Monday, February 22, 2016
The Grey Knights had called, and been answered: by the brooding Raven Guard, who massed their scouts in shadowed black; by the maddened Blood Angels, whose Death Company whispered their final oaths as they embarked upon the vessels of the steel rain; by the mysterious Dark Angels, hooded and purified; all ready to bring war. Their fleets coalesced into real-space and took orbit around the fallen Forgeworld of Delnor Prime. The guns of the mighty cathedral-ships barked until they ran empty, striking down the bastions and defences upon the surface. They had not come to inflict Exterminatus, but to reclaim this world, where the artifice of war was made. It must be purified with blade and bolter, but it would again arm the sons of the Emperor again. Innumerable attack craft and drop pods spilled from the orbital ships, hurtling towards the heretic below.
Brother-Adept Mercutio, pilot of the Storm Talon Final Witness, felt the unmistakable slip of warp-translation before the first flames of atmospheric entry limned his ship. Through the canopy, the curving grey-brown of the planet was suddenly replaced by the battle-lines of the enemy, terribly close. Flak exploded around the silver ship, and soon both engines were flaming, the ship a flaming coffin hurtling at a sharp angle downwards.
"Spend out lives dearly, Brother," came Justicar Elin's voice over the comm, his tone weighty with the knowledge of his Paladin squad's inevitable death.
Mercutio complied. He loosed the full complement of missiles the ship carried into a horde of screaming cultists below, and set the many bolters on the ship to full auto, trusting the machine-spirit to prosecute their wroth. Close ahead hundreds of cultists gibbered around a daemonic blood-throne, a horned beast ensconced within exhorting the flesh-chattels to unleash their auto-guns upon the lone enemy in the sky. As the small-arms pattered the viewscreen like a hailstorm, Mercutio made a final push upon the control yoke, sending the Storm Raven smashing to the ground, skidding through the cultists, smashing the self-destruct toggle just as the Raven careened into the blood throne.
The throne was old and had tasted blood upon thousands of worlds. It was a curse upon reality, brought forth from the warp wherever the slaughter would be thickest. The occupant's death meant little. Chains of molten brass twirled from it's base and through the wreckage of the Storm Raven, swinging the limp form of Brother-Adept Mercutio into it's seat. Baleful energies sucked the shattered flesh of the dead and the barely living strewn around the wreckage like water spiraling into a drain. The flesh ran like wax, reforming into tendrils of daemon flesh, filling the shell of the storm raven, the hands of the dead clutching the still-living Paladins within. Unconscious, shocked by the warp-translation and the sundering of their ship, the rage contained within the throne infected their minds. They cried out, desperate to bring destruction upon their foes.
"My Faith is a litany," Justicar Elin rasped, trying to bring the image of the God-Emperor to his mind. All that came was a laughing skull, horned, forged in brass, weeping blood. "For-for-"
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" Mercutio screamed from within his throne-prison.
"SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!" The Paladins replied, the daemon flesh around them becoming pliant, responsive to their rage.
Incorruptible spirits falling, their networked psychic minds screaming together to the God of Murder, finally rent the already-thinned barrier between the warp and reality. As the first flaming contrails of the Astartes lined the sky, rainbow tears opened around them, the daemons behind the veil gibbering, ready to join the fray.
Friday, September 25, 2015
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
The armories rumble, the mouths chant, the planet wails. Over the horizon, a grim wall of marching men and crushing treads advances, their grim resolve already weakening the defenders. What hope can their be? Walls of ceramite-bound flesh advance, and the fate of the city is near - wait a minute, are those cult marines? Orbital bombardments wipe out those poor slow bastards and everybody takes the afternoon off.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Beyond the reaches of what you know, there wait terrors that may be glimpsed from afar. Wailings upon the warp-ways bring hints, damned souls babbling of powers incomprehensible. Do you really think that all that can be known is contained within your little books, lying impotent upon a dusty shelf? Nay, there wait secrets within the darkness between the stars that may only be glimpsed by those willing to pay the ultimate price: ~$700 USD.
Saturday, July 4, 2015
|I wanted a picture of two Adeptus Astartes kissing, but this game is too hetero for such a thing to be found on the internet.|
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Erratic jerks of a servitor-harness scribed the last characters upon the last scroll of e-vellum. The poll was completed, a labor that consumed the attention of a score of Monastery worlds. Everywhere, the signs of a battle of words had left the victors scarred and haggard. Ink stains spread like blood upon the exposed skin of the tech-thralls. Here a scalding inkpot had tipped, a legion of paint mixers burned alive; the scribes ten feet away had not paused in their writing. The call for another reckoning had come too soon after the last great push for them to reset the mile-long printing wheels, to harvest the skins of a continent's worth of space sheep. But Reecius, commander of the ITC fleet, must take the counsel of each of his uncounted generals; the scribe-servitors must labor until they fall. Those who had survived the conflict of quill and eye strain did not pause to bury their acres of dead; for they knew that Space Marshal Rawdogger was bloated with opinion.