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post #101 of 128 (permalink) Old 07-08-11, 11:05 AM
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I look forward to reading that particular chapter, Serp

I do commissions (Mostly non-human) on DeviantArt, PM me if you want a drawing of a character or whatnot. Descriptions are needed as I am not a mind reader

Taking quotes out of context is always fun:
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post #102 of 128 (permalink) Old 07-08-11, 11:21 AM
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Default No more suffering...


Such a concept no longer seemed to exist, as Nehekratekah looked out upon the blasted landscape. For too long had he slept, and now with his awakening he would struggle to bring about the perfect order his kingdom required. With his awakening, he had seen what the stars had become infested with, flittering little life forms that believed themselves the heir to their ancient realm.


The venerable royarch stirred himself into motion, and as he did so his legions reacted in kind. With but a thought, his loyal cryptek Hamemkateph activated the teleporters in accordance with his master`s will, and a thousand silver masks of death looked out upon the living with nothing but hatred and contempt. Nehekratekah roared a metallic cry of malice as he swung his god blade into the nearest living soldier. The star god that had been imprisoned on Mars would soon be recaptured if the efforts of the royarch`s general could be relied upon, and this world would then feel the full fury of the star borne`s might.

The royarch panned his head sideways, taking a far more in depth look at the battlescape that stretched before him. From what he could tell, the humans seemed desperate to defend something, but what exactly he could not ascertain just yet.

Hamemkateph, why do these creatures fight? He demanded.

Intelligence from our undercover operatives indicates that this world is the heart of the human empire. The cryptek replied. Logic dictates that the loss of this world would be critical in diminishing the morale of a weak living race such as these.

In future cryptek, I will require full data download befor I am dispatched to some random mudball. The royarch growled, decapitating yet more humans with a swing of the god blade.

Even from the Scythe Class Harvester in orbit, Hamamkateph could sense his master`s severe displeasure. My apologies Your Majesty. He offered. However, this situation came to our attention only recently, and no other was in proximity enough to intervene in time. More are coming I assure you, but for now you must hold our position here yourself.

* * *

If only the situation was so simple. Even from here, the cryptek could tell that the necrontyr efforts on this world called Terra were doomed to fail. Nonetheless, death was no barrier for their kind and so long as they could delay the human forces enough, their plan may still succeed. The human Emperor was paramount to the undying`s goal, and had to be contained no matter the cost.

The cryptek temporarily severed his connection to Nehekratekah and connected himself to the lesser ruler, a noble named Kapethoth. Instigating contact, he remained as distant as possible to minimise the time he would remain in contact.

Kapethoth was a carrier of the infectious Flayer virus, a malady that no sane necrontyr wished to contract.

My Lord Kapethoth, your status? The cryptek enquired.

A fine selection down here. The Flayer Lord replied. Yet the prize remains elusive. I am beginning to think the god child is not here.

Do not speak such blasphemy. Hamamkateph growled, elicting a laughing response from the Flayer lord stalking the Imperial Palace below.

Blasphemy? Kapethoth mocked. Who are we to deny divinity, especially from one who defeated the mighty Dragon itself! The flayer had lapsed into a rambling insanity that seemed to accompany times of combat. The cryptek had a momentary glimpse of fighting through the flayer lord`s eyes before he severed contact, the evil metallic laughter chilling even his own long faded soul...

It was looking more and more bleak as time went on. Over a hundred million years, all close to being undone by one infuriating individual.

No. It could not be allowed.

- - -

Nonsense is our Salvation

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post #103 of 128 (permalink) Old 07-10-11, 12:27 PM
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whoa serp love it
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post #104 of 128 (permalink) Old 07-10-11, 12:34 PM
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I do what I can. So who`s next?

Nonsense is our Salvation

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post #105 of 128 (permalink) Old 08-17-11, 11:50 PM
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Jocasta screamed an affirmation to the Emperor, her Emperor, her god and felt that he was with her. Captain Astor was with the others fighting the heretics that had raced ahead of the Word Bearers, eager to claim blood in the name of Lorgar.

She was about to move forward when she was pushed down roughly and a harsh voice commanded her to stay.

"Your courage is admirable Corporal" The Black Templar told her "But such fervent iconography of those heretics will see the end of you."

"What would you have me do Lord?" She asked although she realised that she did not know his name.

He looked around him, assessing the field, the strengths and weakness's of the enemy and their own forces of the Imperium.

"I am Brother Gerwaint" he told her "We are equals this day Corporal Jacosta. Now take your squad and come with me, I will show you how we operate in a theatre of war"

She did as he commanded and with her sqaud followed the towering form of the Black Templar brother around the left flank. He stopped in a rocky outcrop and turned to the ten man squad.

"Know that this day you have served your Emperor with hearts of iron and nerves of steel. Know that this day you have earnt the respect of the Black Templars."

His words stirred thier souls and courage mixed with pride flowed through thier veins. if they met their end this day - and that was highly likely given the nature of thier opponenets - then they would do so as sons and daughters of the true Emperor of Mankind.

"Come with me brothers and sisters" Gerwaint roared holding his sword high "NO PITY..."

His war cry was joined by the humans with him and pride filled him


With the same cry on thier lips they followed thier Astartes brother into the fray...
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post #106 of 128 (permalink) Old 12-11-11, 04:45 PM
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Magnus surveyed the unrecognizable landsape before him.

It had been a fertile world, once; he saw, with his inner eye, Prospero as it once was. Even now, twenty thousand years after it fell into ruin from the charge of the Wolves, it had not healed. How could it, in this impossible domain of the Eye, where gods walked and demons screamed?

He had moved Prospero here five thousand years ago- five thousand years outside, for time had very little meaning within the Eye. Looking over its gray-red-streaked desolation, he struggled to recognize why he had ever done so.

"Because it's home," he mumbled, and then turned around to greet the shuttle which had landed on the Obsidian Tower's summit.

Four figures stepped out. Two were recognizable as Grey Knights, silver warriors whose armor, carved with a million litanies to the Emperor, undulated in the hostility in the Eye, rebelling against the very heart of this existence. The others were Astartes too, but of an altogether different type. There was Bolesath, Chapter Master of the Dark Angels, a young and noble warrior with undecorated green armor. The final figure was not human in shape; it looked, if anything, like a box of void on legs. This was Shrike, the legendary Raven Guard, in one of his rare moments of visibility.

Behind the Space Marines, two more exited the shuttle. One was Inquisitor Forson Graves, and the other-

The other was his father, and his father's greatest foe, and no one, and everyone.

"Magnus," the Child-Emperor proclaimed, "I have returned."

"You were never here."

The Daemon-Primarch caught a spare filament of light in his left hand, twisting it to craft images of his father- his original father. That name was split now, one becoming many. Among the many was this one.

Thus the cycle began anew.

"All is dust. Yet never forget what this implies, Father-claimant. For if all is ruin, then from ruin all can come forth once again. I do not know whether you can be called my father; for that is a matter of opinion, and thus unknowable. But I have endured twenty millennia, and I know more than you ever will. My father destroyed my life. From the ruins came... this."

"You do not truly serve Tzeentch." It was not a question.

"I do not even pretend to anymore." Magnus extended a hand of light to the top of a towering building, far below the platform where he was now deciding his future. "But I will not serve you, either."

A point in time cracked. The future had been decided, though what that decision was wasn't yet clear. A crevasse appeared, and what could have been was gone, separated forever from what was.

"You felt that. It was a divergence. I will repeat my decision: I will not follow you, nor anyone else. My path is my own. Yet now, I suppose, at the end of time and warp, I have the courage to walk it. I leave to the mountains of infinity. You will go to the Plague Planet; I know Mortarion will join you, and Fulgrim, and perhaps Perturabo. You have the ability to wrest them from the false gods. But I will depart, and my Legion with me."

A moment later, he stood on a beach.

His Legion was with him; ten thousand, built up again from the decimation at Prospero, if only slightly. Amon was there, and Ahriman; and together they stood, watching the dunes, and behind them the soaring mountains of rock and ice. It was an infinite landscape, endlessly flat, and behind them the ocean roiled, and above them the storm sang; and before them the mountains grinned.

"It begins now, Father?" Amon asked.

"Indeed. Let us walk."

Renegades Saga contributions
The Emperor has turned to Chaos. The dream of the Imperium has become a nightmare. But Horus and his Coalition stand against the dark, here at the end of time.

Lorgar's Betrayal
What was broken has been mended. And what was burned away can never be reforged.
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post #107 of 128 (permalink) Old 12-11-11, 05:02 PM
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Very nice addition!!! It's good to see this thread still going.


The Founding Fields

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post #108 of 128 (permalink) Old 12-24-11, 06:40 PM
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I don't know if this stands up to the great work already here, but this came to me and I thought it might fit in? I'm always trying to improve, so please let me know of any suggestions/improvements privately and I'll change this post accordingly.
[N.B. I'm not 100% about unit designations (please advise and I'll amend). This isn't meant to involve anyone famous, just one of countless small skirmishes which is part of a much greater whole. I guess this may or may not lead to something more momentous].

Area: Western continent 8
Assigned units: Emperor’s Children 17th Chapter, World Eaters Chapter 32, Black Legion 8th Cohort assisting.
Targets: Hive Verundal and Plains of Castigor
Objective : Destruction of these will lead to 6% less reinforcements for hard-pressed Loyalists in this segment, also weaken resolve due to reduction in food supplies.

“What in the name of Khorne’s Holy Throne are we doing all the way over here, then?” Xelur, Champion of Khorne roared, seeing the distant cataclysmic struggles light up the horizon.

The several tons of his steed had already easily ploughed through the sandbagged position of Guardsmen, scattering them across the earth and was busying itself trampling one unfortunate into an even finer paste beneath it’s brazen hooves.

A howl of eldritch energy and green lightning played along the end of a trench, gouging up the hard-packed earth just as surely as through the pathetically human bodies of it’s defenders.
“How the hell should I know?” replied Arch-Sorceror Harlen of the Black Legion, breathing hard with the exertion of summoning such energies, but clearly exhilarated to the same degree.
“I go where the Lords will, but we all claim a ferocious tally today...even your God would look on this as a glorious day!”

Sweeping his halberd to the side, Xelur took a charging lasgunner across the chest, sending both of the victim’s sections spinning into the muck...finally sated by gore, the blade screamed in the joy of myriad kills just as much as it’s wielder.

Drawing twin pistols, Xelur send bolter rounds whooshing into a nearby parapet, keeping the humans’ heads down as the next squad leapfrogged and took over the task of slaughter.

Detaching himself from the main melee of his Sonic Marine unit, Archlord Velouris casually dismembered a Sergeant who was vainly trying rally the remainder of his troops who struggled bayonet to chain-blade with their foes in the waist-high mud and corpse-water.

Despite the tumult all around, the Slaaneshi’s voice still carried over to his allies without the use of a vox-unit; yet another Gift from his Dark Mistress:
“Xelur, for a debased skull-collector, you talk too much. Harlen is right, we go where we must and where the Gods desire our attentions. Today here, tomorrow elsewhere...”

A sound like the ramming of tanks clears the area which had been occupied by the Chaos reinforcement unit moments before, leaving their charred carcasses strewn and torn, just like their defiled and forgotten humanity.

Before them stands a Primaris, untouched by the bullets whirling around as he brings his hands together in another enormous thunderclap, frying a small unit of Havocs inside their armour as their unchained battle-lusts caused them to stray too close.

Pointing his crooked thighbone staff at the Imperial, Harlen invokes the name of Sabrides -the 75th daemon he enslaved- releasing the beast’s vehement essence in a torrent of crimson flame.
Yet the roiling destruction cascades over and around the human, deflected at the last second by a hemisphere of pale blue power.

Harlen’s staff energises as he approaches the so-called ‘Battle-Psyker’ and their weapons clash repeatedly, mirroring the time-old struggle between their cultures and deities. Green and blue sparks fly across both weapons, seeking primacy over the other, yet they are evenly matched given Harlen’s earlier exertions.

The human’s focus and commitment is undeniable as he screams to his foe:
“There is no hope for you, slave to the dark gods! The Emperor’s Light will burn you from this land and all the other planets He holds dear!”

Although experienced in centuries of combat, Harlen soon shudders beneath the Human’s relentless assault, bringing him to his knees. As he falls to the ground, the attacks upon the Sorceror suddently cease and the Primaris runs back for safety down a nearby tunnel, followed by a twin stream of bolter shells.

Picking himself out of the mud, Harlen has no time to thank Xelur before the steel horn of his saviour’s steed gores him through the chest, pinning him there like a defenceless insect as his vitals flood out, grotesquely garlanding the creature’s burnished head.

Craning his head upwards to question why, the last thing the Sorceror’s golden eyes see is the wickedly curved blade of Velouris’ power-rapier swinging towards him: cyan metals catch the light of dying Imperial vehicles as it shears off his head and most of his right shoulder.

As the separated bodyparts slide into the quagmire, their former owner is soon forgotten by both Champions, yet the Archlord curses himself at the oblique, almost ferally ragged cut; stunned that his emotions had ruled his disdainful mentality so completely.

“Such a one was not worthy of the power he held...the Imperial would have made a prodigious plaything however...yet you had to go and chase him away!” Velouris snarled, barely-checked hate wracking his entire frame.

Xelur’s sole reaction is a maniacal smirk and a shrug of his shoulders, before he pitches back into the fray.
Despite the earlier Chaos successes here, the Imperials had brought up reinforcements and were retaliating all along the front, so there was much more work to be done.

Urgently trying to trace any living relatives of Private Sam/Samuel "Jock" Wilson (Black Watch, No. 6 Commando, UK Army Service ID 2764432, died 10.06.44). Any info/suggestions gratefully received.

"Mockles! Pent on silpen tree, blockards three a-feening. Mockles! What silps came to thee, in thy pantry, dreaming?"

Please check out the HOES (Heresy Online Stories) threads and vote for the tales.
More feedback = better stories for everyone.
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post #109 of 128 (permalink) Old 07-26-12, 04:57 PM
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I know this is necromanting the thread, but I really think this is a good idea and want the story to continue. Chaplain Antonin here is from post 53, and we've heard about General Lions.

Targat Antonin stood at the base of the Column of Glory. It was a sacred tower that had been built in the days following the Horus Heresy, holding the bones of the Imperial Fists who had fallen in the first Battle of Terra, so long ago. He had not expected them to see battle once more.

And they will not. We will hold.

But even as he thought the words, he knew their falsehood. Terra was a maelstrom of battle, and the only thing that mattered was holding on long enough for the Emperor’s resurrection- the real Emperor, not the forming Star-Child, the child-Emperor or the Neomnissiah that some of the Mechanicum insisted was the true Emperor of Mankind.

The other members of the Northeast Front’s Achkas Region war council surrounded the column. From the Sixth and Seventh Companies of the Imperial Fists, Captains Anro Benfasav and Korir Etas, as well as Librarian Nifidor Neogur, joined Antonin. The loyal Mechanicum was represented by Fabricator Locum Xito Omalan, Titan Princeps Dwarg Gudd and the high-ranking Skitarii Wafara Kaeronaph. The Rhinoceroses Chapter’s Sixth Company was represented by its Captain, Burgu Sakzint. The disparate Imperial Guard forces were represented by Generals Tas Lions, Lei Nu, and Reania Kastarre, as well as Commissar Karibus Cain. Finally, and most uncomfortably, the Crimson Fists’ Second Company was present. Despite the two Chapters having grown apart since the 42nd millennium, they were still close, and Antonin had no quarrel with Captain Takalen Rospikt; but flanking Rospikt was an oversized red-and-indigo Dreadnought, and the legendary Marine inside the Dreadnought just happened to be the reason the two Chapters had grown apart.

“Pedro Kantor,” Benfasav noted with some acidity. The Ancient didn’t respond, but Rospikt fixed the Imperial Fists Captain with a glance that could be weaponized.

“Seriously,” General Lions noted, “let’s not argue about past feuds here. We have more pressing issues.”

“Indeed.” Omalan took out a data slate. “This is the disposition of our forces. The Marines are holding well, but over here, in the southeast, we’ve had a major Necron breakthrough. Even further south, a ton of daemons are converging on the palace’s center, led- so reports state- by the Daemon-Primarch Lorgar himself.”

“But that’s not our district,” Etas clarified.

“No, it is not. But the Necron assault is.”

“They’ve broken down the walls,” Sakzint noted, “so siege warfare will be useless there. I’ll take my Company to combat them- a couple of Titans might help, too.”

“My Titans,” Gudd noted, “are otherwise occupied in the northwest against a sea of Orks and Tyranids, assisting Lions' and Rospikt's forces. Two Warlords is all I have, and that’s including my own Mausoleum Pax.”

“Two Warlords and a Company of Marines,” Sakzint concluded, “would be enough to conquer most planets. Still, I doubt it’ll be enough, even with Guard assistance.”

“Kastarre’s regiment will come with you,” Cain said, “but everyone else is really stretched way too thin as is.”

Rospikt nodded. “I think it’s time to admit it,” he said. “Something needs to change. We’re losing.”

A storm of protest erupted, but Antonin silenced it with a handwave. “You do not understand,” he declared to Rospikt. None of them understood, not really. “The Emperor will return. His rebirth is close at hand. We only need to hold out- time is on our side.”

“And what proof do you have?”

“Who searches for proof in faith?”

“Enough, Chaplain,” Benfasav said. “As our human friend so rightly said, we must. Not. Quarrel. ”

“Forgive me for asking,” General Lions noted, “but what’s going on with the Emperor anyways?”

“No one knows,” Nu answered.

“Enough,” Etas declared. The Imperial Fist was by now tracing lines on his armor, something he did only when very nervous. “We all have tasks. Is this war council adjourned?”

“NO.” growled Kantor.

That was the first word the Dreadnought had said since arrival; yet it had the resonance of a hundred.


Neogur nodded, and Antonin felt him pump power into the column, through the sacred column….

A blinding, golden sun erupted hundreds of meters above the council. In the next instant, it shot withering beams of light at the monstrous legions outside. Wherever light met flesh, they collided, and there was death where there had been life.

At last Neogur’s power began to run out, and the Librarian sank to the ground on one knee. The sun instantly disappeared.

“Emperor…” Neogur said. “Primarch… Primarch…”. Then, he lost consciousness completely. Etas motioned General Lions, who was breathing heavily, and the two carried Neogur toward the infirmary.

“Death toll: 9874, of which only 73 Imperial.” Omalan looked up from the cogitator. “How come no one noticed that column’s psychic powers before?”


Antonin had conditioned himself to hate Pedro Kantor, but now that they had met… how could he hate that? Kantor was a ten-milennium-old legend, and unlike almost all other Dreadnoughts he had not spent nine-tenths of his third life asleep (though he rarely fought on the front lines). The only beings in the galaxy that had more memories were the Emperor and perhaps some Daemon-Princes, but Kantor… Kantor was human.

And yet, Antonin knew, in this he was wrong. Using relics and tricks was all well and good, but the council lacked faith.

“Immortal Emperor, forgive them,” Antonin whispered to himself as he walked towards the chapel. “I know you will return. I know you will return to us.”

And a voice answered, from somewhere outside Antonin, a cold voice that might or might not have been the Master of Mankind.

It said one word.


* * *

The Cadian Gate was aflame. Noavic Shasfa, Epistolary-rank Librarian of the Sons of Medusa, watched the spectacle with regret.

How many? How many human lives will be lost here?

Too many, he knew. At this crucial time, this moment when the final victory of Mankind was in sight at last, humanity’s weakness had fragmented it. Many had declined to heed the call of their messiah, even among the Space Marines. Most First Founding Chapters, among them the Ultramarines and the Imperial Fists, naively maintained the original incarnation of the Emperor was still alive. Others, such as the Blood Ravens and Red Scorpions, went off on their own mysterious quests. And, to Shasfa’s great shame, many Astartes had chosen to follow the pretender known as the Neomnissiah. Those included the Angels Sanguine, the Plutonium Dragons, the Aurora Chapter, the Iron Hands…

And two of the three clans of the Sons of Medusa. Lachesis and Atropos had put their support behind their Founding Chapter without thinking. Only Mageara had remained loyal to the true reborn Emperor. Only Mageara had been strong at the end, where it most mattered.

Shasfa wondered if any of the heretics had felt the psychic imprint of the reincarnated Emperor. Had they knowingly refused that warm power, that loyal certainty? It was hard to believe, but he had stood alongside those who were once his comrades when they first saw the Master of Mankind. To have walked away from that….

“Brother-Librarian Shasfa! Are you injured?”

Shasfa shook his head and hurled a mental hand out into the Coalition’s fleet. It was a massive projection of psychic energy, one he could never have managed before meeting the Emperor; but his master had unlocked a new potential within him. Still, crushing the enemy fighters was difficult for him even now.

Difficult- and painful. Shasfa’s head raged with resistance, images of the Warp threatening to spill out into him. No matter; he would crush the enemy, one by one. They were weak, and they denied the obvious truth, the only possible truth- the Emperor had returned.

Across the Imperial fleet, psykers and weapon batteries were doing the same. In the chaos of void war, strategy was at best the domain of a few admirals, and at worst nonexistent; for someone like Shasfa, destroying as much of the enemy as possible was all that mattered.

The Imperial fleet was significantly stronger in brute power, though it could have been stronger yet. A large portion had left with the Emperor into the Eye of Terror, on the unbelievable quest of redeeming the Daemon-Primarchs. Yet the Emperor could do the impossible, there was no doubt about that. And if the Coalition thought the Emperor’s absence would galvanize the Imperial fleet any less than his presence, they were gravely mistaken.

Vision darkening with utter exhaustion, Shasfa released his determination. The hand evaporated, and the Epistolary sat down to meditate.

Apothecary Thav Maudmic glanced at Shasfa. “Epistolary,” he noted, “do not over-exert yourself. We’re winning.”

“By how much?”

“They underestimated the strength of our fleet. Initially, we had approximately a 7:4 firepower advantage. They have taken 38% casualties since then; we’ve taken only 14%, mostly in Minobu’s vicinity, leaving us with about a 5:2…”

“Minobu’s here?”

Sur-Admiral Tokugawa Minobu was the leader of the Void Stalkers, a Dark Angels descendant, and probably the greatest void-war mastermind in the galaxy. Awe and a bit of apprehension intermingled in Shasfa’s heart.

“Minobu’s here, but even he can’t do anything with the misinformation our spies fed the Coalition.”

“Since when have you been an expert on void tactics anyways?”

“I’ve been studying the subject for the past year, actually.”

Once again, Shasfa was stunned by how little he really knew about Maudmic, who he considered his closest friend within the Chapter.

And then there was no more time for abstract strategy or comradely discussion as the boarding sirens flashed. Shasfa calmed himself and began to recharge, pumping a bit of nutrient fluid into himself in the meantime. A few minutes later, he was ready for battle once more. Next to him, Maudmic and Squads Twalon and Aqa stood waiting. Twenty-one Space Marines, ready to do battle against what would be, quite likely, their equals.

“We will win,” Shasfa confidently declared, taking the role of Iron Father for this engagement. “The Coalition has proven themselves to be incapable and undeserving. But who would we be if we did not make a key contribution to this victory? I do not need to tell you to do your duty, brothers. Purge the weak!”

“Purge the weak!” Maudmic and the Tactical Squads echoed, albeit with somewhat less enthusiasm.

And seconds later, the wall burst and the Crimson Eagles burst in. A quick scan told Shasfa there were two Assault Squads and a Devastator Squads- more Marines (twenty-nine) than the Sons of Medusa had, but no Librarian.

Shasfa attempted to unleash a telekinetic storm on them, but in his tired state the power flowing in was too great. He desperately willed it to stop, willed his mind to block it, before-

And it did stop, but the feedback fed into Shasfa’s armor. A moment later, his breastplate shattered into a million ceramite shards, flying into the midst of the Eagles.

Three died instantly. Two more were incapacitated, falling onto their knees. There were no casualties among the Sons, their mechanical augmentations and oft-upgraded armor protecting them. Then the actual firestorm began- the telekinetic distortion had scattered the Devastators’ first volley, but that was over now.

Astartes, demigods of war, were dying. The Assault Squads, their jump packs mildly scrambled by the storm, nevertheless continued to charge into the Sons’ line, even as bolter fire picked them apart. The Devastators were hurting the Sons of Medusa too, though, and Maudmic was forced to issue emergency injections to keep them on their feet, even as he narrowly weaved his way out of the firefight himself. Shasfa crumpled two Assault Marines’ armor, dropping them; but a third reached him, his chainsword clipping the Librarian’s exposed chest before Sergeant Twalon’s shot exploded his head. Shasfa dropped to his knees and then his back; but he could still easily see the battle’s madness evolving.

And within minutes, it was over. No Crimson Eagles were still able to fight. The casualties were horrendous on both sides, the battle having taken place without cover; perhaps three or four Sons of Medusa were still standing, including Maudmic. He ran over to the bleeding Shasfa.

“Insignificant chance of fatality,” Maudmic muttered, “with prompt treatment. You’ll live, brother. Sleep for now.”

Shasfa’s last sight before falling unconscious was Maudmic leaning over him, a concentrated expression on his now-helmetless face, a complex instrument hovering over the Epistolary’s chest.

And behind him, outside the battle-barge, the Cadian Gate burning.

* * *

They had sent representatives before. The Legion of the Damned. The Phantoms of Macragge. The Null Chapter. All loyal Marines, all brought back from the dead to serve the Emperor one last time.

But they were different. They had been first. They had been truly killed, not merely lost in the endless Warp; and whereas the others could only gain one last life, even that only an echo of true vitality, they could be reborn forever, losing none of their mind, none of their form, none of their strength.

Not any more than they had lost- and gained- during the first rebirth. That, the Third Phoenix remembered well- a vortex of treachery and pain from which their brotherhood emerged, even in the gaze of death, and then the sensation of suddenly existing when one should not. By then, the world on which they were killed was a bad memory, the war their deaths had begun was a legend of corruption, and the Legions they had loyally served had become dark parodies of their former selves. Third, Twelfth, Fourteenth or Sixteenth- those words were linked with only madness; they were the Vermillion Phoenixes, forged in the planetary inferno of Isstvan III, forever fighting unseen for the Emperor they had all died for at least once.

But now, the Third Phoenix knew, everything was changing.

Now the Time of Ending had come, and they knew, as one and each separately, that they were needed in full.

Now the values on which they had lived, ideals of honor, of valor, of truth, were battling with their opposites on a scale unseen since eternity’s beginning.

So now they moved to destroy the greatest of the unseen threats they were certain existed.

Now the Vermillion Phoenixes flew, as one and each separately, into the Maelstrom.

Renegades Saga contributions
The Emperor has turned to Chaos. The dream of the Imperium has become a nightmare. But Horus and his Coalition stand against the dark, here at the end of time.

Lorgar's Betrayal
What was broken has been mended. And what was burned away can never be reforged.

Last edited by VulkansNodosaurus; 01-03-13 at 01:14 AM.
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post #110 of 128 (permalink) Old 07-30-12, 04:00 AM
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Impatiently, I've greatly added to the post above- but please, someone, continue! This is an awesome idea that should go on.

Renegades Saga contributions
The Emperor has turned to Chaos. The dream of the Imperium has become a nightmare. But Horus and his Coalition stand against the dark, here at the end of time.

Lorgar's Betrayal
What was broken has been mended. And what was burned away can never be reforged.
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