Paths of the Damned - WH40K

[The Grim Squeaker]

He descended into that Chaos tainted crypt even though he was warned that it would be fatal to us as it was dedicated to Nurgle. He purged those heretics ruthlessly and even though they cursed him with the disease that devours him from within and already has slain the squad that went in with him he does not complain.”

ER, anyone tainted with a Disease directly from Nurgle is going to be incredibly lucky to be sent out on a suicide mission (Like a chapter of the Damned who go out rogue without help and are doomed to fall to Chaos).
Any Inquisitor catching a SM infected with Nurgle's plague will have him executed or cast out of the chapter (Almost certainly the latter though).

An Entire legion (Mortarion and his Primarch) of SM's fell to Nurgle due to a plague, a SM captain wandering around while infected is a glaring error.
Excellent work apart from that

[speaker-to-trolls]

It's been a major part of the story that Mordred's been infected with a chaos disease for several chapters now, he's just such a badass that it hasn't killed him.

[Chris OFarrell]

Wohoho!

I am really loving Brother Godric. He really has that air of someone who IS worthy to be put into a Dreadnaught.

Oh and Oh My God, you Stravo Killed me. You Barstard!

[Grand Admiral Ancaris]

I agree with Chris, I really like Brother Godric. He most definately does act as someone who truely is worthy to be a dreadnought.

The liquid metal and the mask have me curious... I cannot figure out if it's something Chaotic or something of the C'tan/Necrons...

Next, the Nitpick! If I am reading it correctly, it would seem you had the Battlebarge landed on the planet. This is a problem because as far as I am aware, Barges are far too large to land on a planet themselves. They are orbital support, launching drop pods, Thunderhawks, teleporting down units, and launching other support craft. If they are to be loaded, it would likely be smaller support craft ferrying stuff up from the planet surface or the barge would be docked with some kind of orbital station or supply platform. If it is Macragge we're talking about, I imagine it has at least one Ramilies class Starfort or similarly large station in orbit that could supply up a battlebarge prepping for launch.

[Kuja]

Brother Godric is, indeed, worthy of the dreadnought. And Brother Caspain shows great promise. Now Stravo, bring back the chaplain! You went out of your way to introduce him, let's see him again!

“You said the same blasted thing when you emerged from that nest.” He said quietly. “’What’s done is done.’ And I knew at that moment that they had fouled you. Six of you went in, five of you came back out and Nitram, he was the lucky one to be killed in that horrific darkness. Kuja, Gaius, O’Farrell and Cyran were not so lucky - consumed by the very foulness that eats at you now. I tended to them as they died. I helped Mortus dispose of their gene seed. I had to feel the anguish in their minds as they felt their bodies beginning to fail them.”

Noooooooooooo the Nurglies got me!

[Feil]

Nitpick: Pride is a sin, technically. Not that Modred shouldn't feel it. But perhaps have Modred resolve to ask the Emperor's forgiveness after experiencing it, or something of the sort.

[Captain Cyran]

Damned warp-spawn. That I would fall to a plague rather than in the heat of battle against the enemies of the Imperium. Truly I weeped that day.

Great Chapter Stravo. I'm enjoying the interactions among the Ultramarines. Really looking forward to seeing Caspian interact with Jericho. *snickers* Of course, Godric was a badass.

[WyrdNyrd]

How can anyone not like Godric? He is noble, compassionate, and wise. And he can tear a tyranid in half without breaking a sweat!

[Stravo]

And now the bad guys get their spotlight. Please tell me if I get the feel of Chaos and the Eye of Terror right here. I want to make sure this all seems right and I didn't go too over the top with the descriptions or concepts here.

Thanks again in advance for any advice and critiques.



Chapter 8: Terror is in the Eye of the Beholder


The planet Scarabus was a wasteland of stone and blood. It orbited a blood red sun that seemed to wink in and out of existence at odd random intervals. An angry crimson cloud streamed from the sun and caressed the planet as it passed on into the cold blue void beyond. Upon closer inspection the cloud was revealed to be much more than a crimson mist. Undulating naked humanoid bodies twisted and writhed as if in agony or perhaps ecstasy bunched together one on top of another, limbs interlocking and mouths open in silent screams or moans, no one could tell. There were so many clustered together in the bloody mist that they comprised the cloud that was visible from space and beyond.

The planet itself was blackened and charred as if it had been incinerated in some awful furnace then placed back in the twisted firmament of the Eye of Terror. The surface was criss crossed with yawning jagged canyons carved through the obsidian rock. Thick bubbling blood flowed freely through many of these caverns and the blood glowed with a sickly incandescence.

On the surface of the planet the canyons seemed to criss cross through the landscape without rhyme or reason, gouging out painful chasms through mountains and ashy plains.
However from the stars above the horrid truth of the canyons became wickedly clear. These were not geological formations created by time and erosion, these were runes carved into the surface of a planet. Runes were glowing ruddy and swollen with rivers of incandescent blood and gore that flowed out from great reservoirs located in the key locus points of the ley lines of the planet.

The reservoirs and the ziggurats overlooking them were tended to by priests of Khorn, Chaos God of Hate bloodshed and Warfare. The priests had their servitors round up an endless procession of humans captured from the numerous Cadian Gate campaigns and internecine conflicts with other nearby worlds and march them up the steep jagged sharp obsidian rock steps, naked and flogged every step of the way so that the steps were constantly wet and slick with the blood of the procession. Sometimes the weakened prisoners would slip on the slick steps and tumble forwards or backwards, dashing their limbs against the razor like rocks and spilling yet more blood.

The servitors of the priests displayed no mercy as they pushed these fallen prisoners forward and those that could not maintain the processions were picked up by nasty demonic Bloodletters that patrolled the unending column of humanity and plucked up off the ground by a three pronged pitchforks and hauled them screaming off the line to be fed to the ravenous flesh hounds kept in makeshift razor wire pens at the edges of the canyons of blood and gore.

Those unlucky enough to have the endurance to reach the pinnacle of one of the eighty mighty ziggurats that circled the planet at key locations to feed the ever hungry canyons faced a high priest of Khorne, garbed in cursed Brass Armor engraved with maddening sigils of chaos and corruption holding in one hand a barbed lash, bits of flesh and sinew caught in the jagged teeth of the barbs and in the other a glinting double bladed axe, blood caught on the hungry steel vanished quickly as the axe drank deeply of any blood that touched its surface.

The priest would begin lashing the unfortunate mercilessly stripping the flesh from his body and blood splattering on the onyx stone altar, collecting in small pools in the smoothed imperfections in the natural outcropping at the top of the ziggurat. As the priest did so he would chant “Blood for the Blood God!” in an endless almost mantra shout of excitement and passion.

As the unfortunate was stripped of all flesh, blood congealing around the cowering victim, the priest would finally halt and he would stride over to the mewling mass of pulpy flesh and he would wind back his axe and drop it down with a thunderous finality, neatly severing the victim’s head from the body and a final fountain of blood that bathed the bronze armor of the priest as he shouted in an orgasmic state, “Skull for His Skull Throne!” The head would roll down the steps of the ziggurat and fall neatly into the pile of heads that were sprawled out at the base of the ancient temple. The pile never seemed to get very high, there was always room at Khorne’s temple for more skulls.

The body would slide down the steps of the other side of the ziggurat, all the blood released from the sacrifice following it in an obscene sluice of crimson gore to splash down into the canyon below and join the rest of the ever flowing river that would begin its journey here and currents and tides of death would take it all around the planet through the various canyons slashing across the landscape.

One would imagine a merciful ending like this was at least better than the lifetime of slavery that some humans faced in the bone mills across the planet where the refuse of the bodies was picked from the rivers and worked into various items such as armor and ceremonial gear and at night made the playthings of the demons that ran this world like a carnal house playground.

But these sacrifices soon became aware again, caught in the great nets and run offs at the ends of the massive runes that ran through the planet. Their bloody bodies caught against the nets like salmon trying to get upstream.

Arms and legs jutted through the barbed nets as the newly reformed sacrifices screamed for mercy or in anguish. Blood letters and the Khornite servitors would reel in the newcomers and herd them back into a column that would march back to the ziggurats from whence they first came. The never ending cycle of sacrifice and blood would never end and many of the victims would weep mightily at their fate, many more were already broken from the hundreds if not thousand times they had been flayed alive, decapitated and fished out from the rivers alive again only to start the inexorable march back to their fates and they shuffled their feet, almost mindless automatons whose souls had long since fled their bodies into the warp unable to cope any longer with such a horrendous fate.

What waited for those anguished fleeing souls in the warp was far worst than anything Scarabus had ever visited upon them and that was an irony not lost on the demons that cavorted across the blackened face of the scarred ancient crone world.

Scarabus had once been a proud jewel in the Eldar race’s crown. A world of vast blue green oceans and pearly clouds that raced across the sky to winds that refreshed and cooled and made you forget your burdens. Farseers came here to rejuvenate and refresh themselves by the surf of the endless seas.

Scarabus changed with the birth of Slaneesh during what the Eldar call The Fall when the birth of a new Chaos God wounded reality so that the Warp seeped through into the Materium and formed the Occulis Terriblus. The Eye of Terror.

A crone world now, the bloody burnt remnant of Eldar greatness it was a world of sorrow for the Eldar and they dared only come here now to steal away the very essence of their power, the souls stones that even now could still be found in long forgotten crypts and monuments that had survived the endless millennia long occupation of Chaos and Khorne’s brutal followers.

But even the followers of Khorne were ignorant to why the blood had to flow into these runes, why their thirst must always be quenched and even more curiously what exactly the runes were for and what they meant. All they knew was that the blood flowed because Khorne demanded it and others whispered that it really was because Scarabus demanded it and the followers of Khorne were simply honoring their god in passing.

There was a great unspoken fear amongst even the deamonhosts that called this blasted ruin home. A fear of what would happen should the blood lights dim and the runes no longer be fed. A fear of a great sleeping darkness that may stir from its unnatural slumber and return to this world. Others suspected that the runes fed power to the deamon prince who reigned over this world and its surrounding sector.

In the end even the mindless hordes of Khorne’s most base followers could all agree on a very simple point. The blood must flow, the blood lights must not dim and the runes must always be fed. Always. Leave the mysteries for the foolish Thousand Sons who sometimes assaulted this world to wrest its secrets from it. The Followers of Khorne knew how to draw blood, knew how to feed their god and he would drink deeply until the end of time.

A mighty fortress, once home to a great Eldar Farseer and his family stood proudly on a lonely mountain that stood at the cross roads of eight mighty blood filled canyons. It was a locus point of power, blood and despair. Its battlements were no longer decorated with the fluttering blue yellow banners of the Eldar Clan that occupied this world, calm serene wraithbone monuments and statutes to ancestors long since gone or of descendants destined for greatness that they were honored before they were even born were replaced by the vile depictions of anger and blood lust that claimed this world.

Crude statues to Khorne and all his incarnations lined the walls. Gargoyles dressed in battle armor of all the ages of warfare of mankind adorned the outer curtain wall and great pikes jutted out from the battlements and upon them Eldar corpses hung suspended like obscene scarecrows, caught trying to raid this world for the precious soul stones these Eldar were the fortunate ones.

A banner hung lifelessly at the top of the fortress, for no wind graced this place. The air was thick with the coppery stink of blood and human waste and refused to move anymore. Only the screams of despair and death ever urged the air to circulate anymore and they were a chorus to the Chaos Lord who stood at the battlements looking down upon all he surveyed with a hungry eye.

The banner that hung lifelessly above him was his unit banner, the one he had clutched to his armored chest as he and his men fled the vile Emperor’s forces in the long retreat from Holy Terra. Endless it seemed for the forces of the Chaos Space Marines who followed the Great Horus in his attempt to end the supremacy of the Imperial despot of mankind. He who sent them on a glorious Crusade only to allow the others to do the fighting and the dying as the so called Divine Emperor of man retired to his palace on Holy Terra to enjoy the spoils of his loyal lap dogs.

Horus changed all of that. He dared defy the strangle hold the thrice damned Emperor had over mankind and his Space Marines.

He had followed Horus into the breach on Holy Terra. He killed his fellow space marines, those too deluded or stupid to see that they were following a despot and a charlatan. There was nothing divine about the Emperor. Nothing at all. He was just a man, as they all were and he was going to pay for his abandonment of his children in the deep dark places of the universe.

He slew Iron Hands and Salamanders by the dozens. He crushed Dark Angels under his heel and delivered bolt rounds into the hearts of Blood Angels deep in the heat of their frenzy and blood lust. He reveled in hurling the broken bodies of the Imperial Fists over the ramparts of their adamantine defenses in those final heady days of the assault on Holy Terra. But it was the Ultramarines that drew his greatest ire, that fueled the rage in his cold heart and stoked the fury of his tempestuous temper. Fools in August Blue. They were the Emperor’s boot licks and they were the ones that harried them all the way into the Eye itself on their long retreat. They were the ones that would not relent. They were the ones that broke the siege after Horus fell and the False Emperor was reduced to a sleeping corpse.

He would never rest until the Chapter was reduced to nothing, until he used their banners for rags to clean his hounds.

They would know his righteous fury.

But for now something else occupied his mind. A question that had burned in his thoughts and left what little sleep was left in his damned life plagued with doubts and even little known fear.

He would not be himself again until he knew the answer to the question that hounded him like some unseen hunter in the mists.

Lord Crixus Tyrannous whirled around suddenly and stalked back into this fortress and howled his question to all that would hear and his Company of WorldEaters trembled at his query as it echoed off the silent stone walls.

“WHERE IS EZEKIEL MALAGAUNT!!!”

The space marines in the fortress tensed in anticipation of the violence to follow, others smiled and drooled in fascination of the blood that would flow.

Crixus Tyrannous had asked this question every night for the last seven weeks since the event had occurred. Since the Inquisitor Ezekiel Malagaunt had penetrated this very holdfast in the heart of Scarabus and had stolen away two prized possessions from under the Worldeaters’ noses and had shamed them all and worst of all had infuriated their Deamon Prince patron.

Many had died since then. No one could answer the question.

Crixus strode down the long spiral wraithbone staircase where elegant Eldar lords and ladies had glided. His long bulky legs clumped down with each step and the chamber reverberated with his coming. His baleful eyes were on fire as he scanned the gathered Worldeaters.

“Where is he?” He demanded of one of his Space Marines.

The hapless Chaos Space Marine began to answer. Crixus back handed him and the space marine was catapulted backwards against a wall and landed in a heap blood trailing down both nostrils and one ear. The Chaos space Marine groggily touched one stream of blood and silently whispered an offering to Khorne while tasting it.

“Attaturk!!”

The name exploded like a shell in the midst of the chamber.

The librarian appeared quickly as if melting out of the shadows themselves. Attaturk was a small figure, small for a Space Marine. Hunched over and moving with a plodding deliberate pace accentuated by a very pronounced limp he did not seem to fit in with the glowering pack of warriors dedicated to Khorne. Yet the warriors all parted like reeds in the wind at his passing, many not daring to look at the hunched over shell of a space marine as he approached the lord of Scarabus without fear or hesitation.

“My lord, Crixus, I have come as you have summoned me in the name of Khorne and the Demon Prince Memnoch Dar Shada the Prince of Blasphemers.” Attaturk whispered in a low strange cadence, as if speaking were something he was unaccustomed to. Each word was too precise, too clean and unencumbered by accent or dialect.

“And in the name of the Great Blasphemer I ask you yet again, sorcerer.” Crixus leaned in close, he towered over the diminutive Sorcerer of the WorldEater Company and his eyes were fixed on him, one was yellow and glowed like cat’s eyes, the other was red as murder and glowed with an unnatural heat. Crixus’ face was a roadmap of war and battle, scar tissue marred his flesh and the clumsy ham handed efforts of butchers pretending to be healers only accentuated the wounds. His left ear had been bitten off by an Ultramarine sergeant whom he had broken over his knee like so much kindling wood, his nose was jagged and crooked, broken too many times to keep track. His teeth had grown slowly into fangs over the millennia of exposure to the wild warp energies of the Eye and his body beneath his ancient pre heresy armor was a wonder of surgery and will that kept it together yet his powerful frame had not lost any of its vigor and he could crush steel in one hand and break bodies with a flick of his wrist.

Attaturk on the other hand was pale and thin. His skin hung off his body like wet clothes and the flesh had the consistency of parchment paper. His hair, what little remained had slowly changed over time and it seethed and pulsed on his head like a nest of vipers. His eyes returned Crixus’ gaze unswervingly, they were all black and lifeless like a doll’s eyes without any hint of white or pupils.

Yet both of these men were powers to be reckoned with. Attaturk had broken the will of full blown deamons and had bound great powers into the amulets and trinkets he wore and kept in his sanctum and the staff he leaned on was a constructed out of the stuff of the Warp itself bound into the spinal column of a demon and it seethed with blasphemous energies waiting to be unleashed.

“Where is Ezekiel Malagaunt?” Crixus asked darkly.

“He is on his way to Tyrial.”

“How do you know this?” Crixus demanded.

“Tanis.”

“Tanis.” Crixus hissed angrily and glanced over Attaturk’s shoulder at the sanctum beyond. “I do not trust Tanis.”

Attaturk shrugged and it seemed that even that simple physical action was an effort for the twisted sorcerer.

“The Lord Memnoch trusts it.”

“The Lord Memnoch made it.” Crixus countered and glowered at his sorcerer. And there was the rub, was Attaturk truly his anymore. Did he belong to the Worldeaters or was he now a thrall to the Blasphemer Prince?

“And the point being?” Attaturk asked and suddenly began to hobble back to his sanctum.

Crixus followed in a swift stride. The signal was clear. The sorcerer wished to speak alone.

They entered the inner sanctum and the doors closed shut behind them with a soft moan, the wraithbone flowing obediently over the locks and seam so that they had full privacy from prying ears.

“Tanis cannot be trusted because Tanis has its own agenda. Do you not see that?”

“I see many things, my lord.” Attaturk replied, his lifeless eyes regarding his lord with a hooded expression.

“Tanis will turn on us in a moment when it gains the upper hand.”

“If that is the case why did we allow it to leave and hunt for the Inquisitor?”

Crixus frowned and rubbed his chin.

“Frankly I did not think it would find him. And more to the point I did not think it would last long in the Materium.”

“Its will is powerful. The master saw to that. The Prince was very certain that Tanis would be a powerful tool and so it is. It is seeing to our interests on Tyrial.”

“Its interests.” Crixus snarled.

“Very well, my lord but is not Lord Memnoch’s interests ours?”

Crixus sneered.

“I will not play word games with you Attaturk. Your little debating tactics avail you not out there when we hunt out foe and they certainly did nothing for us when Malagaunt vanished with the Crescent.”

“That is not all he vanished with.”

Crixus whirled around in a barely concealed rage to jab a huge fist in the direction of a nest of bedclothes in the corner of the sanctum. A leather mask, straps, bindings and chains were arrayed about the nest like the remains of a cocoon.

“That theft angers me most of all! She was my seer, my tool to use as I pleased. And he stole her away from me. Now I am blind in the shifting currents and eddies of the Warp. She alone understood the meaning of the Runes and the Ring of Brass and Curtain of Shadow.”

“She claimed she knew.” Attaturk corrected him gently.

Crixus turned his head and smiled wickedly.

“You never liked her did you? She deciphered secrets you spent millennia trying to glean and in a handful of years she was surpassing you.”

“She was a talented psyker, no more than that.”

“Ah, but you did not know the crescent was valuable to the Prince until she directed Malagaunt to it. You did not know about the Ring of Brass and Curtain of Shadow until she displayed its power.”

“She was a tool, manipulated by our lord the moment she set foot here. You think she was brilliant, she was nothing more than a meat puppet for Memnoch and you call it genius. How typical of you.”

“Have a care Attaturk. You are valuable to me but you can be replaced by one of your acolytes, of that I am certain. I on the other hand, I dread the day this company faces the future without me.”

“This company will perish without you. Mark my words. Our dooms are intertwined.” Attaturk replied coolly. “That is why you will not kill me.”

“Again you spout prophesy but you cannot give me Cassandra.”

Crixus stalked over to another corner of the sanctum. A naked human woman bound in leather and straps, a leather mask covered her face and all but a tuft of black hair with silver streaks in the back of her head.

She stirred at his approach. The eye slits to the mask were sown shut and there was no mouth piece. Still she managed to mumble through the leather.

“Master?”

“Yes, my precious little psyker bitch. It is I.” Crixus murmured like a master to a prized hound. He gripped her chin and thrust her face up to the flickering light of the sanctum’s torches. They were fashioned from human skin and an ulna with attached hand held the sputtering light source. Hot black wax ran down the bleached bones to the wall.

“Do you feel her?” he asked.

“She is always on the edge of my mind…” the woman whispered. “She taunts me.” She growled angrily.

“I will have need of you soon enough my sweet.”

“I live only to please you my lord…only you. I will not be unfaithful as she was. I will not give myself to another.” She moaned, running her hands, broken nails at the tip of her long fingers and jagged half healed scars along her hands marred them, along Crixus’ gauntlets hungrily searching for some contact with his skin.

Crixus’ face darkened and he slapped her hard. Her head cracked backwards and smacked hollowly against the wraithbone wall. She moaned in pleasure as blood spilled down from her nose and a splatter marked the wall where her head impacted.

“Do not remind me of that treachery. How could she leave me for that…Inquisitor after all I have done for her.”

“She does not deserve you my lord, she does not deserve the pain you give, the blood you spill for us. She is not worthy.” The bound human pleaded through the leather mask. She writhed at his feet like a supplicant.

“She will pay my sweet Evangeline. She will pay and you will help me won’t you?”

“Oh yesssss….” She undulated her body beneath his. “My life is yours, I am all yours. Guide me, direct me, use me.”

“Slaneesh’s psykers sicken me.” Attaturk spat derisively on the floor. His spittle hissed and crackled as it touched the wraithbone floor.

Crixus sneered at the Sorcerer’s discomfort.

“You must learn to play with your food my dear sorcerer. Slaneesh is despised by our lord and he feeds us with its followers to play with.”

“The Blasphemer Prince was once her consort.” Attaturk reminded him.

“Hence, why he blasphemes against Slaneesh as he has.” Crixus chuckled. “But still Cassandra was too valuable to lose. She was once happy here, she wore my marks, she took her place at my feet, she was perfect for me.”

“Her being your lover has nothing to do with these feelings does it?” Attaturk asked pointedly.

Crixus frowned. He roughly batted away Evangeline’s groping hands. She moaned with pleasure.

“Our master does not care a whit about Cassandra. He wants the Crescent.” Attaturk added.

Crixus rose suddenly from bended knee and Evangeline moaned in frustration as he walked away from her.

“What the hell is so blasted important about the Crescent. It was nothing more than an heirloom hanging on your wall until it was taken by that thrice damned fool Malagaunt and his merry band….” Crixus smiled cruelly. “Or not so merry anymore.”

“The master will not say but when he was informed that Malagaunt was on his way to Tyrial he was most…displeased.”

“What is on Tyrial?” Crixus asked slyly, he walked over to the diminutive hump of a man and towered over him again. “I can tell you know, Attaturk. What will Malagaunt find there?”

Attaturk nodded as if convincing himself in an internal debate. He looked at his master and replied simply.

“I suspect that he will find the Caul Demonicus.”

Crixus said nothing for a moment. His eyes simply widened slowly and his mouth twisted into a horrible grimace.

“No.” he whispered.

“You see now why Tanis must stop him on Tyrial.” Attaturk added with a sage nod.

“The Caul Demonicus in human hands…” Crixus muttered as if in shock.

“One other thing is certain. If Malagaunt knows what he is after he is Abomination in the eyes of the Inquisition.” Attaturk added.

“If Malagaunt knows what he is after I am more concerned about what he will accomplish with it.” Crixus replied tightly. “The last human to vie for it tried to become a God.”

“Let us not speak of Horus at this hour.” Attaturk sighed.






The sky was dark and the swollen red sun was still hanging high over head. He moved stealthily along a wraithbone wall and he could feel them right behind him.

“Malagaunt.” She whispered a rough callused hand on his shoulder.

He turned suddenly and saw that her eyes were black and lifeless.

Malagaunt awoke with a start.

Damnit all. He could usually hold back the dreams with prayer and effort of will but here in the Warp the dreams came unbidden and more powerful than ever. A week into their transit to Tyrial they were starting to come on again, forcing sleep from him.

His room was silent and dark. Despite the coolness of the room he was naked and very much aware that he was being watched.

“In the name of the Emperor and his Golden Throne show yourself warp spawn.” He demanded holding his Inquisitorial rosette up before him.

“There is no need for your theatrics, sweet Malagaunt.” The voice was soft and sweet, almost embarrassed. Cassandra stepped into the light of the small night table lamp. She wore a see through silken gown. The lines of her body were supple and smooth. “I was merely watching you sleep my lord. I apologize deeply if I have upset you.” She knelt at the foot of his bed in supplication and her beautiful bright eyes, one bright blue the other milky white regarded him in adoration.

“No need to apologize, but why aren’t you in your room damnit. I could have killed you.” He protested.

She smiled as if amused at the ranting of a small child.

“Sweet Ezekiel, somehow I sincerely doubt you could harm me.” She cooed. "There is no need to let terror take hold."

"WHo says I feel terror?" Malagaunt challenged.

"Terror is in the Eye of the Beholder." she replied mysteriously.

Malagaunt regarded her warily. Here in the Warp it was not just the dreams that were more powerful. So were psykers. He knew how mighty she already was. He shuddered to think what she must be like now surrounded in the lifeblood of her might.

“Do not be afraid, valiant Inquisitor.” She whispered like a long lost lover. She slid in closer to him, the heat from her body stirred him. “I will let no harm come to you.” She vowed.

“Those were my words to you back on Scarabus.” He replied coolly. He refused to allow her to see the way she moved him.

“And you have been true to your word. So now I protect you.”

“From what?”

“Your dreams.” She replied simply. “Sleep now, Malagaunt, and I will keep the wolves at bay.”

“What do you see, when I sleep?” he asked curiously. He refused to see the milky breasts pressing against the silk screen of her gown. Her chocolate brown nipples were at attention swollen and erect.

“Do you really want to know?” she asked huskily and cocked her head invitingly.

“No games.”

“You are beautiful.” She admitted.

Malagaunt smirked.

“I have been told that too many times by many women.”

“No.” she replied tightly, her voice suddenly on edge as if she had been insulted. He tensed slightly but like all dangerous animals, he could not afford to let her see fear. He tried not to think about the bolter pistol under his pillow, instead he let instinct take one hand closer to it.

“I am not just some cow of a woman, mind blind, tied to a single state of being untouched by the Warp. I am a psyker, gifted beyond all knowing to see what others cannot and to peer past simple matters of the flesh.” She replied frostily and leaned in close. Her lips were inches from his. “When I look into your angelic face do you think I see a handsome man, high cheek bones and clear flesh with eyes like the sea on a cold winter’s day?” She looked him up and down and smiled warmly.

“I see compassion, faith, unrelenting will, child like devotion to a man who calls himself a god, and underneath the armor of cynicism and remorse I see a good man. A genuinely good man. I have never met one before you and so to me you are beautiful.”

“Your heresy regarding the God Emperor aside, I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“Do you find me beautiful?” she asked. Her eyes bore into his.

“I suppose you could just pluck it from my mind.” He offered with a cold smile.

“Silly boy.” She laughed. “You know you are Tabula Rasa. Your mind is closed to most psykers. You are not gifted with the touch but you cannot be touched.” She paused and winked. “Usually.”

“You know you are a beautiful woman.” He offered playfully.

“No, Malagaunt.” She snapped.

His hand closed around the bolter’s grip and he was instantly comforted.

“Look at ME, not this.” She ripped open the gown revealing her beautiful body in all its glory. “But me.” She whispered fervently like a prayer. “I want you to see me as I see you.”

“You are a psyker, you are a warp twisted mutant and you are servant of Chaos, worshipper of Slaneesh. Your soul is damned for all eternity because you refuse to accept the God Emperor as the one true god. That is what I see.” He replied icily. His eyes never left hers.

She nodded.

“Good. You are being honest with me. I can appreciate that. Let me be honest with you. I will tell you three things Malagaunt and you will know them to be true. They will happen before I leave this world because I have seen them as clearly as you have seen your dreams of Scarabus.”

“Fortune telling? I thought better of you Cassandra.” Malagaunt snorted.

“One, you will find the Caul.”

“That much I know.” He chuckled.

“A space marine will end your life.”

Malagaunt paused, eyes narrowing.

“And you will love me.” She finished simply.

“I think that’s enough.” He ordered darkly.

“Who is the sleeping man, Malagaunt?” she asked innocently.

“What?!”

“The sleeping man that seeps through your mind sometimes when you are not thinking about anything else. He looks like he is in a deep sleep like some long lost King but his brow is troubled.”

Malagaunt sat bolt up right and held the bolter to her forehead.

“One more word about that and I will kill you. Do you understand?” he snarled.

Cassandra smiled softly. She placed a warm hand on the barrel of the bolter and as gentle as rain she pushed it down.

“Sleep, my love. Sleep and I will watch over you.” She promised and flowed onto his bed like water over rocks and curled up at the head of the bed into a tight ball, knees up to her chin and she watched him like a mother over a child.

“Sleep.” She whispered and placed a soft hand against his forehead. Malagaunt did not know how he fell asleep so quickly and without struggle but he slept peacefully for the first time in many weeks. When he awoke the next day he was alone. But he could still smell her on his sheets.

[Kuja]

Stravo, excellent, excellent, excellent. My one point:

The librarian appeared quickly as if melting out of the shadows themselves.

World Eaters have no librarians. They assassinated the last of them at the beginning of the Heresy and haven't had any since because Khorne hates sorcerors (and thus his rivalry with Tzeentch).

[Stravo]

Stravo, excellent, excellent, excellent. My one point:

The librarian appeared quickly as if melting out of the shadows themselves.

World Eaters have no librarians. They assassinated the last of them at the beginning of the Heresy and haven't had any since because Khorne hates sorcerors (and thus his rivalry with Tzeentch).

Damn, I really need a sorcerer in this story. I'm sure you fine gentlemen would be willing to say this is a sort of heretical bunch of Chaos marines and let that little detail slip by...right?

[Kuja]

Damn, I really need a sorcerer in this story. I'm sure you fine gentlemen would be willing to say this is a sort of heretical bunch of Chaos marines and let that little detail slip by...right?

Idea on the way via pm.

[Stravo]

Damn, I really need a sorcerer in this story. I'm sure you fine gentlemen would be willing to say this is a sort of heretical bunch of Chaos marines and let that little detail slip by...right?

Idea on the way via pm.

Idea accepted and thou shalt be credited in the new chapter.

[Chris OFarrell]

Out fraken standing as always. Malagaunt seriously has big brass ones to sneak onto a world, not like the Eldar in full stealth to raid for soul stones (which is more then dangerous enough afterall) but to sneak into a Chaos Lords base, steal his stuff and get away again...

[Vehrec]

That doesn't just take Big Brass ones, it takes mad skill. If I were to compare this to a sporting event, I would compare it to Maradona's 'Hand of God' and 'Greatest Goal' both scored in the same game of the 1986 World's Cup. One was the purest expression of skill the game had possibly ever seen. The other was just shear ballsieness and luck. You would need both to pull this off, and you would probably be out of luck by the time you were done.

[Captain Cyran]

World Eaters will deal with Sorcerors when they must. For example, to get his hands on Malagaunt. But I'm sure Kuja came up with a better idea. I thought you dealt with the Immaterium very well and it certainly seems fucked up enough with the people coming back to life only to be killed again. Malagaunt definately has extraordinary luck and skill and steel balls to even THINK about doing what he did. And you definately enjoy throwing in the all knowing, cryptic servant characters who get a strong connection to the main character don't you? Not that that's a bad thing.

[Shroom Man 777]

And the bit with Cassandra was rather...hot too

[Stravo]

And the bit with Cassandra was rather...hot too

I would expect nothing less from a devotee of Slaneesh who happens to be in love.

A quick question on the new chapter I'm working on. What is the Imperial Guard's airforce doctrine? Do they fight as combined arms with the fighters providing aircover and interdiction or do the guard fight seperately from the fighters. Hard to tell with the gaming fluff as airpower is virtually nonexistent in the game rules.

[White Haven]

That man wears a cup for the express purpose of supporting his solid neutronium testicles. Awesome work, yet again...could use a spare helping of commas, but that's just draft stuff, won't affect the core Awesome.

[Grand Admiral Ancaris]

A quick question on the new chapter I'm working on. What is the Imperial Guard's airforce doctrine? Do they fight as combined arms with the fighters providing aircover and interdiction or do the guard fight seperately from the fighters. Hard to tell with the gaming fluff as airpower is virtually nonexistent in the game rules.

I thought I had sent you a PM on the info for the IG air units... Did you not get it?

[Brother-Captain Gaius]

A quick question on the new chapter I'm working on. What is the Imperial Guard's airforce doctrine? Do they fight as combined arms with the fighters providing aircover and interdiction or do the guard fight seperately from the fighters. Hard to tell with the gaming fluff as airpower is virtually nonexistent in the game rules.

Most fighters are Navy, and may be brought in for support on big missions and the like. But there is precedent for Guard air units (Phantine Air Corps, Elysian Drop Troops), although they are very specialized. Some units (such as the Elysians) likely have Valkyries and related aircraft indigenous to their unit, although I'm not sure how widespread that practice is.

The Cadians are big and bad enough in the galactic scheme of things to requisition most anything they need, so you have a lot of leeway. Less prestigous units probably would not be able to rely on combined arms support.

[Stravo]

A quick question on the new chapter I'm working on. What is the Imperial Guard's airforce doctrine? Do they fight as combined arms with the fighters providing aircover and interdiction or do the guard fight seperately from the fighters. Hard to tell with the gaming fluff as airpower is virtually nonexistent in the game rules.

I thought I had sent you a PM on the info for the IG air units... Did you not get it?

I did. In fact your PM's have been the foundation for the upcoming chapters' battles. I just like to get a broad sounding from the fan base so I make sure I'm handling things correctly plus people sometimes throw me examples that I tend to work into the stories.

[Kuja]

Gaius pretty much nailed it. And if you ever want a gorgeous example of the Imperial fighter corps in action, read Double Eagle by Dan Abnett. WWII-esque fighter-bomber action from beginning to end.

[Stravo]

Not an update, I'm sorry - though one is coming very soon, I had a few questions that needed some answers for future stuff.

Are there strongholds of Chaos outside the Eye of Terror in the galaxy? For instance sectors in the Imperium where Chaos has some foot holds in terms of holding systems or maybe a sector?

And

If Space Marine companies meet each other unexpectantly what can you deduce could happen? Are Space Marines generally OK with each other or are there rivalries? Can even violence occur between companies if say the Ultramarines stumble across some Space Wolves on the hunt?

[That NOS Guy]

Are there strongholds of Chaos outside the Eye of Terror in the galaxy? For instance sectors in the Imperium where Chaos has some foot holds in terms of holding systems or maybe a sector?

There's areas like the Maelstrom (a minor warp storm) where a rogue SM chapter (the red corsairs, formally Astral Claws) like to operate out of. Other then that I can't think of a lot of permanent things. Chaos likes to take over the odd world, then the Imperium usually gets around to reclaiming it.

Sometimes the world holds on (Mordia, Tallern, Armageddon) usually it doesn't.

If Space Marine companies meet each other unexpectantly what can you deduce could happen? Are Space Marines generally OK with each other or are there rivalries? Can even violence occur between companies if say the Ultramarines stumble across some Space Wolves on the hunt?

Most of the more famous chapters have some friction, but it's never spilled into outright bloodshed. Chapters like the Marines Manevolent and the Salamanders just don't get along for outlook reasons, and almost had a fight until cooler heads prevailed.

While the smurfs would certaintly hold the pups in contempt, and vice versa I don't imagine a fight occuring as a result.