History, is. It is unchanged. Once done, it is set.
But what if it was not done? What if someone, somewhere, did not do something, and thus history changed?
This is a tale of what happened when, in the nightmare future of the forty-first millennium, an astropath got his desperate message out in time.
Proceed, fortunate reader, and see for yourself the tale of the Tears of Sanguinius Chapter...
Rough laughter bellowed across the dead wastes as Malach Kauros, Champion of Chaos, brandished the decapitated head of his opponent above the battlefield. The unholy names of the foul gods of the Warp resounded across the battlefield, as the loyal Guard of the Harakoni LXX fell back before the Traitor Marines' assault.
"In the name of the Gods, kill them all! Spread their blood, scatter their flesh, consume them! Let the Lords of Chaos take their own!" Kauros shouted, waving his sword as he drove on his men before him; leaping forward and beating aside those that were too slow getting out of his way, he launched forward, his sword flashing through the air as its daemonic mouths gibbered, hungry for flesh...
"Hold them back! In the name of the Emperor, hold them--" and the Commissar paused, mouth open in mid-holler, as his men looked upward along with him. The Traitor Marines halted as acitnic light flared across the battlefield, as though a lightning bolt covering the entire sky had struck, and they turned to look as well, their sergeants and officers cursing madly but cut off by an explosion of thunder.
A rumbling snarl crept up from the horizon, and with a chest-rattling explosion of sound, Thunderhawk gunships roared through the sky above the line of battle. Flares exploded behind them, swirling in the backwash of their passage to form gigantic angels in the air, floating in the sunset...
Ignore the C-130's, substitute Thunderhawks =P
Flaming spears lanced downward through the atmosphere, sonic booms in their trail; with resounding crashes, they impacted the midst of the traitors' horde, flinging bodies in their wake. Petalling open, black-armoured Space Marines leaped out, their bolters snarling their holy song of death to the heretics.
Above, in the sky, the Thunderhawks came around for another pass as the flares began blowing away in the wind; and as they passed over the battle lines, figures leaped out from their hatches. Massive wings unfurled, ivory-white feathers catching the golden sunset; and below, a war-speaker mounted in one of the drop-pods began bellowing a hymn.
In nomine Imperator-Deus, ave Angelii, Lacrima Sanguinius!
Ad majorem Imperator-Dei gloriam!
Gloria in excelsis Imperator!
Ave Imperator, ave Sanguinius beati, ave Angelii, filii Sanguinius!
In the name of the God-Emperor, hail the Angels, the Tears of Sanguinius!
To the God-Emperor be all the glory!
Glory in the Highest to the Emperor!
Hail Emperor, hail the Blessed Sanguinius, hail the Angels, sons of Sanguinius!
The litany resounded across the battlefield, and withering fire raked across the heretics from above as the winged ones let loose their weapons. Plasma arced to explode traitors' armour, bolter shells detonated, flaming promethium descended to blanket them in purifying fire.
Geofric Tahalshia, the Commander of the Tears of Sanguinius, bellowed with voice amplified by his helmet speakers as he backed air with his pinions, "Purge the unclean! Eradicate the traitors, children of Baal, blessed of Sanguinius!"
Soaring as one, the angels swooped low, firing together; one remained above, and as his eyes glowed, Alaric the Chief Librarian of the Chapter cast psychic havoc. Lightning crashed out of a clear sky, scattering bodies, and thunderous waves of warp energy detonated amid the heretics. Closing his wings, he stooped, holding his force-sword ahead of him, and dove towards the battlefield like unto a hawk.
Below, a Crozius' energy field chattered angrily, as the Chaplain shouted his litany of excretation against his foes, wings beating the air as he struck. Chaos Marines were flung back from his blows, shards of armour flying through the air; with a swift beat of his pinions, he soared above their grasp and swiftly fired his boltpistol downward, sneering contemptuously at their futile attempts to escape the venegance of the Emperor.
The battle was done; and Commander Tahalshia, power-sword hissing as it burnt off blood from its blade, strode up to the Chaplain. The warrior-priest, sitting upon a pile of traitors' bodies, crozius leaning against his leg, had his helmet off and was refilling his armour's water supply with a canteen; he turned as his Chapter Master approached and nodded.
"The battle went well for you, then, Reclusiarch?" Tahalshia inquired. In response came, "Indeed, Geofric. 'Tis thirsty work, though..." and reaching out his hand to grab his skull-faced helmet, he donned it leisurely. Continuing, he spoke lightly to his superior, "I'll wager I've done in more traitors than you this day, Geofric, or my name's not Judas Maccabeus!"
Thus does our tale begin. But this is not the beginning itself; merely the introduction...
Last edited by Elheru Aran on 2010-09-28 12:22pm, edited 3 times in total.
According to wikipedia, "the Mohorovičić discontinuity is the boundary between the Earth's crust and the mantle."
According to Starbound, it's a problem solvable with enough combat drugs to turn you into the Incredible Hulk.
Not bad... an Alt-history where Sanguinius didn't turn to Chaos? I'll be watchign this
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Er...Sanguinius, the Primarch who personally broke a Bloodthirster over his knee during the siege of the Emperor's palace? The same Sanguinius who tried to trash Horus himself in single combat?
But aye, this is looking spiffy, and I like the flare art, that's a nifty touch.
Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
Baal-Astoreth
Base of the Tears of Sanguinius Chapter
Second month, fourth day of Orkish siege
The sounds of battle filtered in through the boarded-up windows of the Templum Astropathicus. A splinter of the latest greenskin crusade had landed upon Baal-Astoreth, and they had easily overwhelmed the local planetary defence forces. Next in line had been the perimeter training fields of the Adeptus Astartes; the Scout Marines fought valiantly against the orks, as did the latest cadres of recruits, but they fell before the war-hardened savage xenos. Then the greenskin advanced against the Space Marines of the Tears of Sanguinius themselves; and finally, they had been slowed. But nevertheless their advance progressed inexorably, until now, they were at the final walls of the Chapter fortress.
Reflecting upon all this, Astropath-Primaris Ivril mused sadly that this would probably be the last day he spent in this life. Would he join the Emperor (blessed be Him!), or end up in the hells of the immaterium? But no matter, ‘twas not the time to reflect upon such things. He turned to the Chaplain, standing tall and broad in his black power armour in the doorway, and murmured, “It is impossible. The warp has been considerably stirred by something aboard that space hulk. We have been striving ourselves, Chaplain Maccabeus, but as of yet we have not made our way through to Baal itself or any other Astartes forces, beyond that initial message requesting assistance from any nearby forces…”
Maccabeus lifted his hand, gripping the crozius of his office tightly as he pointed it at the psyker, and growled, “Keep trying, astropath. We can withdraw no further. Know that if we fall, so do you. Get that message out before you end up being a greenskin’s evening meal!”
Ivril shrugged complacently and turned his blind eyes upon Maccabeus’ face, meeting his eyes unerringly. In the same quiet voice, he responded, “Trust me, Chaplain, we have been striving our utmost. And we shall keep trying until the greenskins enter, or they are defeated; either way, we shall do our duty, and we do not need reminding of that. Now go see to your men, Chaplain. Let us concern ourselves with our work, and strive to hasten our rescue.”
The chaplain sighed and turned, striding out of the office. Ivril held up his hand, and his cane floated through the air to his grasp; carefully walking down the hallway outside, he reached the primary choir. Standing in the doorway, he gestured to one of the tending servitors who shambled over. It clicked and buzzed for a second as it cycled through its vocal modulator, and then crackled out, “How may this unit assist you, Astropath-Primaris?”
“Clear a seat for me, servitor. I wish to be joined unto the choir, to focus their energies. We must summon our salvation,” he pronounced calmly. The building shook as a bombardment struck nearby; dust sifted from the ceiling rafters. Some of the astropaths in the choir shifted uneasily in their seats; he held up his hand, focusing his mental energies to calm them. Handing the cane over to the servitor, he limped up the stairs to the central throne, and lay back upon it; other servitors trundled up behind him and began connecting the intricate leads to his cranial jacks.
The sound of bolter fire erupted outside; the coughing buzzes of orkish rockets vibrated through the building’s stones, and were swiftly joined by the basso roar of Astartes jump-packs as the assault troops responded to the stormboy incursion. Ceramite-clad feet clattered on flagstones, and a squad of black-armoured troopers dashed through, the white inscription of their litanies bright upon the armour as their red-painted bolters were brought to the ready. Ivril sighed and closed his eyes, opening himself to the Warp…
Outside, a furious battle swirled. The swiftest of the greenskins, in their roughly cobbled together buggies and wartraks, had managed to breach the fortress’ secondary line of defence. There was one more remaining before the fortress itself; and upon that third line, a mighty wall encircling the fortress, stood Judas Maccabeus. Beside him were veteran Marines and two apothecaries, all standing attentive, waiting for the order to commence assault.
He turned to the apothecary behind him and inquired, “Lasthenes, what do you see out there?”
The white-armoured Marine looked up from running a clean cloth over the shining narthecium mounted upon his arm, gazed briefly outward, and turned back to his cleansing as he growled out, “Greenskin scum. They seem to think we’ve opened our doors to everybody. Should teach them Baal-Astoreth is already taken.”
Maccabeus grinned humourlessly under his helmet and directed his next comment at the other apothecary, “What losses do we have so far, Apphus?”
The medicae sighed and looked up from the dataslate in his gauntleted hand. He said slowly, “Two hundred twenty-five of the Scout Company are gone. Sixty-eight battle-brothers, four sergeants, and Captain Tobit. Nearly half our effective strength and most of the scouts, Chaplain.”
Judas’ shoulders sagged for a moment; then his lips thinned and he turned back to face outwards to the greenskin horde. Lifting his crozius wordlessly, he waved it in a circle above his head; jetpacks rumbled into life. Thrusting it upward as he activated the rosarius forcefield protecting himself, the Astartes roared into the air, weapons at the ready…
“Astropathicae Baal-Astoreth, are you receiving me? This is the battle-barge Roma Victrix,” came the voice from the immaterium. The Astropath-Primaris’ eyes opened sightlessly for a second in surprise, and then closed once again as he focused, grabbing upon the wavering tendril of mental connection.
“Astropath-Primaris Ivril, Baal-Astoreth Templum, receiving. Ident yourself. Where is your location?”
“Astropath-Secundus Nophran, Astartes Praetorianus’ battle-barge Roma Victrix of the Khalembrasil Crusade en route to Baal-Astoreth responding to your distress call. Consul Hieronymo desires to know your current status. Report.”
Ivril sighed in relief; reinforcements were arriving at last. He sent forth as quickly as his mind could, “Our situation dire. Templum about to be overrun by greenskin. They have breached our tertius and secundus defense lines, and seem liable to breach the primaris any moment. The fortress alone remains. We require your assistance immediately!”
“Understood, Baal-Astoreth. The Navis adept says we will be there in a day. Consul Hieronymo also states to stand firm and show the barbarians their foolishness in going up against Astartes steel! Roma Victrix out. The Emperor Protects.”
Ivril looked at disgust into the Warp as the connection faded; but further comment about how even Astartes steel can break underneath greenskin fist should said fist reach its target first remained unsaid. The building shuddered, and with a roar orks charged through the doorway. The last sight of the Astropath-Primaris, as he commended his soul to the Emperor, was the wavering visage of a slobbering ork as it swung its axe high…
Anonymous world near the Cadian Gate
Fortress of Daemon-Prince Ixn'qbal of Chaos Undivided
A happy gurgle slowly infiltrated the night air from underneath the massive fortress gate, where a flock of nurglings swarmed over human corpses. Within, a mighty feast was being held; Ixn'qbal and his forces of the Alpha Legion had just defeated a detachment of the famed Battlefleet Herakles.
One of the nurglings looked up and gurgled curiously; it burbled in alarm, abruptly cut off as it was stepped upon...
"Silence!" the Daemon Prince bellowed. It lifted a massive cauldron in its arms as the warp-spawned rabble settled down; as his swirling eyes looked around the banquet chamber, his maw opened to shout, "To the might of the Warp, to Chaos Undivided!"
The cauldron was flung upon the floor; blood flowed, entrails and gore spewed forth from the unholy pot, and with an inhuman screech the daemons leaped forth to consume their master's bounty. Around the ceiling, gibbering hosts of chaos-spawn babbled forth an eternal chorus of damnation and supplication unto the foul ungods.
The doors crashed open directly across from Ixn'qbal, and he cast his perilious glower unto the trespassers. They shimmered and glowed in his sight, blinding him with their holy armour.
"Squad Sigma-Delta, in the name of the Emperor!" Justiciar Thasis bellowed as he leaped forward, Nemesis sword blurring as psychic power crackled through it. Alcimus and Ismail flanked him, their halberds swinging as Avaran brought up the rear with Incinerator at the ready and his gauntlet-mounted stormbolter barking, blessed shells shredding apart daemons and Chaos spawn as they detonated.
Brother Eleazar leaped aside from the others; axe hanging loosely in his fist, he charged with inhuman speed up the floor, batting daemons aside with his hand, to leap up the wall, silver armour blurring as he kicked himself out into the air. His stormbolter barked as he flung the nemesis weapon; Thasis reached upward with his off hand and grabbed it, and with a shout of "The Emperor protects!" bounded with blinding speed towards Ixn'qbal.
The Daemon Prince howled and swung its massive fist at the Grey Knight, but Thasis nimbly spun in midair; with a swing of his blade, the clawed hand flew through the air, trailing ichor. The Justiciar shouted, "Alcimus! Ismail! Legs!"
The order was unnecessary; the two Grey Knights swung as one, their force halberd-blades slashing through the daemon's knees. With blurring speed, Eleazar was between them, thrusting his fists into the daemon's mouth and forcing it open; Thasis landed behind Ixn'qbal and with a powerful blow, drove the axe deep into its spine. He shouted, "Avaran! Now!"
The Incinerator was thrust into Ixn'qbal's maw; as Alcimus and Ismail spat stormbolter fire into the daemon hosts surrounding them, blessed promethium flame spewed deep into the daemon prince's gullet, Avaran struggling to hold the flamer as the creature flailed.
An unearthly, inhuman shrieking resounded from the walls, and the daemon exploded, arcanely coloured flames swallowing the Grey Knights. Thasis walked through the fire, brushing detritus from his armour. He looked squarely at the remaining daemons, ice-blue helmet eyepieces glowing. With utter cold contempt, he shouted, "Face us, or flee. The choice is yours!"
With a lift of his sword, the Grey Knights charged...
The difference between regular Marines and Grey Knights is that the Grey Knights make it look easy.
Chronological Incontinence: Time warps around the poster. The thread topic winks out of existence and reappears in 1d10 posts.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
White Haven wrote:The difference between regular Marines and Grey Knights is that the Grey Knights make it look easy.
And have even bigger guns .
Fucking awesome story so far, and the prose & writing style are truly outstanding
Photography Genius is always allowed some leeway, once the hammer has been pried from its hands and the blood has been cleaned up.
To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often.
More artwork (no matter if it's fake or not) would be cool too. That flare shot showed awesomeness - not to mention the missiles/artillery actually looked like wings. AC-130s are also some of the coolest planes ever...
Hey, I like bulky ugly planes with firepower. Fighters.. meh.
The ancient destroyer rotated gently in the vacuum of the void, its exterior cold and aged from untold millennia in the warp from which it had just been spat. The buttresses beside its main entry portal flickered with the flashes of the Sororitas landing craft adjusting itself to make void-seal with the portal. Beyond, the strike cruiser Saint Catherine's Venegance hovered, guns at the ready.
The portal hissed open; black-armoured Sororitas in their blue-eyed helmets darted forth into the passage beyond, Godwyn-De'az bolters at the ready. The Sister Superior exited, power sword hanging casually from her fist. She gestured with it, and wordlessly the battle-sisters advanced, bolters panning slowly across the hallways as they searched the ship.
In the space of a few hours, they discovered nothing. The ship had been empty for millennia since it entered the Warp. The cogitator banks had been purged. The servitors were long since decayed. Crew quarters were empty, though scattered personal possessions still laid upon shelves and the deck.
Sisters clustered about the bridge portal; the doors refused to budge. One called out, "Sister Superior? If you could apply your power sword--"
A curt wave of the Superior's gauntleted hand silenced her. The power sword was ignited, glowing blue with energy flowing through it, and thrust forward between the doors. With a loud crack, the seal broke; two sisters stepped forward, slinging their bolters, and slid their fingers into the crack, pulling the doors apart with armour-augmented strength.
Corpses covered the bridge; one still laid in the very entryway of the portal, desiccated fist clenched about the emergency-closure lever. The Navigator's box was rent from within by massive claw marks; the floor was yet still covered by foul daemonic ichor. With disgust in her tone, the Sister Superior commanded, "Search the cogitators. Burn it all. This ship will be reconsecrated and claimed for the Emperor once more. Purify it!"
As she exited, another battle-sister stepped back, featureless in her helmet. The Superior looked coldly at her and inquired, "Yes?"
"Superior, we have discovered nothing. The ship has been searched utterly. All life-pods and transport craft remain aboard. There are no signs of battle. However-- if you will come?" The battle-sister stepped aside and gestured. With a sigh, the Sister Superior strode forward.
In the primary cargo bay, she glowered about and demanded, "What am I supposed to see, Katerina?"
The battle-sister ran past her, boots clattering upon the metal deck plating, and cast an illuminator's beam upon the hulking mass beside one of the wall buttresses.
Gold glittered in the illum beam atop gray paint; the gleaming barrels of an assault cannon, a massive power-fist... an empty space in the midst of the huge body. It was an Adeptus Astartes Dreadnought combat chassis, with Luna Wolves heraldry, lacking its sarcophagus.
The Superior pointed at Katerina and demanded, "Search this ship again! If they left a Dreadnought chassis here, the sarcophagus is somewhere!"
Then a thought occurred to her and she held up her hand abruptly, forestalling Katerina from rushing to her squad to fulfil the order. Slowly, repugnance in her voice, she ordered over the vox-link, "Pilot? Return to the Venegance. Bring in the captive from the brig. Sister Pietas will know which one. Make sure he is guarded well!"
She spent an impatient hour waiting, staring at the Dreadnought chassis, drinking in its archaic form, its powerful lines. Lifting a parchment hanging from a purity seal, she strained her eyes-- the name upon it referred to a battle she dimly recalled from the histories of the Great Crusade. Letting it fall, she turned as the clatter of Sororitas boots sounded behind her.
The black-armoured Mistress yanked upon the bound psyker's collar and snarled, "No further, slime! Bow before the Sister Superior!" before thrusting him down to the floor.
The gaunt witch, scars livid upon his back, an iron band riveted about his skull covering his eyes, whimpered as he fell and writhed, hands bound tight behind his back. The Mistress, scorn in her voice, responded to the unspoken question from the Sister Superior, "It has been... recaltriant lately. I have been forced to discipline it. What would you desire from this witch that apparently good Sororitas steel cannot achieve?"
"Mindsight, Pietas. The people who were aboard this craft are here still, I suspect-- but my sisters have proven abominably incompetent in finding them. Might as well use a witch to shame them into performing better."
Pietas harshly barked a laugh. Her foot flashed forth viciously, sinking deep into the psyker's stomach; air whoofed out of his lungs as he curled up into a ball, whimpering. She snarled, "You heard the Sister Superior. Mindsight, witch! Show us your foul powers!"
The psyker struggled to his knees, whimpering, hands clenching fitfully behind his back. The Mistress extended her hands and unlocked the collar from his neck. A slow circle of frost built about where he knelt upon the decking, the air temperature dropping about them. Slowly, behind the Dreadnought chassis, the wall began glowing blue. Extremely dimly, a massive hallway was perceived...
A neutral whip lashed forth, slicing into the psyker's back. He screamed and collapsed to the floor, muscles twitching fitfully from the shock. As the Mistress bent down to lock the collar back around his neck, the Sister Superior shouted, "Sister Marli! Melta, that bulkhead, now!"
Heavy footsteps clanked, and the battle-sister hefted her melta gun. The armoured Sororitas turned away their eyes as she pressed the trigger; with an acitnic flare, heat energy spat forth and burned a massive hole into the wall. The psyker screamed as the heat energy scalded the side of his body and began twitching, screaming again; with a vicious kick, the Mistress silenced him.
The battle-sisters ventured cautiously through the hole, avoiding the glowing edges; before them, they beheld a massive array of glass cylinders. Inside most, desiccated husks of former humans-- presumably crew-- floated still or laid in crumpled heaps upon the bottom of their cylinders. But further within, the massive forms of Astartes gently bobbed. At the very end, a massive cylinder held the sarcophagus from the Dreadnought chassis.
A parchment floated gently in the life-support fluid, dangling from the sarcophagus' lid; as Mikaela, the Sister Superior, rested her fingertips against the glass, her eyes fell upon a name inscribed upon the parchment, reading 'MATTATHIAS.'
Ahh, the eternal question. Can the Sororitas pull the stick out of her ass long enough to let the hero live? Or will guilt by association rule the day, and the Lunar Wolves be slain in this Alt? That's the big problem with the cleansing fire, it has a tendancy to burn the help as well as the Heratic
Commander of the MFS Darwinian Selection Method (sexual)
So cool . You have fucking kick-ass prose, though a small question, by witch & psyker and treating it that way is it truly a heretic psyker or in the alt-verse are all psykers killed/eaten by the god emperor without psychic inquisitors, combat psykers, loyalist psykers etc'?
Photography Genius is always allowed some leeway, once the hammer has been pried from its hands and the blood has been cleaned up.
To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often.
Nah, that's just how the Sororitas and the Ordo Hereticus in general treats psykers. Note that the Grey Knights (psychic Marines) are still in use, after all...
Death, to be frank, the Sororitas are the ones hunting and killing rogue psykers. I don't think they're big fans of psychicness.
Also,
According to wikipedia, "the Mohorovičić discontinuity is the boundary between the Earth's crust and the mantle."
According to Starbound, it's a problem solvable with enough combat drugs to turn you into the Incredible Hulk.
+++++++++++++++ Sanctum of the Venerable Brethren in Repose
Tech-Marine Ithamar muffled an oath as wires sparked, jerking his hand back reflexively despite the fact that his armour would have grounded any current of appreciable strength. He looked up at the bulk of the Chapter’s only Dreadnought, Brother Simeon Makarios, the previous Chaplain before Judas Maccabeus assumed the post. Shaking his head, he bent to the task before him, and then jerked his head in irritation as his helmet vox crackled with his brother tech-marine’s voice, “Ithamar, this is Hur, what’s keeping you? They’re bringing up the big ones. It doesn’t take that long to wake up a Dreadnought!”
Ithamar snapped back, “If you think it’s that easy waking up one of the Venerable Brethren, you come up here and give it a go, and I’ll run the gun-servitors! Until then, don’t make me pull seniority upon you, Brother-Adept Hur!” He looked at the front of Makarios’ sarcophagus, into the eyes of the frowning skull-helm crowning it, and then shook himself back into attention. Looking at the tactical display in his helmet, he frowned and ran through the checklist. He had of necessity abbreviated it—but it was still too long. Twenty-three distinct steps. Most of it was chanting, granted, and probably extraneous—but dare he offend the Ominissiah by skipping the proper rites?
Screw it, he decided. Stepping rapidly below the Dreadnought’s left power-fist, he extruded a molecular-edged micro-chainblade from his gauntlet and slashed through the conduits keeping the chassis’ power core united with the fortress’ tertiary reactors. Hurriedly pulling the cut edges away from the chassis—mumbling the rites of appeasing the injured circuits while doing so—he ran around the chassis and faced the sarcophagus, and cleared his throat.
Then he bellowed, “BROTHER SIMEON! ATTENTION, IN THE NAME OF THE EMPEROR!”
Nothing happened. Ithamar’s shoulders sank and he sighed, temporarily deflated. Then fire rose up in his eyes and he punched the sarcophagus, shouting, “Oh, wake up, you big git!” Rounding upon his toe, angry with himself for transgressing the Ominissiah’s directives (for what other reason could the Venerable Brother have remained inactive?), he failed to see the eye-pieces of the helmet upon the Dreadnought sarcophagus illuminate from within.
Nor did he see its broad foot step forward, nor its power-fist lash forward with shocking speed for such a massive figure, sending him flying across the great circular chamber and tumbling to a stop just behind Tech-marine Hur, who stopped blasting away with his plasma-pistol servoarm and bolter to look around in confusion. The Dreadnought advanced, its helmet looking around with glowering eyes, and grumbled, “Enough of that noise! I waken, brother Tech-Marines. What’s your soddin’ reason this time?”
Ithamar could only pant, the breath driven from his body by the Dreadnought’s blow, but Hur rapidly turned around and knelt before the Chaplain-Dreadnought’s figure (though his plasma-pistol attachment continued facing the Orks and firing away on occasion) and rapidly blurted, “Venerable Chaplain! The Orks have come in storm, and they are within the fortresses of the Chapter! Reinforcements may be on their way, but we are upon our last ramparts. We must bring all the forces we have to bear, and Brother Chaplain, believe us, we would not have woken you otherwise…”
“Is that so. Very well then. My crozius, if you have it. And an assault cannon. You whelps went and woke me up without putting the heavy-weapons sponson on my right hand!” Makarios rumbled irritably. Hur blinked and looked at Ithamar and then back at the Dreadnought; Makarios was right, and he had but the heavy-duty attachment points upon his right side, though the left held his powerfist. Ithamar coughed and then jumped up and ran into the sanctum, calling over his shoulder, “A moment, Venerable!”
Makarios looked at Hur with his frowning skull-face, and Hur shrugged. “I believe your crozius has been incorporated into your powerfist already, Venerable. Right here,” and he carefully touched the vambrace-plate of the massive fist. It swiveled about under his fingers as Makarios turned his helmet ponderously to look at it; satisfied, he slowly nodded and then turned back around as heavy steps sounded from within.
Ithamar emerged into the light, steps heavy despite the suspensors in the full servo-harness attachments upon his back, bearing a mighty sponson, ammunition hoppers full and assault cannon gleaming in the light. A moment’s work and a murmured catechism, and the cannon was armed and ready. Makarios nodded slowly and then rumbled, “If you please, clear the way for me. I come, greenskin, I, Simeon Makarios Venerable Chaplain!”
Smoke blurted from the exhaust stacks behind his chassis and his feet lumbered forward with sudden, surprising speed. As the gun-servitors increased their fire and moved apart by Hur’s direction, Ithamar hefted an autocannon and began firing past Makarios into the orks, each round clearing the Dreadnought’s way. Makarios hit the front line of the Orks besieging the Sanctum, assault cannon blazing, and charged forward.
Hur and Ithamar strode forward to the entrance of the building and looked at each other. Hur spoke first, “An autocannon? Lascannon, yes. Plasma cannon, multi-melta, heavy bolter, yes. But an autocannon? How long have you been sitting on that abomination of an unsanctioned modification, hmm?”
His brother hefted the modified heavy weapon and grinned as he pulled the empty magazine out with a servoarm and slapped a full one in with another, “Well, I had to do something with what free time I have, eh? And I thought, why not give our Devastator fire-teams a little extra range and firepower…”
Shaking his head, Hur consulted his armour’s tech-display and sent a mental command into the gun-servitors to form a protective circle around them. Firing into the crowd of Orks, they began advancing towards the Librarium.
Same battle; half a kilometre distant
Bolters hammered in their distinctive notes and the firing line rotated, those in the first rank dropping back to the second while the third rank reloaded. Alaric, Chief Librarian of the Chapter, nodded in approval, eyes glowing blue as miniature lightning bolts crawled over his psychic hood; in his mind’s eye, he watched a young Scout in the rubble of the Tears of Sanguinius’ secundus training perimeter.
The Scout had a long way to come to reach the Librarium, the final redoubt ordered by Chapter Master Tahalshia—but if what Alaric was seeing was any indication, this one might just qualify for immediate elevation to the rank of Battle-Brother and the concomitant genetic augmentation. The Scout, his eyes standing out bright from a stripe of black paint across his face, was fighting his way out from the greenskin mob that had overrun his squad’s fire-point some hours before. Apparently he had been buried under the hulk of an orkish dreadnought-analog, and had only now just dug his way out and grabbed the closest weapons handy.
With a small smile, Alaric approved of the Scout’s technique. Shotguns weren’t necessarily the best all-around weapons—but for this situation, a close-packed crowd of enemy bodies all about him, with no allies alive to be endangered by careless shots, they were perfect. One in each fist, a high-capacity magazine jammed into the receiver, each round blasted greenskins into gory wrecks, and he didn’t spend time checking his targets to ensure they were dead (a possible weakness but under the circumstances Alaric could forgive it) but instead legged it as fast as he could towards the Librarium, through the wreckage of the Tears of Sanguinius’ outer ramparts.
Clearing his way with repeated shots, he flung aside one shotgun when it emptied and reached behind his back, drawing forth a sizeable knife. An orkish ‘nob’ grinned and shoved forth its massive hand to crush the scout’s head—only to find the knife stabbed through its palm and the shotgun shoved into its gullet, and the last shell fired. The scout grabbed its massive pistol as it fell and kept running forward—
Alaric frowned and his eyes cleared for a moment as a bolt shell screamed by his face. Looking around, he saw with a flash of witch-sight orkish looters hiding in the ruins nearby; with a thought and a gesture, a fireball plummeted from the sky, detonating within the looters’ mob with an explosion that sent rubble and their pilfered bolters flying. His vox muttered, and irritated, he responded, “What? I’m busy here. Defending our last stand and all that. Who is this?”
“Glad to hear you’re in good fettle, Alaric,” came Master Tahalshia’s dry voice, “Stand by for us, we’re on our way. Chaplain Maccabeus will join you as well momentarily along with his men—hold one—“The communication was temporarily interrupted by the flat, filtered crack of boltpistol fire, then there was a thud and a hiss, and Tahalshia returned, “Stupid blighters. I’ll be there. I expect an update on our situation at your convenience. Munitions remaining, our comms, and that. Nothing major, shouldn’t be hard. Tahalshia out.”
“’Nothing major’, he says,” grumbled Alaric, “We’re just about to be exterminated as a Chapter, possibly forever, and he’s talking like he’s got nothing more to worry than how hot his next cup of recaff is going to be! Damn it, Llewldyr, blow up that pile there!” and he pointed. Obligingly, a young Librarius adept focused his psychic energies and the rubble detonated, scattering orks who had been using it as cover.
Sending forth his mind-sight, Alaric saw nothing but a heaving tide of green crossing the ruins of the Chapter’s fortress. The secundus keep was holding out, by virtue of the primary ammunition stowage bunker being within and the Devastator fire-teams sitting on top draining that ammo like it was water, but the tunnel doors between it and the primary keep (and hence the Librarium) were sealed tight. Not a very tenable situation especially considering they had just emptied both secondary and tertiary ammunition storage within the keep.
Hold, though—there was that little glow. The Scout still lived, praise the Primarch! Wounded—dragging a leg—but still holding out nonetheless, having gathered up several grenades and a boltpistol from fallen battle-brothers. Alaric narrowed his sight, and corrected himself—the scout wasn’t wounded. He had bound a gene-seed canister to his leg, undoubtedly picked up from Apothecaries Pahl or Valijo, and its weight was slowing him down.
And he was that much closer to the Librarium’s gates, only fifty metres or so parting him from safety. The gene-seed must be saved, Alaric knew—without it, the Chapter would not regain their fighting strength for decades, if not centuries. Waving his hand, he shouted, “Fire-team tertius, cover the scout at quadrant three! Quadratus, on me, we’re going to pick him up!”
It lives, I hope? I know it's been a dreadfully long time. Feel free to re-read the whole thing over to catch up or whatever. The standard is still up to snuff, I hope... criticism and comments are ever welcome.
++++++++++++++
“Hold, brother-Librarian!” shouted a sergeant behind him, and Alaric turned to behold a rare sight. The Chapter, being a young one, had not yet had the opportunity to deploy its sole Dreadnought in combat. It was a ferocious sight, all the more so given it was a Chaplain unit—its blows thundered through the throng of greenskins, sending Orks flying as its assault cannon sowed destruction through their ranks.
Alaric held out his hand, and from a hopper by the ammunition crates a grenade flew into his grasp. Yanking the pin, he cast it in a long arc to land beside the scout; bright yellow smoke billowed forth around the young Marine, and he bellowed upon the open vox frequencies, “Brother-Chaplain! Geneseed canister being borne by a Scout, yellow smoke! Do hasten, if you please!”
“I do please, Librarian. Makarios out.” And with that, Brother Simon lurched into the smoke, his visual equipment easily penetrating the smoke. A rumble sounded around them, and the Marines and Orks both looked upward.
Upon wings of flame, Geofric Tahalshia, Master of the Tears of Sanguinius, descended, accompanied by his gold-helmeted honour guard, their power axes hissing, burning off recently-shed greenskin blood. Beside him, crozius raised high, descended Chaplain Judas Maccabeus, and flanking them, his assault troopers. The moment passed, and the battlefield erupted in fire once more. One of the black-armoured honour guard jerked in midair, blood gouting from his abdominal plates, and spiraled away to crash in the midst of a mob of Orks.
The rest descended, chainswords rumbling and boltpistols firing into the enemy. Alaric wiped the sweat from his brow and muttered into his vox, “Well, did you have to show up just now? We were doing fine, no need for you to rush…”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Chief Librarian, did we intrude on your little personal fire-fight?” sounded Maccabeus’ sardonic voice in response, “Well, just give us the heads-up in the future, say, and we’ll find our own fight. Very sorry to bother you, I’m sure!”
“Peace, Judas,” soothed Tahalshia, “Alaric, prepare to receive guests. More Orks are on the way.” Alaric sensed his commander’s worry, but held his tongue—this was no time to voice concerns out loud and trouble the troops. If he knew them, they were worried enough as it was. Space Marines didn’t know fear—but they knew when their number was up, and it looked like that was coming all too soon.
The greenskin withdrew as the sun set, the two moons shining bright above the battlefield. Tahalshia sat upon an empty ammo crate at the apex of the Librarium, Maccabeus and Alaric standing beside him. Random fire sounded back and forth as the Orks built up their aggression for their final offensive the next day. The weak would be weeded out or placed in the front lines of the first charges; the strong would fall upon the Marines weakened by the initial attack. It was a simple strategy, but suited to their cunning and brutal mindsets, and frequently successful enough that this was one of their basic stratagems.
Maccabeus pointed in the vague direction of what had been the Chapter’s Scout training grounds and asked Alaric, “What do you make of that, brother? My helmet’s night-vision is not so good as I’d like, and I think I need to talk to Brother Ithamar about that…”
Tahalshia frowned grimly and answered the Chaplain, “No need for the mind-sight, Judas. They’re bringing up the heavy battlewagons, maybe a light gargant. One of those things they call a ‘stomper’ or some such. A few volleys from that, and our ramparts are going to be coming down shortly.”
He turned to Alaric and quietly asked, “I know it is hard upon your men, but I need you to pick two of your best Librarian adepts. Direct one to chronicle the past few days. The other should be your best at astropathic communication; you need to direct him to prepare a transmission that can be relayed to Baal Sector Command through the terminus at Sekundar. If we fall, I will need him to send the final authorization to purge this world. We will truly stand to the last man, and if that happens, it damn well better be your Adept that’s the last one standing.”
The Chief Librarian nodded and strode away to fulfill Tahalshia’s command. The Chapter Master turned to Maccabeus and asked, “You don’t think we’ll make it.”
“That’s not a question, is it,” Judas responded, “but unless the Emperor intervenes, I have to agree. I suppose you want me to lead the final benedictions, shrive them all and that?” At his commander’s shrug and nod, he grumbled, “Do you have any idea how short I’m on the sanctified oils and all, but yeah, will do. Primarch and Emperor watch over you, Brother.”
Tahalshia nodded solemnly and brought up his arm, and they grasped each other’s wrist before Judas left. He looked down at the small courtyard and at the bulk of Simeon Makarios below, stood and stepped forward. Casually, he walked off the wall, and landed upon Makarios’ chassis; the Dreadnought, for his part, took the landing well enough, and merely remarked, “Do drop in, why don’t you.”
“Glad to oblige. How are we doing?” Tahalshia responded as he sat down, dangling his feet beside Makarios’ skull-visored helmet.
“Been better. They’ll all be saying their prayers and the proper litanies tonight, that’s for certain. Young Maccabeus is doing well. You could’ve gone and promoted him to Master of Sanctity for the Chapter. I wouldn’t have minded.”
“Much?” Tahalshia filled in the Dreadnought’s pause, and went on, “You’re still around, aren’t you? We can always do with your wisdom, and if you fit through the Reclusiam doors, I don’t see why you can’t still conduct yourself as an active Chaplain, Venerable Dreadnought or no.”
“Mm,” Makarios responded noncommittally, and then jerked around, bringing his powerfist in readiness. Tahalshia leaped to his feet upon Makarios’ chassis and exclaimed, “Sergeant of the watch! What was that?” An explosion had resounded, far distant, in the direction of the Orks’ advance.
The Marine sergeant upon the walls shouted back to him, “We can’t make it out! It might be the greenies shooting at each other! Or it just might be a Land Raider!”
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
Land Raider, deployed. You know, there's a ridiculous titan-nibbling mod to those things, though the charge time on it's lascannons must be an eternity in combat.
Commander of the MFS Darwinian Selection Method (sexual)
Commander of the MFS Darwinian Selection Method (sexual)
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