[40k] Death and Burial
Posted: 2006-05-27 07:22pm
The story of this pic here: http://server6.theimagehosting.com/imag ... htfin6.png . Gratuitous violence below.
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Death and Burial
by Feil
The darkness writhes with my passing. Downward, downward, into the cursed bowels of the earth, the twisting, mildewed staircase leads me. I can feel the evil of this place burning against my wards, biting at the edges of my unshakable faith. I go into a little pocket of hell, alone.
But not alone—for my Emperor is with me. I am His will made manifest. I am the hammer of Holy Terra. I am the bane of Daemonkind. I am Brother Matthaias Vitrae, of the Grey Knights, and I go to my doom.
My hearts beat faster as I descend towards the ancient and terrible evil buried here. Behind me, the charred bodies of my kill-team are a mute testament to the danger I face. The Psy-King sold his life dearly defending the gate to this tomb. The loss of my comrades bites deep into my soul. They were my brothers.
But none who died for His sake died in vain. I remain. By the Emperor’s grace, I remain. And by His Name, I shall complete my mission.
Down, down, down. My autosenses pierce the grasping darkness, but only so far. Thick smoke from the sulfurous depths of this corner of damnation clouds my vision. The evil permeating the air and the stones clouds the sight of my inner eye.
I am close now. I can feel it. I can feel his evil, his hate, his malice. He knows I am coming, and he is come to meet me.
Let him come.
Machine-spirit, be with me in battle today. I thumb the rune to activate my Nemisis power-weapon. The glassy surface of the weapon glows dimly, then brighter, and brighter still. The passing air, tainted by the Warp, kindles into blue fire as the ancient and thrice-consecrated blade passes through it. In my outstretched left hand, a lantern, kindled with a flame brought from Holy Terra itself, drives away the darkness, physical and spiritual. Its light casts a hell-red glow over my surroundings.
I can hear it now: the sound of slow, guttural breathing. The faint and distant-sounding screams of the damned pass into my ears, chilling me to the bone. I feel my wards dispelling the evil of this place. It is now. This corner. I speed my descent.
Emperor be with me, here as on Terra. Guide my thoughts to your blessed throne and protect me from all evil.
There! The darkness swims more thickly ahead; a hellish red glow brightens the staircase.
“Welcome…” A velvety low bass voice ripples through the dank air. “I have been expecting you.”
I direct my gaze and my aim to the source of the sound, and fire.
Thunder crashes through the room, and recoil that would have broken any normal human’s arm pushes my power-armored feet against the stone of the staircase. In the flickering light of the muzzle-flash of my stormbolter, the Warp-spawn can be seen clearly.
It is six meters tall, taller than a Dreadnought, and a hundred fifty meters away. Half-formed shapes swirl around its winged form: the spirits of the damned. A low whispering, like that of murderers in the dark, accompanies its movement as it steps forward.
“Die, spawn of chaos!” My consecrated bolter shells slash through the darkness, their propellant leaving glowing trails of the Emperor’s Light—but they impact against the Daemon-prince’s skin without effect. I cease fire, and step down off the staircase, onto the flagstones of the floor. My left foot slips a little; there is a pool of dark blood on the ground.
“You want this, I see…” A flare of radiant violet fire ripples from the creature’s eyes, spreading slowly, like a burning fog, over its ghastly body. In the tainted light, a gaudy box of deceptive smallness is visible in the Deamon’s hand.
Time seems to stretch as the artifact glows brighter, brighter, brighter. Its light illuminates in full the hell that is the room. Blood and uniformed corpses litter the floor: all that remains of the Arbites company that was sent here. Other former servants of His will, their bodies banded in iron and their flesh flayed to shreds, are suspended by chains from the ceiling. A ring of occupied crucifixes surrounds the cavernous room.
The Daemon stalks closer, a hundred meters away now, as the artifact reaches a blinding brilliance.
“A dozen worlds have fallen to the power of this device,” he coos. “Ooh… you didn’t notice? You did not see?” The hideous face contorts into a parody of a smile, and the soft voice turns harsh and cold. “This world is mine! It is too late. You are too late, you loyalist fool. Everything here belongs to me. To Chaos. To the Changer of Ways!”
He laughs, slow, and grating. All my faith is needed to keep my fingers from trembling. “You lie, Warp-spawn!”
“Soon, even you shall be mine…. It is only a matter of time. Death cannot save you—Look!”
A flash like a hundred suns—blocked, just in time, by the machine-spirit of my helmet’s eyepieces—smashes through the room, accompanied by a shockwave that throws my 1-tonne bulk off my feet. About me, the bodies of the dead come alive, purplish fire glowing in the sockets of their eyes. The darkness has been restored, but my autosenses need not light to see.
I fight back the threat of terror: Terror begets doubt; doubt begets heresy; heresy begets damnation. I know what I must do.
Emperor be with me, now and in the hour of my death.
Ahead—ahead! I sprint forward across the bloodstained floor, footfalls ringing loudly as my power-armor carries me on at the speed of a galloping horse. I must destroy that hell-formed relic, or die in the attempt.
“FOR THE EMPEROR!”
Ahead, to left. Animated undead. My bolter flashes again: these hell-spawn, I can kill. The holy bolts strike home with perfect accuracy, blowing apart chests and heads in splashes of fetid gore. One rises up in front of me; I bisect him with a single slash of my sword. A blast of telekinetic power sends a half-dozen of the undead flying back.
Fifty meters now. The Daemon speaks words in a foul dialect of the Warp, and a blade of fire appears in his empty hand. The Daemon smiles. In the shadow of his wings, the swirling forms of cursed souls and horrible shapes begin to moan in chorus.
His mind batters against mine, trying to crush my defenses. My wards glow white-hot under the attack, but my faith stays strong.
He changes his avenue of attack: fleshy tendrils, spawned from the Warp, grow up ahead of me and around, questing for my body with their razor tips. With the speed of reaction that only a Space Marine can display, I avoid every one. I hack off a cluster with my sword; a swing of the lantern drives the unholy apparitions back with the blessed flame of its holy fire.
Ten meters. The Daemon swings his sword. I turn my bolter on his face, blasting away; my feet screech against the flagstones as I change my direction, angling to the side of the monstrosity. The bolts crash into his head, still giving no damage—but they rock him back and blind him for just a moment. I step in under the blazing weapon, slashing upward with my sword. Ichor and fire spray from the wound I inflict on his upper arm. As I pass, his left hand catches me in the back, claws punching through my backpack and into my torso. I fall, armor sending a shower of sparks as I skid across the floor.
Before I even come to a stop, I have turned to face him again. I fire, again, and again. I can feel him weakening. Smoke billows from my damaged backpack, but the suit remains functional. My wounds are not incapacitating, so I will not think of them. My stormbolter’s barrels begin to glow with the heat of continued firing.
There! A bolt blows through his left wing, leaving a ragged hole in the thin flesh. I push myself to my feet, and charge, firing.
Bolts blast into him, and he staggers under my attack. Scales splinter. Blood and bile flows from burning wounds. He strikes.
I bring up my sword and sidestep; the blades—one blazing with the light of Terra, one with the foul glow of the Eye—slip off one another with a flash of light. The chorus of screams reaches the peak of its crescendo. I begin the Grey Knights’ oldest prayer of Battle.
I am the Hammer. Bolts smash through the beast’s left shoulder; its arm goes limp, and I see my opportunity.
I am the Hate. I abandon my guard, and take three long strides onward.
I am the Woes of Daemonkind. The Daemon twists, sensing more than seeing the opportunity. It raises its sword to deliver the death-blow. I raise mine—not to avert his strike, but to do so much more.
From frenzy, temptation, corruption and deceit, deliver me, my Emperor. I stop firing with my bolter and grip my sword with both hands, and then drive it down with all my strength.
That the enemy might face in us Your Wrath. The Daemon sees it too late. My strike crashes down as the fiery sword of my enemy comes sweeping in. The ancient nemesis weapon in my hands has sent countless daemons shrieking back to the Warp. It does not even slow as it passes through my enemy’s hand to strike the artifact.
With an ear-shattering explosion of pent-up warp energy, the artifact splinters into a million pieces. A shockwave blasts through the room, lifting both me and my opponent through the air. Blackness overtakes my vision, and I crash into the far wall.
But not everything in the room is as mobile as me and the daemon. The towering pillars that have held up the vaulted ceiling for centuries crack as the hellfire from the destroyed artifact passes them. Through darkness and pain, I drag myself to consciousness. My wards are burning in my skin. My bones are broken in a dozen places; my flesh torn and bleeding within my armor. A metal spike has struck through my armor in my chest and torn open my left heart and lung. My eyepieces, destroyed in the blast, are not functioning.
But my soul remains my own.
I detach my helmet and draw it from my head as I fight my way to my feet. I stand, feet braced apart, leaning on one of the macabre crosses that ring the room to keep myself from falling.
I look about me, and by the dim and reddish light of the fire-pits in the room, I can see enough. I see the Daemon struggling to rise. I see the pillars cracking and splintering. I hear the groan of the once-mighty architecture as the forces of gravity pull it slowly down.
I look at the Daemon, and it looks back. The first pillar gives way, and the beast’s eyes grow wide with sudden realization. The second crumbles. The ceiling begins to fall.
Through bleeding lips and broken teeth, I end my prayer.
“Amen.”
--
Death and Burial
by Feil
The darkness writhes with my passing. Downward, downward, into the cursed bowels of the earth, the twisting, mildewed staircase leads me. I can feel the evil of this place burning against my wards, biting at the edges of my unshakable faith. I go into a little pocket of hell, alone.
But not alone—for my Emperor is with me. I am His will made manifest. I am the hammer of Holy Terra. I am the bane of Daemonkind. I am Brother Matthaias Vitrae, of the Grey Knights, and I go to my doom.
My hearts beat faster as I descend towards the ancient and terrible evil buried here. Behind me, the charred bodies of my kill-team are a mute testament to the danger I face. The Psy-King sold his life dearly defending the gate to this tomb. The loss of my comrades bites deep into my soul. They were my brothers.
But none who died for His sake died in vain. I remain. By the Emperor’s grace, I remain. And by His Name, I shall complete my mission.
Down, down, down. My autosenses pierce the grasping darkness, but only so far. Thick smoke from the sulfurous depths of this corner of damnation clouds my vision. The evil permeating the air and the stones clouds the sight of my inner eye.
I am close now. I can feel it. I can feel his evil, his hate, his malice. He knows I am coming, and he is come to meet me.
Let him come.
Machine-spirit, be with me in battle today. I thumb the rune to activate my Nemisis power-weapon. The glassy surface of the weapon glows dimly, then brighter, and brighter still. The passing air, tainted by the Warp, kindles into blue fire as the ancient and thrice-consecrated blade passes through it. In my outstretched left hand, a lantern, kindled with a flame brought from Holy Terra itself, drives away the darkness, physical and spiritual. Its light casts a hell-red glow over my surroundings.
I can hear it now: the sound of slow, guttural breathing. The faint and distant-sounding screams of the damned pass into my ears, chilling me to the bone. I feel my wards dispelling the evil of this place. It is now. This corner. I speed my descent.
Emperor be with me, here as on Terra. Guide my thoughts to your blessed throne and protect me from all evil.
There! The darkness swims more thickly ahead; a hellish red glow brightens the staircase.
“Welcome…” A velvety low bass voice ripples through the dank air. “I have been expecting you.”
I direct my gaze and my aim to the source of the sound, and fire.
Thunder crashes through the room, and recoil that would have broken any normal human’s arm pushes my power-armored feet against the stone of the staircase. In the flickering light of the muzzle-flash of my stormbolter, the Warp-spawn can be seen clearly.
It is six meters tall, taller than a Dreadnought, and a hundred fifty meters away. Half-formed shapes swirl around its winged form: the spirits of the damned. A low whispering, like that of murderers in the dark, accompanies its movement as it steps forward.
“Die, spawn of chaos!” My consecrated bolter shells slash through the darkness, their propellant leaving glowing trails of the Emperor’s Light—but they impact against the Daemon-prince’s skin without effect. I cease fire, and step down off the staircase, onto the flagstones of the floor. My left foot slips a little; there is a pool of dark blood on the ground.
“You want this, I see…” A flare of radiant violet fire ripples from the creature’s eyes, spreading slowly, like a burning fog, over its ghastly body. In the tainted light, a gaudy box of deceptive smallness is visible in the Deamon’s hand.
Time seems to stretch as the artifact glows brighter, brighter, brighter. Its light illuminates in full the hell that is the room. Blood and uniformed corpses litter the floor: all that remains of the Arbites company that was sent here. Other former servants of His will, their bodies banded in iron and their flesh flayed to shreds, are suspended by chains from the ceiling. A ring of occupied crucifixes surrounds the cavernous room.
The Daemon stalks closer, a hundred meters away now, as the artifact reaches a blinding brilliance.
“A dozen worlds have fallen to the power of this device,” he coos. “Ooh… you didn’t notice? You did not see?” The hideous face contorts into a parody of a smile, and the soft voice turns harsh and cold. “This world is mine! It is too late. You are too late, you loyalist fool. Everything here belongs to me. To Chaos. To the Changer of Ways!”
He laughs, slow, and grating. All my faith is needed to keep my fingers from trembling. “You lie, Warp-spawn!”
“Soon, even you shall be mine…. It is only a matter of time. Death cannot save you—Look!”
A flash like a hundred suns—blocked, just in time, by the machine-spirit of my helmet’s eyepieces—smashes through the room, accompanied by a shockwave that throws my 1-tonne bulk off my feet. About me, the bodies of the dead come alive, purplish fire glowing in the sockets of their eyes. The darkness has been restored, but my autosenses need not light to see.
I fight back the threat of terror: Terror begets doubt; doubt begets heresy; heresy begets damnation. I know what I must do.
Emperor be with me, now and in the hour of my death.
Ahead—ahead! I sprint forward across the bloodstained floor, footfalls ringing loudly as my power-armor carries me on at the speed of a galloping horse. I must destroy that hell-formed relic, or die in the attempt.
“FOR THE EMPEROR!”
Ahead, to left. Animated undead. My bolter flashes again: these hell-spawn, I can kill. The holy bolts strike home with perfect accuracy, blowing apart chests and heads in splashes of fetid gore. One rises up in front of me; I bisect him with a single slash of my sword. A blast of telekinetic power sends a half-dozen of the undead flying back.
Fifty meters now. The Daemon speaks words in a foul dialect of the Warp, and a blade of fire appears in his empty hand. The Daemon smiles. In the shadow of his wings, the swirling forms of cursed souls and horrible shapes begin to moan in chorus.
His mind batters against mine, trying to crush my defenses. My wards glow white-hot under the attack, but my faith stays strong.
He changes his avenue of attack: fleshy tendrils, spawned from the Warp, grow up ahead of me and around, questing for my body with their razor tips. With the speed of reaction that only a Space Marine can display, I avoid every one. I hack off a cluster with my sword; a swing of the lantern drives the unholy apparitions back with the blessed flame of its holy fire.
Ten meters. The Daemon swings his sword. I turn my bolter on his face, blasting away; my feet screech against the flagstones as I change my direction, angling to the side of the monstrosity. The bolts crash into his head, still giving no damage—but they rock him back and blind him for just a moment. I step in under the blazing weapon, slashing upward with my sword. Ichor and fire spray from the wound I inflict on his upper arm. As I pass, his left hand catches me in the back, claws punching through my backpack and into my torso. I fall, armor sending a shower of sparks as I skid across the floor.
Before I even come to a stop, I have turned to face him again. I fire, again, and again. I can feel him weakening. Smoke billows from my damaged backpack, but the suit remains functional. My wounds are not incapacitating, so I will not think of them. My stormbolter’s barrels begin to glow with the heat of continued firing.
There! A bolt blows through his left wing, leaving a ragged hole in the thin flesh. I push myself to my feet, and charge, firing.
Bolts blast into him, and he staggers under my attack. Scales splinter. Blood and bile flows from burning wounds. He strikes.
I bring up my sword and sidestep; the blades—one blazing with the light of Terra, one with the foul glow of the Eye—slip off one another with a flash of light. The chorus of screams reaches the peak of its crescendo. I begin the Grey Knights’ oldest prayer of Battle.
I am the Hammer. Bolts smash through the beast’s left shoulder; its arm goes limp, and I see my opportunity.
I am the Hate. I abandon my guard, and take three long strides onward.
I am the Woes of Daemonkind. The Daemon twists, sensing more than seeing the opportunity. It raises its sword to deliver the death-blow. I raise mine—not to avert his strike, but to do so much more.
From frenzy, temptation, corruption and deceit, deliver me, my Emperor. I stop firing with my bolter and grip my sword with both hands, and then drive it down with all my strength.
That the enemy might face in us Your Wrath. The Daemon sees it too late. My strike crashes down as the fiery sword of my enemy comes sweeping in. The ancient nemesis weapon in my hands has sent countless daemons shrieking back to the Warp. It does not even slow as it passes through my enemy’s hand to strike the artifact.
With an ear-shattering explosion of pent-up warp energy, the artifact splinters into a million pieces. A shockwave blasts through the room, lifting both me and my opponent through the air. Blackness overtakes my vision, and I crash into the far wall.
But not everything in the room is as mobile as me and the daemon. The towering pillars that have held up the vaulted ceiling for centuries crack as the hellfire from the destroyed artifact passes them. Through darkness and pain, I drag myself to consciousness. My wards are burning in my skin. My bones are broken in a dozen places; my flesh torn and bleeding within my armor. A metal spike has struck through my armor in my chest and torn open my left heart and lung. My eyepieces, destroyed in the blast, are not functioning.
But my soul remains my own.
I detach my helmet and draw it from my head as I fight my way to my feet. I stand, feet braced apart, leaning on one of the macabre crosses that ring the room to keep myself from falling.
I look about me, and by the dim and reddish light of the fire-pits in the room, I can see enough. I see the Daemon struggling to rise. I see the pillars cracking and splintering. I hear the groan of the once-mighty architecture as the forces of gravity pull it slowly down.
I look at the Daemon, and it looks back. The first pillar gives way, and the beast’s eyes grow wide with sudden realization. The second crumbles. The ceiling begins to fall.
Through bleeding lips and broken teeth, I end my prayer.
“Amen.”
