StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Here's a special holiday season bonus. Enjoy. It is rather silly and only pays vague attention to canon at certain points.

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Alygias was annoyed. He was not annoyed because of the giant gun pointed at his head. He was not annoyed that his supplier had betrayed him. He was annoyed that he had blundered into this stupid trap in the first place. He expected his lord would be equally piqued if he got his brains blown across the walls. Such was life though.

“No funny business sorcerer,” the creature holding the gun, or rather extruding the gun as the thing appeared to be a member, although an unusual member, of the Obliterator Cult and thus could reform his body to produce the weaponry he needed. The unusual bit came from the fact that while the man was clearly a Space Marine he bore none of the flesh blending features of a “normal” Obliterator, as if any servant of Chaos could be considered normal, per se.

“Oh, I can assure you that with that multi-melta pointed at my head any business we will do shall be in no way funny,” Alygias says dryly.

“Told you, he funny,” a lilting, off kilter voice says from above Alygias. Looking up, he finds the Raptor that had been following him since he made landing on this world, its talons allowing it to perch precariously atop a nearby post. While not as unusual as the strange Obliterator, the Raptor was a tad more slight than normal, and the jump packs were not the kind normally favoured by the Raptors.

“Ah, the chirping bird that has tried my patience for the past week is the source of my woes. How ruefully unsurprising,” Alygias says with a sigh. “I should have fried you earlier.”

“Shut it sorcerer. Now, we’re going to play twenty questions, and if either I or my friend here doesn’t like your answer, you turn into just another smear on the wall. Now, first question: what are you doing here on Anachronous?” The Obliterator asks gruffly.

“Conducting research,” Alygias says in a tired fashion.

“Research, huh? Involves slaves then?” The Obliterator asks.

“Yes, lots of them. I don’t see you holding up anyone else in the markets,” Alygias says sardonically.

“You picky. Picky, picky, smell the slaves and don’t like them, start sniffing around where you not wanted,” the Raptor accuses.

Looking between the two, Alygias says, “So it’s you two I should be talking to then.”

“We might have what you want, or we might just have other business that you’re nosing into sorcerer. Now for the important question, will there be more? More like you, looking in places you’re not wanted?” The Obliterator demands.

Sighing, Alygias simply shakes his head and says, “No, my research is my own, and there are few, if any, others out there that would want to duplicate it.”

“You’re the only one?” The Obliterator demands.

“Yes,” Alygias says wearily.

“Why?” The Obliterator asks.

Exhaling deeply out his nose, Alygias says, “That is a complex question the demands a complex answer. Why am I the only one, or why am I doing what I am doing?”

“The latter answers the first, so tell me,” the Obliterator says.

“It’s good to see that not everyone is an idiot these days. Fine, I am working on a grand project for the glory of my god Tzeentch, trying to take evolution to its next, logical step,” Alygias explains.

Spitting, the Obliterator says, “Damned sorcerer, knew you were a worshipper of that schemer just by looking at you.”

The motion to spit turned the Obliterator to the side, revealing markings on his armour that showed him to be aligned with the Plague God, Nurgle. This was utterly bizarre as not only did the Obliterators serve no single god, but the man looked like dirt had a natural aversion to him.

Seeing Alygias’ askew look, the Obliterator growls, “I’m an asymptomatic disease carrier, perhaps the sickest joke Nurgle has ever played. My blood’s got enough contagions in it to wipe out a small hive despite the fact that I look like I shower in disinfectants regularly. Incidentally, since I form all of my ammo out of my own flesh and blood, getting shot by me will give you a real bad day. Happy now that you know my life story?”

“Quite. In any case, the reason I am seeking pre-adolescent humans acquired in raids and not bred here in the Eye is not because I am a perverted Slaaneshi, but rather because I seek to unravel the designs of Tzeentch with regards to the human genome, so that I might play my part more effectively,” Alygias explains.

Both the Obliterator and the Raptor look at him without understanding.

Sighing, Alygias says, “I seek to better understand the corruption and mutation perpetuated by my god, but to do that I first must understand what is being corrupted and mutated. Thus I need fresh, clean specimens.”

“Why young; why alive?” The Raptor asks.

“Because unlike the idiots in charge, I do not appreciate waste,” Alygias says contemptuously. “When my initial studies are done, I find that pre-adolescents are quite a bit easier to turn into useful servants of Chaos than teenagers or adults. Especially with my talents.”

“Who are you?” The Obliterator asks suspiciously.

Taking a slow and shallow bow, Alygias says, “Alygias the Flesh Weaver, in the flesh, so to speak.”

Snorting contemptuously, the Obliterator says, “Bullshit. Last that I heard, Alygias was dead at the hands of Lucius the Eternal.”

“Fabius was particularly slow that day, but since he was only half-wrong and since I was half-right and thus flush with success, I was feeling in a generous mood and thus let him live. The slight of that annoyed him to no end, which is why he had that bounty placed on my head. Lucius nearly had me until he discovered that I wasn’t paying attention to the fight, at which point he ran away in fear of actually dying permanently and began propagating that slanderous lie that he had absorbed me like all the other idiots trapped in his armour. Of course, since there was no way to prove such a claim, he never collected. I was quite happy however not to be chased my morons and let the rumours of my demise persist,” Alygias explains.

“A… likely… story?” The Obliterator says, trailing off, not quite sure whether or not such a tale was believably or not.

“Oh come on, my other titles are Alygias the Picky and Alygias the Irate. I’ve punched more leaders of Chaos than any other man in the galaxy. I slugged Fabius Bile, I slugged Ahriman, I slugged Abaddon, I slugged Kharn…”

“Bullshit on that last one,” the Obliterator points out.

“Okay, to say I slugged Kharn is a bit of an exaggeration. Rather post battle we both got amazingly drunk and I challenged him to a game of Shot for Shot. I got him quite good I must admit, but his follow up left me in a coma for a week. He was so amused by the fact that I, as a Tzeentchian sorcerer not only challenged him like that, but took the return shot without blinking that he forgot about me. He then got rather annoyed with his own men for being pansies in comparison and fortunately I wasn’t moving at that point because he pretty much started killing anything that moved,” Alygias explains with a shrug.

Pausing to consider this, the Obliterator says, “Actually, I did see him that one time. That actually does sound like something Kharn would do, from what I saw in the distance. Thankfully someone managed to shoot that damn hat off him before the massacre really got going.”

“You punch lots,” the Raptor comments.

Shrugging expressively, “I’m constantly surrounded by morons who far too often pay my bills, so I get annoyed a lot. Not enough to actually try and kill my employers, most of the time, but punching them in the face to remind them that they’re paying me to do a quality job is simply the way I express my displeasure with their micromanaging.”

“Micromanaging?” The Raptor ask, apparently more intrigued by the word than the actual context, but Alygias leaps upon the opening anyway.

“Abaddon was by far the worst, which probably explains why we’re never getting back to Terra. The man, while charismatic on the surface and a sound leader, is a complete dithering idiot once you have to work close to him for any period of time. He seriously fails to get the big picture. The last time he hired me, it was to build him ‘a force capable of conquering worlds’. Those exact words were what were written in the contract because I knew he would start dicking around if I didn’t have that kind of latitude. I took twenty years and two-hundred fifty thousand applicants and produced a well organized force of a hundred thousand troops lead by a hundred expertly drilled and trained Space Marines, with fifty thousand support troops. That’s a little less than a loss of a hundred thousand men in the process. Abaddon got pissed because when he heard that I had the best success rates for creating new Space Marines, he assumed that the three in four survival rate meant that if he gave me that many men to work with I would give him close to two hundred thousand Space Marines at the end. No! I get good results because I, unlike that hack Fabius, have standards! Three out of four of my subjects survive because I carefully screen twenty or thirty thousand men, not personally of course, before selecting the most promising four, and then I take my time. If Abaddon had hired Fabius, sure he would have had two or three hundred new Marines, but at the cost of hundreds of thousands. My way gives armies, not scraps to be crushed by Imperial armies!” Alygias rants for a time, to the amazement of his captors.

“Whoa… you’ve got to be Alygias, there’s no way anyone else could be that pissed about things,” the Obliterator says, suddenly lowering his gun in realization that he was pointing it at a man who had survived the Scouring of Prospero ten thousand years ago, give or take a few millennia for time in the warp.

“Incidentally, how did you survive punching Abaddon?” The Obliterator asks.

“Oh, I had a feeling Abaddon was going to be a dick at the grand unveiling, so I invited Kharn. I think my ability to punch morons in the face is granted by the gods, but the survival bit is all my own. Thus after Abaddon started ranting about how this wasn’t what he had paid me for and going on and on about how this force would be useless in hauling the corpse of the Emperor off the throne, you know, his usual Tuesday speech, I punched him in the face and told him that it was what he paid for and if he didn’t like it, tough. At that point Abaddon ordered my death, but then Kharn jumped in and called him an idiot. That kind of made everyone a little nervous, so I slipped away while everything was sorted out. Kharn eventually walked off with the army I built and used it to conquer an entire sub-sector before he ran it into the ground through sheer attrition. Abaddon wisely shut up after that and has been trying to get me to come back ever since, but I’ve told him that I’m not coming back until he actually proves he has a brain. My terms of proof involve the conquest of Cadia. I don’t think I’ll be working for him again anytime in the next ten thousand years,” Alygias explains.

“You’re very sarcastic, you know that?” The Obliterator says.

“Magnus the Red always told me that. I told him it was a coping mechanism to deal with the fact that I was surrounded by far too many idiots. After the little incident with the Space Wolves on Prospero and the Ahriman debacle, I told him that the only reason he wasn’t being punched in his one eye was because of residual respect for him. His own sarcasm started to develop in full at that point from what I hear,” Alygias says.

“How are you still alive?” The Obliterator asks.

“At this point, I am attributing it to Tzeentch having a very twisted sense of humour and the other gods sharing it to some degree. I can see that my hypothesis extends to Nurgle at least,” Alygias notes while looking over the sparkling clean Nurgle Obliterator.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up at my misery, just like everyone else,” the Obliterator says wryly.

“Can’t be that bad, I mean if your bullets carry disease the way you say they do…”

“They do,” the Obliterator interrupts.

“Err… right. Well, if they spread plagues and such, that must make you pretty valuable,” Alygias points out.

“No, no not really,” the Obliterator says with considerable weight on his soul. “I seem to cause advanced technology that I don’t absorb to go haywire, something I attribute to one of Papa Nurgle’s blessings. I can ride in a space ship so long as I don’t get near anything important, like say the Enginarium, but smaller vehicles are all pretty much a no go, and I really annoy normal Obliterator Cult members, so they shoot at me on sight. Despite my best efforts, filth just slides right off me, so the Plague Marines pretty much shoot me on sight as well for being a heretic. Most other war bands have problems hiring me because one Obliterator really isn’t enough, and I piss off half the pantheon since most Tzeentchian followers dislike me for the normal Tzeentch-Nurgle problems.”

“Ouch,” Alygias says in sympathy.

“Perry here is in pretty much the same boat. The other Raptors really hate her,” the Obliterator says, jerking a thumb at the Raptor still perched above them.

“Her?” Alygias asks incredulously.

Taking off her helmet, the Raptor reveals distorted features blending human with avian to give rise to a distinctly aquiline face complete with the mouth partly blending with the nose to form a demi-beak and the eyes a brilliant golden-brown like a predatory bird. Despite all this, the features are still clearly feminine.

“I Seraphim before Chaos. Love fly. Kill many Raptors, become Raptor. Raptors angry, Perry not care. Perry fly,” she says.

Looking between them, Alygias asks, “Okay… but this doesn’t really explain why you decided to divert me here and then ask me all these questions about my work.”

“Uh… well… you see… the thing is…” the Obliterator says while scratching his head in embarrassment.

“Orphans, we find, we hide, we home,” Perry answers for him, preening at having got in a word before him.

“You… run an orphanage?” Alygias asks in disbelieving shock.

“We collect strays you could say, the ones like us, the ones no one wants, and mostly they’re kids that managed to slip away from the slavers. They’re smaller and can wriggle out of things easier. The slavers don’t care much, the young aren’t as valuable and without help they tend to be caught again in short order if they don’t die first. We protect them, shelter them,” the Obliterator explains.

“Why?” Alygias asks.

“Why not? Isn’t Chaos supposed to be about freedom? Why can’t we take in and shelter a bunch of kids instead of prey upon and abuse them?” The Obliterator asks bitterly.

Cocking his head to the side, Alygias smiles and says, “I have a business proposal then…”

Amusing. By the way, is Alygias an original character, or is he mentioned in the WH40K fluff somewhere?

Completely original, they all are and will be except for the occasional mention of canonical characters like the various Chaos leaders Alygias has punched in the face when they start dicking around with his work.

This whole thing is basically for me to create and play around with unusual characters. Alygias is basically what would happen if you combined someone with the bitterness towards management of Dilbert with a Thousand Sons sorcerer. He is a very, very bitter man who covers up, badly I might add, his weariness with dealing with idiots with intense sarcasm.

Also, if anyone wants to suggest their own Misfit, you can suggest it here, but I've already figured got the oddball followers of the other gods figured out. For Khorne, think bombastic paladin, for Slaanesh think ascetic samurai.

Good job! Awesome bunch of characters you've got there. I eagerly await your next installment.

Next installment to introduce the Misfit follower of Khorne.

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After a bit of discussion and the hammering out of details, Perry and the Obliterator, named Hamilcar, declared that they would see what exactly Alygias had to offer. Exiting the alleyway, they stumbled upon a common and yet incredibly strange scene. Alygias took one look at it before turning towards the bruise coloured sky and shaking his fist, crying out, “You think you’re all so funny, but you’re not.”

Standing at the centre of a large, angry looking mob was a man most of the way between human and Space Marine, which meant that he was from the Imperium as most of the Chaos Space Marines no longer had scouts or neophytes, preferring instead to use quicker, if more unpleasant, methods. The fact that he was wearing the light armour of a Black Templars neophyte more or less cemented this impression.

While true that the man had desecrated the Imperial symbols with red paint and blood, he had conspicuously not actually removed them, rather blending the iconography of the Templars and Khorne together in a bizarre fashion. A former Imperial Marine was enough to draw the ire of many on a daemon world like Anachronous, but the fact that he seemed unrepentant of his past really annoyed the mob about him.

There was also an element of greed involved too, as the man had at his side what was clearly a potent daemon weapon, a simple looking black sword that radiated malevolence. It also appeared to be causing mutation as his skin had taken on an ashen grey pallor and his veins appeared as black cracks running beneath the surface of his face. Tiny horns were already sprouting from his forehead, and his eyes were jet black except for around the pupils where they burned like red hot coals.

What really drew the anger of the mob though was the babe snuggled up to his breastplate, and he was making cooing noses to soothe its tears in the strange place. The fact that he wasn’t eating it seemed to completely infuriate all the other followers of Khorne.

The man seemed oblivious to the mob, but to veteran soldiers like Alygias, Hamilcar, and Perry, he was actively watching them all, his eyes paying careful attention to everything around him. When his path became actively blocked, he stopped well away from the offending bodies and said, “Move.”

It was at about this point that the berserkers from the World Eaters showed up. There were only three of them, but that was more than enough to push a lot of the assembled mutants and beastmen over their natural fear of a Space Marine. No one dared moved before the berserkers, but they were all clearly waiting for their moment to strike.

“You dare to wear the symbols of the Blood God and act so shamelessly?” The lead berserker accuses.

Glaring at the giant, the neophyte snarls and says, “The Blood God cares not from where, how, or why the blood flows, so long as it does. When and where and for what reason I choose to fight are of no concern to you unless I happen to be adding your head to the Skull Throne.”

Incensed, the berserker went to chop down this impudent runt, only to stumble and fall as his head bounced to the ground, severed at the neck by the now drawn daemon sword, the blood shed already being drawn into its blade like water being greedily sucked up by a thirsty sponge.

“Anyone else care for a go?” The neophyte asks in a seething, furious voice.

It was at this point that the mob was overwhelmed with an incredible sense of bloodlust and charged. It was also at this point that Hamilcar opened fire and proved that he was indeed a servant of Nurgle, for targets struck by his shots disintegrated into puddles of corrosive mucus and pus that infected and dissolved those standing around them, creating a chain reaction that turned an entire flank of the mob into a puddle of putrescent filth on the ground. He quickly ceased fire though for fear of hitting the neophyte.

Perry on the other hand gleefully joined the fight in full, running across the top of the mob, the talons on her feet reaching down and grabbing and slicing and crushing heads while firing her twin bolt pistols down into the crowd. When it looked like something was going to haul her down, she fired off her jump jets and took to the air with a back flip, still raining bolter shells down on the massed crowd, inflicting terrible casualties.

Alygias waved his hand and a good third of the mob fell over dead, their hearts imploded by his sorceries.

Meanwhile, with the advantage of surprise gone, the neophyte was having quite the time trying to fend off the two berserkers, his lack of experience in comparison showing as the sword was clearly doing most of the work for him. Of course, the fact that he was also defending the wailing babe in his arms was adversely affecting his ability to fight.

Shaking his head, Alygias tells Perry, “Get one of those berserkers off that young fool.”

Leaping off the mutant she was slaughtering, Perry dives through the air and lands hard on the rearmost berserker, knocking him to the side and out of the current fight. Her talons only barely scraping off his armour, she immediately leaps clear as Alygias releases a barrage of lightning from his gauntleted fingertips. Striking the berserker, the bolts of energy leap off him and strike the unfortunate creatures standing about him. The crackling arcs of energy soon loop back and around and spread and by the end all that is left of the berserker and those around him are charred corpses.

With the mob now breaking away in panic at having to fight so many experienced, veteran Space Marines and with only one berserker left, the neophyte shifted much of his attention away from defending his flanks and towards attacking his foe. For just a moment it looked like the berserker had won when his chain axe buried into the neophyte’s shoulder, nearly causing him to drop the child he was protecting, but he merely grunted and rammed his sword through the berserker’s gut before hauling up, slicing through armour and flesh until the berserker was nearly cut in two. The neophyte finished the fight by lopping off the berserker’s head.

Collapsing to the ground, he set down his sword on his lap, adjusted his hold on the child, and then pulled the still revving chain axe out of his shoulder, tossing it to the side. For a moment he rested while his flesh knitted itself, and then once his body was whole once again, he picked himself up and charged what was left of the mob still within range, not stopping until he had killed them all.

Then he turned towards the three that had helped him. Despite the Khornate bloodlust he had just demonstrated, he sheathed his sword and bowed deeply towards the strange trio and says, “I thank you for the assistance, it was appreciated.”

“Wow, a follower of the Blood God that isn’t a raving maniac willing to fight friend and foe alike, that’s something new,” Alygias notes sarcastically.

“Even you played your part sorcerer,” the neophyte says dryly.

“A sense of humour too, will wonders never cease?” Alygias deadpans.

“Quite. Now I suppose I should ask why exactly you three decided join into the fray,” the neophyte asks.

“Fight fun, other side have more people, thus more fun fight them,” Perry chirps.

“I was intrigued by your situation,” Alygias says with a shrug.

“I wanted to help protect that kid,” Hamilcar admits.

“Oh, that one too!” Perry adds on eagerly after Hamilcar.

Looking at them curiously, the neophyte asks, “And none of you wanted to get a crack at claiming my sword Iniuria for your own?”

“Why in the Warp would I want a Khornate daemon weapon?” Alygias asks with rhetorical sarcasm.

“Sword pretty, but talons better,” Perry says, pointing to her feet, at which point both Alygias and the neophyte note that the talons are actually power claws.

Shrugging, Hamilcar manifests one of his guns and says, “I prefer to blow away my enemies at range.”

Eyeing the pile of filth that had at one point been a large chunk of the mob, Alygias asks, “Incidentally Hamilcar, how many guns do you have?”

Smiling broadly, Hamilcar replies, “More than some tanks.”

“How do you not get hired?” Alygias asks incredulously.

“The occasional war band takes me in, but for the most part the squabbles I cause limit my options,” Hamilcar replies with a shrug. “Most groups that don’t worship Nurgle don’t appreciate me turning things into piles of infectious waste. Incidentally, I might as well clean this all up.”

Hamilcar then walks over to the filth and sticks a foot in the pile, causing a loud, slurping, sucking sound. Within a few seconds the area is mostly cleaned up. Noticing the funny looks he is receiving, Hamilcar shrugs and says, “There were a lot of potentially useful things in that pile, waste not, want not.”

“Filth doesn’t so much fall off you as get absorbed, doesn’t it?” Alygias asks.

“Yeah, small mercies I suppose,” Hamilcar notes.

“Excuse me, but how did this little tangent get started?” The neophyte asks while waving to draw their attention.

Shrugging, Alygias says, “I don’t know really, probably because I just met this two screwballs and I’m still trying to figure them out. I was in fact going to show them my ship to discuss a new arrangement. You are invited to join us if you wish.”

“I appreciate the help, but walking into a trap isn’t really my idea of a good time,” the neophyte replies.

“We help with mob, you help with him,” Perry says, pointing to Alygias.

“As a follower of Tzeentch, god of schemes and treachery, I am insulted that you would think that I was leading you into a trap,” Alygias says deadpan.

“Perry does have a point kid, I do think you owe us one,” Hamilcar points out.

Frowning, the neophyte considers this for a moment before saying, “Fine. My name is Joris.”

He then bends over and collects up the skulls of the two berserkers he decapitated before looking longingly at the intact power armour of the leader. Shaking his head, he looks away only to see Alygias stared at him curiously.

“You have all the implants but the Black Carapace. I can solve that little problem for you if you want,” Alygias tells him.

“How?” Joris asks.

“My name is Alygias the Flesh Weaver. During the Great Crusade I served as an Apothecary-Librarian for the Thousand Sons, specializing in the creation of new Marines. I have refined my craft in the past ten thousand years and it would be trivially easy to finish what has already been started. We can bring that armour if you want,” Alygias offers.

Glancing at it, Joris shakes his head and says, “No, that armour is unsatisfactory for me. I will find something more suitable elsewhere.”

“Very well. Now, if you would all follow me…” Alygias offers, leading the others through the bustling daemon city towards the space port.

Settled in at dock was a smallish warship at 400 m, painted black with blue and gold trim about its ornate iconography. It was not as garish as some of the ships of Chaos, and was definitely the sort of ship Alygias would have. The words Semper Vexo were clearly visible along one side of the ship. Standing at guard were numerous well drilled soldiers in appropriately chosen camouflage gear, backed up by the silent sentinels that were the Thousand Sons Rubric Marines.

“They’re all with me,” Alygias says in a bored tone while idly waving off his guards.

“Yes Lord Alygias!” His guards say, snapping proudly to attention.

“Tell the Den Mother to have preparations for our little guest here,” Alygias says, waving to the babe in Joris’ arms, the neophyte turning away suspiciously to shelter the child.

Nodding, the guards say, “Of course lord, she will be ready for you.”

Walking up the gangplank to the ship, Alygias brings them all inside before turning to Hamilcar and asking, “Incidentally, if you cause as many mechanical problems as you say…”

“I’ll warn you if I see anything I might affect. I am an Obliterator… sort of… so I know my way around technology,” Hamilcar says reassuringly.

The inside was clean, well lit, and well laid out for the movement of troops and equipment in peace and in battle. It still retained many of the Gothic elements common to all human designed ships, but it was obvious that Alygias was annoyed by the baroque ostentation favoured by so many other Chaos Lords.

“Huh… I was expecting something… more twisted,” Joris comments.

Looking at him, Alygias raises a gauntleted hand and snaps his fingers, causing everything around them to warp and buckle, becoming a nightmare labyrinth where not even the laws of physics seemed to apply. After a moment he snapped his fingers again before saying, “I personally saw to the defences of this ship. It is studded with psychic amplifiers such that on command one of the daemons bound to the ship will project confusing illusions. Certain bulkheads can also be moved around to change the floor plan if I wish it. This is a ship that can change as needed.”

“Clever,” Hamilcar notes.

Following him deeper in, they come to a large lounge room with Space Marine sized chairs and couches along with ones for regular humans, and a few off to the side shaped for stranger anatomies. Except for the ones meant to be sat in by people wearing heavy armour they all looked amazingly comfortable.

Even as they entered servants began to appear out of hidden nooks and crannies to attend to their lord and his guests, offering them various things and asking what gods they followed so that they could bring them things to make them feel more comfortable. There was also a stern looking woman with a battle axe face who took one look at the babe in Joris’ arms before swooping in to change, feed and set to bed the tiny girl. This was all done in plain sight of a baffled Joris who wondered what had just happened.

Gesturing kindly, Alygias says, “I would like you to meet my Den Mother, Dame Himmelfarb. She is in charge of the nursery here on the Semper Vexo sometimes, but normally she runs the crèche back at my fortress elsewhere in the Eye. As you can see, she is quite adept at dealing with children.”

“How you get that?” Perry asks while perching hunched over on the back of a particularly sturdy chair.

“My Lord Alygias had me raised that way,” Dame Himmelfarb replies proudly.

“I have been working with children as part of my studies and experimentations for the past three thousand years, so quite early on I chose to begin raising some of my more promising students to help with the duties of taking care of the other children,” Alygias explains.

“You are very well organized and equipped… I can understand why someone with your expertise might have access to considerable wealth but this all seems…” Hamilcar begins.

“Like I couldn’t really afford it considering the small scale of things? Yeah, I get that a lot. Well, it’s like this: my experiments are typically non-fatal and usually produce above average individuals, if only rarely Space Marines. I typically only allow the best of the best to remain with me, but I still produce hundreds of useful servants of Chaos every year. I could quite easily expand my operations, and build up an enormous army, but I don’t. I am a firm believer that we all have a part to play in the plots of Tzeentch, and mine is not to go off conquering and pirating, it is to explore the deeper secrets of the flesh and the universe. So upon graduation I will direct my students to those that can make use of their talents… for a fee from their prospective employers. I have amassed quite the fortune over the millennia just from that sort of thing, to say nothing of the times when I will deign to do contract work for a major power like Abaddon,” Alygias explains.

Taking all of this in, Hamilcar nods and asks, “So that business proposal you had. You want Perry and I to help you collect more children for your works, in exchange for promising that they will be well treated and cared for.”

“Yes. I could tell just by listening to you two that you have a way with children, something that most members of Chaos lack seeing as they frighten them. I am no exception to this rule, at least at first but after a couple of years most of my students come to love me, if distantly. I will show you the facilities aboard my ship, and if you wish it, we can bring your orphanage aboard where they shall be free from danger and will have a wonderful, fulfilling future lying ahead of them instead of sitting in their own squalor slowly starving to death… not that there is anything wrong with that mind you,” Alygias explains before conceding the last part to Hamilcar’s Nurgle proclivities.

“And live a life devoted to Tzeentch no doubt,” Hamilcar says in annoyance.

Getting up, Alygias gestures off to a side door and says, “Accompany me to the chapel perhaps?”

Exiting the lounge, Joris picking up the girl from her crib despite the death glare from the Den Mother; they go through the door and travel down a short corridor before entering a large, wide open space dedicated to the gods of Chaos. All of them. To be sure Tzeentch received the lion’s share of the room and attention, but there were also small niches set aside for the other gods and even one for more abstract worship of Chaos Undivided.

“Although it tends to annoy everyone else who does not share my views, I believe all things, including the servants of other gods, fit within the plots of Tzeentch, thus I feel no need to oppress them. Chaos is meant to be freedom, such as can be obtained in this blood soaked galaxy, and if one of my students becomes drawn to the other gods, including that brute Khorne or the disgusting habits of Nurgle, I see no need to oppress them. They will play their part in the things to come, who am I to interfere with the designs of Tzeentch,” Alygias explains unapologetically.

“I take back some of the ill things I said towards you earlier sorcerer. You have… a vision rarely seen amongst the followers of Chaos,” Hamilcar rumbles philosophically.

Swinging monkey-like from the rafters of the chapel, Perry drops down and smiles, saying, “This fun, we bring kids.”

“Now, now, I haven’t even shown you the nursery yet,” Alygias says with a smile.

WTF? Liberals in 40K?

That Templar seemed more like a samurai than a paladin, I might add. Also, lol @ the ship name.

I noticed a few verb tense issues during the fight scene, but other than that, an excellent and much-enjoyed read!

I see you've been reading Children of an Elder God to much...

Ok... this is just amusing enough to work.

Alygias isn't so much liberal as extraordinarily confident in the power of his god. What he is saying is that everything is all part of Tzeentch's plans, including the other gods, which is why he pisses off a lot of other Chaos worshippers except for his own followers who believe in his brand of theology. Thus he allows the others gods to have niches attached to his own chapel to Tzeentch because he believes that if anyone takes a different path, then this is all part of some plan, so he would rather not stand in the way of that sort of thing. It's just not smart.

Alygias is also extraordinarily weary of current Chaos politics. He finds the divisiveness to be pointless and stupid, and while he doesn't follow the path of Chaos Undivided, he does believe that if the gods can set aside their squabbles to achieve great things, then their followers should too. To a certain extent you could say that he wishes he never defected to Chaos because he realizes that as stupid and wasteful and counter-productive the Imperium is half the time, they're not a tenth as bad as his brethren. This isn't necessarily because he believes in the Imperium, rather that he would prefer not to be on the losing side of things and from his point of view as a snide observer, Chaos certainly isn't winning.

Hmm...possibly an endlessly-bickering couple of old curmudgeons as followers of Chaos Undivided?

Is Perry dedicated to a single god, or to Chaos Undivided? Come to think if it, isn't Perry basically an Aquila, except without the other head? And feathers I guess...

I just thought of another person that might fit into this sort of group: someone from the chaos equivalent of the ad-mech, who engages in the kind of scientific research that would be more appropriate in our real world rather than in 40K. Hey, this person doesn't even need to be a follower of Chaos, though it would fit the theme

B-b-bonus round. I got writing, wanting to get Joris' story out there. Enjoy.

---

Joris was brooding, clearly unhappy with his situation, but unwilling to talk about it. He had already killed all the slaves Alygias had designated for combat practice, adding their skulls and fresh blood to the little altar to Khorne set up in the chapel, but he clearly wanted to do something more.

Sitting down in one of the pews next to the angry neophyte, both their armour off and replaced with robes, Alygias asks, “Am I going to have to sedate you?”

“No,” Joris replies in an annoyed tone.

“I was hoping not, sedating the followers of Khorne is always a pain in the ass. Taking them down in the first place is no easy task, and then when they come to they’re all pissed and start ranting about Slaanesh because of the drug use and its all just a big mess,” Alygias says with a wave of his hand.

Looking at him, Joris sighs and says deferentially, “I apologize for my selfish brooding.”

Raising an eyebrow, Alygias says, “You still think like a Loyalist Marine.”

Laughing bitterly, Joris replies, “That is because up until an hour before I met you maniacs I was a Loyalist Marine!”

Stunned at that declaration, Alygias sits up straight and leans forward, saying, “Well now your brooding at least makes sense to me.”

“Indeed. For almost my entire life up until the hours before I met you, I wanted to be a Marine. A Black Templars crusade smashed a Chaos incursion of my homeworld, and I was one of the few survivors in my hive after both sides had fought over it. I saw those black clad gods walking through the rubble, not a care in the world, righteously slaying all in their path, and I wanted to be like them, to be one of them. The first chance I got, I ventured out across the ash wastes between the hives for the temple they were constructing. I was one of the fist aspirants on that world, except for the fact that I was still a bit too young to begin gene seed implantation,” Joris says, a twinge of happy nostalgia reaching his eyes.

“Those were good times, happy times. Hard, harsh times of course, but there was simplicity in everything, and the tight bonds of comrades in arms. We all would have perished for one another,” Joris explains, just before the joy drains from his face.

“Then the disaster on Forlorn Reach struck. Our crusade slammed headfirst into a massive raiding fleet being led by the Word Bearers. They had heavily corrupted the planet, so we heavily bombed it before deploying to the surface. As we rolled through the devastated cities, shooting everything that moved, I had this growing sense that what we were doing wasn’t right, wasn’t what we were supposed to be here for. We were supposed to save all these people, not make more orphans damn it!” Joris cries out, banging his fist hard on a bulkhead.

Regaining his composure, he continues, “My unit was ambushed by a full Host of Word Bearers while we were purging the Governor’s Palace. We, somewhat ironically, made our last stand in the mausoleum vault that carried the item that held the very item that had drawn the bastards to the planet in the first place.” Joris then pats the sword at his side affectionately.

“By the Emperor… err… sorry, old habits,” Joris says, pausing in embarrassment. “Uh… anyway, we fought like daemons we did down there, which is probably why they eventually deployed daemons to root us out. The last thing I remember before going down was being hit by the axe of one of them.”

Lifting up his robes, Joris shows an ugly scar along his right side.

“I don’t know how I survived that, but I did. The enemy managed to capture six of us, five initiates and me, one dumb, unlucky neophyte. They kept us alive, and kept all but one of us from actually managing to kill ourselves in transit. It wasn’t pleasant, they pretty much had us bound at all times and forced food down our throats to keep us from starving,” Joris says, anger beginning to cloud over his face.

“I’m not entirely certain why they set down on Anachronous; I think it had something to do with a prophecy or some such nonsense. Somehow I get the feeling that if I knew the entire thing I would laugh my ass off. In any case, they took us to a temple in the middle of the city, deep down beneath the surface to a room where you could feel the Warp bleeding through, predators on the other side of the walls of reality and sanity just waiting to jump through. They had the five of us surviving Templars, our armour returned to us for reasons we did not know at the time, and dozens of children,” the rage was now clearly building in Joris’ face.

He took a moment to calm himself, knowing that a berserker rampage would be meaningless and futile against an ancient like Alygias.

“The leader of the Word Bearers, their Dark Apostle, then dismissed all but a handful of his most trusted lieutenants and he began to explain what this was all about. He had discovered the daemon sword Iniuria, containing a greater daemon of Khorne. Lost since before the Great Crusade, the daemon within had been dormant for thousands of years, and even after being brought into the Eye of Terror it still slumbered. In order to wake it, a sacrifice would have to be made,” Joris says, his burning coal eyes flaring for a moment with the memory.

“I take it you all were the sacrifice,” Alygias says idly.

Nodding, Joris continues, “Of a sort. Whatever prophecy they were following demanded a blood sacrifice, as expected for a Khornate weapon, but the requirement was for innocent blood to be shed, thus the children. The Dark Apostle intended to use us Marines to check if it was working, as it was said that the sword could cleave through any armour. As the killing began… I lost it. I completely lost it.”

Close his eyes and bundling together his fists, Joris hisses, “It wasn’t the screams of the children that pushed me over the edge, it was the silence of my brothers. They just remained quiet before this atrocity, uncaring for the lives of the lost civilians so long as they went to their death with quiet dignity.”

Exhaling after a moment, Joris says, “My brothers ignored even my screams, but the leader of the Word Bearers was quite amused at the obscenities I was throwing his way and instead of testing the sword’s edge upon me like he had originally intended, he went to the opposite end of the line and killed the man who had been my mentor. The way the others just looked at me shamefully but never spoke, never gave voice to their chastisements just drove me into a greater fury.”

Hanging his head, Joris says, “As the ritual continued and the blood of the innocent flowed in increasingly large batches, the screams dying down from hoarse throats into terrified bawling, I heard a voice reaching out for me. It told me to give in to my anger and hate, to accept the calling in my blood. It sang to me, it threatened me, it pleaded with me, and I ignored it. I ignored it right up until the last moment.”

Taking in a deep breath, Joris continues, “I was the last one left, and the Dark Apostle moved on to the youngest at last, seeking the most innocent blood possible. The splashes of blood became smaller and smaller, I began to see red everywhere, and finally I listened to that voice. As the sword was raised above the last child, born in transit to the Eye, I did as the voice asked and swore my soul to Khorne.”

Smiling viciously now, Joris runs his hand affectionately across the unadorned surface of the blade and says, “Iniuria means ‘Injustice’ or ‘Injury’ in an old language. The Dark Apostle thought that it was made to cause injustice. It was not. The daemon bound within is an old one, trapped in its current state by its fellows. Khorne is a god of anger, and this blade is one of righteous anger. The blood of the innocent did indeed awaken the daemon, but not in the way the Word Bearers thought. The blood of the innocent brought forth my rage, and it was that upon which the daemon fed.”

Drawing the weapon to look at the glint of the light in the chapel catch its lustrous black edge, Joris says, “Once I was angry enough to swear to Khorne I was bound to this weapon, and it to me. The blow against the infant was never struck, the sword ripped from the Dark Apostle’s hands. It struck my chains and cleaved right through them, and I grasped it in my hand and the power began to flow through me. I killed every last man in that chamber, mostly because they were so dumbfounded that I was the one holding the sword that I had half of them dead by the time they recovered enough to fight back.”

Putting the weapon away, Joris hangs his head and says, “Once the thrill of battle was away from me, I collapsed and wailed at what I had done. I… I… I still believe in the Emperor and His Imperium… but I know that what I have done cannot be gone back from. I am Khorne’s forevermore, and I will not bemoan my fate. My soul felt burdened and tarnished from my actions on Forlorn Reach, so I felt it a fair trade to save the life of but one innocent.”

“That… that baby girl is what kept me going. Had it not been for her, I would have charged up the stairs into the heart of the compound, seeking the solace of death. I would have probably slaughtered many servants of Chaos, but death would have been inevitable. Ironically it was the daemon in the sword that told me to take the subtle path. I had a mission now: to protect the child. Kill anything that got in my way to be certain, but protect the child first, and if that meant not fighting, then so be it,” Joris explains.

“So I marked myself with the icons of my new god Khorne and snuck out of the temple. I kept to the backstreets until I realized that the Word Bearers knew that I had escaped and were hunting for me, at which point I decided that if I could not survive and keep this child safe, I would go out in a blaze of glory. You know how that turned out,” Joris says, smiling wryly, Alygias now caught up with his story.

Staying silent for a long time, Alygias finally says, “But now your mission is over. You have found a home for the child and she will be safe and well cared for. You need a new mission to define yourself.”

“Yes,” Joris says darkly before looking away. “Right now, all I want to do is find a trip to the nearest world, be it Chaos or Imperial or Ork or whatever, and start killing. Kill the guilty, spare the innocent, and not stop until I lie dead or this blood soaked galaxy is free from injustice. I long for death at the moment, torn as I am between the Emperor and Khorne. Let me die and my soul be torn asunder by daemons, tortured for eternity for my crimes, it will be a peace compared to the tension I feel now.”

Nodding, Alygias says, “Once a crusader, always a crusader. While I feel it would be a shame to lose such a creature as you, if your lot in life is to die on some gods-forsaken battlefield for poorly defined reasons, it is not my place to stand in your way. Would you care for some advice though?”

Looking back at Alygias, Joris takes it all in and then begins to laugh. He laughs for a solid half minute before wiping away his tears and saying, “Oh, look at me. Aren’t I pathetic? Here I sit, like an aspirant at the feet of a Hierarch, wide eyed and afraid, looking for safe wisdom to light my path. So go ahead sorcerer, give me your advice, it will surely be better than this idiot can muster.”

Smiling thinly, Alygias says, “First of all, as I said before we came aboard this ship, I can complete your transformation into a Space Marine by growing for you a compatible Black Carapace and then implanting it. This will of course have its cost. For a time, I could define your mission for you, give you a goal to work towards, a crusade to travel along. As you have seen, our goals do not so much align as not come into conflict, so there shall be little for you to worry about. If I have people I want dead, then they have probably done something you would want to kill them over anyway. I am not a protector of the innocent, but neither do I actively, or even particularly passively, seek to destroy it.”

Taking this in, Joris chuckles and asks, “A former Black Templars neophyte turned Khornate champion for the innocent working for a bitter old Tzeentchian sorcerer? Have these gods of yours no end to their humour?”

Snorting, Alygias says in a dead serious tone, “No. The bastards.”

Still laughing, Joris asks, “When my debt to you is paid, what then? This self-destructive impulse in me will not go away, I can feel it. It is not merely a part of me, it is me. It is the lost, lonely child within me seeking a place of quiet and peace away from the swirl and din of the madness about me, but there is no peace, there is no solace in this galaxy, except in death. Everything else is just grim darkness.”

“If in that time, you cannot find a new crusade for yourself, perhaps you will have found another person you can follow. Perry and Hamilcar are going to stick with me I think. It’s rather funny really, but I do believe that the cleanest Nurgle follower in the universe is quite smitten with the fallen Seraphim. Perry’s story is quite interesting indeed; perhaps you should ask her about it, if you can stand her broken speech patterns and flighty mannerisms. We have plenty of time in transit before we reach my fortress, it might be a useful distraction for you to talk to her for a while,” Alygias tells him.

Joris absorbs this bit of information and asks, “Thank you for the suggestion, I just might.”

There is then a comfortable silence before Joris asks, “I get the feeling you have one last thing to tell me.”

“Yes,” Alygias says before leaning in conspiratorially. Inching in closer, Joris listens as the sorcerer says in a low, quiet voice, “Don’t tell the others this, but I have in my time seen many thousands of children grow up, and took quite the active role in the rearing of some of them. In the past ten thousand years though, I could be said to have been an actual father to those I raised but five times. It is the most frustrating and rewarding adventure you can have.

“Are you sure that you are done protecting that baby girl from the horrors of this cosmos? Are you sure that if you just find for her a place of shelter, sustenance, and safety, that your mission is complete? Are you sure your heart is confused because you are torn between two gods and not between deciding on whether or not you wish to be a father?” Alygias asks in a whisper.

Smiling, he backs away from the now horrified looking Joris and dusts off his robe before standing up from the pew.

Gulping hard, Joris says slowly, “You… have given me much to think about sorcerer.”

“Indeed,” Alygias says before slipping out of the chapel, leaving the confused young man to consider his future.

My god. These twisted Chaos-scum sucking heretical blasphemous traitorous idolaters are a rather likeable bunch of fellows, actually. I shall cheer for them!

A demon of Righteous Anger, against Injustice? Now that is indeed an interesting WarpSword.

What can I say? I'm intrigued by the weird and oddball, and like writing about it.

I have a sudden and terrifying vission of Yachiru Kusajishi in WH40k thanks to your Chaos Marine w/baby. As if she wasn't terrifying enough as-is. Murder and babies work so well for some reason.

Joris' backstory was well written, in my opinion. By the way, in what language is "Iniuria"? Latin?

Yep, it's latin.

Can't wait to see what you do with Slaanesh's follower. And write more about Perry please!

Perry's story is indeed next, I just need to figure out how to do it properly with her broken speech patterns. This could take a while to do right. This however needs immediate attention from someone else:

From the next chapter wrote:He did wonder though what sort of storybook a Nurgle Obliterator would read to children. It would probably be something like ‘The Littlest Nurgling’.

Chuckling, he thought up all sorts of stories for Chaos tots: ‘The Cowardly Bloodthirster’, ‘The Ugly Daemonette’ and ‘The Forgetful Lord of Change’

Someone needs to make one of these!

Seriously, the titles alone are funny enough, but if someone smart enough to do this sort of thing were to actually make them real, they would be hilarious.

Oh, and Vehrec, you really probably shouldn't have given me an idea like that.

This looks like a fun, enjoyable story of death, destruction, and the futility of mortals against the universe.

Please keep it coming.

Academia Nut wrote:Vehrec, you really probably shouldn't have given me an idea like that.

Come on man. I speak of BLEACH, which is Awesome, and mixing it with WH40K which is a different Awesome. The multiverse needs more Yachiru and more Matsumoto and more Yoruichi. Then we get into people like Nemu, who was created by her dad to be full of toxins that can make a second of agony feel like 100 years. Compared to that, tiny girls who can lift almost 100 kilos and then roofhop with thier adopted dad over their shoulder is . . . well, no that's still pretty crazy.
You cannot seriously tell me that a universe with self-aware weapons and shit like that doesn't mesh on some level with WH40k.

Joris was wandering the halls of the Semper Vexo, his prayers done with for now. Prayers were unnecessary for Khorne; the only words he wished from the lips of his followers were war cries. For now though Joris would take up Alygias’ advice and seek out the only other former Imperial, or at least modern former Imperial, and have a talk.

He had at first checked the nursery, but he had found only Hamilcar there, asleep with a storybook open on his lap, a good three quarters of the orphans tucked away napping. Joris lingered for a moment at the door to the nursery, staring at the child that he knew he shared an intertwined fate with. Sighing and shaking his head, he turns away to find the person he originally set out for. He did wonder though what sort of storybook a Nurgle Obliterator would read to children. It would probably be something like ‘The Littlest Nurgling’.

Chuckling, he thought up all sorts of stories for Chaos tots: ‘The Cowardly Bloodthirster’, ‘The Ugly Daemonette’ and ‘The Forgetful Lord of Change’.

Eventually his enhanced ears caught the sounds of children laughing and clapping their hands with glee, and following the audio trail, he found Perry in one of the holds with the remaining children. The wide open space, mostly empty as the ship had not picked up any cargo other than the orphans on this run, was perfect for the Raptor.

She was out of her armour, wearing a basic, unarmoured body glove, which really showed off her mutations. Her physique was long and lithe, her muscles compact and wiry, essentially what would be expected from a person that was also part bird. Her hands were disproportionately long, while her feet were completely mutated into digitigrade bird’s talons arranged in an anisodactyl configuration like an eagle or hawk.

Currently Perry was leading the children on a merry game of tumbling, leaping and jumping and rolling about the mostly empty cargo bay, the children happily laughing as the tried to keep up with the frenetic pace of the strange woman. Quickly though they all fell behind as the incredible athletic Perry began pulling off stunts that they simply could not match. Finally noting that all of her charges had fallen behind, huffing and puffing, Perry gave them a bit of a show.

Leaping from packing crates and empty cargo containers, Perry put on a grand demonstration of acrobatics for the children. Finally she finished off by running up a wall for three or four metres before launching away from it, performing a back flip and then landing lightly on her feet.

Joris adds his meaty applause to the high pitched cheering of the children, drawing Perry’s attention.

“Ah, you want talk Perry?” She asks.

“Err… yes, I would like to talk with you,” Joris says, knowing that the upcoming conversation was going to hurt.

Turning to the children, Perry says cheerily, “Perry talk red man now, go pest blue man.”

With a chorus of agreement, the children file out to go find and annoy Alygias as per Perry’s instructions. Once they were all gone, Perry begins to climb and clamber about the room, apparently incapable of staying still for a conversation.

“So what want Perry?” She asks.

“Well… as I understand it, you were a former Sister of Battle, a Seraph in fact, before joining Chaos and I heard from Alygias that you had quite the story to tell,” Joris says in explanation.

“Perry right send children annoy sorcerer,” Perry says with a crooked smile while effortlessly walking a beam, her mutated feet easily grasping the surface.

“Oh, if you don’t want to talk about it…” Joris says, trailing off uncomfortably.

Jumping over his head, Perry cackles and says, “You not fight hard, funny for Khorne man, no?”

Frowning, Joris replies, “I fight well enough when the battlefield is appropriate, and I fear that wars of words are not something I currently excel at. I fear that ‘Blood for the Blood God’ would be inappropriate at this juncture as well.”

Cackling even harder, Perry sits down on one of the crates and says, “Perry finds funny boys, don’t think? First Hammy, then sorcerer, then you. Perry tell story funny red man, Perry tell story.”

Getting up and pacing back and forth, Perry begins by saying, “Perry like orphan, Perry orphan. Not orphan first, few orphan first. Take years, maybe all fingers, few toes, of years. Perry first aerie hive, tall hive. Perry family defend hive, defend planet, no have time Perry. Perry fun hive, Perry learn move hive. Move hive old, city old, man old.”

As if in demonstration, Perry makes a three metre leap between two containers effortlessly while Joris tries to parse her speech. The lack of transitive verbs, conjunctions, and worst of all most identifiers was driving him batty. He seemed to understand that she was saying that she grew up in a hive world and with her parents both in the Guard or PDF she had a lot of time on her hands as a child. ‘Move hive’ seemed to mean the various acrobatic ways of moving in urban areas, something that was indeed old.

“Greens come, greens fight Perry family. Greens win; Perry family, not family. Greens lose, new family come. New family say Perry learn fight. Perry no fight first, Perry move. Perry like move; learns like fight. Perry learn fly! Perry love fly! Perry Seraph, good Seraph. Fly, fight, Perry good Seraph, bad Sister. Perry proud! Perry fly, why no proud?” She explains.

Nodding, Joris says in summary, “So Orks invaded, killed your family in the fighting, and then you were taken in by a convent of the Sisters afterwards, training and becoming a Seraph.”

“Perry says that! Perry flies, Perry falls. Fight pointy-ears, fight dick, huge dick. Perry scout, find pointy-ears, vox no work. Perry returns camp. Camp many Sisters. Perry landing, dick shoot exhaust, jet go off course. Boom! Perry crash Penitent Engine. Saw comes loose, flies away, cuts open shower tent. Hundred Sisters showering, now no private. Perry see pointy-ear laughing, Perry remember pointy-ear. Perry owe pointy-ear broken spine,” Perry explains, growling at the last part.

“Perry heals, not heal enough. Not fast, not strong enough, not Seraph after. Perry no flies. Perry no fights. Perry train baby Sisters. Perry train, Perry jealous. Perry wants fly, wants fight; no fly, no fight,” she says, a bitter look on her face.

Perking up, she then says, “Chaos comes, fight Sisters. Perry fights! No good, no heal enough. Perry captured, Raptors laugh Perry, Perry no fly. Perry kills Raptor, takes armour. Chaos gods, let Perry fly, Perry serve. Perry kill more Raptors, Perry laughs. Perry flies again! Armour no good, no Perry, big. Perry turns ship around, Perry find old Sister armour, takes. Raptors annoyed, Perry kill more Raptors, makes gods smile.”

Pausing in these obviously pleasant memories, Perry does a back flip before continuing, “Perry fights, Perry flies, Perry not know years. Raptors very angry, not like Perry Raptor. Perry no care, kill more Raptors. Sisters very angry, not like Perry Raptor. Perry no care, kill more Sisters. Happy time, fight, fly. All Perry wants.”

“Perry finds Hammy. Hammy weird, Hammy shelter children. Make Perry sad. Perry like children. Forgets universe make orphans. So Perry joins Hammy. Perry fights, flies, for children. Less fun, more fulfilling. Still kill Raptors, Sisters, others, kill for children now. Meet funny sorcerer. Maybe children join Perry? Maybe Perry meet Raptor not want kill?” She explains.

“And that’s your story?” Joris asks.

“Perry story. You no like, shove off,” she tells him, grinning.

Shrugging, Joris says, “Can’t be worse than my story. Huh… I wonder if anyone else in this merry band of misfits is an orphan.”

“Hammy no orphan… technically. Hammy three thousand, family dead now, but not dead he first marine. Born Medrengard, born slave. Fight good, Iron Warriors make him Iron Warrior,” Perry says.

“Ah… well then I shall have to ask him his story,” Joris says with a nod.

Turning to leave, he is stopped by Perry jumping to the ground in front of him. Peering at him closely, she says, “Hammy no like talk. No bother Hammy. Hammy bother you. Red man bother Hammy, Perry bother red man. Red man hurt Hammy, Perry kill red man. Hammy Perry’s. Get Perry?”

Nodding, Joris says, “I’ll just go somewhere else then.”

“Good,” Perry says before returning to her acrobatics.

Joris had certainly got himself involved with a lively bunch.

Did Perry always talk in a broken manner, or did Chaos warp her speaking abilities?

I'm glad you chose this Fic for an update. Got to love those kooky Chaos guys!

Ok.. Have to re-read from the beginning now.