MaybeStephen and LarryOrGarry finally moved the stone sarcophagus into the chamber with Lord Inaros. The stone coffin was far more intricate and detailed then those of the crypts... The style and design completely different. It was of a different world, pillaged from a long forgotten tomb.
The reason why was clear, at least for those familiar with such things. The stone box seemed to radiate out a sense of darkness. For those gifted with the abilities, and trained to understand, a aura could be seen within it.
The two cultists were late. Incredibly so. While others might have made them suffer for it, used them as an example, Inaros barely seemed aware they had arrived.
The two cultists looked at each other, then began silently gesturing back and forth. The wordless conversation seemed to be about which of them would break the silence of the room to announce their presence, and the arrival of the sarcophagus.
Inaros spoke without turning to face them. "Bring it here." He pointed to the floor beside him. The two of them looked at each other once more, then guided their delivery to its designated location. The deactivated the lift, and the sarcophagus sank down to rest on the floor.
"Go back to the ship. We will be leaving soon... Ready the last artifacts for transport... You know the rules for handling them. Wait outside the ship with them by the time I arrive." He waved his hand up dismissing them.
Once he had felt the presences of the two depart, he shifted to look at the sarcophagus. His gauntleted hand grabbed the top edge and lifted, ripping open the ancient seal, and sending the stone kid crashing to the floor several feet away.
Now open, the contents were visible. A lone mummified figure. A costly and elaborate death ceremony, that indicated royalty. A lone necklace of gold and precious gems served as the only decoration. It was the centerpiece of the necklace that seemed to draw his attention. A perfectly cut oval sapphire, easily 20 karats.
He brought his hand down, letting it hover above the stone. Then slowly it shifted, his palm centering over a smaller and less impressive stone. He let his mind free, probing it gently. He could feel the consciousness of the being within beginning to stir from its hibernation. How long it was locked away, hidden and forgotten would be hard to guess, and of little importance. No. The thing of consequence was what the being was. A servant of the great deceiver. A being that had used lies and manipulation to corrupt an empire.
It's voice was soft. The words mere whispers in his mind.
...you have hunted me... Provoked me... Why...?
"You have been lost for years. Buried, but not dead. The empire you built, destroyed, and rebuilt crumbled to dust completely long ago. You have been forgotten. I come to offer you escape of your tiny prison."
...you ask me to trade one for another... Why would I...?
"I offer you a new empire of the grandest scale. Our enemies evolve, and so too must out tactics."
...but you tell me not why I must...
"I do not need to convince you. You and I share the same master. You are an agent of change and deception. You cannot crawl back to the shadows of familiarity. You cannot reman stagnant in you little prison. It is not in your nature. "
...you presume too much... But tell me of what you need...
"I will release you when the heart of this the world is open and vulnerable. All you have to do is enter. You shall be the soul of the planet... And the imperium of man will embrace you with open arms. They will rip the planet apart for resources... It would be a shame to deny them."
Inaros pulled his hand back, then resumed waiting.
The reason why was clear, at least for those familiar with such things. The stone box seemed to radiate out a sense of darkness. For those gifted with the abilities, and trained to understand, a aura could be seen within it.
The two cultists were late. Incredibly so. While others might have made them suffer for it, used them as an example, Inaros barely seemed aware they had arrived.
The two cultists looked at each other, then began silently gesturing back and forth. The wordless conversation seemed to be about which of them would break the silence of the room to announce their presence, and the arrival of the sarcophagus.
Inaros spoke without turning to face them. "Bring it here." He pointed to the floor beside him. The two of them looked at each other once more, then guided their delivery to its designated location. The deactivated the lift, and the sarcophagus sank down to rest on the floor.
"Go back to the ship. We will be leaving soon... Ready the last artifacts for transport... You know the rules for handling them. Wait outside the ship with them by the time I arrive." He waved his hand up dismissing them.
Once he had felt the presences of the two depart, he shifted to look at the sarcophagus. His gauntleted hand grabbed the top edge and lifted, ripping open the ancient seal, and sending the stone kid crashing to the floor several feet away.
Now open, the contents were visible. A lone mummified figure. A costly and elaborate death ceremony, that indicated royalty. A lone necklace of gold and precious gems served as the only decoration. It was the centerpiece of the necklace that seemed to draw his attention. A perfectly cut oval sapphire, easily 20 karats.
He brought his hand down, letting it hover above the stone. Then slowly it shifted, his palm centering over a smaller and less impressive stone. He let his mind free, probing it gently. He could feel the consciousness of the being within beginning to stir from its hibernation. How long it was locked away, hidden and forgotten would be hard to guess, and of little importance. No. The thing of consequence was what the being was. A servant of the great deceiver. A being that had used lies and manipulation to corrupt an empire.
It's voice was soft. The words mere whispers in his mind.
...you have hunted me... Provoked me... Why...?
"You have been lost for years. Buried, but not dead. The empire you built, destroyed, and rebuilt crumbled to dust completely long ago. You have been forgotten. I come to offer you escape of your tiny prison."
...you ask me to trade one for another... Why would I...?
"I offer you a new empire of the grandest scale. Our enemies evolve, and so too must out tactics."
...but you tell me not why I must...
"I do not need to convince you. You and I share the same master. You are an agent of change and deception. You cannot crawl back to the shadows of familiarity. You cannot reman stagnant in you little prison. It is not in your nature. "
...you presume too much... But tell me of what you need...
"I will release you when the heart of this the world is open and vulnerable. All you have to do is enter. You shall be the soul of the planet... And the imperium of man will embrace you with open arms. They will rip the planet apart for resources... It would be a shame to deny them."
Inaros pulled his hand back, then resumed waiting.
(Doros' turn is going to be skipped as I have writer's block for what he should do next. However, Cicero is going to be pushed forward.)
"My lord Cicero! Someone has hijacked control of the Tartaros!" A raspy, decrepit voice gargled over the vox. The unrelenting tide of rain had made surveying the pagoda castle a difficult task. So the Chaos Champion had scoured Sipang in the air, below the dark clouds but above Imperial sight; his aircraft blissfully swam through the rain like a moving metal waterfall. Yet, in spite of the serenity this tranquil scene brung, Cicero was infuriated, almost crushing the vox receiver in his power-armour clad hand. "You what!?" The bewildered Champion shouted over the vox, his calm and intellectual air had seemingly vanished in his hot fury, even making the heads of his marine pilots rear toward him in curiosity. "Is this a joke!? Explain to me what happened immediately! Have you allowed the Imperials to storm the ship!?" He questioned demandingly.
"N-no Lord!" The ruined voice submitted. "Mutiny!" It yelled miserably. "Mutiny aboard the ship! Followers of Khorne have murdered the Hereteks; they are killing all on board the ship that refuse to reconsider their allegiance." Loud footsteps stomped across Tartaros' metal grating over the vox. "T-the ship has already taken flight... Please Champion, save us... We're closing near castle Sipa-!" The crude sound of a nasty chop stung Cicero's ears, accompanied by the death cry of the wretched voice on the other side of the vox, almost whimpering like an infant before one last woeful chop was heard, ending the whining completely, save the disgusting squelch of blood flowing from the exposed arteries of a decapitated head. A quiet thud beat over the vox. All was dreadfully quiet for at least a minute before the transmitter was being roughly handled once more.
"We serve Porthos now, Puppet Champion." The voice of a snarling astartes declared. "When the walls of Sipang are smothered in Daemonic fire; the fields of Triandr soaked in blood. Only then, will we earn the favour of Khorne. You however, and your pitiful followers will die here, our lord's cattle, the lambs to the slaughter. Porthos, Champion of Khorne and new leader of Rebirth thanks you, my former lord. For it is without you that he would never have heard the voice of Khorne, the vision... of his glory...-" The vox buzzed, abruptly cutting off as the Champion listened in, livid beyond belief at his lieutenant's betrayal. Cicero gritted his teeth to soothe his anger somewhat "The both of you!" He barked at his pilots. "Change of plan. Forget the Emperor's rats, we must retake Tartaros before Porthos and his lapdogs end up ruining this entire mission." The two Chaos marines nodded in kind before turning their heads and swerving the aircraft back to the direction of Cicero's forward base... before immediately catching a rain drenched Tartaros looming above Sipang.
The vox had reactivated itself as the Champion's aircraft surveyed the hijacked battleship. "My Lord! Forgive my sudden warning, but it's a bit premature to attack, don't you think." Hermes cautioned, "We've lost contact with that Slaneeshi witch, and I've barely even begun the infiltration plans! Please reconsi-!" As Hermes had tried to rationalize Tartaros' sudden attack, he was woefully shouted down by the Champion. "Enough! You would think from my experience, cultist, that I would not know better?" He questioned, audibly irritated "I have not commissioned this attack you fool, Porthos has taken control of Tartaros and has severed communications between us and the battleship. There was no word of this betrayal from the forward base, I do not doubt that our warband has crumbled!" The Tzeentchi cultist yelled miserably over the vox: "My lord, the Changer of Ways has gloriously duped us yet again! What are we to do, Champion?"
"What I want YOU to do?" The Champion hissed, furious as Tartaros had suddenly begun it's attack, bombarding the castle of Sipang with a Daemonic inferno. The titanic parasite's moans made the Earth shake as flames spewed from it's pink, vein-ridden tentacles. "What I demand of you, is that you take your craft and race with great speed to our forward base. Find the survivors of this sudden mutiny and have them mobilize. Should any question your mission, you have the blessing of Cicero. Now go! With haste!" Hermes spoke no reply knowing the terrible urgency of this mission before cutting off his connection.
"My lord" One of the Marine pilots spoke with a grim voice of warning as the ship flew circles around Tartaros; the Daemon's bloodcurdling moans made the aircraft vibrate violently. "The battleship is too close to the castle's defences, any landing will be too hot. Boarding Tartaros is near impossible right now, lest we be blasted to bits in the sky." The Champion scanned with his precise eyes the chaos below, before noticing a dim, yet terribly distinct beam of light. "To Hell with the dangers..." Cicero argued, the coldness of his voice returning somewhat, albiet mostly from indecision rather than calming down. "...Something is very wrong here. I dread to think what the Imperials have planned." He bit his lip from under his closed orange helmet, but was interrupted from his aching thoughts once more.
"Champion! Look at this!" The three of them gawked at the brightening light down below. A nervous moment of silence crept over them as the dazzling spot seemed to rise like a celestial beam: "...By the Gods..." The co-pilot whispered. The terrible strobe of blinding light piereced through Cicero's prize ship with shocking precision. The battleship exploded into two halves surrounded in a ball of Chaos flames. The Parasetic Daemon let out an insanity-inducing scream of horror as gravity pulled it's host down to the earth, crashing down alongside the upper half of the battleship, which had been squashed under the Daemon's huge body, instantly killing all within that half of Tartaros. The explosion after the Tartaros' crash boomed like thunder; the fields became a ring of fire, fueled by Daemonic energies and battleship oil.
The Champion was now utterly enraged, the nerves of his brain winced in stress. The coldness of his voice had left once more, abrasive as ever. "We must descend upon the ruins. There are prizes within those halls far too important to simply abandon." He said, the Farseer's spirit stone coming to mind. "Should you find any survivors of this crash, kill them! No survivors for this act of mutiny. Bring the head of Porthos to my feet. I shall not rest until I know for sure the craven is dead." The ship descended like a metallic vulture upon Tartaros' dismembered alloy carcass. There was little time that Cicero wasted, almost throwing the aircraft's door open like it was thin paper. Now was not the time for any battle, for his ascension to Daemonhood could not be completed without the use of the Eldar soul.
"My lord Cicero! Someone has hijacked control of the Tartaros!" A raspy, decrepit voice gargled over the vox. The unrelenting tide of rain had made surveying the pagoda castle a difficult task. So the Chaos Champion had scoured Sipang in the air, below the dark clouds but above Imperial sight; his aircraft blissfully swam through the rain like a moving metal waterfall. Yet, in spite of the serenity this tranquil scene brung, Cicero was infuriated, almost crushing the vox receiver in his power-armour clad hand. "You what!?" The bewildered Champion shouted over the vox, his calm and intellectual air had seemingly vanished in his hot fury, even making the heads of his marine pilots rear toward him in curiosity. "Is this a joke!? Explain to me what happened immediately! Have you allowed the Imperials to storm the ship!?" He questioned demandingly.
"N-no Lord!" The ruined voice submitted. "Mutiny!" It yelled miserably. "Mutiny aboard the ship! Followers of Khorne have murdered the Hereteks; they are killing all on board the ship that refuse to reconsider their allegiance." Loud footsteps stomped across Tartaros' metal grating over the vox. "T-the ship has already taken flight... Please Champion, save us... We're closing near castle Sipa-!" The crude sound of a nasty chop stung Cicero's ears, accompanied by the death cry of the wretched voice on the other side of the vox, almost whimpering like an infant before one last woeful chop was heard, ending the whining completely, save the disgusting squelch of blood flowing from the exposed arteries of a decapitated head. A quiet thud beat over the vox. All was dreadfully quiet for at least a minute before the transmitter was being roughly handled once more.
"We serve Porthos now, Puppet Champion." The voice of a snarling astartes declared. "When the walls of Sipang are smothered in Daemonic fire; the fields of Triandr soaked in blood. Only then, will we earn the favour of Khorne. You however, and your pitiful followers will die here, our lord's cattle, the lambs to the slaughter. Porthos, Champion of Khorne and new leader of Rebirth thanks you, my former lord. For it is without you that he would never have heard the voice of Khorne, the vision... of his glory...-" The vox buzzed, abruptly cutting off as the Champion listened in, livid beyond belief at his lieutenant's betrayal. Cicero gritted his teeth to soothe his anger somewhat "The both of you!" He barked at his pilots. "Change of plan. Forget the Emperor's rats, we must retake Tartaros before Porthos and his lapdogs end up ruining this entire mission." The two Chaos marines nodded in kind before turning their heads and swerving the aircraft back to the direction of Cicero's forward base... before immediately catching a rain drenched Tartaros looming above Sipang.
The vox had reactivated itself as the Champion's aircraft surveyed the hijacked battleship. "My Lord! Forgive my sudden warning, but it's a bit premature to attack, don't you think." Hermes cautioned, "We've lost contact with that Slaneeshi witch, and I've barely even begun the infiltration plans! Please reconsi-!" As Hermes had tried to rationalize Tartaros' sudden attack, he was woefully shouted down by the Champion. "Enough! You would think from my experience, cultist, that I would not know better?" He questioned, audibly irritated "I have not commissioned this attack you fool, Porthos has taken control of Tartaros and has severed communications between us and the battleship. There was no word of this betrayal from the forward base, I do not doubt that our warband has crumbled!" The Tzeentchi cultist yelled miserably over the vox: "My lord, the Changer of Ways has gloriously duped us yet again! What are we to do, Champion?"
"What I want YOU to do?" The Champion hissed, furious as Tartaros had suddenly begun it's attack, bombarding the castle of Sipang with a Daemonic inferno. The titanic parasite's moans made the Earth shake as flames spewed from it's pink, vein-ridden tentacles. "What I demand of you, is that you take your craft and race with great speed to our forward base. Find the survivors of this sudden mutiny and have them mobilize. Should any question your mission, you have the blessing of Cicero. Now go! With haste!" Hermes spoke no reply knowing the terrible urgency of this mission before cutting off his connection.
"My lord" One of the Marine pilots spoke with a grim voice of warning as the ship flew circles around Tartaros; the Daemon's bloodcurdling moans made the aircraft vibrate violently. "The battleship is too close to the castle's defences, any landing will be too hot. Boarding Tartaros is near impossible right now, lest we be blasted to bits in the sky." The Champion scanned with his precise eyes the chaos below, before noticing a dim, yet terribly distinct beam of light. "To Hell with the dangers..." Cicero argued, the coldness of his voice returning somewhat, albiet mostly from indecision rather than calming down. "...Something is very wrong here. I dread to think what the Imperials have planned." He bit his lip from under his closed orange helmet, but was interrupted from his aching thoughts once more.
"Champion! Look at this!" The three of them gawked at the brightening light down below. A nervous moment of silence crept over them as the dazzling spot seemed to rise like a celestial beam: "...By the Gods..." The co-pilot whispered. The terrible strobe of blinding light piereced through Cicero's prize ship with shocking precision. The battleship exploded into two halves surrounded in a ball of Chaos flames. The Parasetic Daemon let out an insanity-inducing scream of horror as gravity pulled it's host down to the earth, crashing down alongside the upper half of the battleship, which had been squashed under the Daemon's huge body, instantly killing all within that half of Tartaros. The explosion after the Tartaros' crash boomed like thunder; the fields became a ring of fire, fueled by Daemonic energies and battleship oil.
The Champion was now utterly enraged, the nerves of his brain winced in stress. The coldness of his voice had left once more, abrasive as ever. "We must descend upon the ruins. There are prizes within those halls far too important to simply abandon." He said, the Farseer's spirit stone coming to mind. "Should you find any survivors of this crash, kill them! No survivors for this act of mutiny. Bring the head of Porthos to my feet. I shall not rest until I know for sure the craven is dead." The ship descended like a metallic vulture upon Tartaros' dismembered alloy carcass. There was little time that Cicero wasted, almost throwing the aircraft's door open like it was thin paper. Now was not the time for any battle, for his ascension to Daemonhood could not be completed without the use of the Eldar soul.
The cursed inquisitor cursed from the bombardment that echoed around the world. It shivered her bones as the planet shook from the damned bombard that ravaged the world. She looked up and saw the Tartoros and watched its last glorious moments. She smirked as it attacked before even the scouting had been completed. She took off her hat and watched as the rain pelted her platinum colored hair, Then she smiled. "Poor wretched fools," she smirked as she watched from the forest. Then the noise of thousands of gallons of water being disintegrated at once could be heard through the air as the beam of the embodied wrath of that wretched corpse streamed through the air and into the beast of a warship. The next thing that hit was the sound, the glorious sound that almost made the inquisitor quiver and fall to her knees on the spot. But then... next came the howl of the beast. The power of the horror's psychic scream made her fall onto the ground and grip her head as she felt her mind being torn to shreds by it, her body shaking as she let out her own deafening scream as her men looked on her with a mix worry and possible opportunity. One of the men, a young but foolishly ambitious noise marine raised his sonic blaster towards the crippled inquisitor. Then she let out a wicked laugh as her screaming slowly stopped. Then her eyes flickered with pure and evil intent as with a wet pop and squelch, he was split in two, much like a man stuffed with a Krak grenade, painting her fellows with his blood. Then she rubbed the blood into her supple chest flesh and clothing as she let out a brief and unintentional quiver of pleasure. "YES!, the glorious ship has fallen from the heavens like a beautiful star to give its bounty unto our lord.... let us search for all that it pleases him, find the power that dwells within it," she shouted to the sky, smiling. Then she slowly picked her hat up from the mud and slapped it onto her leg and began to walk. Her large escort only following her.
It did not take her long to move to the Crash. She smiled as she walked into the crater of the intact half of the ship and reached for her swords as she investigated the area. It looked like a warzone and there were no traitors on the outside seemingly read for a fight. The smell was almost intoxicating, fire and brimstone is such a lovely smell. slowly, she stood there as she pulled the power of the warp from the area around her, the pain and agony fueling her mind to some degree... and also she drew from the dying beast, using its power to draw her own servants from the warp. Her men stood back as they brought over the cultists and began their rituals...which would leave the poor men and women drained and injured, but not dead.
The first of the Noise marines pushed the cultist champion down onto his knees and then tore open his armor and sliced the Emblem of their lord into his chest. He begged for more and thanked the Inquisitor and the noise marine in turn as she ignored him. Then, with the beasts last gasp, Varus' eyes opened as she tore open a portal to the warp in the realm of her master where some quite abhorrent things came through. First was a horde of the Daemonettes, beautiful beings numbered maybe of 50, their hermaphroditic bodies were lithe and reinforced, scales as hard as steel in spots were they were needed. Their tentcle like purple hair writhed in the rain and their crab like claws or armor destroying talons were cleaned and ready for the amazing feeling of blood once more.
The next to break the warp were 22 Fiends of Slaanesh, the beasts were armed with spears and their bodies, a deep purple that were an odd bipedal mix of a scorpion and a aardvark, stood towering above the inquisitor and her noise marines.
The last to come out were the 15 Seekers of Slaanesh and one Chariot with an open spot stopping next to the inquisitor. Her smile, her girlish grin was covered in pure excitement, her lord favored her this day. As she thought this, she looked up as a Large ship landed suddenly in a nearby clearing, it barely maintained and able to fly. Her eyes widened as she already smelled the stench of disease and rot. "Plague Bearers...,"
It did not take her long to move to the Crash. She smiled as she walked into the crater of the intact half of the ship and reached for her swords as she investigated the area. It looked like a warzone and there were no traitors on the outside seemingly read for a fight. The smell was almost intoxicating, fire and brimstone is such a lovely smell. slowly, she stood there as she pulled the power of the warp from the area around her, the pain and agony fueling her mind to some degree... and also she drew from the dying beast, using its power to draw her own servants from the warp. Her men stood back as they brought over the cultists and began their rituals...which would leave the poor men and women drained and injured, but not dead.
The first of the Noise marines pushed the cultist champion down onto his knees and then tore open his armor and sliced the Emblem of their lord into his chest. He begged for more and thanked the Inquisitor and the noise marine in turn as she ignored him. Then, with the beasts last gasp, Varus' eyes opened as she tore open a portal to the warp in the realm of her master where some quite abhorrent things came through. First was a horde of the Daemonettes, beautiful beings numbered maybe of 50, their hermaphroditic bodies were lithe and reinforced, scales as hard as steel in spots were they were needed. Their tentcle like purple hair writhed in the rain and their crab like claws or armor destroying talons were cleaned and ready for the amazing feeling of blood once more.
The next to break the warp were 22 Fiends of Slaanesh, the beasts were armed with spears and their bodies, a deep purple that were an odd bipedal mix of a scorpion and a aardvark, stood towering above the inquisitor and her noise marines.
The last to come out were the 15 Seekers of Slaanesh and one Chariot with an open spot stopping next to the inquisitor. Her smile, her girlish grin was covered in pure excitement, her lord favored her this day. As she thought this, she looked up as a Large ship landed suddenly in a nearby clearing, it barely maintained and able to fly. Her eyes widened as she already smelled the stench of disease and rot. "Plague Bearers...,"
The destruction of the ship was spectacular in its own way. The maddening death cry and explosive impact minor compared to the explosive force it had within the warp, sending ripples out through the great ocean that could echo for eternity, or dissipate instantly. Time and physics had little meaning in the realm outside reality.
It was to this phantasmic sight that Inaros turned to face. Though his physical body turned toward solid stone, is psychic self saw beyond, and for everything the Slaanesh witch experienced in the material world, it was but a fraction of the beauty and horror that awaited beyond.
For all of this, Inaros saw none of it. Instead he looked upon it with clinical precision and understanding. The explosion, the rips caused by the Witch's summoning... Where others might see chaos, he saw the intricate weave of his Lord... The start of the inevitable loss the warband would suffer.
With the tears into reality so near, he could feel the raw seething rage of the world demon. It's attempt to push through the binds of its prison. The magic of the ward stone strained, but held.
"RELEASE ME!"
"No. This is not for you... The time approaches... But not yet." His calm voice, and denial simply served to stroke the flames of anger higher.
Within the catacombs, the cultists were shielded from the dying ships cries, mostly due to the distance. The rocks and earth stifled the rest. The crypt itself protected from any direct warp effects to the living within. At the same time, the the psychic residue of the dead, the cause of this minor protection, was responsible for the weakened state of the barriers between the warp and the material world. With the sudden warp storm caused by the ships death, the great ocean began to bleed over.
The first was the rigged corpse, left behind by the kill team. With a guttural, terrifying shriek, It came to life as a predator of the warp fed into it. It ended just as abruptly as the primed grenade fell from its hands, blowing the corpse apart, the entity back into the great ocean, and collapsing the tunnel in one glorious explosion.
The other corpses began to animate, but only those still whole, the veil still too intact, the creatures of the great ocean to weak, to facilitate reforming bodies. Cries and shrieks echoed out of the darkness behind and around the kill team. The sounds of The Nobles, Knights, and Kings that had a penchant for slaughter calling for blood once more... And the demands of vengeance, and retributions from the victims within the mass graves still ahead.
Cassandra sat calm, the screams muffled only slightly by the bones piled beyond the entrance, as the other cultists staring at her for guidance. She slowly lifted a finger to her mouth, indicating silence, then mouthed the words "He will protect us." She then pointed to each, and then the door. The cultists each nodded, then readied their rifles.
In truth she was concerned, as there had been no visions to cover this... But perhaps that was the challenge for her? To overcome... What ever this was?
It was to this phantasmic sight that Inaros turned to face. Though his physical body turned toward solid stone, is psychic self saw beyond, and for everything the Slaanesh witch experienced in the material world, it was but a fraction of the beauty and horror that awaited beyond.
For all of this, Inaros saw none of it. Instead he looked upon it with clinical precision and understanding. The explosion, the rips caused by the Witch's summoning... Where others might see chaos, he saw the intricate weave of his Lord... The start of the inevitable loss the warband would suffer.
With the tears into reality so near, he could feel the raw seething rage of the world demon. It's attempt to push through the binds of its prison. The magic of the ward stone strained, but held.
"RELEASE ME!"
"No. This is not for you... The time approaches... But not yet." His calm voice, and denial simply served to stroke the flames of anger higher.
Within the catacombs, the cultists were shielded from the dying ships cries, mostly due to the distance. The rocks and earth stifled the rest. The crypt itself protected from any direct warp effects to the living within. At the same time, the the psychic residue of the dead, the cause of this minor protection, was responsible for the weakened state of the barriers between the warp and the material world. With the sudden warp storm caused by the ships death, the great ocean began to bleed over.
The first was the rigged corpse, left behind by the kill team. With a guttural, terrifying shriek, It came to life as a predator of the warp fed into it. It ended just as abruptly as the primed grenade fell from its hands, blowing the corpse apart, the entity back into the great ocean, and collapsing the tunnel in one glorious explosion.
The other corpses began to animate, but only those still whole, the veil still too intact, the creatures of the great ocean to weak, to facilitate reforming bodies. Cries and shrieks echoed out of the darkness behind and around the kill team. The sounds of The Nobles, Knights, and Kings that had a penchant for slaughter calling for blood once more... And the demands of vengeance, and retributions from the victims within the mass graves still ahead.
Cassandra sat calm, the screams muffled only slightly by the bones piled beyond the entrance, as the other cultists staring at her for guidance. She slowly lifted a finger to her mouth, indicating silence, then mouthed the words "He will protect us." She then pointed to each, and then the door. The cultists each nodded, then readied their rifles.
In truth she was concerned, as there had been no visions to cover this... But perhaps that was the challenge for her? To overcome... What ever this was?
The psycic scream made the underground catacombs rumble as though a small earthquake had just occured. The Veteran Sergeant heard the spilling of the many hundreds of bones that had laid in the various rooms of woeful death behind. This sudden act of nature was very abrupt, for Triandr had been merciful up till now. "An Earthquake? At this time!?" Doros asked himself, though his words could be heard by the rest of the Kill Team. "This does not bode well, something must have caused this force of nature from the outside."
The Astartes turned back to his comrades. The Salamanders, though completely fearless were just as nervous about the earthquake as Doros was. Suddenly, the quake stopped. No aftershock, no cave-in. Everything that had not been spilled almost seemed far too undamaged. Everything was silent for a moment, until a quiet, muffled, yet audibly morbid scream broke the silence. The Veteran Sergeant turned back toward the front, far more eager to move onward into the depths. "Well, I assume that is our cue to double-time the mission." Doros announced. He was unbroken in spirit, yet somewhat unnerved by what creature that could've possibly made such an atrocious noise. "We must continue on, but our pace must be speedy and without pause. We must destroy whatever evil lay within these halls before it can be exploited by the Heretics!"
They moved onwards as Doros commanded, though their walking pace had become much quicker, even as the wails of the dead toyed with their sanity. There could be no respite, no rest until the black stain upon this planet was destroyed! The quickened pace had began to make the Kill Team careless however, as they now ignored the disheartening and inglorious displays of noble massacre within the heart of where both catacombs intersected. Their carelessness would betray them, as they finally descended upon the second trap laid out before them.
-Saim-Hann POV-
"...Mon'Keigh..?" The Eldar Ranger whispered to himself as he catered to the suffering guardian, who lay weeping in shock from that terrible skirmish. He was certainly not prepared for the battle that lay ahead, probably because the Saim-Hann never intended to stay on this wild planet anyway. This whole journey was merely an assassination mission that had clearly gone wrong. The formerly unconscious Seer finally began to wince and move, as though he was still stuck within his waking nightmare. The pattering of rain did nothing to wake the masked leader, currently being helped to sit up by the kindly Aspect Warrior: the Striking Scorpion.
"Forgive our objection, Farseer." The Scorpion interrupted. "It is against our honour, and quite frankly, our common sense to ignore your foresight and your aid, but Craftworld Saim-Hann did not come here to fight any battle." The Aspect Warrior explained, helping the groggy and clueless Seer back to his feet. "We came here to retake the spirit stone of our own Farseer, who had been slain in battle, his body and weapons looted by a powerful Chaos Champion. As such, we are undermanned, and the Craftworld expects us to have the Spirit stone in hand on arrival..." The Scorpion turned his head back shamefully, as though he had commited a terrible deed. "It would seem that the Craftworld has wrongly estimated the power of this warband." He whined. "Until the Spirit stone is returned, we can aid no one. Even now, such a mission has been made near impossible."
The Astartes turned back to his comrades. The Salamanders, though completely fearless were just as nervous about the earthquake as Doros was. Suddenly, the quake stopped. No aftershock, no cave-in. Everything that had not been spilled almost seemed far too undamaged. Everything was silent for a moment, until a quiet, muffled, yet audibly morbid scream broke the silence. The Veteran Sergeant turned back toward the front, far more eager to move onward into the depths. "Well, I assume that is our cue to double-time the mission." Doros announced. He was unbroken in spirit, yet somewhat unnerved by what creature that could've possibly made such an atrocious noise. "We must continue on, but our pace must be speedy and without pause. We must destroy whatever evil lay within these halls before it can be exploited by the Heretics!"
They moved onwards as Doros commanded, though their walking pace had become much quicker, even as the wails of the dead toyed with their sanity. There could be no respite, no rest until the black stain upon this planet was destroyed! The quickened pace had began to make the Kill Team careless however, as they now ignored the disheartening and inglorious displays of noble massacre within the heart of where both catacombs intersected. Their carelessness would betray them, as they finally descended upon the second trap laid out before them.
-Saim-Hann POV-
"...Mon'Keigh..?" The Eldar Ranger whispered to himself as he catered to the suffering guardian, who lay weeping in shock from that terrible skirmish. He was certainly not prepared for the battle that lay ahead, probably because the Saim-Hann never intended to stay on this wild planet anyway. This whole journey was merely an assassination mission that had clearly gone wrong. The formerly unconscious Seer finally began to wince and move, as though he was still stuck within his waking nightmare. The pattering of rain did nothing to wake the masked leader, currently being helped to sit up by the kindly Aspect Warrior: the Striking Scorpion.
"Forgive our objection, Farseer." The Scorpion interrupted. "It is against our honour, and quite frankly, our common sense to ignore your foresight and your aid, but Craftworld Saim-Hann did not come here to fight any battle." The Aspect Warrior explained, helping the groggy and clueless Seer back to his feet. "We came here to retake the spirit stone of our own Farseer, who had been slain in battle, his body and weapons looted by a powerful Chaos Champion. As such, we are undermanned, and the Craftworld expects us to have the Spirit stone in hand on arrival..." The Scorpion turned his head back shamefully, as though he had commited a terrible deed. "It would seem that the Craftworld has wrongly estimated the power of this warband." He whined. "Until the Spirit stone is returned, we can aid no one. Even now, such a mission has been made near impossible."
The first of the dead came barreling down the catacombs in reckless abandon from their rear. Other smaller tunnels that only those who crawled could fit through lead them to the vulnerable flank of the kill team, rotted and dead corpses, some in robes, others in primitive plate armor. However, what the rest of the men did not see, Commissar Grim did. He was expecting something of the such and was not rushed by hurry and worry. He turned on a dime and raised his bolt pistol and began to unload the ear blistering side arm into the tunnel right beside the Astral Claw.
The Claw, in his Silver armor grunted out several curses and turned his body and heavy Bolter. Suddenly, the steady Staccato of the black clad Lord Commissar's pistol turned in a cacophony of heavy bolter fire. Once they hit, they turned the risen dead ablaze with fire. He was using Hellfire rounds it seemed and his gun was spitting out rounds as if it was nothing. Bodies fell in heaps of the dead, further blocking their exit with the rotted dead
As for the Trap, well, The terminator was the one to activate it. The Crak grenade tumbled forward slightly and The Terminators eyes widened in his helmet. However, the man, not much more than A walking tank, hunched his body over slightly, decreasing the size of his massive frame. The next thing that followed was the blessing of the Emperor, showing that even in this dark place, his light and protection still shone bright. His Crux Terminatus protected him from the explosion that engulfed his frame, armor blackening and armor piercing shrapnel bounced harmlessly off of him. As he stood, he let out a guttural growl and smoke billowed off of him. However, the Salamander by his side was also engulfed my the fireball, rending his armor and sevring his leg from his body in a mere moment, the rest of the shrapnel pepper him, tearing gory holes through his armor. However, the Salamander was still alive, if barely, as his squirming made it clear.
She decided to make it very clear at the moment to her fellows. "If we do not fight by the side of the mon' keigh, you will lose the spirit stone," she said softly as she looked at them. Then she sighed deeply. "The servant of She-Who-Thirsts has her gaze set on that prize," she said calmly as she touched her wound softly and looked at her blood. Then she shook it off and shrugged calmly. Then she put the helmet back on and adjusted it. "Seer, what is your advice to your fellows?"
The Tau sat in his once Familiar home with minor disdain. he was helping the humans with slight pangs of worr. In all of his years in his battle suit, he had been through multiple heavy battles and wars. As he prodded his controls for his comms, a small smile came to his face. His blue skin gently grinned as he pressed the controls. His men had come to find him. Though the contingent was small, they would fight and die for their commander. As he opened the Comm channel, the voice of his shas'vre came through the earpiece, a static mess. "sssssssssha'-," it cut out again and he adjusted his suits buffers. "Shas'El," it came through much clearer.
"How many Fire warrior do you have Shas'Vre?" he asked simply. The blue skinned tau responded.
"Our hazard team brought one devilfish and 30 Firewarriors," he responded.
The Claw, in his Silver armor grunted out several curses and turned his body and heavy Bolter. Suddenly, the steady Staccato of the black clad Lord Commissar's pistol turned in a cacophony of heavy bolter fire. Once they hit, they turned the risen dead ablaze with fire. He was using Hellfire rounds it seemed and his gun was spitting out rounds as if it was nothing. Bodies fell in heaps of the dead, further blocking their exit with the rotted dead
As for the Trap, well, The terminator was the one to activate it. The Crak grenade tumbled forward slightly and The Terminators eyes widened in his helmet. However, the man, not much more than A walking tank, hunched his body over slightly, decreasing the size of his massive frame. The next thing that followed was the blessing of the Emperor, showing that even in this dark place, his light and protection still shone bright. His Crux Terminatus protected him from the explosion that engulfed his frame, armor blackening and armor piercing shrapnel bounced harmlessly off of him. As he stood, he let out a guttural growl and smoke billowed off of him. However, the Salamander by his side was also engulfed my the fireball, rending his armor and sevring his leg from his body in a mere moment, the rest of the shrapnel pepper him, tearing gory holes through his armor. However, the Salamander was still alive, if barely, as his squirming made it clear.
--- Farseer Mayya's POV---
She decided to make it very clear at the moment to her fellows. "If we do not fight by the side of the mon' keigh, you will lose the spirit stone," she said softly as she looked at them. Then she sighed deeply. "The servant of She-Who-Thirsts has her gaze set on that prize," she said calmly as she touched her wound softly and looked at her blood. Then she shook it off and shrugged calmly. Then she put the helmet back on and adjusted it. "Seer, what is your advice to your fellows?"
--- Shas'El Tash'var Nar'las ---
The Tau sat in his once Familiar home with minor disdain. he was helping the humans with slight pangs of worr. In all of his years in his battle suit, he had been through multiple heavy battles and wars. As he prodded his controls for his comms, a small smile came to his face. His blue skin gently grinned as he pressed the controls. His men had come to find him. Though the contingent was small, they would fight and die for their commander. As he opened the Comm channel, the voice of his shas'vre came through the earpiece, a static mess. "sssssssssha'-," it cut out again and he adjusted his suits buffers. "Shas'El," it came through much clearer.
"How many Fire warrior do you have Shas'Vre?" he asked simply. The blue skinned tau responded.
"Our hazard team brought one devilfish and 30 Firewarriors," he responded.
This was a planet consumed by hatred, anger and blood lust. The denizens of the warp that patrolled the great ocean of the planet fed of such acts. Each bolt that found home, each kill, and each act of violence caused unseen ripples through the veil that separated the immaterial from the material.
The energies of the great ocean were leaking through like a sieve, the unvisited consciousnesses that lives there tearing through at the weakest points, only to get sent back. With each push through, and repelled attack they were shredding the very fabric of reality within the crypts.
Simple skeletons, and desiccated corpses merely reanimated at first were being replaced by more dangers abominations composed of fused parts. Each wave was tougher then the last, taking ever increasing rounds to stop as bones and flesh thickened to armor. Their limbs, at first hands and feet, were twisting and reforming so each wielded mutated bone talons coursing with warp energy that rivaled a lightning claw.
The explosion that toppled the Salamander also triggered its own cascading series of events. The concussive force served to flip the sarcophagus, spilling the body within onto a pile of its victims, providing ample material for a hungering warp spawn to possess and bend to its will; an event that began the instant the downed marine's blood splashed the floor.
With the explosion, any clocks or watches present suddenly stopped working, as time lost all meaning. Things slowed to a crawl, fired bolts seeming to hang in the air, enemies near frozen in mid-step, before everything shifted to a chaotic frenzy as time accelerated to catch up, and then return to normal. It was a sporadic pattern that kept repeating itself.
The kill team had willingly charged into the darkness, crusaders of their precious light. In so doing, they had plunged heedlessly into a nightmare realm of madness and chaos; they had found hell.
The arms fire and second explosion were muffled, but the cultists could still hear it. Worse they heard the sounds that followed it. Bones ticking and scratching on stone as the brought back dead sought the source of the noise, or followed the scent of fresh blood like sharks.
Several times they had heard the strange sounds from the bone wall beyond their chamber. They were unsure if it was something trying to get in, or something coming to life and pulling itself free. None were willing to venture out and investigate.
Cassandra looked about the room, taking stock of their situation. At present the cultists were waiting, as they had been for a while now. Something was happening beyond their small shelter; something dark and terrifying that she was certain was better left undiscovered. Yet, here they were safe. They hadn't spilled any blood, and had done nothing else to call attention to their location. Minimal violence. No torture.
In her mind it was credit to their armored giant's guidance, and maybe even his direct influence; his sorcerous abilities. Either way, it only reinforced her belief in Lord Inaros, and strengthened her resolve to see the mission through.
The energies of the great ocean were leaking through like a sieve, the unvisited consciousnesses that lives there tearing through at the weakest points, only to get sent back. With each push through, and repelled attack they were shredding the very fabric of reality within the crypts.
Simple skeletons, and desiccated corpses merely reanimated at first were being replaced by more dangers abominations composed of fused parts. Each wave was tougher then the last, taking ever increasing rounds to stop as bones and flesh thickened to armor. Their limbs, at first hands and feet, were twisting and reforming so each wielded mutated bone talons coursing with warp energy that rivaled a lightning claw.
The explosion that toppled the Salamander also triggered its own cascading series of events. The concussive force served to flip the sarcophagus, spilling the body within onto a pile of its victims, providing ample material for a hungering warp spawn to possess and bend to its will; an event that began the instant the downed marine's blood splashed the floor.
With the explosion, any clocks or watches present suddenly stopped working, as time lost all meaning. Things slowed to a crawl, fired bolts seeming to hang in the air, enemies near frozen in mid-step, before everything shifted to a chaotic frenzy as time accelerated to catch up, and then return to normal. It was a sporadic pattern that kept repeating itself.
The kill team had willingly charged into the darkness, crusaders of their precious light. In so doing, they had plunged heedlessly into a nightmare realm of madness and chaos; they had found hell.
The arms fire and second explosion were muffled, but the cultists could still hear it. Worse they heard the sounds that followed it. Bones ticking and scratching on stone as the brought back dead sought the source of the noise, or followed the scent of fresh blood like sharks.
Several times they had heard the strange sounds from the bone wall beyond their chamber. They were unsure if it was something trying to get in, or something coming to life and pulling itself free. None were willing to venture out and investigate.
Cassandra looked about the room, taking stock of their situation. At present the cultists were waiting, as they had been for a while now. Something was happening beyond their small shelter; something dark and terrifying that she was certain was better left undiscovered. Yet, here they were safe. They hadn't spilled any blood, and had done nothing else to call attention to their location. Minimal violence. No torture.
In her mind it was credit to their armored giant's guidance, and maybe even his direct influence; his sorcerous abilities. Either way, it only reinforced her belief in Lord Inaros, and strengthened her resolve to see the mission through.
The Veteran Sergeant could not help but instinctively flinch at the ball of light as the kill team impetuously charged into a biding booby trap. Although Doros himself was not harmed by the shrapnel, his formally repaired and pristine armour was again caressed in dirt and blood. After regaining his sight a few seconds later, the sergeant turned toward the unavoidable carnage before him: Including the oncoming horde of morbid, hulking automatons of undeath slowly swarming before him. There were two figures before the Rainbow Warrior. The Terminator, though appearing a slight bit worn and dusted from the activated grenade was certainly unharmed. However, the gibbed Salamander was an entirely different affair, his missing leg lay ruptured across the other wall of the cave; a new red coating of sanguine paint replaced the marine's once lizard green breastplate.
Without a second thought, Doros abruptly approached the paraplegic Salamander, taking his flamer from the cobbled dirt, handing it back as though the Veteran Sergeant was returning a toy to a child who had just tripped over. He then knelt down, clenching the injured Astartes from the back of his helmet, gazing deep into the marine's crimson visor. "You must stay with me, brother." Doros whispered deeply, his voice humourously soft inspite of his daunting size. He forcefully swung the seriously injured Salamander onto his shoulder, deliberately ignorant of the tide of death which came forth, slowly but surely. "I can give you no aid..." He spoke, his tone of voice was stark and cold, although there was no other way to put such words. "But know this, if I can help it, you will not die pridelessly. Take your flamer, burn these abominations with pride, you shall laugh in the face of death this day, Salamander." Doros himself felt inspired, for technically those words applied to him, as well as all the others who he lead down this terrible and ancient path.
Everything felt truly surreal within the atmosphere; there was simply no other way of describing the warped, distorted air. All was silent above and beyond, save the footsteps of the ever-mutating skeletal beings infront and behind the kill team. The pattern of their dreaded march was twisted at best, at times phasing in and out of stasis before moving onward once more in a shambling, yet orderly fashion. The contant shaping of the atrocious skeletons, accompanied by their hulking, weaponised limbs reminded Doros of the lurid Kingspawn that he had clashed with earlier. The swarm loomed closer, and they filled both entrance and exit like a living, collective dead end. All hope seemed lost, but yet Doros did not come to feel despair: Such an emotion was utterly alien to him by design.
"Hear me, Kill Team!" Doros rallied his brethren with a booming voice, which did not echo through out the lonesome halls of the cave however. "There is no escape for us, both ways out of the catacombs been filled to the brim by these undead abominations. All is silent outside, and we can no longer contact the Guard anymore. I cannot even begin to guess what has happened above, but for ourselves, hope is but a faint glimmer. We must either fight like gods of war this day, or join the dead within this mass grave. Now, Astartes or not, we must act as one and face down these monsters with inspiration and faith! For the liberation of Triandr! To the last man, and FOR THE EMPEROR!" The Veteran Sergeant's last words were roared with fearsome courage at the top of his superior lungs.
His bolter still gripped tightly around his blue gauntlet, Doros fired five sure rounds at the horde. They were like comets before his eyes, for the rounds swam through the air like airbourne slugs set aflame. Although they eventually hit with adequate velocity, they were far too slow to stop the bleached tide. The kill team had voluntarilly drew the short straw, yet even so, on the brink of death and with the writhing Salamander hanging for dear life across his left shoulder, such contrived disadvantages only made the Astartes more determined. Looking back to the chainblade which hung upon his back for but a mere second, the Veteran Sergeant fired more rounds upon the impending enemy. Ranged safety would have to be sacrificed if these automatons came too close.
The Kill Team's fight for life had begun, even within the bowels of Hell, they had to, no, they would fight tooth and nail for the sake of sweet victory.
Without a second thought, Doros abruptly approached the paraplegic Salamander, taking his flamer from the cobbled dirt, handing it back as though the Veteran Sergeant was returning a toy to a child who had just tripped over. He then knelt down, clenching the injured Astartes from the back of his helmet, gazing deep into the marine's crimson visor. "You must stay with me, brother." Doros whispered deeply, his voice humourously soft inspite of his daunting size. He forcefully swung the seriously injured Salamander onto his shoulder, deliberately ignorant of the tide of death which came forth, slowly but surely. "I can give you no aid..." He spoke, his tone of voice was stark and cold, although there was no other way to put such words. "But know this, if I can help it, you will not die pridelessly. Take your flamer, burn these abominations with pride, you shall laugh in the face of death this day, Salamander." Doros himself felt inspired, for technically those words applied to him, as well as all the others who he lead down this terrible and ancient path.
Everything felt truly surreal within the atmosphere; there was simply no other way of describing the warped, distorted air. All was silent above and beyond, save the footsteps of the ever-mutating skeletal beings infront and behind the kill team. The pattern of their dreaded march was twisted at best, at times phasing in and out of stasis before moving onward once more in a shambling, yet orderly fashion. The contant shaping of the atrocious skeletons, accompanied by their hulking, weaponised limbs reminded Doros of the lurid Kingspawn that he had clashed with earlier. The swarm loomed closer, and they filled both entrance and exit like a living, collective dead end. All hope seemed lost, but yet Doros did not come to feel despair: Such an emotion was utterly alien to him by design.
"Hear me, Kill Team!" Doros rallied his brethren with a booming voice, which did not echo through out the lonesome halls of the cave however. "There is no escape for us, both ways out of the catacombs been filled to the brim by these undead abominations. All is silent outside, and we can no longer contact the Guard anymore. I cannot even begin to guess what has happened above, but for ourselves, hope is but a faint glimmer. We must either fight like gods of war this day, or join the dead within this mass grave. Now, Astartes or not, we must act as one and face down these monsters with inspiration and faith! For the liberation of Triandr! To the last man, and FOR THE EMPEROR!" The Veteran Sergeant's last words were roared with fearsome courage at the top of his superior lungs.
His bolter still gripped tightly around his blue gauntlet, Doros fired five sure rounds at the horde. They were like comets before his eyes, for the rounds swam through the air like airbourne slugs set aflame. Although they eventually hit with adequate velocity, they were far too slow to stop the bleached tide. The kill team had voluntarilly drew the short straw, yet even so, on the brink of death and with the writhing Salamander hanging for dear life across his left shoulder, such contrived disadvantages only made the Astartes more determined. Looking back to the chainblade which hung upon his back for but a mere second, the Veteran Sergeant fired more rounds upon the impending enemy. Ranged safety would have to be sacrificed if these automatons came too close.
The Kill Team's fight for life had begun, even within the bowels of Hell, they had to, no, they would fight tooth and nail for the sake of sweet victory.
The Salamnder let out a roar of pain as the promethium flames of his flamer came to life in a torrent of fire. It engulfed a long hallway of the horrors in fire and death. His pain was feuling him, it was the only thing he could go on as the fight raged onwards.
Grim was deftly avoiding the clumsy strikes of the undead, keeping the Monstrosities from flanking the astral claw and his heavy bolter. Only now did Jeagar move with his fastest speed, peerlesly avoiding slashes and jabs and delivering maatching rounds with his chainsword.
The astral claw did the only thing he could at this moment, he fired his weapon at full rage, slowly back stepping as bodies and bodies piled up from where he had struck them down. "The horde is endless," he roared loudly as his gun fired. "Let them come, we will give them a second death!"
The Dark angel terminator turned Aand one of the skeletal figures met the wrong end of his power fist with a loud crunch. "Keep moving, if we reach the end of this blasted tunnel, we may yet survive,"
Grim was deftly avoiding the clumsy strikes of the undead, keeping the Monstrosities from flanking the astral claw and his heavy bolter. Only now did Jeagar move with his fastest speed, peerlesly avoiding slashes and jabs and delivering maatching rounds with his chainsword.
The astral claw did the only thing he could at this moment, he fired his weapon at full rage, slowly back stepping as bodies and bodies piled up from where he had struck them down. "The horde is endless," he roared loudly as his gun fired. "Let them come, we will give them a second death!"
The Dark angel terminator turned Aand one of the skeletal figures met the wrong end of his power fist with a loud crunch. "Keep moving, if we reach the end of this blasted tunnel, we may yet survive,"
The scorching daemonic flames that surrounded the shattered hulk of Tartaros were not nearly as furious and twisted as the figurative fire that burned inside Cicero's livid mind as the Champion hastily searched the remains of his ship. With great fury, he swung away the hot sheets of reinfornced metal as though they were thin paper, only to be greeted with the melting, dismembered carcasses of heretics and traitor astartes. These were all once scum and cretins alike that Cicero had once formerly called his "crew;" the very thought now sickened him to his core. As the Champion uncovered corpse after corpse, he'd often give them a hard stomp to check that the treacherous zealots were truly dead. 'Good riddance.' He thought bitterly.
There were two distinct items that the agitated Cicero was looking for. The first being the pristine spirit stone of the Eldar Farseer the Champion had slain; the very key to his ascension to Daemonhood. The second item was the head of Porthos. Cicero did not intend to let this terrible mutiny go unpunished. The Champion stood still for at least a moment, breathing heavily as he gazed at the vivid flames that blanked the ship like destructive napalm. A simple attempt to regain his composure, which had been completely lost through the colossal failure of Sipang's seige. Cicero sat awkwardly on a lump of chewed metal, holding his spear, "Screaming Death" in the sloppy mud to gain some balance. Although the barrage of heavy rain could not put out the monstrous inferno, it had slowly became apparent that a dire flood was sure to soon follow.
'What went wrong?' The words repeated in Cicero's warped mind as he began hopelessly shaking his head. 'The plans were soon to be in place, but it seems I could not keep those self-serving wretches loyal. I am at the brink of defeat... but the battle is not over yet... not nearly so...with a little bit of patience, I could still triumph.'
Before the Champion could contemplate any further, a metallic clunk invaded his ears, shaking in the distance like a thick 'gong.' Cicero rose to his feet, hauling his gigantic armoured frame to the origin of the noise. The heads of his two bodyguards were scattered by the shot engine of Tartaros, and Cicero gripped his spear firmly as a crowd emerged from the dark smoke swirling around the ruin. It had become very clear, that the mutineers tread closer. Chainaxes revving and bolter shots firing toward the sky like shooting stars. They were taunting the Champion directly as the malicious band of scum loomed in. There were no mere humans among the group, for no mortal of simple flesh and bone could hope to survive the blinding swansong that was Tartaros' fall from grace. This shambolic ragtag were those woeful marines of Chaos that now pledged themselves completely to Porthos, or to Khorne, in truth.
"Halt, you curs!" A familiar and wretched voice shouted from behind the bunch of survivors as they stumbled and gave way for a red clad figure, slowly appearing at the front of the renegades. Cicero readied his spear for combat as he instantly recognized the hate-inducing vermin. Former lieutenant Porthos stomped loudly as he moved toward the Champion, revving his dual chainaxes in both hands to intimidate the undaunted Cicero. "This dog is mine." The berzerker barked. There was a silence among the former crew as they stepped back, slowly but surely forming a small ring around the two heated men.
"You're a broken record, Champion." The warrior of Khorne mocked his former leader with a snarl. "You lead us to Triandr like sheep, lulling us like small children, that we would be assisting Khorne in a glorious bloodbath..." The tone of Porthos' words grew more hateful with each passing breath. It seemed the hatred Cicero felt for his former warrior had been returned in kind. "...No. You simply manipulated us for your own gain, you would have us all massacred on this forgotten world if it profitted you. You are no servant of Chaos." The Champion only replied with a cold stare from the inner depths of his closed helmet. Cicero felt no need to reply to Porthos' speech, for he knew that every word uttered was indeed the truth.
"This is it, Champion!" The berzerker screamed, crouched like a wild bull ready to charge. "Die! Now!" Porthos threw himself at the Champion as his traitorous brethren cheered him on. "Rip him apart!" One shouted cruelly. "Spill his insides on his own ship." Porthos roared like a rabid banshee and fought with a fury that would perhaps rival Kharn the Betrayer himself. Perhaps, but perhaps was simply not enough to defeat the Seerslayer, as Cicero parried every swing Porthos would throw at him. It took only a fierce kick from the Champion to bring his treacherous lieutenant lying to the floor with a huge 'squish' of mud, much to the dismay of the bloodthirsty onlookers. They were all eager for death: Cicero's! The circle of giant bodies gave a thunderous and empowering roar as the Berzerker returned to his feet, more furious than ever!
The Khornate warrior screamed to the raining sky, almost drowned out by the sound of his compatriots, his violent swings became faster and more powerful, but they were all acts of desperation, and the Champion was simply too skillful a combatant to be bested by mere acts of rageful instinct. As both chainaxes revved like the buzz of a gargantuan hornet, Porthos jumped to slice the Champion's head. It was the last mistake the Berzerker would ever make. Cicero merely swung to the side of his enemy, and with one well timed strike, Cicero cleaved Porthos' head from his reinforced neck. As undoubtedly terrifying as the power armour of the Chaos Space Marine was, it was no match for the graceful precision of an Eldar singing spear. The nerves of the Berzerker struggled wildly as his body jolted in post-death, currents of sanguine red gushing from the open arteries where a head once sat, all over the warrior's power armour.
The sight of death and defeat was far too engrossing for the marines to notice the cloud of disease slowly reaching Triandr's surface. There was no more shouting or cheering however, only cold silence as the traitors lay their heads in dismay. Porthos, newly crowned leader of the Warband of rebirth, was dead.
There were two distinct items that the agitated Cicero was looking for. The first being the pristine spirit stone of the Eldar Farseer the Champion had slain; the very key to his ascension to Daemonhood. The second item was the head of Porthos. Cicero did not intend to let this terrible mutiny go unpunished. The Champion stood still for at least a moment, breathing heavily as he gazed at the vivid flames that blanked the ship like destructive napalm. A simple attempt to regain his composure, which had been completely lost through the colossal failure of Sipang's seige. Cicero sat awkwardly on a lump of chewed metal, holding his spear, "Screaming Death" in the sloppy mud to gain some balance. Although the barrage of heavy rain could not put out the monstrous inferno, it had slowly became apparent that a dire flood was sure to soon follow.
'What went wrong?' The words repeated in Cicero's warped mind as he began hopelessly shaking his head. 'The plans were soon to be in place, but it seems I could not keep those self-serving wretches loyal. I am at the brink of defeat... but the battle is not over yet... not nearly so...with a little bit of patience, I could still triumph.'
Before the Champion could contemplate any further, a metallic clunk invaded his ears, shaking in the distance like a thick 'gong.' Cicero rose to his feet, hauling his gigantic armoured frame to the origin of the noise. The heads of his two bodyguards were scattered by the shot engine of Tartaros, and Cicero gripped his spear firmly as a crowd emerged from the dark smoke swirling around the ruin. It had become very clear, that the mutineers tread closer. Chainaxes revving and bolter shots firing toward the sky like shooting stars. They were taunting the Champion directly as the malicious band of scum loomed in. There were no mere humans among the group, for no mortal of simple flesh and bone could hope to survive the blinding swansong that was Tartaros' fall from grace. This shambolic ragtag were those woeful marines of Chaos that now pledged themselves completely to Porthos, or to Khorne, in truth.
"Halt, you curs!" A familiar and wretched voice shouted from behind the bunch of survivors as they stumbled and gave way for a red clad figure, slowly appearing at the front of the renegades. Cicero readied his spear for combat as he instantly recognized the hate-inducing vermin. Former lieutenant Porthos stomped loudly as he moved toward the Champion, revving his dual chainaxes in both hands to intimidate the undaunted Cicero. "This dog is mine." The berzerker barked. There was a silence among the former crew as they stepped back, slowly but surely forming a small ring around the two heated men.
"You're a broken record, Champion." The warrior of Khorne mocked his former leader with a snarl. "You lead us to Triandr like sheep, lulling us like small children, that we would be assisting Khorne in a glorious bloodbath..." The tone of Porthos' words grew more hateful with each passing breath. It seemed the hatred Cicero felt for his former warrior had been returned in kind. "...No. You simply manipulated us for your own gain, you would have us all massacred on this forgotten world if it profitted you. You are no servant of Chaos." The Champion only replied with a cold stare from the inner depths of his closed helmet. Cicero felt no need to reply to Porthos' speech, for he knew that every word uttered was indeed the truth.
"This is it, Champion!" The berzerker screamed, crouched like a wild bull ready to charge. "Die! Now!" Porthos threw himself at the Champion as his traitorous brethren cheered him on. "Rip him apart!" One shouted cruelly. "Spill his insides on his own ship." Porthos roared like a rabid banshee and fought with a fury that would perhaps rival Kharn the Betrayer himself. Perhaps, but perhaps was simply not enough to defeat the Seerslayer, as Cicero parried every swing Porthos would throw at him. It took only a fierce kick from the Champion to bring his treacherous lieutenant lying to the floor with a huge 'squish' of mud, much to the dismay of the bloodthirsty onlookers. They were all eager for death: Cicero's! The circle of giant bodies gave a thunderous and empowering roar as the Berzerker returned to his feet, more furious than ever!
The Khornate warrior screamed to the raining sky, almost drowned out by the sound of his compatriots, his violent swings became faster and more powerful, but they were all acts of desperation, and the Champion was simply too skillful a combatant to be bested by mere acts of rageful instinct. As both chainaxes revved like the buzz of a gargantuan hornet, Porthos jumped to slice the Champion's head. It was the last mistake the Berzerker would ever make. Cicero merely swung to the side of his enemy, and with one well timed strike, Cicero cleaved Porthos' head from his reinforced neck. As undoubtedly terrifying as the power armour of the Chaos Space Marine was, it was no match for the graceful precision of an Eldar singing spear. The nerves of the Berzerker struggled wildly as his body jolted in post-death, currents of sanguine red gushing from the open arteries where a head once sat, all over the warrior's power armour.
The sight of death and defeat was far too engrossing for the marines to notice the cloud of disease slowly reaching Triandr's surface. There was no more shouting or cheering however, only cold silence as the traitors lay their heads in dismay. Porthos, newly crowned leader of the Warband of rebirth, was dead.
Hana looked at Cicero. "Are you done with your petty family Squabble fool?" she asked with a scoff, not enjoying the waste of time in the slightest. Then she looked at her and blinked as she waited for his response. her eyes were examining what was left of Porthos' head as she looked at the corpse and scoffed.
However, The Plague Bearers arrived first at the head of the rotting traitor guard was one Plague Champion who stood towering in his terminator Armor. "Pleaaaase....keep your....squabbles....to yourselves..... it is a waste of what.......little time.....we have," he said slowly, rot and pus dripping down his face as the odor of his breathe said his inside were as rotten as his outside. Varus almost puked at the smell.
However, The Plague Bearers arrived first at the head of the rotting traitor guard was one Plague Champion who stood towering in his terminator Armor. "Pleaaaase....keep your....squabbles....to yourselves..... it is a waste of what.......little time.....we have," he said slowly, rot and pus dripping down his face as the odor of his breathe said his inside were as rotten as his outside. Varus almost puked at the smell.
(The recorded responses between Kragoth and Grim in Private Messages, posted only so Inaros can get back into gear. 
)
Kragoth:
The hulking swarm of these dusted, misshapen undead automatons refused to relent before the furious firepower of the Kill Team. Torrents of bolter fire, which lit both tunnels like a flurry of bright comets slowly floating fluorescently clashed with the collective of bone. But no matter how much punishment was inflicted upon the swarm, the silent remains would only reanimate again, their appearance became far more menacing with each blow they took as their structure would become thicker, larger, and more hellaciously terrible to gaze upon. Bones cluncked and cracked louder as the monstrous tide drew dangerously close to the group. All hope seemed lost.
This was something which had already become apparent to the now jaded Sergeant. Doros suddenly relented as he began to realise that this flood of bleached bone would not halt their inevitable advance. Without panic, Doros stared deep into the eyes of this horde of ravaged and ruined figures, of which surrendered no such reassuring gap. The Veteran sergeant took a few large steps back; far too close to his fellow Astartes for comfort. With the dying Salamander clinging onto his shoulder and about to bleed out at any second, Doros crouched with a mettlesome fury, like a rabid bull ready to charge.
"My fellows, halt your fire." The Rainbow Warrior had suddenly ordered, looking back solemnly toward his team. "Our chances of survival are far too thin now. Bolters and chainblades are worthless against this tide. We must combat them with an unrelenting force of our own." Meanwhile, as the speech progressed, the swarm came looming in silently, mere metres away from Grim and Doros on both sides. "If you would, brothers. Gather with me and run through them! They cannot recover from the raw might of an Adeptus Astartes! CHARGE!"
As Doros finished, he gripped both his bolter and his dying brother tightly. With nothing else to lose, the Veteran Sergeant ran his thick, domineering body into the tide of bone. "FOR TERRA AND THE GOLDEN THRONE!" Even without an echo, the deafening scream amplified by the Vox grill of Doros' helmet seemed to violently shake the very structure of the catacombs. The mass of mutant bone finally relented as the Veteran Sergeant prevented their advance. It would not be enough with Doros and the weakened Salamander however: Unless the fellows joined in this wrestle of life and death, the horde would only continue on their dreaded path.
Grim:
The Astral Claw turned to run before taking a skeletal sharpened limb to the back and he roared out and threw the beast off and smashed it beneath his Steel boot. Then he ran after his teammates, heavy bolter still being lugged in his hands.
The commissar was caught in a pattern of ducking and weaving before he brought his metal arm itno one as the undead bowled over a group of them.then eh turned and sprinted after the much faster kill team, dropping a few frags after himself. "Rebury the undead, Space Marines! CHARGE!!!!" HE said, Charging by the Hulking Warriors with all the Zeal only a Commissar could hold, his chain-sword cutting through each undead who got close.
Kragoth:
As both tides of steel and warped marrow clashed, a sense of fury slowly began to overcome the veteran sergeant. As the deadly test of strength began to drag on, a fervour of rightous zeal flowed through Doros' veins, slowly losing his grip on life. The Astartes was hit with a suicidal disregard for his own safety. The hour of valour was at hand, an intoxicating rush the Marine had not felt since that Daemon incursion so long ago. His state of mind now changed by this evil environment, Doros pushed on.
"This is it, my brothers in arms!" The Veteran Sergeant yelled. "One last push! One last show of diligence, for the Emperor!" With an intense scream of passion, Doros had completely lost his proper state of mind; his arms ruthlessly thrusting the bleached tide ajar with the support of his imperial brethren. As hopeless as the way forward had first seemed, the Emperor's light had shone upon these pious warriors. The way forward was clear, but the tide of bone would soon regain itself and menacing horde behind them drew near.
"Quickly, brothers!" Doros once again yelled. "The way forward will not remain clear, we can't tarry." Doros drew his chainblade, furiously cutting the way forward as the splinters of bone flew into lens of his armoured helmet.
Grim:
The Commissar and space marine fought side by side, Zealous brothers of the Emperor's light. The Commissar was using his chainsword in his right arm. Each slash met bone with smashes and churns, dust splattering over him. Then, one sent a spiked bone arm his way and it smashed against his Metal arm. The commissar grabbed the Creatures head and the distinctive sound of a las round could be heard coming from his hand as the skeletal creatures skull was melted.
The ceiling was suddenly blown out in a ramp pattern and it was the Foruscian 13ths first squad, they turned on their hellguns and put accurate lasers down range, pushing the beasts flanking the space marines back. "Come on, we don't have all day!"
Kragoth:
Doros turned his head back toward the rear as he heard a voice that he had long savoured since the beginning of this delve into Hell. Fragments of calcium swam almost motionlessly through the air of the timeless tunnel, back toward the Veteran sergeant as he caught sight of the new arrivals. "Reinforcements, Thank the Emperor!" The grateful Astartes shouted. "We certainly don't have long, let us not tarry."
As Doros pried apart the waves of dead into two halves with his chainblade, it was then that he finally caught sight of the fresh blood, conveniently leading to the next and perhaps last sanctum of this endless tunnel. "I can see the end!" Doros loudly announced. "Into the breach, this clash shall be ours!" His grip upon the ebbing Salamander suddenly tightened as the veteran sergeant suddenly felt another rush of hot fire through his veins.
Grim:
The First squad of the 13th moved like the warp was on their tail, every-time a warp spawn attempted to pop out of a wall and assault them, the elite first squad would bring it down with impunity, their Hellguns melting flesh and bone and steel alike, not waiting for them to make the first move. Grim stamped heavily behind his team, watching for any on the flank. The astral Claw, bone like appendages having been stabbed through him at several places was acting as if he was in no harm, it truth, eh really wasn't. His heavy bolter kicked and sputtered out death with the thunderous applause of his bolter shooting and ringing in the halls.
Kragoth:
(Took me long enough, sorry about the wait)
This was it; the final push through the bleached horde was near at hand! Doros himself could feel the merciless shoving of his undead foe weather and lighten thanks to the aid of the Commissar and his Imperial comrades behind him as he violently threw himself forward like a living wrecking ball: his chainblade revving akin to a deafening motorcycle as it carved a way through what may have seemed like warm butter. There freedom had begrudgingly reared it's head, the way forward was clear at last, and the bone tide could no longer keep them. Even the time distorting powers which aided the undead admitted defeat as the curses of the catacombs seemed to wear off.
"The path is clear, friends!" Doros roared proudly, his voice ecstatic and swollen with glory. "Quick, through the tunnel! Victory lies directly in front!" With the bleeding Salamander's movements of life becoming ever more slow, the Veteran Sergeant gave his comrade one last shot of glory, chasing the pool of fresh blood which would hopefully lead to the end of this vile complex.
Grim:
(and im sorry about this wait
)
Commissar Grim and his Veteran troops tore a hole after hole through the undead, giving the astral claw a reprieve so eh could catch up to the main detachment. If they did not escape soon, things would get much much worse. The Claw...had seen his better days, pieces of sharpened and broken bones from the attacks of the dead who now walk had even gotten through to the indomitable devastator. The barrel of his Heavy Bolter was red hot, still firing even as he pulled back, the heavy backpack filled with bolter shells was still whirring and getting ready to fire its next barrage of bolts. at the front, around Doros and The Salamander. but he had to give them warning. "BROTHER DOROS, GET DOWN," he yelled at the top of his lungs over the Vox.
Doros:
The veteran sergeant had heard the Commissar's warning loud and clear as he hurled himself and the Salamander toward the bloody earth, almost tripping over a large, mutant femur; it's trunk-like shape resembling more a bleached club than a Human bone. From there, Doros gradually crawled through the skeletal clutter as bolter shells hurled like balls of fire past him, no longer caught within the weave of sorcery. As the Astartes upfront drew closer to the next sanctum, the necromatic sorcery which brought these puppets of bone alive slowly began to wear, as the figures pelted by bolter fire ultimately began to collapse without further reanimation.
They had admitted defeat, and Doros could not be more ready to escape this horrid passage...
"Victory is ours!" Doros chanted once more, crawling through blackened muck, moisturized by the Salamander's red ichor. "Once we breach this tunnel, this horde shall cease. We can't afford to waste any more ammo. Quickly! Fly through the passage and we shall be free!" Through this reminder, the veteran sergeant will perhaps make victory very apparent.
)Kragoth:
The hulking swarm of these dusted, misshapen undead automatons refused to relent before the furious firepower of the Kill Team. Torrents of bolter fire, which lit both tunnels like a flurry of bright comets slowly floating fluorescently clashed with the collective of bone. But no matter how much punishment was inflicted upon the swarm, the silent remains would only reanimate again, their appearance became far more menacing with each blow they took as their structure would become thicker, larger, and more hellaciously terrible to gaze upon. Bones cluncked and cracked louder as the monstrous tide drew dangerously close to the group. All hope seemed lost.
This was something which had already become apparent to the now jaded Sergeant. Doros suddenly relented as he began to realise that this flood of bleached bone would not halt their inevitable advance. Without panic, Doros stared deep into the eyes of this horde of ravaged and ruined figures, of which surrendered no such reassuring gap. The Veteran sergeant took a few large steps back; far too close to his fellow Astartes for comfort. With the dying Salamander clinging onto his shoulder and about to bleed out at any second, Doros crouched with a mettlesome fury, like a rabid bull ready to charge.
"My fellows, halt your fire." The Rainbow Warrior had suddenly ordered, looking back solemnly toward his team. "Our chances of survival are far too thin now. Bolters and chainblades are worthless against this tide. We must combat them with an unrelenting force of our own." Meanwhile, as the speech progressed, the swarm came looming in silently, mere metres away from Grim and Doros on both sides. "If you would, brothers. Gather with me and run through them! They cannot recover from the raw might of an Adeptus Astartes! CHARGE!"
As Doros finished, he gripped both his bolter and his dying brother tightly. With nothing else to lose, the Veteran Sergeant ran his thick, domineering body into the tide of bone. "FOR TERRA AND THE GOLDEN THRONE!" Even without an echo, the deafening scream amplified by the Vox grill of Doros' helmet seemed to violently shake the very structure of the catacombs. The mass of mutant bone finally relented as the Veteran Sergeant prevented their advance. It would not be enough with Doros and the weakened Salamander however: Unless the fellows joined in this wrestle of life and death, the horde would only continue on their dreaded path.
Grim:
The Astral Claw turned to run before taking a skeletal sharpened limb to the back and he roared out and threw the beast off and smashed it beneath his Steel boot. Then he ran after his teammates, heavy bolter still being lugged in his hands.
The commissar was caught in a pattern of ducking and weaving before he brought his metal arm itno one as the undead bowled over a group of them.then eh turned and sprinted after the much faster kill team, dropping a few frags after himself. "Rebury the undead, Space Marines! CHARGE!!!!" HE said, Charging by the Hulking Warriors with all the Zeal only a Commissar could hold, his chain-sword cutting through each undead who got close.
Kragoth:
As both tides of steel and warped marrow clashed, a sense of fury slowly began to overcome the veteran sergeant. As the deadly test of strength began to drag on, a fervour of rightous zeal flowed through Doros' veins, slowly losing his grip on life. The Astartes was hit with a suicidal disregard for his own safety. The hour of valour was at hand, an intoxicating rush the Marine had not felt since that Daemon incursion so long ago. His state of mind now changed by this evil environment, Doros pushed on.
"This is it, my brothers in arms!" The Veteran Sergeant yelled. "One last push! One last show of diligence, for the Emperor!" With an intense scream of passion, Doros had completely lost his proper state of mind; his arms ruthlessly thrusting the bleached tide ajar with the support of his imperial brethren. As hopeless as the way forward had first seemed, the Emperor's light had shone upon these pious warriors. The way forward was clear, but the tide of bone would soon regain itself and menacing horde behind them drew near.
"Quickly, brothers!" Doros once again yelled. "The way forward will not remain clear, we can't tarry." Doros drew his chainblade, furiously cutting the way forward as the splinters of bone flew into lens of his armoured helmet.
Grim:
The Commissar and space marine fought side by side, Zealous brothers of the Emperor's light. The Commissar was using his chainsword in his right arm. Each slash met bone with smashes and churns, dust splattering over him. Then, one sent a spiked bone arm his way and it smashed against his Metal arm. The commissar grabbed the Creatures head and the distinctive sound of a las round could be heard coming from his hand as the skeletal creatures skull was melted.
The ceiling was suddenly blown out in a ramp pattern and it was the Foruscian 13ths first squad, they turned on their hellguns and put accurate lasers down range, pushing the beasts flanking the space marines back. "Come on, we don't have all day!"
Kragoth:
Doros turned his head back toward the rear as he heard a voice that he had long savoured since the beginning of this delve into Hell. Fragments of calcium swam almost motionlessly through the air of the timeless tunnel, back toward the Veteran sergeant as he caught sight of the new arrivals. "Reinforcements, Thank the Emperor!" The grateful Astartes shouted. "We certainly don't have long, let us not tarry."
As Doros pried apart the waves of dead into two halves with his chainblade, it was then that he finally caught sight of the fresh blood, conveniently leading to the next and perhaps last sanctum of this endless tunnel. "I can see the end!" Doros loudly announced. "Into the breach, this clash shall be ours!" His grip upon the ebbing Salamander suddenly tightened as the veteran sergeant suddenly felt another rush of hot fire through his veins.
Grim:
The First squad of the 13th moved like the warp was on their tail, every-time a warp spawn attempted to pop out of a wall and assault them, the elite first squad would bring it down with impunity, their Hellguns melting flesh and bone and steel alike, not waiting for them to make the first move. Grim stamped heavily behind his team, watching for any on the flank. The astral Claw, bone like appendages having been stabbed through him at several places was acting as if he was in no harm, it truth, eh really wasn't. His heavy bolter kicked and sputtered out death with the thunderous applause of his bolter shooting and ringing in the halls.
Kragoth:
(Took me long enough, sorry about the wait
)This was it; the final push through the bleached horde was near at hand! Doros himself could feel the merciless shoving of his undead foe weather and lighten thanks to the aid of the Commissar and his Imperial comrades behind him as he violently threw himself forward like a living wrecking ball: his chainblade revving akin to a deafening motorcycle as it carved a way through what may have seemed like warm butter. There freedom had begrudgingly reared it's head, the way forward was clear at last, and the bone tide could no longer keep them. Even the time distorting powers which aided the undead admitted defeat as the curses of the catacombs seemed to wear off.
"The path is clear, friends!" Doros roared proudly, his voice ecstatic and swollen with glory. "Quick, through the tunnel! Victory lies directly in front!" With the bleeding Salamander's movements of life becoming ever more slow, the Veteran Sergeant gave his comrade one last shot of glory, chasing the pool of fresh blood which would hopefully lead to the end of this vile complex.
Grim:
(and im sorry about this wait
)Commissar Grim and his Veteran troops tore a hole after hole through the undead, giving the astral claw a reprieve so eh could catch up to the main detachment. If they did not escape soon, things would get much much worse. The Claw...had seen his better days, pieces of sharpened and broken bones from the attacks of the dead who now walk had even gotten through to the indomitable devastator. The barrel of his Heavy Bolter was red hot, still firing even as he pulled back, the heavy backpack filled with bolter shells was still whirring and getting ready to fire its next barrage of bolts. at the front, around Doros and The Salamander. but he had to give them warning. "BROTHER DOROS, GET DOWN," he yelled at the top of his lungs over the Vox.
Doros:
The veteran sergeant had heard the Commissar's warning loud and clear as he hurled himself and the Salamander toward the bloody earth, almost tripping over a large, mutant femur; it's trunk-like shape resembling more a bleached club than a Human bone. From there, Doros gradually crawled through the skeletal clutter as bolter shells hurled like balls of fire past him, no longer caught within the weave of sorcery. As the Astartes upfront drew closer to the next sanctum, the necromatic sorcery which brought these puppets of bone alive slowly began to wear, as the figures pelted by bolter fire ultimately began to collapse without further reanimation.
They had admitted defeat, and Doros could not be more ready to escape this horrid passage...
"Victory is ours!" Doros chanted once more, crawling through blackened muck, moisturized by the Salamander's red ichor. "Once we breach this tunnel, this horde shall cease. We can't afford to waste any more ammo. Quickly! Fly through the passage and we shall be free!" Through this reminder, the veteran sergeant will perhaps make victory very apparent.
What awaited the kill team beyond the breach was something new, and in many ways more horrific then the previous den of carnage.
The first change was subtle. A feeling more then anything tangible or real enough to be seen. The veil between reality and the great ocean was still thin here, and emotional energy still seeping through unchecked. The difference was which emotions.
Where the catacombs of the royals and the nobles were a focus point of anger and bloodlust, this was a realm governed by depression, loss, suffering and pain. It fell upon the kill team like a several tons of rock. It invaded their brains, permeated their thoughts.
The injured Salamander was the most susceptible to the tide of raw emotion. His body ravaged by pain, his system flooded with stimulants and pain killers. Vague and shadowy whispers brushed at the recesses of his mind. A mind and body ravaged by pain, blood loss, and a chemical cocktail of adrenaline, stimulants and inadequate pain killers. The voices, clearly from dozens of owners at first began to shift until each was a mirror of his own.
"Your friends draw out your suffering."
"There is no glory here..."
"...Only death."
"Why do you fight it?"
"You can end it..."
The same theme continued, repeating with slight modification.
The room beyond the breached wall was yet another problem. The same cause of the broken wall had served to cleave the room in two. The width was questionable for jumping at best, with the low ceiling compounding it. But the real danger was from the bottom of the pit, or rather the lack of. An almost unnatural darkness seemed to obscure the depths. To gaze down for too long was like starring into oblivion itself. It brought with it vertigo and overwhelming despair. A desire to take that one final step came to all that stood within its presence... An urge some might find more difficult to ignore then others.
Worse yet, the room was far from empty. Hundreds of desiccated and emaciated corpses lined the floor, a nightmarish carpet woven from the dead, before cascaded over the edges of the chasm like some morbid waterfall. These were but the first handful of the thousands of victims that resided within the labyrinthine tunnels for the poor. Tortured and broken souls that had amassed as the various regimes had refined their techniques.
At the arrival of the kill team, hands shot up to claw the air. These were shadows of the past, unaware their time had passed. Echoes of men, women, and even children that had fallen to the armored servants of the corrupt kings and the taint of the blood God. The armored giants triggered the memories of the undead. Fleshless mouths moved, as the dead screamed silently for first salvation or mercy that never came, then the desperate threats of reprisal.
Clicks and dry scraping rose through the stagnant air, a primal and rhythmic song of bone and stone that grew in intensity. The grasping hands no longer pleaded for aid, but offered harm, seeking to drag down what ever or whoever they could. In a few places a figure or two were attempting to stand, seeking freedom from the tangled masses.
A different and more subtle change swept through the air. The depression lingered, for it was too entwined within this location to ever truly go, but now a growing feeling of hate bubbled and spread beneath the surface as the entire crypt came to life, aware that knights had returned...
The first change was subtle. A feeling more then anything tangible or real enough to be seen. The veil between reality and the great ocean was still thin here, and emotional energy still seeping through unchecked. The difference was which emotions.
Where the catacombs of the royals and the nobles were a focus point of anger and bloodlust, this was a realm governed by depression, loss, suffering and pain. It fell upon the kill team like a several tons of rock. It invaded their brains, permeated their thoughts.
The injured Salamander was the most susceptible to the tide of raw emotion. His body ravaged by pain, his system flooded with stimulants and pain killers. Vague and shadowy whispers brushed at the recesses of his mind. A mind and body ravaged by pain, blood loss, and a chemical cocktail of adrenaline, stimulants and inadequate pain killers. The voices, clearly from dozens of owners at first began to shift until each was a mirror of his own.
"Your friends draw out your suffering."
"There is no glory here..."
"...Only death."
"Why do you fight it?"
"You can end it..."
The same theme continued, repeating with slight modification.
The room beyond the breached wall was yet another problem. The same cause of the broken wall had served to cleave the room in two. The width was questionable for jumping at best, with the low ceiling compounding it. But the real danger was from the bottom of the pit, or rather the lack of. An almost unnatural darkness seemed to obscure the depths. To gaze down for too long was like starring into oblivion itself. It brought with it vertigo and overwhelming despair. A desire to take that one final step came to all that stood within its presence... An urge some might find more difficult to ignore then others.
Worse yet, the room was far from empty. Hundreds of desiccated and emaciated corpses lined the floor, a nightmarish carpet woven from the dead, before cascaded over the edges of the chasm like some morbid waterfall. These were but the first handful of the thousands of victims that resided within the labyrinthine tunnels for the poor. Tortured and broken souls that had amassed as the various regimes had refined their techniques.
At the arrival of the kill team, hands shot up to claw the air. These were shadows of the past, unaware their time had passed. Echoes of men, women, and even children that had fallen to the armored servants of the corrupt kings and the taint of the blood God. The armored giants triggered the memories of the undead. Fleshless mouths moved, as the dead screamed silently for first salvation or mercy that never came, then the desperate threats of reprisal.
Clicks and dry scraping rose through the stagnant air, a primal and rhythmic song of bone and stone that grew in intensity. The grasping hands no longer pleaded for aid, but offered harm, seeking to drag down what ever or whoever they could. In a few places a figure or two were attempting to stand, seeking freedom from the tangled masses.
A different and more subtle change swept through the air. The depression lingered, for it was too entwined within this location to ever truly go, but now a growing feeling of hate bubbled and spread beneath the surface as the entire crypt came to life, aware that knights had returned...
Doros thrust the slumping Salamander back onto his shoulder, his armoured legs were painted in the warrior's fresh blood as they entered through the royal tomb. A cloud of ancient dust swam through the air, creating a cowl of false fog as the group blindly emerged through the tunnel. The chamber didn't really seem too out of the ordinary in the eyes of the Veteran Sergeant, a strange contrast to the legion of bleached bone his Kill team had somehow narrowly avoided earlier. This only made Doros feel uneasy; this place of rest was far too serene, something seemed... off.
He turned his head to his fellow Astartes. "Be on your guard." Doros said calmly, almost whispering. Though still with a slither of seriousness laced in his voice. "I doubt we've braved all the traps of this accursed place just yet."
And so he stomped onwards, and he was half-right. There was more to this place than what met the eye, but perhaps not in a physical sense. Doros' head felt terribly heavy. At first he had opted to remove his helmet, until the ghostly weight moved to his heart. A sudden need to mourn overtook him. A mixture of emotional anger and sadness awoke within, and he could not help but think back to his chapter days many years ago, when the much-deserved reward of glory and fame within the Imperium was snatched when he and so many others were excommunicated by the Inquisition. All those Rainbow Warriors who died during the Inquisitorial purge after the Bloodstar campaign, all of them his battle brothers-in-arms... All gone. All taken by the servants of the false-
'Snap out of it!' Doros mutely shouted himself down, but the desire for an outlet turned to regret at his own inaction to save his brethren. The Veteran Sergeant realised something was very wrong, made worse when the injured Salamander slowly began to loosen his grip, falling to the stone floor with a cracking thud. He had not passed yet, the marine had deliberately let go.
"Stay with me, Astartes!" Doros shouted, almost to drown out his own mental anguish. He reached his hand out toward the dying fellow, only to have it slapped away in rejection.
"N-No." The Salamander uttered, his voice was weak under the vox grill. "I drag you down, and in turn you prolong my suffering." The context of his words were distorted by the constant mental onslaught brought by the room, his own voice persuading him to end it all: End the pain. "Let me die here. Let me die and be forgotten."
(This will be the end of my post so that Grims NPCs can react. It is not neccessary for Inaros to post on this rotation. Also, apologies for the hiatus.)
He turned his head to his fellow Astartes. "Be on your guard." Doros said calmly, almost whispering. Though still with a slither of seriousness laced in his voice. "I doubt we've braved all the traps of this accursed place just yet."
And so he stomped onwards, and he was half-right. There was more to this place than what met the eye, but perhaps not in a physical sense. Doros' head felt terribly heavy. At first he had opted to remove his helmet, until the ghostly weight moved to his heart. A sudden need to mourn overtook him. A mixture of emotional anger and sadness awoke within, and he could not help but think back to his chapter days many years ago, when the much-deserved reward of glory and fame within the Imperium was snatched when he and so many others were excommunicated by the Inquisition. All those Rainbow Warriors who died during the Inquisitorial purge after the Bloodstar campaign, all of them his battle brothers-in-arms... All gone. All taken by the servants of the false-
'Snap out of it!' Doros mutely shouted himself down, but the desire for an outlet turned to regret at his own inaction to save his brethren. The Veteran Sergeant realised something was very wrong, made worse when the injured Salamander slowly began to loosen his grip, falling to the stone floor with a cracking thud. He had not passed yet, the marine had deliberately let go.
"Stay with me, Astartes!" Doros shouted, almost to drown out his own mental anguish. He reached his hand out toward the dying fellow, only to have it slapped away in rejection.
"N-No." The Salamander uttered, his voice was weak under the vox grill. "I drag you down, and in turn you prolong my suffering." The context of his words were distorted by the constant mental onslaught brought by the room, his own voice persuading him to end it all: End the pain. "Let me die here. Let me die and be forgotten."
(This will be the end of my post so that Grims NPCs can react. It is not neccessary for Inaros to post on this rotation. Also, apologies for the hiatus.)
GRim, upon walking into the room froze as the Darkness and despair seemed to overtake him. All the fears he had were amplified, he was a human, he was more vulnerable to fear than the Emperor's angels/ Grim's hand shakily went to his Pendant and he gripped it tightly as he seemed to have a gloom over take him and his face flush with despair and anguish, his hand shifting down to his bolt pistol on instinct..
The Astral Claw, wrought suddenly with memories of the betrayal of his chapter, it almost sent him into more of a rage than a depression, him growling as he slammed back the bolt of his Heavy Bolter, which he had named Penance when he was in the Deathwatch. H moved past Doros and the dying Salamander. "Leave him, if he wants to die here, so be it," he growled as he walked by him and shined a flashlight down a hallway. He would prove to everyone that there was some honor in his chapter still,. some glory left in those who had betrayed the Imperium and the Almighty God Emperor.
The Squad of Grim's veteran's were having...various reaction, the Medic of the squad was confused at every one's sudden gloom. She was a psychic blank, so the aura of depression had no effect on her. She watched the others around her with a very large degree of confusion. then the Comm's operator grabbed his head and started shaking "the voices, the voices...so much pain....so much sadness...so much anger...," he mumbled again and again as tears ran down his face.
Grim placed his boot on the downed salamander and slowly pulled out his bolt pistol and aimed it at the Salamander's head. "Prepare for death coward," he said, firing one lone shot into the Salamander's helmet and re-holstering the pistol.
The Astral Claw, wrought suddenly with memories of the betrayal of his chapter, it almost sent him into more of a rage than a depression, him growling as he slammed back the bolt of his Heavy Bolter, which he had named Penance when he was in the Deathwatch. H moved past Doros and the dying Salamander. "Leave him, if he wants to die here, so be it," he growled as he walked by him and shined a flashlight down a hallway. He would prove to everyone that there was some honor in his chapter still,. some glory left in those who had betrayed the Imperium and the Almighty God Emperor.
The Squad of Grim's veteran's were having...various reaction, the Medic of the squad was confused at every one's sudden gloom. She was a psychic blank, so the aura of depression had no effect on her. She watched the others around her with a very large degree of confusion. then the Comm's operator grabbed his head and started shaking "the voices, the voices...so much pain....so much sadness...so much anger...," he mumbled again and again as tears ran down his face.
Grim placed his boot on the downed salamander and slowly pulled out his bolt pistol and aimed it at the Salamander's head. "Prepare for death coward," he said, firing one lone shot into the Salamander's helmet and re-holstering the pistol.
You are on: Forums » Sci-Fi Roleplay » Warhammer 40k: Age of Certain Doom (CLOSED)
Moderators: Mina, Keke, Cass, Auberon, Claine, Ilmarinen, Ben, Darth_Angelus