waiting army inside of its own walls to turn traitor, no surge of attacks inside of its defensive lines to disrupt them... though of course, the last was something of a lie. Because there would always be criminals and those pushed to the far edges of society, always those who would slip through the cracks and into the dark were they could... change.

That, and the forces of Papa Bileguts were hardly stupid (or at least, elements among its leadership had a greater grasp of the strategic realities than others) and so preparations had been made between three prominent heretic warlords, each contributing to the strike that was meant to at least disable the most militant of the Hives, even as opinions varied on how effective the measures would be, and the duration of said disruption and its impact on the wider war effort. And yet, greater priority was placed on certain objectives over some protests.

However, the minds turned to the task needed to grapple with the fact that Verdun was built in the same manner as a series of great fortresses, not traditional hive structures and blocks, and with a staggering number of redundancies to make sure that taking the city would be a logistical nightmare. It was even built to be able to contain outbreaks of plague and to be resistant to Ork attack or Eldar raids. Or at least, portions of it were suited to each of these particular tasks. The problem was managing to crack enough of the systems as to overwhelm the defenders.

Hidden Blows

Three minds had been tapped to deal with the initial strikes, each of them a terrible threat, and yet only one would have a physical presence in Verdun Theater. Gix, using his own dark tech-sorcery managed to kidnap and compleate several hundred sleeper agents over the course of the months leading up to the strikes, sleeper agents that the others would be able to use to land their own initial blows of sabotage, even as secret instructions were programed into each of them, micro-activations that would yield terrible and bitter fruit in the months to come.

The second of these warlords focused his efforts and attentions on the ventilation, air recycling and internal vox systems, even of Verdun was spared the worst of the effects that soon plagued Lavoure. However, the devastation of the works of the madman known as Noxis, while less lengthy and terrible in some senses than those of Gix, they were equally as insidious and corrupting and worse, they somehow managed to be more subtle until fully unleashed somehow. Yet in many ways, once brought to the light, he was not as fearsome as many of the other warlords, needing to be in the shadows to complete his work.

The last of the three was something terrible and strange, a monster that attracted the gaze of the Heretic Seer straight away, for he led not a warband, but the Cabal of the Corroded Lash, insane Chaos Eldar led by one who titled himself 'Plaguelash'... and all of who bore the Mark of Nurgle, from the least of their kabbalties, to their beastmasters, as they captured and twisted the local beasts with venoms and diseased arts. Swarms of rats, of beastmen, of spiders, flies and other vermin were rallied by this profane Xenos cult (who were regarded with thinly veiled contempt by their nominal allies), along with greater horrors.

And yet, to many of the defenders, it was not the massive tank sized spiders, nor the rats the size of ground cars that were as problem. It was not even the worms and leeches five times as long as a man was tall! No, it was the swarm of hundreds of thousands, if not millions of flies and blood suckers. To be sure. each on their own was a threat a child could handle... and yet, when there was a swam, directed by unclean witchcraft to lift up and strip the flesh from bones in minutes, as they engulphed the squads, tunneling into eyes, ears and noses?

Flamers were deployed, chem weapons, all that they could to break the swarms, to hold them off and stave off the worst of the choking tides, never giving a direct foe to fight, never stepping from the shadows to serve as targets to be broken. No, as the defenders reeled from an unconventional attack, as spiders choked off defensive emplacements with webs and it seemed that they would have to abandon the walls, three events occurred at almost the same time.

The only one which proved beneficial for the defenders being the arrival of two clades of Twilight Hunters (10) and six spears of Deathmask Servitors (36) led by Amdor himself in response to sightings of his blighted kin.

Sabotage!

Amdor

Until this moment, he had considered his dark kin who lurked in the heart of their former empire to be the worst of the worst, traitors to the spirit of their kind, who had torn out their hearts and drank poison fashioned from tears and cries of hate. And for what? For a momentary thrill as they became addicts to sensation? As they hurtled towards and further on the same path that had damned them all to begin with? And yet, for all that they served in deed if not name... at least those motherless spawn of worms and apes did not actually sell their souls to the aspects of the Primordial Anhillator!

He was not ashamed, that when word of this came, he had paused, shocked and stunned for three heartbeats. In some ways, this was even worse than if they had merely impaled themselves on the serpents thirsting fangs. That he was willing to accept could have been a pact forged in desperation, something to stop the pain, the slow consumption of themselves, an extension of the desperate bargain to feed others to the beast of their creation in their own place. But no. They wore the mark of decay, openly. Proudly.

He did not understand it. Could not and would not. Thus, he gathered what assets he had, rage in his heart as he made the arrangements for transportation, and more than a little annoyance coloring his actions. Because he needed to speak the thing in the depths again. Because the 'trinket' it gave him was something similar to a soul stone, and not aligned with Isha. By the dead gods, if the creature just knew were to find such a cache, the value could be substantial. If it could make them, as was implied?

They would need to keep the Farseers from meddling and actually deal with the dragon fairly. The souls of their people were far to valuable to risk on some overly complicated scheme that would likely see the dragon want to eat any Eldar it found or dead. Or somehow both at once. Yet, it was only the sound of shrieking turbines and sudden turbulence in the hold of the gravcar that took him from his maudlin thoughts (and his paranoid thoughts of a Farseer creating some soul-eating undead dragon that hungered after Eldar souls entirely by accident because they wanted to somehow get the dragon to create an flask that was always full of Catchian grade Caff).

Mostly as several stars bloomed in Verdun, plasma clouds racing to the skies, scorching and erasing parts of the hive, leaving twisted regions of slag and ash, great gaping holes in the walls from where shockwaves and artificial suns melted meters of material. And yet, as he moved to the cabin, he pointed to the human with the scanner. "Tell me, is it normal for there to be yellow gas in the aftermath of a reactor failure?" Granted, he was not sure, he had not studied human technology, and everything he knew was that the generators were supposed to be one of the most stable things in the Imperium, the same as bureaucratic corruption

Still, the man reacted quickly, turning the sensor to the yellow fog, before replying, shaking his head. "Unknown chems sir, not sure if the Tech-Priests are trying something, or..." There is a pause, as the cabin rolls, as they need to take evasive action, wasteland tribal's taking potshots that fall short... and now some shots from the defenses, as the vox operator desperately tries to hail the city?

Orders are quickly barked, as they land outside of Verdun, as parts of it seem to tear itself apart in the grip of blind and unthinking terror and paranoia, as the main power generators have violently exploded, taking out parts of the hive city and its defences, leaving it reeling as the attack pressing inwards. And so, the hunters descend into a maddened warzone, so seek out the fallen Eldar and purge them. Along with all other servants of the primordial annihilator.

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Threadmarks Valor of Verdun; Faith, Steel and Guns New

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#233

Resist! Fight! Die!

Verdun was isolated, broken into pockets of determined resistance as drills and training took over from anything as simple as thoughts or logic. In many ways, any city was a trap and a wounded animal was always more ferocious than many would suspect. And so it was, that even as flames from the plasma reactors explosions raged that teams of techno-mats and priests moved to combat the blazes, secondary and tertiary power sources engaged, batteries discharging stored power into some of the more isolated sections of the Hive.

As the gas began to pour from vents, respirators, gas masks and face coverings were taken from armories and handed out, even as citizens moved to factory-bunkers and militia rally points, and every last citizen save for those children too young to be able to hold a weapon took up a gun. Feet moved swiftly and with grim order, the only music for the moment the drum of boots on concreate and metal floors... a grim tattoo that was broken by the cries of the damned and the roar of gunfire. For from every side the enemy came in hordes beyond counting.

In a way, the forces they dispatched to hold and pin, to try and knock Verdun out of the erupting war spoke of respect of their strength. Yet to the Imperials, this did not matter, as they moved, fireteams and squads forming until they reached the muster points, as men embraced their wives and children, as final salutes were given as they nodded to each other. No words of comfort were given, no thought of survival. They would, or they would die in repelling the enemy. This was the duty demanded of them by the God-Emperor, and if the price they needed to pay to keep their families safe was their lives?

Many died with a smile on their lips, melta charges erupting as the last man fell in several defensive positions, for their lives were a small price to pay, and one to be spent as need be. To be sure, many turned on their fellows before they found the vox was tainted with heretek-sorcery that stroked fear and paranoia, that preyed on weakness to make the men of Verdun try and turn on each other, to give in to despair. And yet, they threw defiance in the teeth of the invaders, as positions on the borders fell.

Yet the doctrine and plan was clear, as from the hours dragged on, as the days dragged on. Soon enough, these knots of desperate defenders linked up, as the full forces moved, marching and reliving, retaking their own home ground with blade, bullet and blood. Many fell, picked off or overwhelmed, even as they adapted their tactics to each of the threats, as they made use of the bloody price of mile after mile. Yet, the simple truth was, even before they reached the walls, was that they were stalling for a number of reasons.

Chief among them was the fact that the damned were gaining a steady stream of reinforcements, as mutants and cannon fodder from hives that fell were shipped in, as more monsters were bred and unleashed by the Kabal in their midst. Killers were unleashed, for the most part assassins meant to target leaders, the bedrocks of morale, even if few managed to breach the security of the highest reaches of command. Fear, disease, starvation and despair were the weapons of choice of the enemy... even as many seemed to fall short of their desired effects.

And yet several key targets were identified, even as allies joined the cause. Grim eyes watched the Twilight Hunt move among the daemonic, as they held the witch and the daemon at bay, hounds of the cold grave with their masked leader, a blade of bone that glimmered in strange colors that seemed to burn the very soul in his hand, as golden-white flames rippled around him, the cold wrath of the emperor made manifest, corruption purged from his presence, even as they hunted the elusive Eldar. Many whispered that this was surely an agent of the inquisition, or some sort of special agent they knew nothing of!

Yet, they were not the ones who inspired the mortals of Verdun to greater heights, as they led charges that to mortals would be suicidal and insane. Claiming to have been scattered from their brothers thanks to the activation of a strange xeno device, a kill team of eight of the Angels of Death, of Space Marines bearing the icons of the Space Wolves had emerged, howling and slaying as they tore into the mutant and the heretic... and while not placing themselves under the authority of the defense forces were more than willing to act as shock troops, the Blood Claws reveling in the kill, even as the Rune Priest leading them brought forth storms of frost to scourge the traitors.

Hunting the Lost

Amdor

The hunt was to achieve several things, even as they were in an odd competition of sorts with the dragon. Not, that Amdor was going to mention this, even as a part of him screamed 'HOW?!?' about the entire situation. No, as far as everyone else who was unaware of things, the 'Space Wolves' were what they appeared to be, and not the dragon somehow splitting itself into eight gene-forged colossi to a degree that was rather unnerving. The only reason he was in any aware aware of the deceit was because the feeling of awe and dread these human champions exuded?

Normally, that did not work on his kind. That, and he was able to feel the full range of emotional cues from them, the slight psychic projections of emotion that humans just were not capable of. If it had just been the Rune Priest, he might have been willing to accept it as a matter of psychic discipline, and yet, it had been all eight of them that had the feeling. All eight, that had the same far too knowing eyes, the same cast to their lips as they roared and laughed, impaling and gutting another creature that crossed their path.

Still, it mattered little, as he gleaned the information, the moaning and sobbing wreck underneath him, Deathmask Servitors holding her limbs in place, facing him as he finished the interrogation. It had been easy really, as the nulls surrounded her, as claws dug into her flesh... she sang far too easily, as she tried to covert him over to this deluded pact of compete and utter idiots that viewed the Cancer of Despair as Isha's new husband and thus the rightful new god of their people.

It had taken every once of willpower to simply avoid beheading her on the spot, rage rushing through him at the thought of this... this... this sheer stupidity! They were insane, to an even greater degree than the dark kin of the webway, and in a way that brought them to the service of the primordial annihilator.... slowly, he shook his head, looking into her eyes as he spoke. There was no mercy, no sorrow for the order, not for one that would do as she had done. "Consume her."

Two short words, two simple words, and the Deathmasks growled, the holes gapping as their victim screamed, as she thrashed and her essence began to split in the grip of two artificial blanks, in claws that devoured psychic energy, devoured souls. Her last words were screams, prayers for 'Lady Isha and her Husband' to save her, attempting to beg for her life as the void consumed her. In moments, there was merely a husk of meat, thrown to the ground, to be hidden as it was rendered into ashes.

And yet, he had what he needed, the location of Plaguelash's lair, where the insects and other horrors were bred and unleashed.... and where he would need to go next, to erase this stain on the reputation and soul of a people who really could afford little damage to either. That, and since they were willingly siding with chaos, they had obvious mental defects that needed to be purged from the species gene pool, least more follow in their misguided footsteps.

Dragon Wolves Unleashed

Kill Team Dovah

The reflections of the central self stalked through the ruins and the flames, girded for war as they sniffed and howled and in many ways acted the parts of beasts, of wolves that happened to have a roughly mannish shape, sharpened and twisted by mannish hungers and drives. They were, to all that saw them, a pack of seven bloodthirsty angels rushing forward into the glory of melee, reveling in the spray of blood and the carnage that rippled from their impact, paving the way as they moved into the thickest fighting for the mortals behind them.

And yet, even as they moved and slew, as they acted as a potent tool and weapon that ravaged the ranks of the mutant and traitor, the simple fact was, even with the displays of power from the Rune Priest mask, that it was the effect they were having on morale, on both sides of the equation, that were doing more than any strike or decapitation strike. In a way, as eight reflections of each other howled, axes and swords lifted in one hand 'Bolters' in the other, it was a right shame that he could not cut fully loose, with this one being more easily explainable.

And he did in fact toss out a number of orbs of ice, of small blizzards and spears of killing cold, and even one swarm of what seemed to be wolves made of ice and snow to flank and ravage a particularly hard point. And yet, even as a reflection, he could do so much more, and it burned at him to so downplay his worth, his might. Yet, as a barrage of earthshaker shells roared overhead, slamming down and flattening a few buildings even as the swarming mutants were reduced to a red mist, well, there were a number of reasons he was keeping up the deception.

Still, he talked to himself were the mortals could overhear, joking and laughing, occasionally inviting the mortals in, nodding approvingly at the deeds of courage, moving from dispersed patterns, scouting out leaders and tearing them apart even as they tracked down all those that were hiding from the main pushes. And yet, with a glint in their eyes, as they looked at a repurposed bastion held by the enemy, as they formed a wedge, Rune Priest at the tip as they howled and moved as one, Fus Ro Dah their warcry that funneled into a single point, the howling of wolves drowning out the screams of doomed mortal thralls of chaos.

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#244

The Beastmaster and the Dark Hound

Plaguelash

For cycles, he had done the bidding of that joyful if dreadfully unimaginative fellow Bileguts, taming and turning the lesser beasts of this petty little world against each other. There was always that delightful thrill, as virile and fertile life grew, as they molded new creations to unleash against the silly little primates. All in all, as he and his fellows took their time, sipping draughts made from shattered hearts and lost dreams, they made bets on all the little details. Such as how many flies would emerge from the prey's tumors, now soon it would take for the unnatural children growing inside others to sprout in bloody vines, all the small details.

To be sure, as he fashioned a hydra from the weeping bodies of a family, molding them with assorted flora, rats, spiders and moths, as voices rose in a chorus of wails... there was a ghastly shriek of unnoise, a stillness that spread and clutched the heart. Something unexpected, given how there were reports of one of their unenlightened kin close at hand who refused to see the blessed matrimony that ended the previous age. To be sure, there was no issue of the divine union, and yet, one could but hope to be the first reborn to the same mother, with a new father.

But, the reports indicated that it the leader of their kin was simply a warlock with a number of aspect warriors of some small and likely insignificant shrine. That this little warlock fought alongside primate husks? Well then, as lips cracked and a sharks saw like teeth were revealed, that could be a challenge! And a test, as he spoke. "Dearest Feverthorn, do delay our guests until I am ready to properly entertain them." Oh, how the woman pouted, all of the eyes taken from rivals to her place in his bed blinking and staring so mournfully at him!

Yet, a male must be stern to keep his subordinates in line, and strife in the sheets always detracted from the best parts of things. Why, just thirty cycles ago he had finally managed to develop the most delightful way of mass producing Foulspawn from the captured female Primates! To be sure, the rapidly developing chaos spawn usually burst from its mother and devoured her as often as not, and yet his children obeyed their father well enough! And so, he shook a long and spindly finger that was rotted in several places to the bone at her.

"Now now my dear, if you wish to avoid these sorts of tasks, you must not kill off the most successful Blighted Wombs." Because while there were millions of them close at hand, billions really, one could not share the same level of gifts with all of them. Alas, there was only so much time in the day to spread the great fathers blessings! And yet, as he looked over the chambers, he tutted, Feverthorn departed with some of her blades and ass lickers (their serrated tongues had this delightful paralytic, and the parasites they could inject!), as this workshop was fine to work in, but to accommodate guests?

If it was just the primates and their hollow, hungry husks it would be one thing, but for a benighted kinsman? There simply was not enough space for the drinks, the braziers of sweet plague corpses, the hidden traps and tests and places were Delirium could set up to sing the song of blistering needles at a distance, sinking into the backs as needles of solid disease melt and flow into the lucky, consuming them as they screamed. And then dear Feverthorn was scrambling back, a rush of chill seeping into his bones.

Because he had not the time he thought he did, as the shadows twitched and writhed, as they disgorged hunters past the wards that would have given him moments to prepare, as he tried to scramble to activate the defences... and as his arm fell off. The air, it was thin and reality was... it was dull and boring, thoughts coming slowly as he stared up at the lone figure that seemed real in the middle of a sea of ravenous darkness. And yet, as he looked, as his eyes peeled open, he screamed, as things leapt from the shadows wearing funeral masks, cruel and cold claws impaling his warriors.

Something that resembled one of their foolish kin prancing about and denying the truth as they shackled themselves to decaying minds and necromancy to stem the decay, the rot that sank into their lives with the marriage of the goddess? Only in the most vague sense, as something given color by being darker than the voids around it, that shaped and walked among them, that swam in inverse currents while not touching them... the last words torn from a soul that had used the fall to sink even further into depravity, whose soul had turned rancid and foul ages ago, were as simple as they were pathetic.

"What... what are you?" And yet, there would be no answer, no reply for him, as the blade sank deep into his mind, as it burned with black fire and devoured him, mind, body and soul. The only thing that greeted the neverborn desiring a feast, from welcoming the poor sod to the garden, was that there was no juicy soul laden with rot and corruption that appeared. No, it was moving torch of black fire, screaming as it hurtled around, before not even ash was left.

Throw Them From The Gates!

With the death of their warlord, the various factions in the Nurglite forces investing Verdun wavered... and if any had ever thought to accuse Imperial commanders of anything, mercy or lack of ruthlessness would not be among the accusations. And so, there was only one response that could be expected as the natives of Verdun surged, with bayonets on their guns as they charged in unending and relentless waves, with the ferocity of men who can smell an escape from Hell itself in front of them, as Death haunts their heels.

Spearheaded by Kill Team Dovah, choke points were cleared, positions scattered and fleeing foes literally ran down and butchered to howls, stabbing blades, cracking las and bullets and the rush of flames. Swiftly, as slowly as it might seem to one not familiar with city fighting in a landscape made of what would have, in ages past, been called skyscrapers forming the majority of the buildings. Several times, the enemy thought to attempt to deploy psykers, and while the majority had left to assist in other theaters, Twilight Hunters managed to neutralize them swiftly and professionally.

Sorcery rendered less than useful, the scattered bands tried to resort to the tech-lore they did not fully understand... and more often than not destroyed themselves even as those forced to engage in conventional warfare died. Inside of three weeks, the enemy held only a handful of fortresses that were on the outer walls themselves, and the invaders found themselves cut off and besieged in an ironic twist of fortune. Yet, while it could backfire, Verdun had built its outermost defenses with several hidden weaknesses... at least, if you were already inside the walls.

Hidden and kept secret, it was revealed only to the strike teams that volunteered for the likely suicide mission, one with better odds of survival than most, as the Asartes stood among the soldiers, mighty warriors for the most brutal of tasks. And so, by hidden ways and means, the bastions were retaken, and the last of the enemy inside of Verdun were broken and burnt. And with the initial battles won, they deployed construction crews and work gangs, rebuilding and refortifying as they prepared, intelligence indicating several powerful enemy encampments on the great plain between Verdun and Vimmy Ridge.

It was then that word reached them of the fall of Vimmy Ridge, as enemy armored forces out of Volks managed to break and capture two of the major passes at the time of the message, with Pivnichnyy zamok on the northern Ventfroid pass looking ready to soon fall. For the enemy had merely needed to punch the one hole in the line, before it could begin flanking maneuvers and run supplies of heavy weapons to the mutant tribes in the region, recruiting them as fodder alongside the fortresses. All in all, it painted a grim picture.

Fall of Vimmy Ridge

The fortresses in the small mountain range that formed a semi-circle and wall separating Verdun from Volks were manned by a mixed assortment. By ancient treaty between the hives, the defense of the ridge, which held two minor mining settlements (primarily of iron ore), was shared by the two great cities. In a way, it was meant to be an assurance that neither city would wage war on the other, that brotherhood and cooperation would win the day. And then the Fersi arrived and took over.

Slowly, their share of the garrison became ceremonial and then the dregs and punishment details, with lax discipline and poor maintenance of their weapons. A stark contrast to the Svek, who kept their ancient and scared charge, who worked near endlessly to make the fortresses even more costly to take, who drilled frequently and kept themselves in fighting trim, a sharp and iron hard wall ready for all... and disgusted with the weakness of their so called comrades. Bonds of brotherhood soured and shrivelled, before the arrival of the dead men.

For the first time in a thousand years, the fortresses were properly tested, and in the first few waves, they stood proud and strong against the hordes, as the earth shook and pounded, as walls of light and bullets burnt and mangled unfeeling flesh, none of them coming close to the Verdun manned walls. Which was to say that the Volks manned lines and defenses fared much more poorly, as the dead rose screaming to rip and tear further in a poorly led and soon breaking mob of humanity. In most places, they were relived swiftly. In others, it took time and losses mounted as the dead increased their numbers.

By the second week of fighting, the line had fewer living defenders, as the dead continued to swarm, the line tightening and retracting, parts demolished or trapped to make them of limited use to the enemy, or simply to destroy as many as possible how they could. It was not until the third week that there were the first arrivals of the vehicles from Volks, many seemingly rusted and twisted hulks and heaps, as the sky screamed with bomber craft. Pivnichnyy zamok and Lisdefer reported no dead, no sign of the enemy... even as all the forces of the damned descended as a single power armored fist on Fort Vim.

There were no Imperial survivors as the first convoy rolled in to the Fields of Verdun, passing a ruin warped and twisted, strange growths infecting the very concrete that used to dominate the pass.

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#256

Judgement Comes

There is something one forgets about the Warhammer universe, or perhaps more accurately, the reflections considered, that simply escaped the thoughts of those that did not live there. It was a matter of the impossible scale, of the teeming masses of humanity that packed into small pockets the entire population of the Earth... at the low end. On the one hand, this resulted in squalid and cramped conditions beyond the nightmares of any libertarian or economist. Oh the other hand, as the leaders of Hive Verdun passed an emergency temporary conscription of all men able to bear arms in defense of the world, it illustrated one of the greatest and most terrible strengths of the Imperium.

For as a host ten million strong departed to the fields, armed and with the needed support, as things moved with a swiftness almost at odds with the usual sluggishness of the adepts (one just had to look at the Grim Commissar's for why!). And yet it spoke the terrible question. Millions had died in urban fighting, in the disease and famine that gripped the Hive... and yet, Verdun was able to muster and deploy ten million men in four hosts with another five deployments of similar size planned for the next three months.

It just asked the question, as boots pounded the ground to mud, of what it would take for them to write a place off, what sort of casualties if they could afford to muster these numbers? Even if usually, from what the reflections had been able to find, numbers were usually much, much more conservative, something closer to only double or triple M2 American units... and usually, those were enough to do the job in this galaxy of horrors? Inwardly, the dragon gave the men and women another nod of respect.

Yet, what could he do, but make himself useful? And so, the Kill Team stalked the fields, that crescent almost eight hundred kilometers from tip to tip, three hundred and fifty between Verdun and Vimmy Ridge. There, they hunted and harassed, scouting and compiling reports... even as one of the other reflections, one that donned the mask of a much more visible role began to walk to the sound of horn and drum. They shivered, as that part of them tapped into what was green and growing, as the world shifted to the writhing of long dead trees, of sudden fields of long gone grasses.

A part of them, as that was tapped into desired to strike against humanity, against those who poisoned the world with their reckless greed. But there was another enemy, one that nature hated even more. Nature, for all that it is not Orderly, loathes Chaos. It hates the taint. It feels worse than the pollution spewed from the cities of man, as it bites and twists and forces the betrayal of the self. Humans at the very least can be convinced to moderate themselves, to live in balance with the world, to cease their rape and ravaging.

And so, even as the armies of men moved on the villages, full of mutants and outcasts, armed by the forces of rot and despair, a dragon found the last grove of trees that grew in the wild, nestled in a valley hard to spot from ground or air. As the air rumbled and sang with the fury of gunfire, as bombs and shells slammed furrows into the earth, bloody meat screaming as it was spread across the hungry soil, another voice rose, of growth and the green, of life and long memory, of the rich soil and clean air.

And as masses of humanity clashed, venting their hate and fury on each other, blood filling the trenches with red mud, waves pushing each other back and forth as more assets moved back and forth, some would say that the trees began to sway and join in the song.

Fields of Verdun

Gerard DuGalle

He frowned, as he looked over the holo-map, as the numerous vox-casters allowed the information at the command center to flow in from across the front. And yet, there was an aching hole at his side, a loss that tore at him. And yet, a part of him knew that this day had been coming. For his friend, his dear Alexi, he had always been one whose need to know, to search out the tech-lore to better preserve the men under his command had always slated him for an eventual bolt to the head when he and his coterie of tech-priests had finally gone too far. And yet, he had always taken comfort in the fact that at the very least, his soul be saved before he took that final and fearful plunge.

Yet, as he now considered things, he mourned the friend that was, that he could not save him... even as he became the monster that was arraying the horrors against the Imperium they had both served. And yet, there was a terrible thought that had forced the readjustment of all of their strategy. For it had not merely been Alexi that had been subjected to the Heretek Gix's foul sorcery, but all of those that had been under his protection, all who had looked to the past to solve the problems of the present. One and all, they had all been corrupted.

Had they been taken one at a time, the corruption picking up speed as their numbers swelled? Or had they fallen into damnation willingly? Inside of his heart, he wept, as his face was stern, eyes hard and cold. For this was a betrayal, and one that had devastated their initial tank deployments. Tanks that had been produced in Volks and whose ruined hulks had been infected with unnatural growths and corruption, now beasts of flesh and metal that prowled the fields until put down, even as more and more artillery was brought onto the front. Yet the annoying truth was, as they surged forward, fortified and prepared to move again?

It seemed that the enemy was looking to match them, and this... this bore the marks of Alexi, warped and twisted by this new lore. For even as the Imperial Wave advanced, a strong fist of armor and artillery paving the way for the infantry advance, they were met by the buried dead erupting upwards from the mud in the middle of infantry formations, of tunneling worms that disgorged moving bombs skittering and leaping towards his Chimaera's, Leman Russ's and Basilisks. Yes, the smaller variants that spewed forth were more dangerous to personnel, yet...

It was a constant effort, and required continuous scans of the environment and deep saturation bombardments, which was eating through his ammunition at an atrocious rate. In part, him taking a more defensive strategy was less a matter of choice and more the only way progress could be sustained across as much of the front as possible. To be sure, the Wolves harried some of the mechanical supply lines, took over scores of their more advanced units, and yet there were always more. The worst of course, were the insufficiently damned combat servitors.

If they had merely been made from ordinary men and women, that would be one thing. Yet, they were being produced in hulking mobile fortress factories, the loyal tech priests proclaiming that the samples showed signs of being flash cloned before their techno-organic transformation. It was fortunate then, they Alexi could not produce too many of them, the constant grinding assault at the very least was preventing their numbers from being expanded or replaced. Even if his own men could only claim three of the kills. Ten of the others were that sorcerer from Borduex. It was only the fact that he was to useful that prevented a bolt from finding the creature.

Because frankly, they needed the raging firestorms and air support. A part of him wanted to gibber, to be slack jawed, because that thing could not be human. Nothing that could call forth a literal tsunami of fire that reached three kilometers high to wash across almost fifty kilometers of front almost twenty five kilometers from the origin point? Where, God-Emperor as his witness, it did not die, but separated into over a million whirlwinds of flame according to the scanners. A part of him whispered, ice running down his spine...

Was this how Alexi fell?

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