This is a rewrite of an old story of mine which was never posted here, inspired and partially based on an RPG I am currently participating in on another forum. Having accrued some positive reviews, it now falls to me to post it here, possibly recieving insane rage or mocking laughter. Yes, I know I give up on stories way too quickly, however, it is my hope and ambition to eventually finish this one.
The Prodigal Leader
Then
The pod was more than just a space capsule. It was a fully self-contained life-support system, containing amniotic fluid, nutrient supplies and one very special passenger. One of the twenty sons of a very special man, created of his own genetic material. It burst into existence in low orbit, past the battered wrecks of spacecraft destroyed during Long Night, gravitational mechanics drawing it inexorably toward the blue-green world below, called Byzanthia by its people. As it fell, the fires of re-entry burning around it, it moved toward a small village. One whose destiny was to be marked in war.
~*~
‘My Lord Strategos, what is it?’
The aristocratic man facing the humble speaker was clad in steel armour, ceremonial red cloak billowing behind him. The cast of his face was military, moulded by war. There were bullet-scars on his face, on his belt a long-sword was held in a scabbard, and an antique revolver-pistol in the holster.
‘None of your business,’ the aristocrat replied to the village farmer. ‘My orders come from the Basileus himself.’
‘Of – of course,’ the natural reply came, and the Strategos moved away from the peasant. As Governor of this Thematic territory on the Empire’s war-torn border with the Masterkind Dominions, he was feudal overlord of the area, second only to the Empire’s own Basileus. He walked idly to one of his soldiers, who clutched his auto-rifle nervously.
‘Well?’ the Strategos asked. ‘What have you found at the crash site?’
‘A...’ the soldier said, as if he wasn’t sure what to say. ‘A...an infant, My Lord.’
The Strategos walked over to the field in which the capsule crashed. This world had not forgotten the idea that threats might come from above, from beyond the skies. But still, what harm could be done by a mere infant? He walked over to the crash site in measured, aristocratic strides, going to the smoking crater in which the infant lay. It was perfectly formed, undoubtedly male, wondrous in aspect. Briefly, the Strategos remembered his own wife, six surviving children, none a worthy heir. What harm could come of a new boy-child? He holds the infant protectively in his arms.
‘I think,’ he says. ‘I’ll call you...Belisarios.’
~*~
Far, far away
(Jermani, Terra)
The Red Engines of Ursh advanced. Painted a deep crimson, skulls were heaped upon the foul siege-machines as wretched trophies. This was barbarism, antithesis of Unity, the Unity the Emperor preached. Thaddeus Germanotta, Aquilifer (a rank equal to First Captain in other Legions) of the XI Legion, took a second to remember the moment he was taken away from his mother, the Domina of Nova Yourk, prominent leader in the Nord Merican cantons, and servant of the Master of Mankind. He remembered everything with crystal clarity – the tears, equally of pride and sorrow, on her face, the proud look as she waved him good-bye, but those thoughts meant nothing to him, nothing to him now. He was Astartes, beyond mere mortals and petty thoughts.
The bolt-shells flew and Thaddeus revved his chainsword. Elements of support from the Luna Wolves (how lucky of them to have a full name!) and Thunder-Warrior brigades were arriving, but they would have to wait. They would have to hold the line. Thaddeus fired his bolt-pistol at a blood-maddened Ursh warrior, blowing his torso to shreds. Another rushed at him, Thaddeus decapitated him with a single chainsword blow, carving through flesh and bone with pathetic ease.
Meanwhile, a Red Engine exploded as it was struck by a missile, blasting its wretched trophy-heap of skulls apart. But more arrived, they simply could not hold the line. That was when He arrived. He was clad in his golden armour, had appeared so suddenly it was hard to see where He had come from. But all that mattered was that He was there.
Lazily, he advanced into the ranks of the techno-barbarian warriors. He raised his blazing blade and swung it hard, creating a pulse of force that sent warriors flying through the air hundreds of metres. A Red Engine advanced near him, with a mere glance he reduced it to a heap of molten slag. Hope and joy soared in Thaddeus’ heart – he was with them, the Master of Mankind! He had already advanced far, and Thaddeus called the men of XI Legion to his side, ready to follow in the wake of the Emperor.
They advanced through the ruin of the techno-barbarian hordes, scattering what few remained beside them. The Emperor was at the heart of the horde, slaughtering dozens at a time, striking them down with tremendous power. The Marines of XI Legion pressed on, bolters firing and chainswords whirring, striking down techno-barbarians with ease. The slaughter continued, as the hosts of Ursh broke beneath the anvil of the Marines and the hammer that was the Emperor.
Their war-leader, a thick, heavily-built monster of a man called Sheng Kal, charged the Emperor, climbing atop the wreck of a Red Engine, then jumping from it in a bid to surprise the Emperor. He simply stopped in mid-air, held above the ground by some manner of unnatural force; the Emperor turned around and moved his hand into a fist. Sheng Kal’s head then exploded. The techno-barbarians, their leader gone, tried to retreat, to flee. The Luna Wolves’ Stormbird transporters – designed to give the armies of Unity mastery over the skies – rained down fire and death upon the fleeing barbarians, blasting them to atoms with their bombs and guns. Soon, none were left, the corpses of the techno-barbarians arranged in scattered heaps and burnt. Such was the price of denying Unity.
~*~
Archontopolis, Byanthia
The peoples of Byzanthia had endured many challenges in their existence, the most of which was the terrible might of the Masterkind. They were experts in the black arts of science, transgenic manipulations the knowledge of which had not been lost in the darkness of Long Night. They believed themselves supreme above all other beings. Belisarios would prove them wrong. The Masterkind were reduced to a last stronghold – their fortress-capital, built of ferrocrete and adamantium, powerful enough to survive an atomic barrage.
And he was fighting in its outskirts. Around him and his elite guard, the Eagle Blades, stretched a sea of ape-like abominations, hybridised and gene-altered versions of Terran apes. They were cut off from support. Death looked likely. With grim resolve Belisarios hacked through three gibbering ape-things with a single blow, but more always came.
Dimly he caught something above him, something fast and powerful. It flew down, almost vertically, its weapons blasting great holes in the horde of ape-horrors. It landed, its ramp descended, and out came a figure unlike any Belisarios had seen before.
He was a golden giant covered in equally gilded armour, standing a head over Belisarios. He bore a long runesword that burned with red-hot fire in his right hand, and his other had gigantic metal claws attached to it. His presence hit Belisarios like a physical blow, powerful but at the same time also caring and protective. Gentle celestial harmonies filled his mind, and a bright golden glow surrounded the gold-armoured figure.
‘There is much to attend to,’ he said in a deep, powerful voice that filled Belisarios with awe, and echoed distinctively. ‘Son.’
‘Father,’ Belisarios said unbidden, for he knew in his heart that the golden figure was not lying.
The golden figure stepped forward, followed by lesser figures in golden armour.
‘Let us wipe the stain of the enemy from this world,’ the Emperor said.
~*~
The battle was over. The city had been blasted to rubble, all life within cleansed. Some buildings still smouldered, but that was it. The devastation was total. Now, overlooking the rubble from orbit, the Primarch Belisarios looked over the leaders of the XI Legion, representatives of his Space Marines. They knelt before him, recognising him as Lord and Master. The Aquilifer of the Legion and commander of its First Company – Thaddeus was his name – knelt directly before the Primarch.
‘My Lord,’ Aquilifer Thaddeus spoke. ‘We...we need a name. All the Legions with Primarchs have names, my Lord.’
Belisarios spoke, after considering the sacrifice of the Eagle Blades, his bodyguards when he had still been unaware of his true nature and still been limited to Byzanthia.
‘You,’ he states. ‘You shall be my Eagle Blades.’
The Prodigal Leader [40K]
Moderator: LadyTevar
-
Lord_Of_Change 9
- Youngling
- Posts: 145
- Joined: 2010-08-06 04:49am
Re: The Prodigal Leader [40K]
Now
(115th Year of the Great Crusade, 75 Years since the discovery of the Eleventh)
Polaris Alpha
The green-skinned monstrosity collapsed dead on the blasted ground amidst the remnants of scorched vegetation. The crude being, its shape a mockery of the human form, was finally dead. But there were many more of its cousins yet to join it in death. Thaddeus fired his combi-bolter again at a charging Ork, blasting the wretched being apart. His Tactical Dreadnought Armour protected him against all save the most terrible threats, and around him fought the fellow warriors of the Myrmidons, the Primarch’s body-guard and war-council combined. One managed to get in close, past his barrage of bolt-rounds; he gutted the thing like a fish, his power blade passing easily through its abdomen and sternum and into its chest cavity, spraying him with the alien’s deep red blood.
The Ork struggled for a while longer, and then died. The Myrmidons were approaching the last fortress of the belligerent aliens deep within the jungles of this forsaken world. They could not fail, for their Primarch led them. A spray of blazing Promethium from a heavy flamer incinerated a swathe of Orks, the fire clinging to them, licking at their flesh as it charred and burnt. Still, the advance continued. Near Thaddeus fought Alejandro, a Terran from the mountainous north-west reaches of the sand-wastes that had been the Mediterranean Sea. He was Captain of the Fleet, bearing a mighty Thunder Hammer and wearing Power Armour, not the Tactical Dreadnought Armour the other Myrmidons favoured.
On the edge of his vision, Thaddeus saw Belisarios fight his way through Orks, hacking through them with his great power-sword, combi-bolter attached to the wrist of his artificer-crafted power-armour. The Myrmidons followed him, to the vale where (cursed fortune!) they were supposed to be heading. They hacked and shot their way through the vegetation, Belisarios leading the way. They reached the edge of the valley, and beheld the Ork citadel. It was ramshackle – such was the way of these xenos – yet it looked formidable. Fires burned within it, and what looked like crude fission generators were prominent. But more importantly, tens of thousands of the wretched Xenos seemed to be within – petty compared to the many millions the Eagle Blades’ 150,000 battle-ready Astartes had already slaughtered on this world. But it was still many.
Fighting was occurring at the outskirts of the fortified compound, and as such Belisarios could not obliterate it with orbital fire – if he did so, many battle-brothers might also fall in battle. It took Belisarios an instant to decide what to do. He activated his jump-pack, flying through the air toward the high walls of the fortress. He reached them, and began to do battle with the Orks on the battlements of the fortress. It similarly took Thaddeus and the others an instant to set the personal teleporters in their armour to take them to the Ork citadel. A terrific flash of light later, they were on the battlements.
The Orks seemed surprised by what was happening, as the Astartes continued their relentless attack. A Land Raider drove straight through the main gates, battering right through them, scores of Astartes following. Once they had broken through, it was all over. All that remained to be done was the destruction of the remaining Orks. It was over in hours, as drop-pods hammered down on the fortress, Alejandro calling down an orbital precision strike on the fission-generators at the fortress’ heart. The fleet obliged, raining down lance-strikes that blasted the generators to atoms. Dreadnoughts literally blended any Orks foolish enough to come near, or blasted them with autocannon fire. The Orks of Polaris Alpha had been broken, and the system was now suitable for human colonisation.
The Eleventh Legion – the Eagle Blades – celebrated their victory, mourned their losses, and prepared to set sail for their next destination. But they were never to reach it.
~*~
Unknown place/time
And what of the Eleventh? Came a voice, snarling with rage. They cannot be allowed to interfere!
With the Design? Spoke another voice, lissom and beautiful. If seduction personified had a voice, this would be it. Do not fear. Their eagle-bearer bears my blood in his veins, for I was mortal...once. Twenty-seven millennia ago as mortals count. It will be child’s play to lure them to the service of my Master the Dark Prince.
No, a booming, overpowering voice stated. That...honour is reserved for Fulgrim’s Legion.
Well then, came a voice, ophidian, deceitful, smooth and softly-spoken. I will call my master to disrupt the Aether. When the Eleventh have reached their location, everything their Father fought for will be gone. Chaos will reign supreme and they will be easily destroyed.
We are agreed, the other two voices stated.
Very well.
~*~
Stefana Castellucio, Remembrancer, lay in the bed in her minimalist quarters. She was leader of the Remembrancers assigned to the Eleventh Legion, and felt a shiver of fear. Not from being around the Astartes, no, but something she couldn’t identify. She was from Terra, of mixed Talian-Jerman stock, naturally blonde, beautiful in many ways. Not that the Astartes cared for the manifold delights her young, lissom body offered, much unlike the many men she had taken to bed. She was currently wearing practical clothes, the ones she wore on her assignments, cleaned of mud and grime, had lazily kicked off her shoes to assist her in lying down.
She was just about to turn off the lights and attempt sleep, when the red lights turned on and klaxons sounded. that could mean only one thing – an emergency situation. And what could this be. The door opened, and she saw the other prominent remembrancer – Karel Giorgatos, his name was.
‘The Primarch has summoned us to the command chamber,’ came his words, and Stefana stood up despite her tiredness. They reached the chamber of council, deep within the vessel, safe from all attack. The twelve members of the Primarch’s war-council sat around a circular table. Beside him, the Primarch himself (exuding the overwhelming feeling of awe he always did), sat his second-in-command, Thaddeus, and his fleet-captain, Alejandro.
‘Where are we?’
Those three words were simple.
‘We are near the southern end of the Eastern Fringe,’ Fleet-Captain Alejandro said. ‘Our Navigators and Astropaths have confirmed. The entire Legion fleet is there, no vessels unaccounted for.’
‘What of the Imperial Army and Mechanicum vessels?’
‘We have found no sign of them since translating out of the Warp,’ Thaddeus said. ‘We must therefore assume the worst.’
Those words hit all involved like a hammer-blow. The Imperium might deny the existence of such things, but where the Immaterium was involved, ‘the worst’ did not always mean ‘dead’.
‘Very well,’ the Primarch replied. ‘We are at the very fringes of Imperial rule. But no matter what happens, we shall remain steadfast.’
~*~
995.999.M41
The Ultramarines Chapter Strike Cruiser Vae Victus’ Captain, Force Commander Titus, could not believe the anomalous readings his Astropaths had given him three weeks ago. So many ships there were, but make, type or even who had built them was hard to discern at such distances. Could this be some kind of attack? What he knew, was that the mystery fleet was close to Tau space. He wouldn’t let the Tau get anywhere near this fleet, no matter what it was.
He had sworn that on the Golden Throne and Roboute Guilliman. And he would not break that oath.
(115th Year of the Great Crusade, 75 Years since the discovery of the Eleventh)
Polaris Alpha
The green-skinned monstrosity collapsed dead on the blasted ground amidst the remnants of scorched vegetation. The crude being, its shape a mockery of the human form, was finally dead. But there were many more of its cousins yet to join it in death. Thaddeus fired his combi-bolter again at a charging Ork, blasting the wretched being apart. His Tactical Dreadnought Armour protected him against all save the most terrible threats, and around him fought the fellow warriors of the Myrmidons, the Primarch’s body-guard and war-council combined. One managed to get in close, past his barrage of bolt-rounds; he gutted the thing like a fish, his power blade passing easily through its abdomen and sternum and into its chest cavity, spraying him with the alien’s deep red blood.
The Ork struggled for a while longer, and then died. The Myrmidons were approaching the last fortress of the belligerent aliens deep within the jungles of this forsaken world. They could not fail, for their Primarch led them. A spray of blazing Promethium from a heavy flamer incinerated a swathe of Orks, the fire clinging to them, licking at their flesh as it charred and burnt. Still, the advance continued. Near Thaddeus fought Alejandro, a Terran from the mountainous north-west reaches of the sand-wastes that had been the Mediterranean Sea. He was Captain of the Fleet, bearing a mighty Thunder Hammer and wearing Power Armour, not the Tactical Dreadnought Armour the other Myrmidons favoured.
On the edge of his vision, Thaddeus saw Belisarios fight his way through Orks, hacking through them with his great power-sword, combi-bolter attached to the wrist of his artificer-crafted power-armour. The Myrmidons followed him, to the vale where (cursed fortune!) they were supposed to be heading. They hacked and shot their way through the vegetation, Belisarios leading the way. They reached the edge of the valley, and beheld the Ork citadel. It was ramshackle – such was the way of these xenos – yet it looked formidable. Fires burned within it, and what looked like crude fission generators were prominent. But more importantly, tens of thousands of the wretched Xenos seemed to be within – petty compared to the many millions the Eagle Blades’ 150,000 battle-ready Astartes had already slaughtered on this world. But it was still many.
Fighting was occurring at the outskirts of the fortified compound, and as such Belisarios could not obliterate it with orbital fire – if he did so, many battle-brothers might also fall in battle. It took Belisarios an instant to decide what to do. He activated his jump-pack, flying through the air toward the high walls of the fortress. He reached them, and began to do battle with the Orks on the battlements of the fortress. It similarly took Thaddeus and the others an instant to set the personal teleporters in their armour to take them to the Ork citadel. A terrific flash of light later, they were on the battlements.
The Orks seemed surprised by what was happening, as the Astartes continued their relentless attack. A Land Raider drove straight through the main gates, battering right through them, scores of Astartes following. Once they had broken through, it was all over. All that remained to be done was the destruction of the remaining Orks. It was over in hours, as drop-pods hammered down on the fortress, Alejandro calling down an orbital precision strike on the fission-generators at the fortress’ heart. The fleet obliged, raining down lance-strikes that blasted the generators to atoms. Dreadnoughts literally blended any Orks foolish enough to come near, or blasted them with autocannon fire. The Orks of Polaris Alpha had been broken, and the system was now suitable for human colonisation.
The Eleventh Legion – the Eagle Blades – celebrated their victory, mourned their losses, and prepared to set sail for their next destination. But they were never to reach it.
~*~
Unknown place/time
And what of the Eleventh? Came a voice, snarling with rage. They cannot be allowed to interfere!
With the Design? Spoke another voice, lissom and beautiful. If seduction personified had a voice, this would be it. Do not fear. Their eagle-bearer bears my blood in his veins, for I was mortal...once. Twenty-seven millennia ago as mortals count. It will be child’s play to lure them to the service of my Master the Dark Prince.
No, a booming, overpowering voice stated. That...honour is reserved for Fulgrim’s Legion.
Well then, came a voice, ophidian, deceitful, smooth and softly-spoken. I will call my master to disrupt the Aether. When the Eleventh have reached their location, everything their Father fought for will be gone. Chaos will reign supreme and they will be easily destroyed.
We are agreed, the other two voices stated.
Very well.
~*~
Stefana Castellucio, Remembrancer, lay in the bed in her minimalist quarters. She was leader of the Remembrancers assigned to the Eleventh Legion, and felt a shiver of fear. Not from being around the Astartes, no, but something she couldn’t identify. She was from Terra, of mixed Talian-Jerman stock, naturally blonde, beautiful in many ways. Not that the Astartes cared for the manifold delights her young, lissom body offered, much unlike the many men she had taken to bed. She was currently wearing practical clothes, the ones she wore on her assignments, cleaned of mud and grime, had lazily kicked off her shoes to assist her in lying down.
She was just about to turn off the lights and attempt sleep, when the red lights turned on and klaxons sounded. that could mean only one thing – an emergency situation. And what could this be. The door opened, and she saw the other prominent remembrancer – Karel Giorgatos, his name was.
‘The Primarch has summoned us to the command chamber,’ came his words, and Stefana stood up despite her tiredness. They reached the chamber of council, deep within the vessel, safe from all attack. The twelve members of the Primarch’s war-council sat around a circular table. Beside him, the Primarch himself (exuding the overwhelming feeling of awe he always did), sat his second-in-command, Thaddeus, and his fleet-captain, Alejandro.
‘Where are we?’
Those three words were simple.
‘We are near the southern end of the Eastern Fringe,’ Fleet-Captain Alejandro said. ‘Our Navigators and Astropaths have confirmed. The entire Legion fleet is there, no vessels unaccounted for.’
‘What of the Imperial Army and Mechanicum vessels?’
‘We have found no sign of them since translating out of the Warp,’ Thaddeus said. ‘We must therefore assume the worst.’
Those words hit all involved like a hammer-blow. The Imperium might deny the existence of such things, but where the Immaterium was involved, ‘the worst’ did not always mean ‘dead’.
‘Very well,’ the Primarch replied. ‘We are at the very fringes of Imperial rule. But no matter what happens, we shall remain steadfast.’
~*~
995.999.M41
The Ultramarines Chapter Strike Cruiser Vae Victus’ Captain, Force Commander Titus, could not believe the anomalous readings his Astropaths had given him three weeks ago. So many ships there were, but make, type or even who had built them was hard to discern at such distances. Could this be some kind of attack? What he knew, was that the mystery fleet was close to Tau space. He wouldn’t let the Tau get anywhere near this fleet, no matter what it was.
He had sworn that on the Golden Throne and Roboute Guilliman. And he would not break that oath.
-
Lord_Of_Change 9
- Youngling
- Posts: 145
- Joined: 2010-08-06 04:49am
Re: The Prodigal Leader [40K]
Now
(999.M41)
The Planet Killer, Eye of Terror
The throne-room was barren, bare of ornamentation. Spikes exuded from the walls, menacing. Vast columns thicker than men held up the roof, spiked, scenes engraved on them depicting daemons performing unspeakable atrocities upon unfortunates. In the shadows lurked gigantic figures, hidden in darkness save for the red glare of their eyes. The air was hot, heady with the heat of the furnaces burning beneath. There was little light, save for the area surrounding the throne and the path leading up to it, and what light existed was generated by burning torches, burning with smokeless, cold fire.
The door, the immense bulkhead on the far end of the chamber from the throne, opened, sliding open from the centre. A figure walked through, and it then closed just as quickly. There was no escape from the throne-chamber of Abaddon the Despoiler. Abaddon, that name, cursed throughout the Imperium. Slouching on the throne, he glared. He was an immense figure, clad in great black armour that was gold-trimmed. In his right hand was an immense black blade, faces forming on its surface, trying to escape, only to be pushed back into the cold metal that formed the material existence of the black blade Drach’nyen. Covering his left was a great claw, dark lightning flickering between its talons. His face had the appearance of unspeakable rage and loathing and contempt, hidden behind an icy veneer.
‘Mordeghai,’ he spoke, every syllable pronounced separately as if it were its own sentence, the voice leaden and deep.
‘Y-yes, My Lord?’ said the Sorcerer, voice panicked.
‘What did you see?’
‘M-many things, Lord Abaddon! I saw...a Primarch, a Legion of Astartes.’
‘You lie,’ the Despoiler replied. Those words were a death sentence.
‘I d-do not, L-lord Abaddon!’
‘They are all accounted for. Nothing escapes my gaze in the Eye.’
‘B-but!’ the sorcerer screeched.
‘There is no excuse for failure.’
Abaddon rose from the throne and walked toward the sorcerer, each step leaden and sonorous, like the crash of thunder. The sorcerer raised his force-staff as a shielding gesture, Abaddon raised Drach’nyen, the daemon-blade screeching, demanding blood and souls. The blade came down. The sorcerer’s staff was shattered into fragments, the spells empowering it undone. The blade continued its course, decapitating the sorcerer in a single strike. His soul screamed as it was drawn into the cursed blade to suffer an eternity of torment. Abaddon did not suffer liars to give him counsel.
~*~
She was many things to many people. In her past, thirty-eight or so millennia ago, she had taken many names that were forgotten now, had vanished under the weight of aeons. But with immortality in Chaos, her eternal reward received after the physical death of her body, given to her for her devotion, she now took one name and one name only – the Divine Enticement, Daemon Princess of Slaanesh. Oh, how to describe such seductive beauty and utter horror combined? Her most favoured material form was a human female of normal size and proportions, patterned loosely after her mortal body.
Her hair was a lavender blonde, her exposed skin was pale to the eye. What little clothing she wore was designed to both titillate and arouse, barely hiding anything. The pheromone-poisons her skin exuded could drive even the strongest-willed man or woman to utter bliss and a desire to stay by her forever, and the physical pleasure she could give would make any mere mortal woman envious. Of course, there were other applications to the gifts of Slaanesh than those associated with physical intercourse. Her long, exquisite tongue could trip and snare, her pheromones could dull the mind and fog reflexes, her hands ending in long, taloned fingers could just as easily tear flesh apart as give pleasure to it, and her long black-leather whip could bring unutterable pain as well as impossible pleasure.
She had sensed the return of the XI Legion through an old connection. Their eagle-bearer, the leader of their ‘First Company’ was part of her bloodline, descended from her. Blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh. She was concerned however – he was under the eye of his Primarch, it would be most difficult to corrupt or destroy him.
As she mused on these matters, another thought reached her. A summons sent from a planet in the wastes of the Eastern Fringe. Curiously, she decided to act on it. What harm was there?
~*~
The wrecked ship was most odd, Brother-Captain Phaeton had to admit. It was of Imperial design most certainly, but some things were odd. It had been drifting in space for a mere six months, an Astartes strike cruiser, lifeless. There were signs of battle damage everywhere, the ship had been boarded. Reconnaissance teams dispatched to the Apothecarion had discovered that the ship’s gene-seed stocks had been taken by force. But who would steal Astartes gene-seed? What use could they have for it? Phaeton broke through the door of the vessel, walking through it in his Terminator Armour. His foot-falls were heavy on the deck plate.
He was confused – this part of the ship was not what he had expected. It was a...cathedral was the best word to describe it. Stained glass windows were everywhere, some broken beyond his ability to discern what had originally been portrayed. He moved over to a data-point, browsed for a listing of the Space Marine Legions. What he saw shocked him. Nine of the twenty Legions were listed as ‘EXCOMMUNICATE TRAITORIS’. They had seemingly betrayed their Emperor and the bonds of brotherhood that linked the Astartes Legions together. The second Legion was, as expected, expunged – Phaeton recalled that black day briefly, before banishing the thought from his mind.
The Eleventh, his own –
LEGIO XI: ALL RECORDS EXPUNGED. ORDER ORIGINATION: UNKNOWN.
‘Emperor,’ Phaeton muttered. The Legion’s honour, its mighty deeds, its Primarch – gone. Removed. Expunged. The thought shocked him beyond comprehension.
Phaeton immediately downloaded all the data there was on the ship and ordered an extraction, then as he returned to the Battle-Barge Glory’s Edge, ordered the ship to return immediately to the main fleet. The Primarch needed to know.
(999.M41)
The Planet Killer, Eye of Terror
The throne-room was barren, bare of ornamentation. Spikes exuded from the walls, menacing. Vast columns thicker than men held up the roof, spiked, scenes engraved on them depicting daemons performing unspeakable atrocities upon unfortunates. In the shadows lurked gigantic figures, hidden in darkness save for the red glare of their eyes. The air was hot, heady with the heat of the furnaces burning beneath. There was little light, save for the area surrounding the throne and the path leading up to it, and what light existed was generated by burning torches, burning with smokeless, cold fire.
The door, the immense bulkhead on the far end of the chamber from the throne, opened, sliding open from the centre. A figure walked through, and it then closed just as quickly. There was no escape from the throne-chamber of Abaddon the Despoiler. Abaddon, that name, cursed throughout the Imperium. Slouching on the throne, he glared. He was an immense figure, clad in great black armour that was gold-trimmed. In his right hand was an immense black blade, faces forming on its surface, trying to escape, only to be pushed back into the cold metal that formed the material existence of the black blade Drach’nyen. Covering his left was a great claw, dark lightning flickering between its talons. His face had the appearance of unspeakable rage and loathing and contempt, hidden behind an icy veneer.
‘Mordeghai,’ he spoke, every syllable pronounced separately as if it were its own sentence, the voice leaden and deep.
‘Y-yes, My Lord?’ said the Sorcerer, voice panicked.
‘What did you see?’
‘M-many things, Lord Abaddon! I saw...a Primarch, a Legion of Astartes.’
‘You lie,’ the Despoiler replied. Those words were a death sentence.
‘I d-do not, L-lord Abaddon!’
‘They are all accounted for. Nothing escapes my gaze in the Eye.’
‘B-but!’ the sorcerer screeched.
‘There is no excuse for failure.’
Abaddon rose from the throne and walked toward the sorcerer, each step leaden and sonorous, like the crash of thunder. The sorcerer raised his force-staff as a shielding gesture, Abaddon raised Drach’nyen, the daemon-blade screeching, demanding blood and souls. The blade came down. The sorcerer’s staff was shattered into fragments, the spells empowering it undone. The blade continued its course, decapitating the sorcerer in a single strike. His soul screamed as it was drawn into the cursed blade to suffer an eternity of torment. Abaddon did not suffer liars to give him counsel.
~*~
She was many things to many people. In her past, thirty-eight or so millennia ago, she had taken many names that were forgotten now, had vanished under the weight of aeons. But with immortality in Chaos, her eternal reward received after the physical death of her body, given to her for her devotion, she now took one name and one name only – the Divine Enticement, Daemon Princess of Slaanesh. Oh, how to describe such seductive beauty and utter horror combined? Her most favoured material form was a human female of normal size and proportions, patterned loosely after her mortal body.
Her hair was a lavender blonde, her exposed skin was pale to the eye. What little clothing she wore was designed to both titillate and arouse, barely hiding anything. The pheromone-poisons her skin exuded could drive even the strongest-willed man or woman to utter bliss and a desire to stay by her forever, and the physical pleasure she could give would make any mere mortal woman envious. Of course, there were other applications to the gifts of Slaanesh than those associated with physical intercourse. Her long, exquisite tongue could trip and snare, her pheromones could dull the mind and fog reflexes, her hands ending in long, taloned fingers could just as easily tear flesh apart as give pleasure to it, and her long black-leather whip could bring unutterable pain as well as impossible pleasure.
She had sensed the return of the XI Legion through an old connection. Their eagle-bearer, the leader of their ‘First Company’ was part of her bloodline, descended from her. Blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh. She was concerned however – he was under the eye of his Primarch, it would be most difficult to corrupt or destroy him.
As she mused on these matters, another thought reached her. A summons sent from a planet in the wastes of the Eastern Fringe. Curiously, she decided to act on it. What harm was there?
~*~
The wrecked ship was most odd, Brother-Captain Phaeton had to admit. It was of Imperial design most certainly, but some things were odd. It had been drifting in space for a mere six months, an Astartes strike cruiser, lifeless. There were signs of battle damage everywhere, the ship had been boarded. Reconnaissance teams dispatched to the Apothecarion had discovered that the ship’s gene-seed stocks had been taken by force. But who would steal Astartes gene-seed? What use could they have for it? Phaeton broke through the door of the vessel, walking through it in his Terminator Armour. His foot-falls were heavy on the deck plate.
He was confused – this part of the ship was not what he had expected. It was a...cathedral was the best word to describe it. Stained glass windows were everywhere, some broken beyond his ability to discern what had originally been portrayed. He moved over to a data-point, browsed for a listing of the Space Marine Legions. What he saw shocked him. Nine of the twenty Legions were listed as ‘EXCOMMUNICATE TRAITORIS’. They had seemingly betrayed their Emperor and the bonds of brotherhood that linked the Astartes Legions together. The second Legion was, as expected, expunged – Phaeton recalled that black day briefly, before banishing the thought from his mind.
The Eleventh, his own –
LEGIO XI: ALL RECORDS EXPUNGED. ORDER ORIGINATION: UNKNOWN.
‘Emperor,’ Phaeton muttered. The Legion’s honour, its mighty deeds, its Primarch – gone. Removed. Expunged. The thought shocked him beyond comprehension.
Phaeton immediately downloaded all the data there was on the ship and ordered an extraction, then as he returned to the Battle-Barge Glory’s Edge, ordered the ship to return immediately to the main fleet. The Primarch needed to know.
Re: The Prodigal Leader [40K]
Very interesting, and more or less canon compliant. Here's to more about your take on the Missing Legion, and fleshing out their organization and character.
Karen Traviss IS a Kaminoan!