I started work on this last night; After realising the World Eater's have hardly any fiction around them, I thought I would tackle some. This is set Pre-Heresy, and will hopefully run to the end of the Heresy depending on the characters that come and go. So here it is-
Lord-Lieutenant Faustin cupped one hand over his mouth and yawned deeply. Tiredness had overcome him, the Terran having not been able to rest in several days. He flicked strands of black hair from his puffy, red tinted eyes. His quarters was Spartan and closing on empty, with only his polished white and blue armour being displayed for viewing purposes. He stood, his crimson robes flapping wildly as he pushed away from his throne and moved towards the door. Perhaps somewhere, someone would have something he could occupy himself with.
was remarkably silent. For the ten thousand or so crew and passengers, and the five hundred World Eaters that called it home, only several hundred moved through its darkened decks. Like a planet it had a day and night cycle, in which the lights would dim and brighten accordingly. The Astartes present aboard usually spent the night cycle resting and tending wounds, or gaining the latter in the training pits deep within the super structure of the mighty vessel. Several crew men paused and bowed as he passed, casting away their thoughts at the sight of such a esteemed member of the Legion.
His bulk was immense. His torso was covered in bunches of oiled muscle, and his arms could be said by one to be akin to fledging tree trunks. His jaw line was square and protruding, so much that he had a large under-bite. His eyes were orange like the dusk sky, and his mane of unkempt hair fell down to the right of his shoulder, dangling at his chest. Each step ended in a resounding clang as he pushed his bare feet into the cold deck, causing them to tingle joyfully at the icy embrace.
The labyrinthine decks of the Capital Ship spread off in all directions, jutting through its oily gut and overlooking the main vehicle maintenance decks, were the rows of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds rested in their tight moorings. But he was not going there, for that was a place he tried to avoid whenever he could, hating the cramped hallways and the cavernous abysses which penetrated deep into the ships core. That was where the slave-crews and their brutish handlers made their home, where they could run freely away from the ever watching gaze of the XII Legionnaires.
He continued his journey up wide set stairs, across gantries that dangled hundreds of metres above flooring, through armouries and feasting halls. Soon he found himself upon the command deck. Unlike the cramped lower levels, the command deck was artistic and well spaced with a navy blue carpet that lined the floor and large statues of long dead heroes and paintings of far flung war zones. Faustin wriggled his toes in the warm carpet for several moments, relishing it and smiling before continuing onwards.
The mighty blast doors that led onto the bridge, each one carved from the finest metal that could be found within the known Imperium, loomed ahead as he drew nearer. Both had splashes of blue and white paint across them, and in the centre the latch was shaped into that of a jaw, a world between them to represent the World Eaters Legion. As he neared a Servitor clambered from a dark alcove nearby on three legs and approached him, the dried skin of its torso sprinkling white flakes across the carpet.
It outstretched one three pronged hand and placed it on his shoulder saying in a gruff, metallic voice “Identify yourself”. Faustin flicked it away with one gnarled hand and growled “Infidel, I am Lord-Lieutenant Faustin! Who else would I be? Bloody Angron himself?” the Servitor, taken aghast by this stepped away and a light flashed from one of its shoulders, and slowly the doors rolled apart to reveal a red lit interior. He walked forwards, ignoring the Servitor and letting out a low grumble.
The bridge was a immense thing. Planned out over four levels, with the lower three below that of which Faustin was on and occupied by Servitors and Legion-Thralls each consisted of three hundred stations with cable lined paths between them. The top was occupied by the World Eaters. Eight in total stood as a ever vigilant guard with Bolters pulled tightly across their chests, their faces hid beneath smooth helms. At the centre, standing behind a semi-circle of consoles was his advisor and closest Brother.
As he approached, the cold metal of the floor once again sending tingles up his enhanced form, the Astartes turned. Adorned in full battle plate, he utterly dwarfed Faustin in both aura and stature. A topknot of blonde hair was held upon his wire traced head, dangling at the top gently. A pair of crystal blue eyes sat in the centre of his face, a long nose that had evidently been broken several times, due to the misshapen centre pointed downwards from those. His lips were pulled tightly against his flesh, so much that the glint of white teeth could be made out from beneath. A patchwork like scar covered his right cheek, something that had been earned when he was a mere youth.
Faustin stopped and smiled saying “Varren, I trust all is well aboard?” the Brother-Captain before him returned “It is Lord-Lieutenant, Angron and the Legion are pushing through the Elra System as we speak, a Scout-Frigate arrived no more than a hour ago and relayed a message from our Lord. The Elran have opened peace negotiations with Angron, I think it is fair to say that will not get far”. His accent was laced with Terran origin, something that both Faustin and Varren shared.
Both let out a loud chuckle when the Brother-Captain finished speaking, and Faustin smiled replying “Yes Orak, we both know how it will end. I almost feel apologetic for the Xeno-Worshipping whores. Angron will deploy entire Companies against them Orak, thousands of our brethren will fall upon the worlds of the Elran.” He gripped the shoulders of Orak Varren, staring blindly into the giant view-dome that formed the forwards section of the bridge and muttered “Brother, order the Companies ready. We make for Elra!”.
Faustin smiled once again as his armour was fitted, the gleaming surface shining in the lights of his quarters and twisted his wrist, servos whining loudly. He proceeded to flex his fingers twice, pulling them into the black, soft palm of his armour. Two of his Thralls held his Chain-Axe between them, their faces red with effort. Another held a purple velvet pillow, on which his helm, which was topped in a horse plume rested gently. His Bolt Pistol lay upon another such pillow nearby, its flank glistening with lubricants and incense.
He took the Bolt Pistol first, pushing it into the empty leather holster that rested emptily at his hip. His Chain-Axe followed, however that was lifted above his head and slipped into the thick black straps that were adjoined to his backpack like a octopus’s suckers would to the ocean floor. The weapon fell down into its locks gracefully and he finally reached for his helm. The eyes were tinted red to give it a more malicious appearance, and a single black stripe moved down the centre of the forehead to mark his rank and in remembrance of a long dead Brother.
It lifted in his tight grip, and he brought it too his face and placed his lips upon the stripe before lowering it to his side, pushing it into the mag-locks there. With a click it was pulled from his hands, and sucked onto his armour tightly. Finally he was done and he bid his Thralls farewell, heading towards the primary Embarkation Deck. The travel through the Gladiator
was short, as the decks had been cleared for the use of the Astartes alone and thus it was easy for Faustin to make short time of the descent from his quarters along the main spine.
When he did reach the Embarkation Deck he was met with rows upon rows of blue and white armoured Astartes. Each stood at attention, with their arms held so that they pointed downwards into the weathered decking. Brother-Captain Tikhon, his features as stern as ever, stood at the head of his Veteran’s each of which had served with Faustin for decades. Brother-Captain Varren, stood with the Assault-Brother’s of his Company with a fur thrilled cloak pulled over his armour tightly, his helm in place upon his head.
Brother-Captain Anzo leaned heavily into the deck upon the hilt of his Chain-Axe, staring at the nearby row of Stormbirds that would carry them into war. Finally stood the two hundred Neophytes of Brother-Captain Raban Varius’s, freshly transported from Terra to reinforce the Eighty Seventh Expedition Fleet stood loosely to the left, their armour unadorned compared to that of the more Veteran Marines. Each Company slammed heels into the deck when he entered, the Brother-Captain’s advancing forwards with Tikhon at the lead.
Tikhon was effectively the second in command of the Eighty Seventh and it showed perfectly. Unlike his fellow Captain’s and Faustin himself he dwarfed each one in a mighty set of Tactical Dreadnaught Armour, newly forged upon some far flung Forge World. A black beard covered his lower face, twirled tightly at the tips, his augmented left eye whirred loudly as he zoomed in on Faustin and smiled, revealing a row of metal edged teeth that could rip a mans head from his shoulders. His forehead was a land of scars and bulging veins that pumped ecstatically with Combat-Simms and blood. He had no hair, but rather a tangle of thick black wires that hummed gently in the background.
Unlike the calm temperament of Varren, Tikhon was a volcano ready to unleash a tide of magma upon some unsuspecting world or person. He stopped a metre or so away, staring down upon Faustin and said “Ah finally Faustin, we have been waiting”. The moment between the two was tense, and Faustin took notice of the giant Power Fists that were pulled tightly into the armour of Tikhon clenched and unclenched, a electrical surge dancing along the fingers.
He grinned and returned calmly “Your just getting old Tikhon, what your in the eight digits now? Or is it the nines? I really cannot remember” he gripped his arm and both burst into a joyous laughter, until Tikhon pulled his arm free and watched as the remaining Officers took up a position around Faustin. Varius, the newest member of the Council went with his helm on, a pair of rectangular ornaments sprouting upwards from the smoothed surface. Anzo, his gladiatorial like armour covered in bloody trophies with a brown leather cape flowing from his shoulders, hooked on via a pair of spikes stood next to Varren who nodded intently.
The Lord-Lieutenant spoke to all within the Embarkation Deck and not just at his Captain’s, silence suddenly casting a veil upon those bunched within. He stepped forwards, moving along the line “Brothers of the Eighty Seventh, the Elra system has cast down our rightful ownership of their worlds, our sire has made planet fall and is embattled with their treacherous warriors. We are to follow within the hour, give or take the time that it takes us to gain access through the blockade. Brothers of the World, we land and we slaughter! In the name of Angron, tear the Elran limb from damned limb!”.
A ferocious cheer was thrown into the air, throats growling wildly and Faustin smiled as his Captain’s dispersed and headed for their Stormbirds, their Companies in tow. Tikhon moved away to the twenty Terminator’s that formed the heavy arm of the Eighty Seventh, each of which stood with weapons held at the ready mostly in the forms of giant two handed Chain-Axes. The remainder of the Company was made up of close combat specialists, each of which fell under the command of Faustin himself.
The Elra system shook in sheer fear as the mighty ship was spat violently from the Empyrean, ethereal energies twirling around the plated form as the lights fluttered on and off, the Navigator screaming violently. Moments passed, before the Stormbirds flew outwards from the Embarkation Deck, their wide winged forms spinning into the atmosphere of the nearest planet. Far below, the World Eaters angled their helms upwards, flames licking their armour as they rested amongst great pyres formed from the bodies of Elran’s and watched as the first Stormbird kicked up a wave of dust and landed heavily.
Faustin was the first out, a pair of Terminator armoured brethren flanking him, and making him look obsolete as he pressed his boot down hard into the soil which had now turned a light pink from the blood which had befallen it. Hundreds of World Eaters crowded around, their armour stained in gore. Many wore belts of heads and strips of meat that in their minds formed trophies, but to the newly arrived Terran Astartes simply made them look like some form of Daemon from the Chronicles of Ursh.
High above, the pair of Stormbirds assigned to the Neophytes of Varius circled, their rear hatches opened. The Lord-Lieutenant noticed Marines standing in the opened hatches, staring downwards at their Brothers with helms locked in place. A pair of Astartes, one tall and gaunt, the other short and stout approached Faustin and stopped several metres away, both almost identical in appearance, their faces only differing due to the fatness of the rearmost.
They stared at each other, the newly arrived Astartes standing with straightened backs and high chins while those who had fought for weeks were stooped tiredly, their blue and white armour bathed in crimson. The tallest stepped forwards and said “I am Brother-Captain Grakin of the Fifteenth Company, what brings you here Lord-Lieutenant? Shouldn’t you be running some errand for our liege?”. Faustin began to chuckle loudly and turned on his heel, winking at Tikhon who was standing at the top of the ramp. He spun back around and leapt forwards, gripping Grakin by the throat tightly. His head came in, and Grakin yelped as his nose cracked and broke spraying blood over the chest of the Lord-Lieutenant.
A second butt sent nausea through Grakin who stumbled backwards, before Faustin twisted his leg around the back of his fellow and pushed with one palm causing him to topple to the floor, wiping away blood from his nose with one finger. He snorted and spat a pink coloured mixture of blood and phlegm to the floor, the second Marine stepped forwards with a Bolt Pistol drawn. Tikhon launched forwards at this, and knocked away the weapon with one hand hissing “Don’t be a fool like your Captain”.
A booming voiced caused all to cower as the word “Enough!” was cast across the landing zone. A copper haired giant, a pair of angled cheekbones nearly obscuring his pale eyes approached, causing World Eater's to split and let him through. His armour was covered in bolts that held it together, high shoulder pads adorned with the symbol of the World Eaters. A furred cloak fell from it, flowing down to his knees and twisting tightly in the wind. His forearms and legs were covered in brown leather that was edged with the fur of some strange animal that shorn brightly. Faustin fell to his knees and muttered “Angron”.
All comments are needed please ladies and gentlemen, so that way if I know people like it I will work on the rest