Morningstars [Warhammer 40k] [Overpowered OC Fixes/Causes Problems] [Primarchs Involved]

[Avangelion]

Hmmm- honestly, not the worst it could've gone. A pain that they got interrupted tho

 

[dragonsaffron]

Undergoing an examination by the Forge-Master was never a good thing, for it cared primarily about results, secondarily about making sure the subject would be able to recover, and about comfort not at all. Knives, saws, needles, and other nameless tools were brought to bear to sample flesh, blood, spinal fluid, and lymph, slowly vivisecting a body held in place by heavy black-iron bands and paralytic toxins. Ksaiwon knew how to suppress pain, how to sink deep into the fortress of the mind, but even they were taxed; a lesser being would no doubt go mad under such attention.

And in the end it was all for nothing. Mother's goal had been to find the source of the regeneration that had resurrected them after the daemon attack. Merely observing its manner over the next few days told Ksaiwon that the Forge-Master was disappointed, and a few lunging searches of the informational network confirmed that it had uncovered only a labyrinth of mystery gene-sequences, many of them arising from FB-33. Ksaiwon wasn't particularly disappointed: they were much too busy being excited about a piece of good news by the name of Antilia.

Antilia was an Imperium-controlled world, some thousand or so light years outside the gates of the Eye, well within a single jump of Jahannam. It was a fat fruit, a hive world possessed of both a vast population and a substantial industrial output, and with the Imperium fleeing before the might of the Thirteenth Crusade, vast and calculating forces had decided it was time for the fruit of Antilia to be plucked. Nobody was quite certain where it had started, but all across the Eye, allies were being recruited, chaos cults and Astartes warbands, dark forge-worlds and mercenary pits alike assembled with that single purpose.

Jahannam had been invited, as was proper. The spires of Siderium were alive with merriment at the news for weeks. All across the planet, forge-priests gathered their retinues, skitarii charged their power cells, daemons were yanked afresh from the warp and pressed into new and strange machines. Ambition and greed filled the streets as anyone with so much as a lightning gun to their name prepared to seek the opportunity of loot and power.

For Ksaiwon, the Antilia crusade was an opportunity of an entirely different caliber. It was their opportunity to escape. One warp jump was more than enough distance from Jahannam that, once vanished, Ksaiwon would never be found, and unlike the desolate eldar world that had been their last expedition, Antilia had plenty of routes off of its surface. This was it; Ksaiwon was going to be free. All that had to be done was to ensure that all the pieces were in place, all the supplies gathered and stored away and they would never have to worry about anybody else ever again.

The serberys was the easiest part to get into position, being as they could bring it with them wherever they pleased and simply have it omitted from records. The other supplies, the narcotics and the small chemicals lab, the extra food and ammunition, the braindead clone body and the ten kilos of demolition charges… those were harder to conceal. The key, as it turned out, was to give them to someone else to hold. That someone was a Furcalevitor heavy servitor, purloined from one of the Harvester crews and kept in a borrowed workshop. The poor bastard could easily carry everything Ksaiwon needed and more, and his brain was wired up enough to ensure total loyalty. A quick vox exchange with the logistics teams for the crusade and he, too, was going to Antilia. By the end of that process, Ksaiwon had discovered something new: their absolute limit for sleeplessness, at six hundred hours, followed by fifteen hours of unconsciousness.

The naval battle for Antilia's orbital lanes was swift and decisive. The Imperium, unprepared, had perhaps a score of capable warships, whereas the assembled chaos fleet had fifty times that in tonnage. Half the Imperial vessels were obliterated within the first five thousand seconds, and those who survived were forced to flee, taking refuge in heavily-defended orbital berths or out at the system's edge. Then came a brief pause.

Ksaiwon stood in a corridor deep within the belly of the Forge-Master's flagship, gazing down at the planet below. While Jahannam was nearly monotone black with only the occasional vein of red for interest, Antilia was a riot of color, green and blue and white. Despite its position as a hive world, with all the industrial runoff that entailed, the planet's indigenous jungles had proven irrepressibly tenacious, cutting off the hives from one another with hundreds of miles of impenetrable jungle. This was a world unlike any Ksaiwon had encountered.

That forest, as it happened, was quite inconvenient for Mother's invasion plans. So what the Imperials had failed to do with millennia of toxic waste, the Forge-Master accomplished over the course of about three days of fusion bombs. The jungles would return eventually, but the Forge-Master would be long gone by then.

The Jahannamites waited another seven days after the end of the bombardment for the most odiously unstable isotopes to decay away. Most of the other elements of the invasion, the half-rabid World Eaters and fame-hungry Korthani cultists, the siegelords of Petawatt and the deranged Blue Scorpion warband, had already landed and begun their rampage, but the Forge-Master held more patience. Only when the time was ripe, as the ash clouds drifted into the faces of the Astra Militarum battle-lines, did the assault begin.

The expectation, the hope, had been that the atomic bombardment would clear the way, that the humans would prove too scared of the ambient radiation and be driven back to their hives. This could not have been further from the truth. Regiment upon regiment of Antilian PDF lined up, the closest being barely twenty kilometers from the landing zone. Once Ksaiwon's forces had slipped under the anti-air defenses, they had but a few scant hours to prepare and form up before rushing to the front lines. Once there, they entered into a dance of death.

It was a shockingly symmetrical engagement. That the enemy was kitted out for jungle fighting was obvious by the fact that they were the only Imperial force Ksaiwon had ever fought that made no use of those lumbering, brutal tanks of theirs. Their primary weapons, aside from the usual masses of infantry, were artillery and fast-moving walker squadrons. The epsilon skitarii could match them one for one. Small, elite epsilon platoons could out-shoot thrice their number in human infantry, while serberys cavalry squadrons lunged through any gap in the line to run down the artillery like rodents. Anything even vaguely armored would fare well only until the moment it encountered the concentrated firepower of the Sideric Devastators, at which point it would have but a moment to wish that it had the armor of a real tank.

Ksaiwon saw this dance of death only from afar, as bursts of light on the horizon or through the camera eyes of servo-daemons deployed as flying scouts. This was not like the battle on the eldar world, where small unit sizes meant that Ksaiwon could lead from the midst of the battle. They did not leave the command center for any reason.

Not that they experienced no violence, of course. One moment, everything was as normal; the next, Ksaiwon and their aides were under attack from two directions, pincered from above by the missile barrage and rapid-fire las weaponry of a Valkyrie, while at the same time being flanked by a squad of infantry heavily equipped with plasma explosives. More enemy troops dropped from above, burrowing into the midst of the camp with knives in one hand and pistols in the other. They were ferocious, and Ksaiwon had killed four of them in melee combat alone by the time the fight was over.

This was but the first of several times over the next few days that the Imperials showed an obnoxious knack for infiltrations. Even once the initial contact was over, the PDF forced to retreat over a hundred kilometers to the next defensive line, the attempted decapitation strikes continued. Sometimes it felt as though Ksaiwon could not visit a privy without eight musclebound Special Operations Imperials showing up to shank them.

The culprits, in this case, was an auxiliary force of abhumans, whose genetic traits included extreme strength, near-immunity to pain, and a pathological aversion to sleeves. They disdained armor, both personal and vehicular, aside from air support, which they used generously, and instead relied upon their personal prowess and a collection of esoteric bombs to inflict damage. When it wasn't a tremendous drain on Ksaiwon's psychological resources, it was almost intriguing. They wanted to dissect one.

But that wasn't going to happen, not without raising more questions than Ksaiwon could possibly answer. The abhumans provided a much more important resource, however: deniability. The original plan had been for Ksaiwon to rig up an Exokoitos to detonate, placing the decoy corpse besides the vehicle in such a way it would look like they'd been killed by a malfunction. That had always struck them as improbable, heavily reliant on the genetic evidence to pass muster. Much more believable was the idea that the abhumans had finally snuck a plasma charge under Ksaiwon's office, Skitarius Prime struck down through trickery and subterfuge. Finding the right opportunity to steal charges was a simple matter of aggression, rushing ahead of their escort to slay squads of abhumans on their own. Then came the day of escape.

It had taken several days to smuggle Ksaiwon's supplies over to their personal encampment. The Furcalevitor servitor that they'd used to smuggle it all over had dropped about forty kilometers to the east, and finding excuses to have the seemingly-unrelated packages was not easy, to say the least. The Serberys was one that Ksaiwon had specially selected for the escape. She was named Lobster, and on top of being an excellent escape vehicle, she had also proven quite useful at traveling up and down the lines and giving Ksaiwon a leg up against all of their various assassins. Now she would serve once again.

Ksaiwon had moved their personal tent out onto the edge of the camp, to much protest. The stated reason had been that it would not be what the infiltrators would expect, but it also made it substantially easier for Ksaiwon to do their work without being interrupted by guard patrols. Even as it was, they had to time it all carefully, five hundred seconds of work followed by three hundred seconds of pretending to be asleep, starting from the moment the sun went down if they wanted to be out before morning.

The first step was planting the plasma charges. The risk there was not that Ksaiwon would be seen: all the charges would go inside the tent. No, the worry was that Ksaiwon would fuck it up, and either genuinely blow themself to the Warp, or fail to set them off remotely as planned.

The second step was to make sure Lobster was fully laden. This was the longest step, hours of achingly slow progress as Ksaiwon rushed out into the wasteland, picked up a small enough portion of the supplies to remain hidden under their cloak, then dashed back in order to have it stowed away in Lobster's saddlebags before the next patrol came by. Food, water, ammunition, a few changes of clothes. Every tool necessary to keep both Ksaiwon's augmetics and Claw well-maintained. Forty kilograms of universally-valuable synthetic narcotics, plus all the supplies needed to set up a small chemistry laboratory capable of synthesizing more. It would be a hard life of itinerant drug-dealing, but if that was what it took for Ksaiwon to reach their singular goal, they were willing to endure.

The third step was to place the decoy body. This was the hardest. Ksaiwon waited for a patrol to arrive, then informed them that they'd be doing a surprise inspection of some of the neighboring command posts, only taking an hour or two. Once that bit of info had been seeded, they were off. It was a noisy, awkward payload, both the clone body and the plasflex sheathe preventing it from rotting, one which Ksaiwon had to carry with absolute silence. It took an entire hour of painfully slow movement, dragging the body on a slab of tree bark, just to get it to where Ksaiwon had left Lobster. It was another half hour to find a way to sneak it into the tent without raising questions.

But then it was done. The body was in place, the charges were in place, and Ksaiwon had everything they would need. They quadruple-checked everything, every one of Lobsters saddlebags, each plasma charge individually, even the code they'd written to trigger the charges. Eventually Ksaiwon had to admit they were delaying the moment of freedom.

But why? Seven-six was why. There were others as well, other skitarii who Ksaiwon would miss, and Mother, the faintest sense of regret in the direction of Amphis and the Word Bearers, but Seven-six was the one whose face appeared in Ksaiwon's mind. They were leaving behind everyone and everything they had ever known, forever. Not even a chance to say goodbye. How would Seven-six react when she learned that Ksaiwon was dead?

Eventually Ksaiwon had no choice left but to cease moping. They looked up at the sky. Not even the change of planet from Jahannam to Antilia had caused them to lose track of the location of their goal, suspended somewhere out there in the darkness of space. The itch in the bottom of Ksaiwon's soul would not go away until they had reached it. So there was no other option.

Ksaiwon mounted Lobster, gazing out at the camp. They had two hundred and twenty seconds to move before the next patrol arrived, and would need to detonate the plasma charges before then, but after they'd had a chance to get as far away as possible. With a subtle signal, they ordered Lobster to turn, facing them away from the lights of the camp and into the dark of the night.

Except that there were lights in the dark, too. Half a dozen radium pistols, ready to fire at a single trigger-pull, and all of them aimed squarely at Ksaiwon's face. They didn't understand. They could hardly even move. What was this, how did this happen? Radium pistols were unknown to the Imperium, so these were definitely Jahannamite, but who would…

"No words in your defense, Ξ-1?" said Seven-six, emerging from behind cover. Her volkite pistol was, also, leveled at Ksaiwon's head.

"I'm just taking initiative. Searching the lines for weaknesses. Have to be vigilant, with all those abhumans around."

"Really? What kind of vigilance requires forty kilograms of narcotics, hm? Did you get the idea from all of those database requests? Explain, Ξ-1."

They'd been had, then. Those narcotics had been procured months earlier, at around the same time as they'd created the decoy clone body. As Ksaiwon entered a state of terminal calm, they gave a second look to the other radium pistols aimed at them. They belonged to the Operatives; no doubt they'd been pretending to be ordinary epsilons up until a few minutes ago, laced throughout Ksaiwon's macroclade for just this contingency.

"How long have you known?"

"Since the eldar world," she said. "What happened to Claw was not a malfunction, that's impossible. The Forge-Master confirmed as such when I asked, and it's had you under surveillance ever since then."

Ksaiwon scanned the Operatives in front of them, frantically calculating angles and probabilities. Could they order Lobster to charge, break free before any of them knew what was happening? If they attacked unexpectedly, would they be able to survive the radium blasts and burning volkite beam for long enough to win the ensuing melee? One by one, every option led to the same result: death or capture. There was no getting out of this via force.

Seven-six didn't stop talking, pacing back and forth, her volkite pistol aimed with gyroscopic perfection at Ksaiwon's head. "And do you know what the worst part of all this is? I gave you the benefit of the doubt. The Forge-Master was paranoid, it always is, but I genuinely thought this was all going to turn out to have a reasonable explanation! Someone was mimicking your credentials, you were being framed, it was all for a mission, or this was all a test …"

She tilted her head to one side, voice getting quiet and heavy with hidden tears. "This is all a test, right?"

Ksaiwon shook their head. There was no point in lying, not now. Only one way out of this, as far as they could tell.

"Then why!" Seven-six screamed. "Why are you doing this?"

Ksaiwon hadn't been breathing, they'd realized. Their lungs had simply stopped, held in suspension. They let their chest fall, then rise before they spoke.

"It started with the daemon attack," they said. "I died, Seven-six. Elle. A daemon prince blew my skull in half, and I died, and then I came back, but when I came back I was different. I have these thoughts, Elle, ideas and memories and things that I don't understand! I'm not the same person I was before, and I can't go back. The modification to Claw? I did that myself, with my own two hands, and I had no idea how I knew to do that.

"I never wanted this to happen to me, but I don't have any choice. I need to leave, and never be found. Please. Elle, please, for the sake of every time we've saved each other's lives, let me go."

Seven-six went very still. Her eyes were hidden behind her skitarius mask, as were Ksaiwon's, but through the red lenses they tried to make some small connection. They had never been too close, the catastrophe with Five-nine had made Ksaiwon too scared for such a thing, but nonetheless they had served together for years. Slowly, painfully, the volkite pistol shifted, pointing away from Ksaiwon's head.

"Thank you. I don't know if our paths will ever cross again to let me thank you for this, but I'll—"

Seven-six pulled the trigger, causing Lobster's head and neck to detonate in an explosive burst of flaming hydrocarbons. The poor creature's body immediately pitched forward, sending Ksaiwon to the floor. Their reflexes would have been more than enough to arrest the fall, if Ksaiwon had the will for it.

"Grab his weapons," Seven-six said. "Make sure he's not got anything hidden. And keep a radium pistol flush against his skull, he's stronger than he looks."

Ksaiwon's body was limp, their brain numb. They made no resistance as the Operatives lifted them off the ground and began a thorough search for hidden weaponry. Someone yanked off their mask, meaning it was with the naked eye that Ksaiwon looked up to see Seven-six approaching.

"I hope Ξ-2 learns a thing or two about loyalty from this," she said. "Assuming there even is one. Now get up, unless you want me to carry you to the Forge-Master."

 

[Avangelion]

Oh,
Oh dear
So what now... still kinda hope 7-6 comes around, but that's to be seen

 

[bookwyrm]

seems like Ksaiwon can't defy fate and escape his boss fight with the supreme crustacean of Jahannam/dramatic monologue turning away from his progenitor

 

[HarakoniWarhawk]

While I won't say I'm shocked that Seven-Six rumbled the skittle in chief, I'm sad she didn't join Ksai for a life of interstellar drug dealing and larceny. /s

Real talk, it'll be intruiging to see where 7-6 goes from here.

 

[16 characters]

I'm gonna be honest, the lack of comments and other interactions I've been getting on this thread has been really disheartening. If the pattern continues and I end up feeling like I'm just posting into the void on SV, I might honestly start singleposting Morningstars to AO3 and be done with it. I don't want people to feel like I'm twisting arms or whatever, but comments are like the only reason to post fanfics, so this is just my honest response.

Click to shrink...

Its been one of the best warhammer reads i've had in a week, which given how much of that material I cram down my optic nerve on my my typical weekly basis is meant to imply a strong compliment.

I've just also been even more taxed than usual and don't have detailed analyis yet beyond "' this is really really cool and does an awesome job at assauging my current existential dread with 'negative escapism' as some academic at the warhammer conference called it.''

 

[dragonsaffron]

Your name is Yarol Uthrek, Chief Apostle, 20th Host, Word Bearers legion. In the name of the four gods of Chaos and their chosen prophet, you have led your people for, by your reckoning, five centuries. Longer, by other reckonings. In that time, you have faced threats that would slaughter lesser Astartes: ork warlords, daemon-enhanced mutants, and loyalist war-giants armed with only your crozius and the sheer power of your faith. Of all the countless warriors who have gathered upon this stage named Antilia to show might before the gods, you have little doubt that you are the mightiest.

The universe is not fair, and Tzeentch often saves his ugliest tricks for those who have the most faith; so it is that you have been unjustly held back from the field of battle. The machine-addled crab-thing to whom the Dark Council has granted your service has kept you close, forcing you to guard its weakling hide instead of allowing you to apply your power where it is most useful. For days you have lingered in this state of unmet potential, praying and sparring without ever finding proper release.

It was during one of those sessions of prayer that the messenger arrived. You sat, cross-legged, murmuring a four-part mantra of supplication, reaching out in search of those slight moments of contact with the divine. The rustling of the tent-flap was faint on the edge of your consciousness, but you were not roused until the forge-priest spoke aloud with its ugly metal voice.

"You are required," it said.

You sighed, rising from your kneeling posture. "Where?"

"The training field. Its Wisdom is giving a public address."

A smirk formed itself under your helmet. This, at least, was something new, though gods only knew what kind of address a damned machine-head would give. Nothing so good as a proper sermon, but perhaps not a complete waste.

You knocked on many doors, pulling your complaining troops from their sparring and meditation, so that when you at last arrived at the main field, hundreds of warriors followed in your wake. Your Astartes made up the bulk of those in attendance, an entire Host gathered in one place, with only a thin scum of skitarii and forge-priests filling in the gaps. It made sense: most of the lesser beings were off at war, unable to be dragged back from the front lines to attend some inane speech. An inversion of the natural order, and one that made the rage in you flare for just a moment.

One modification had been made to the field: a large stage was in place, elevating the Forge-Master by some meter and a half above the audience. You moved into the gap between the stage and the crowd, a reflexive showing of your place as foremost amongst the Host. Only one other had the forwardness to do the same: the pseudo-heretic Amphis Vaena.

"I have a bad feeling about this," he said, clutching his staff. "The Forge-Master is no orator. Why not deliver the address via vox, they way it does with everything else?"

"Silence, witch," you said. "I feel no impending doom. Or do you claim that your occult senses are more tightly tuned than mine?"

Amphis shrank from you, as the coward he was. "Of course not."

A scant few minutes passed before, from amidst the collection of prefab structures that served as the Forge-Master's command center, a huge bulk emerged. Once more you found yourself disgusted. The Forge-Master claimed to serve the gods, and yet it clearly mistrusted them, relying on plasteel and computation to mimic the strength that the gods granted to their favored. Creaking and groaning all the while, it mounted the stage and looked out upon your Host.

"No doubt you question why I have brought you all together, grrah." Its voice was magnified unnaturally, bearing the tinny sound of a speaker. "And that is to teach an object lesson. A lesson about… loyalty."

Amphis was still standing at your side, so you made sure to shoot him a glance.

"Bring him out," the Forge-Master continued.

From out of the same shadowy chamber from which the Forge-Master had emerged came three figures. Two were unremarkable, mere skitarii, but the third was different. He looked like a human, at first, albeit one who had been beaten until he could no longer stand, face streaked with blood and legs trailing. Then you recognized him, and under your helmet, a smile formed.

"My wayward son, Ξ-1, was caught attempting to desert, grrah, thirty-six hours ago. The penalty for desertion is the same as the penalty for any who turn against me: death."

"Not so chosen now, is he," you said to Amphis, relishing in the satisfaction of a thorn removed from skin. "All this hubbub, all the idolization, and he dies a traitor's death."

Amphis didn't respond, at least not with words, though you could see his gloved hand tightening on his staff. You returned your attention to what you now recognized as an execution grounds, saving the gloating for later. A twinge of disappointment that you weren't the one to kill the bitch, in the end, was more than drowned out by the knowledge that you would get to watch Ksaiwon die.

It would have been better if Ksaiwon had begged, pleaded for mercy, but he did no such thing. He was morose, sad, limply awaiting his impending death. The two skitarii holding him up allowed the crowd to look upon his beaten, broken face, before turning him around to face the being who'd created him. The Forge-Master took two massive, thudding steps forward. You thought for a moment that it might kill Ksaiwon with its forward claws, crushing him to a pulp or cutting him in half with a single mighty stroke, but it did not. Instead, the forest of hanging mechatendrils below its stomach writhed, the longest and front-most of them slithering forward to wrap around Ksaiwon's midsection, all four limbs, and then his throat.

And credit where credit is due, Ksaiwon did resist. Even with the plasteel grappling his arms, he was still able to move, pulling and clawing at the length wrapped around his throat. Your fighter's senses could tell from the first instant that it was a losing battle. But it would, at least, be drawn out.

You heard something from your flank. Amphis was staring at the proceedings, his lips moving, but you could not understand the words. Just as you turned to mock him again, the sorcerer slammed the heel of his staff against Antilia's soil and let loose three words so loud they felt like thunder in your ears.

"SECONDBORN, TO ME!"

Before you could understand what that meant, Amphis was already moving. There were times, considering his cowardice, that you almost forgot the man was still a space marine. As his staff whipped around to strike you in the face, you were reminded.

The blow knocked you off your feet and backwards at least three meters. By the time your back struck dirt, you understood the situation: Amphis was so far gone that he would rebel against you merely to save Ksaiwon's life. He followed the first blow with a burst of sorcery, flinging a spear of blue-orange flame in your direction, but you had already rolled to the side and risen to your hands and feet.

So this was how it would be, then.

Body and mind worked in concert, the former drawing crozius and bolt pistol from their positions at your waist and rushing into melee even as the latter reached for the most effective combat prayers you knew. The first few blows in the duel were entirely reflexive, standard forms from your youth delivered at apex speed, all of them deflected by Amphis's staff. You spoke words in ancient tongues, and felt the gods enter you. Red strength, green fortitude, blue skill and bruise-purple stamina flowed through you, and you could at last turn attention to the man in front of you.

Amphis Vaena, the greatest mistake you had ever made, stepped onto the air. He was on the defensive, levitating backwards and holding out his staff like a bayonet to keep you at bay while the power of the warp made the air around him ripple. You were the stronger warrior, and he knew it. You gave him no quarter, every instant which was not spent swinging your crozius at him a moment when your bolt pistol screamed for Amphis's blood. The shells stopped and burst in mid-air as they rammed into a sorcerous shield; but you knew that each blow was sapping his mental reserves, ever so slightly.

"Weakling," you growled. "Couldn't be loyal, couldn't rebel under your own power. What are you? A sycophant, sniveling at the feet of a creature who is not even one of us!"

"There is no 'us', Yarol. Or at least you never acted like it. Ksaiwon has shown me more respect in the twice we've spoken than you have in thirty years!"

"Perhaps your souls will rut together in the same pit of the Warp, then," you growled. Amphis sneered, and did not allow your taunting any more purchase as he summoned up a whirlwind of flames.

You ducked to the side, avoiding the worst of the sorcery and allowing your armor to absorb the rest, before returning with an upward swing of your crozius. Amphis's magic was reliant upon his own, finite will, and even if you were unable to force a gap before then, he was doomed to run dry. Your power came from the bottomless well of the gods, and as you resumed your prayers, occult power gave you the strength of a dozen Astartes.

Faintly, your accelerated mind took in glimpses of your surroundings in between the exchanges of attack, counterattack, and spell. The Secondborn were in full revolt, and with the entire 20th Host assembled to witness the execution, battle had erupted. Marine turned against marine, the air was rent with the constant roar of bolters. The scent of fire and blood was thick in your nostrils, and would only become more so. The Secondborn did outnumber the loyalists, but the Firstborn were hardy veterans; and besides, Amphis's death would put an end to this foolish civil war.

You continued to push him back and back across the field. The sorcerer had allowed his superior strength to grow dull with lack of use, his staff only clumsily batting your crozius aside, its greater reach the only thing that prevented you from crushing his traitorous skull. He had forgotten to make use of the bolt pistol at his side, whereas yours was pitted against his shield again and again.

So, knowing that he could not defeat you man to man, Amphis was forced to rely on trickery. You didn't realize what was happening until the last moment; the sorcerer had been retreating with specific purpose, maneuvering the battle towards his own supporters. Two of them saw what was happening, and broke off from their own battles to leap at you. They were daemonkin, swollen-bodied mutants who lunged for you with twisted horns and razor-sharp claws. How the gods' own servants had been conned into rebelling against you, you did not know, but you relished the new target.

And once again, Amphis showed his cowardice. Instead of continuing to attack you, he took the opportunity to retreat and turn his attention to the Forge-Master. Its tentacles were still wrapped around Ksaiwon, strangling the life from him, and yet the pathetic little clone clung to life still.

"HAVOCS, HEAR ME. FIRE ON THE FORGE-MASTER!"

A new sound, even louder than the tumult, thudded against your ears, as all across the field those havocs who were not otherwise engaged opened fire. The Forge-Master lurched under the weight of dozens of attacks, missiles bursting and lascannons burning at its armored flank.

The daemonkin which Amphis had loosed upon you hardly even merited consideration. You had fought their ilk a thousand times before in your life. They did nothing which was unexpected, knew no strategy, their bodies were weak and easily slain. You stepped past two pulped bodies, and saw that Amphis Vaena was distracted. He muttered words of magic under his breath, staff and all of his attention aimed at the Forge-Master; you laughed as you realized how utterly, pathetically genuine his admiration for Ksaiwon truly was.

You rushed forward, shoulders bent low as you grappled Amphis's midsection and bore him forcefully to the ground. The reach advantage of his staff had been the one thing letting him use his sorcery, but on the ground, there was nothing but strength and skill. Amphis's eyes went wide and the breath was knocked out of him as you grappled for but a few brief seconds. He didn't stand a chance, his forty years of experience against your seven hundred; almost before you knew what was happening, you had him pinned.

So you carefully shifted your weight, freeing your crozius from under him. There was no dodging, no escaping. Your left gauntlet was around Amphis Vaena's exposed throat, keeping him from shifting his head at the same time that you prevented him from using any magic. If you had taken his betrayal very slightly more personally, you might have been convinced to strangle him, but as it was you had neither the respect nor the spare time for such a thing. You reared back, readying a single cataclysmic, skull-shattering blow.

Amphis's eyes were different colors. One was a sort of dull green, same as all the Secondborn, while the other was a riot of color, like a deep-space nebula trapped in his skull. That hadn't always been the case; he'd picked it up at some point, a side effect of his meddling in the forces of the warp. As you reared back, you had but a fraction of a second to notice something odd. His right eye, the ordinary one, had faded somehow, as though overtaken by sudden cataracts. The left eye shimmered and glowed as though it were on fire.

"Unhand him."

And then, without speaking a word or making a gesture, Amphis Vaena struck you with the invisible hammer of an angry demigod. You were hurled back ten, twenty meters, bruising organs and breaking bones along the way as the sheer unstoppable force tried to crush you against the ground. When you finally stopped moving, it felt as though an entire building had been placed upon your back. You struggled, muscles flexing and armor straining until both threatened to break, and succeeded only in rising to one knee.

And then you looked up, and understood that you were about to die. Amphis was not winded, he was not straining to maintain the sorcerous effect keeping you down. No, he was on fire. Red warp-flame surrounded him like a cloak or a second layer of armor, twisting around itself in strange displays. You almost thought that you could see a second figure looming over him, a figure with horns and a great mane, a figure of flame wrapping both arms around his shoulders in a protective embrace. With a thought, Amphis brought his staff flying back into his hand, and levitating a full meter off of the ground, he began to advance on you.

"It was that planet," you said, memory flying back in time. "That was where your eyes changed, where your magic changed."

"So, you were not as foolish as I had assumed. Ha-ha-ha." The one who spoke through Amphis's lips was not Amphis. The voice was softer somehow, quiet, and with a strange accent, all the vowels rotated around a quarter turn.

You strained to stand, but it was all your broken body could manage to remain kneeling. "Why keep this all hidden? Why restrain your power? I never stood a chance…"

"Many reasons. But the primary one?" Amphis, or the thing inhabiting his body, looked out over the battlefield. "He couldn't stomach the thought of his people dying fighting yours."

"Coward," you muttered as blood welled up in your mouth. "Always a coward. Kill me if you like; my gods will welcome me with open arms. Will yours?"

"Enough of this, Uthrek." Amphis made a single gesture, ripping your helmet from your head, then raised his staff high, ready to bring its heel down on your unprotected skull. A sudden flare of concern passed through you.

"If you're going to do this… take good care of the 20th, will you? Its fate lies in your hands."

The daemon paused a moment. "Oh, we will. We will."

There was a rush of movement as the staff came down. Then everything went black.

 

[bookwyrm]

super kino, love the idea of either just having a true life partner as a daemonhost, or potentially having something even weirder and more esoteric going on.

 

[dragonsaffron]

super kino, love the idea of either just having a true life partner as a daemonhost, or potentially having something even weirder and more esoteric going on.

Click to shrink...

Daemon/master of possession husbands <3

 

[Avangelion]

Goshdang XD
Kwai's gonna end up free of the Forge Master soon I suppose, I wonder what they can salvage, if any- and what'll happen after here.

 

[HarakoniWarhawk]

Personally, I take great pleasure seeing another Dark Apostle getting crushed, no matter the source.

Though Ksaiwon's plans to become a interstellar drug kingpin might have been waylaid, now they've got, uh... a whole bunch of affection-starved Astartes saving them from certain death?

Adoptive spess mehreen children get?

 

[dragonsaffron]

Personally, I take great pleasure seeing another Dark Apostle getting crushed, no matter the source.

Though Ksaiwon's plans to become a interstellar drug kingpin might have been waylaid, now they've got, uh... a whole bunch of affection-starved Astartes saving them from certain death?

Adoptive spess mehreen children get?

Click to shrink...

Sometimes a family is one mom and ~1200 large, angry sons.

 

[dragonsaffron]

Ksaiwon knew the exact instant when the Forge-Master died. The signal which marked the instant of brain-death was hard-wired into the basic operating system of every augmetic device on Jahannam. To Ksaiwon, that signal meant nothing as they continued their long march into the wasteland; but to the millions of Jahannamites across Antilia, it meant one war ended and a new one had begun. Over the next several hours, thousands of vessels were loaded with troops and sent into orbit, sometimes firing on one another in order to eliminate competition. The battle to determine who would next rule Jahannam was one that would no doubt last for years.

And in all that tumult, nobody would have time to look for a missing Skitarius Prime. In a way, Ksaiwon had achieved their freedom after all. It had only cost them… well, everything. In the panic, as the Forge-Master collapsed under the weight of lasgun fire and rocket-bursts, Ksaiwon had rushed off to the lock-ups, the last place they'd seen any of their gear when it had been torn from them in preparation for all the beatings.

It was like Seven-six was waiting for this exact moment. She was there, armed only with a transonic saber, with Claw and Ksaiwon's armor sitting on a bench behind her. She'd looked at Ksaiwon, looked around, realized that all of the skitarii who could have backed her up were off defending the Forge-Master, and stepped aside. Whether that was out of mercy, or the belief that Ksaiwon could still beat her fist-to-sword, Ksawon hadn't stuck around to ask.

Which meant that, instead of the well-stocked set of saddlebags that they'd expected, Ksaiwon trudged away carrying nothing but Claw, a handful of power packs, and their armor. Panicked and still in pain, they hadn't thought to grab anything else before running. But Ksaiwon was a survivor, and they knew they didn't need anything else.

It also helped that, although the territory through which they traveled was a burnt wasteland, marked by both war and the initial atomic bombardment, salvage was absolutely omnipresent. Even with work crews on both sides tirelessly to reclaim what they could, it was impossible for the detritus of so large a battle to be entirely cleared away. When contact with patrolling guardsmen depleted Claw's power cells, Ksaiwon could always find more on the bodies of fallen skitarii. When long hours of marching had their augmetic stomach growling with hunger, rations were never far, or digestible plastics otherwise. By the dawn of the third day, Ksaiwon was fully equipped, pouches and pockets stuffed full of useful tools and other materials. The goal had never felt more in reach.

There was just one problem: transportation. Ksaiwon hadn't enlisted the aid of the poor, late Lobster for no reason; having a mount meant both vastly increased speed and vastly increased carrying capacity, both things that they found themself deeply desiring. But a functioning vehicle was top priority for scavengers, the one thing they would not allow to go to rust, and repairing an engine block was far beyond Ksaiwon's means.

The solution to that problem presented itself in the form of a horrible roar echoing across the badlands. Ksaiwon didn't know what had made such a sound, but rushed to find out regardless, for the screeching, keening howl was one which mingled rage and pain. Ten kilometers they dashed through fields of wreckage and over plains of mud, their titanite feet hardly leaving marks on the ground as they passed. Cresting a low rise, they at last lay eyes upon the source of the sound, and their heart broke.

It was a heldrake, and the twin accel guns mounted on her shoulders meant that she was of Jahannamite manufacture, sleek and black and possessed of an innate animal intellect. She was also trapped. The story played itself out in Ksaiwon's mind: the beast had ended up in a duel with a heavy bomber, the imperial craft's armor proving thick enough that it could only be sundered through up-close application of baleflamer and talon. But something had gone wrong: a talon had become stuck, or the bomber had given as hard as it took, and the two foes fell together.

The heldrake lay in the middle of a crater, pinned to the ground beneath the metal skeleton of the bomber. Her wing was badly damaged, and her fuel tank had spilled its contents into a flammable lake on the ground. And yet she still lived: the daemon inside her was still supplying electrical power, and though countless scavengers had arrived to devour her alive, the accel guns meant that their bodies surrounded her in a great ring.

Ksaiwon moved slowly down the near side of the hill. Immediately, an accel gun pointed at them, and the heldrake tried to turn its neck to look at the new potential threat. Ksaiwon held out one hand and, while making entirely useless noises with their mouth, sent out a steady stream of scrap-code.

I'm not here to scavenge you, the code said. I am in need of a transport. I will repair you, if you are willing to let me close.

For several terrifyingly long seconds, there was no response. The heldrake made another sound, softer and more keening, and arcs of electricity danced between the barrel of the accel gun and the dragon's wounded wing. Ksaiwon repeated the same message again and again: I'm here to help you, I want to be your ally, and on and on.

Then the heldrake went limp. A single pulse of scrap-code reached Ksaiwon's systems: the syntax was as off-kilter as might be expected from a daemon bound to an automaton, but the meaning was clear. Help me.

This was, bar none, the greatest engineering project which Ksaiwon had ever undertaken. There were no blueprints to follow, no conveniently-organized spare parts. They were treading into unknown territory, and all that they had to work with was whatever wreckage could be scavenged. The first fifteen thousand seconds of the project were spent with Ksaiwon's legs folded, watching the heldrake with eyes unfocused while they came up with a plan. And then the real work began.

The first step was complicated, but easy. A ruptured fuel tank and a cracked engine would normally be absolutely immobilizing for a heldrake, and without the proper facilities, Ksaiwon could do nothing but put her down. But Jahannamite heldrakes were built different, with more mobility to the wings than most.

The modification was relatively simple: a set of hydraulic actuators would connect to articulated, sharpened pieces of harvested plasteel, which would themselves be secured to the front edge of each wing. If the attachment was able to interface with the possessing daemon, then together they would make for a pair of forward claws. Further modifications, adding joints and reinforcing certain other areas, would allow the heldrake to walk on all fours, using the wings as makeshift arms.

Plasteel members, hydraulic pistons, cutting tools and welding elements, lubricant and grinders, all of these had to be sourced and slowly dragged to the pit where the heldrake lay. Ksaiwon's implanted auspex and great strength made the process impossibly fast by ordinary standards, but it still took a day and two nights just to get all the pieces together, and another day to fit them in place.

But Ksaiwon relished the chance to do something practical. Searching, planning, improvising, kinematics of the mind to keep their thoughts fully occupied on the now rather than the past. The less time they had to think about the words the Forge-Master had said, the better.

Why are you struggling, grrah. A broken instrument that does not even realize it was broken.

And Seven-six's final, wordless interaction still haunted them as well. What had caused her to change her mind? Or was Ksaiwon simply imagining things, turning a mere averted battle into something more real, more significant. When the claws were finally secured, the modifications made, and Ksaiwon finally spent a night asleep while the heldrake adapted to the alterations, their sleep was far from peaceful. They dreamed of strangulation, suffocating paralysis in infinite dark.

Step two was far simpler, and more difficult. The heldrake, for all of Ksaiwon's work, was still pinned under many tons of plasteel, and even Ksaiwon's superhuman strength was not enough to lift that mass. Worse still, they lacked any means of easy leverage; if there were a tall rock or a spire around, Ksaiwon could have made use of a pulley mechanism, or if they had a long beam they could build a lever. No such luck.

The easiest option, in the end, was to dig. Ksaiwon had found an entrenching tool amidst a pile of acid-melted bodies, and with that they could excavate faster that some machines. Over time, the weight could be transferred off of the heldrake and onto the support struts: smaller, more manageable pieces of metal, either scavenged from vehicles or cut off of the larger bulk of the fallen plane.

It was intensely difficult work, but work that Ksaiwon could manage. Hours passed as they shoveled away at the hard soil, accumulating piles which themselves had to be shifted away to prevent the pit from filling in again. Moving the support beams into place was even worse, the weight of hundreds of kilos of plasteel pushing Ksaiwon's muscles to the very limit. They had never really appreciated their own raw strength before; hard labor wasn't something the Fifth Claw had ever had to do, and there was a discomfort to all the burly shifting around of heavy objects that extended far beyond the purely physical.

And all the while, the heldrake was there. Mostly she held still, conserving energy and complaining loudly. Other times she would thrash and struggle, putting the entire endeavor at risk whenever she threatened to slam into the support beams. Especially as the weight of the fallen plane began to abate, it was a constant effort to remind the creature not to disrupt her own rescue, Ksaiwon sending forth a stream of comforting scrap-code.

It was late in the evening. How many days had passed since obtaining their freedom? Five? Six? Ksaiwon didn't know. But it was almost time for that gift to be passed on to another. Easily half of the plane's weight was up on struts, and every time the heldrake moved, the entire mass of metal shifted, threatening to fall off of its supports. Ksaiwon could tell, by the tension in the metal and the mathematics of the arrangement, that it was about time. The heldrake yearned to be free, and even the slightest shifting in the weight could be what it took.

Ksaiwon relayed their instructions for what came next, repeating the scrap code message several times in hopes that the heldrake would comprehend. Then they found the right position, right up against her flank, where the leverage was closest to being decent, and where a piece of metal dipped down low. Ksaiwon crouched down beneath it, put both hands on the plasteel, and tried to stand.

Every muscle strained, every joint ached. Ksaiwon had not had a rest, a real rest, in so many days, and even their enhanced physique was susceptible to fatigue. The heavy mass of the bomber groaned under the pressure, Ksaiwon's hands threatening to break the metal. At their side, the heldrake struggled and scrabbled, screeching with frustration as she tried and failed to escape. That pathetic sound spurred Ksaiwon on, redoubling their efforts until their whole body was one enormous strain.

Then, suddenly, the heldrake seemed to get it. She folded her wings, bringing to bear the hydraulic claws Ksaiwon had built for her, digging into the ground and pressing upward with her wing actuators as well as her feet. There was a groan of metal and a great lurch, and suddenly the weight was off Ksaiwon's shoulders. Recognizing what had happened, they ran for it, retreating to the edge of the crater to watch in awe as the heldrake, for a few brief moments, held the weight of the plane on her own back.

She shifted to the side, letting the wreckage fall to the ground. For a moment she seemed confused, pawing at the ground with her wings. Then she looked around, seeing Ksaiwon, then the plain of devastation around her, and then the metal thing that had pinned her in place for so long. She turned her muzzle skyward and let out a roar of victory.

First order of business, for the heldrake, was to eat. With huge mouthfuls she began to devour the plasteel body of the plane. All across her body were the burns and dents and cracks of the fall and her battles against the scavengers; with plasteel for raw materials and the daemon inside her for fuel, everything began to heal. More than that, though, other changes flowed across the heldrake's body: the wing joints rearranged themselves, the back legs lengthened, and the crude hydraulic claws reshaped into wicked instruments of death. Ksaiwon had been afraid that their modifications would be rejected when the heldrake's self-repair systems came back online, but it seemed the opposite had happened: they were being embraced.

Once she was done eating, the heldrake stalked over to where Ksaiwon stood. Joyous, thankful scrap-code flowed freely, and Ksaiwon returned the feeling by rubbing the heldrake's snout. They decided she would need a proper name, and after learning that it had only an alphanumeric designation, Ksaiwon paused for a while to think of one.

Having no good ideas, Ksaiwon did an auspex scan of the heldrake's internals. Most of what Ksaiwon hadn't built was pretty standard, but there was one odd choice, the use of a particular magnesium alloy for some of the wing components.

How does 'Mags' sound to you? Don't want to name you something you won't like.

Mags responded with a brief burst of happy scrap-code. That having been settled, the next step was to put her through her paces, getting Mags used to the terrestrial existence which she was forced to live until her engine could be repaired. Ksaiwon had installed a sort of makeshift saddle into her back for just such a purpose… but they were interrupted.

Ksaiwon was overtaken by a horrible feeling of something moving nearby, even though an auspex scan confirmed they and Mags were alone. A psychic impression. They sent a signal to Mags, telling her to be ready for a fight, then dashed to where they'd left Claw and all of their armor. Not a second had passed after Ksaiwon picked up their weapon when the air around them began to shimmer, and a squadron of humanoid forms began to form into existence.

Ksaiwon recognized them immediately, which was the only reason they didn't immediately open fire. The shape, a jump-pack-equipped figure with long claws, was unmistakeable, belonging to a variety of fast-moving daemonkin often used as scouts by the 20th Host. The creatures—not quite Astartes any more—dropped to the ground, and formed into a defensive perimeter as a larger, more obvious portal began to form in the air. Ksaiwon advanced cautiously, but still held fire, even as the portal opened and allowed Amphis Vaena to step onto the cracked soil.

"What do you want?" Ksaiwon said. "We're even, aren't we?"

Amphis immediately dropped to one knee, and a moment later, all of the daemonkin followed his lead. "I wish to pledge my service."

 

[Avangelion]

Personally, I take great pleasure seeing another Dark Apostle getting crushed, no matter the source.

Though Ksaiwon's plans to become a interstellar drug kingpin might have been waylaid, now they've got, uh... a whole bunch of affection-starved Astartes saving them from certain death?

Adoptive spess mehreen children get?

Click to shrink...

Sometimes a family is one mom and ~1200 large, angry sons.

Click to shrink...

Hey look,

Amphis immediately dropped to one knee, and a moment later, all of the daemonkin followed his lead. "I wish to pledge my service."

Click to shrink...

it's *happening* xjdmekdmfm
Guess Ksai's new family is starting big XD

also I just realized all this fucking time I've been reading it as "Kwaison" instead of "Ksaiwon"??dndndnxndjd

Anyways, heldrake... actually not sure what to use as a reference for what Mags looks like jdndngxndnf

 

[dragonsaffron]

Hey look,

it's *happening* xjdmekdmfm
Guess Ksai's new family is starting big XD

also I just realized all this fucking time I've been reading it as "Kwaison" instead of "Ksaiwon"??dndndnxndjd

Anyways, heldrake... actually not sure what to use as a reference for what Mags looks like jdndngxndnf

Click to shrink...

Ksaiwon, as in Ξ-1, their alphanumeric designation. As for Mags, if I knew how to post images on here I'd post the standard heldrake codex art, it's a Chaos Marine flyer unit from the tabletop.

 

[finbikkifin]

I love Mags so much. The large adult sons had better not be mean to her.

 

[HarakoniWarhawk]

Saffron, I swear on the Beati you knew I'd love Mags from the very instant I saw her!

Mags is best girl, Amphis needs a mom and Ksaiwon gets to become a Heldrake rider.

All is... Well, not entirely great in the land of the Special Enbie Super Skittle, but it's looking up!

 

[16 characters]

So I am finally reading while rested, so that gives me a chance to write about the parts of this work that I love.
Chapter by chapter stuff will have to wait longer.

Firstly, generalities: Dark Mechanicus material is underdone generally in both official works and fan-productions. This has always felt weird to me because FormerImperialsTurnedChaos would be kind of out of luck when it came to repairing their gear, let alone empolying vastly useful things like IDK spaceships without them plus demon engines, everyone wants daemon engines.

I get that this is slowly changing at G.W since the release of Vashtorr but it's still really nice to see the logistics side of all this covered, though y'know in general Geedubs since squeamish about talking about logistics in their settings despite it being an essential component.

I really like Kwaison, he's clever, he's a Heretek, he's gods above willing to use his brains and not just his enhanced muscles and reflexes to get what he wants! This feels pretty uncommon in the 40k media I have thus far consumed.

It's a shame their creator is so...shortsighted I guess Is the right world. I'd think if they wanted to expand their control to multiple worlds their would have been less conflict between them. Always a tragedy to see such conflicts between parents and children , but not even slightly uncommon for the setting of 40k and well done here.

I have a lot more to say and wish I had not been so exhausted this month. Thank you so much for the story so far!

 

[16 characters]

The work culture on Jahannam is a toxic as it's actual atmosphere. Mistrust flows downhill like a fog and poisons all it touches. Not that such is a difference from the imperium but it's a pity that like Tyrannids, T'au and Genestealers seem to be the only ones in the verse that get that trust is an asset not to be squandered lightly.

 

[16 characters]

''By the end of that process, Ksaiwon had discovered something new: their absolute limit for sleeplessness, at six hundred hours, followed by fifteen hours of unconsciousness.''

This got a chuckle out of me. Sleep is an essential pillar of health, even for the enhanced. Learning your limits is good too.

''The culprits, in this case, was an auxiliary force of abhumans, whose genetic traits included extreme strength, near-immunity to pain, and a pathological aversion to sleeves. They disdained armor, both personal and vehicular, aside from air support, which they used generously, and instead relied upon their personal prowess and a collection of esoteric bombs to inflict damage''

This is the most amusingly accurate description of Catachans i've yet to read and it really says something about their mentality that they were willing to go toe to toe, hand to hand with a chaos skittarii like doing that is no big deal.

 

[dragonsaffron]

Ksaiwon had been trying not to think about this ever since their narrowly-averted execution. Every time the thought had come up, the question arising of what exactly it meant that Amphis had gone to such extreme lengths to save their life, the refrain had always been that it was a tit-for-tat exchange. Ksaiwon had saved Amphis's life, and now he was returning the favor. It was enough to get the thought to shut up, which was all Ksaiwon needed.

The alternative was too much to contemplate, essentially. That Amphis slew Yarol Uthrek, not because he had already planned to do such a thing, but because it was the only way to save Ksaiwon's life. That it was all done, not merely out of respect, but out of loyalty or, worse, adoration. Ksaiwon knew that many of the Secondborn looked up to them, but that it would go so far as to be the driving force behind a rebellion was beyond the pale. They didn't want this. They didn't want to be involved with Astartes ever again. And whatever was within them that could possibly cause such idolization on the part of the space marines was a part of Ksaiwon's personality which needed to be excised.

All of that to say, when Amphis and his daemonkin fell to their knees, Ksaiwon's stomach sank. Every fear they had had over last several days was proven correct all at once.

"Absolutely not!" Ksaiwon said, rushing forward. "Get up. Get up, all of you!"

Amphis remained on the ground, raising his head to track Ksaiwon's movements.

Ksaiwon grabbed Amphis's shoulder, or at the very least the scaly robes over his shoulder, and with an slight exertion of strength, dragged the marine to his feet.

"Let me make this excruciatingly clear. I do not want your pledge. I do not want your service. I do not want your aid, or your oath, or any other equivalent thing, especially not if it involves us having any kind of ongoing transaction or relationship whatsoever. We will go our separate ways and never see each other again, understood?"

Amphis sighed, resting the heel of his staff on the dusty ground. In no other moment had Ksaiwon been more aware of the thirty-centimeter height difference between the two of them.

"This is not just about me, you know."

"As though it matters. I thought Astartes always followed their commanders, come warp or wastewater. If you go back to the rest and tell them I rejected your offer, do you really believe they will disobey you?"

Amphis's face twitched slightly, brows and lips drawing together. "I do not know. The situation is… unstable, at present. Many of them might break off to pursue you, believing that I was dishonest."

"So you want me to, what, deliver the same speech to the entire host?" Ksaiwon said. They bit their lip. "I said that in jest, but I think that's legitimately what you're asking for."

"It would certainly put us all on the same page," Amphis said.

Ksaiwon sighed, then turned around. Mags had been crouched just at the edge of the crater, mechanical muscles ready to pounce, until a brief burst of scrap-code got her to relax. She was going to get her warm-up after all; just, perhaps, not quite the way anyone had wanted. Ksaiwon leapt up onto her snout and began the slow process of climbing up onto the center of her back.

"Have you been following me this entire time?" Ksaiwon asked absentmindedly.

"Tracking, I would say. Considering how far you traveled, we would have found you considerably earlier if we'd known which way you went." Amphis looked at Mags, seemingly noticing her for the first time. "I'm guessing this has been what stopped your progress?"

"Her name is Mags," Ksaiwon said, situating themself on her back. "Not that she can understand anything other than scrap-code. And yes, I've been stuck here for… three days? Trying to rescue her. Whereas you have spent the last three days hunting after me because of some kind of parasocial obsession."

"What is the meaning of…" Amphis turned to the daemonkin, some of whom were still kneeling. "Go back to camp and inform them we have found Ksaiwon. Try to keep expectations low."

They marched through the night to get back to the 20th Host's camp, Ksaiwon not wanting to be forced to sleep anywhere near Amphis and his escort. Even with the endurance of an Astartes, Amphis could not move nearly as quickly as Mags could, which meant that much of the walk was spent with the heldrake getting to do some laps, running ahead of Amphis and then turning around, occasionally stopping to devour some more plasteel. Her body continued to evolve, actuators growing more efficient, gait adjusting to quadrupedal movement, and the makeshift saddle Ksaiwon had installed becoming steadily more fitted to their form.

The 20th Host had set up camp around the fallen, abandoned remnants of a cargo freighter, shot out of the sky during the opening hours of the invasion of Antilia. It was long enough that the far end could barely be seen over the horizon, and even after months of scavenging, it still contained a quantity of food that was essentially unlimited from the perspective of a smaller force. The camp itself was surrounded by stakes and barricades, evidence of how much value they found themselves squatting on. In many ways it resembled other military camps Ksaiwon had known, though with one notable lack: heavy weapons. Space marines were a heavy weapon in and of themselves, but it was still an odd omission that they had no artillery pieces, no scout vehicles, no transports or heavy tanks.

There wasn't much time for Ksaiwon to analyze force compositions, because their arrival was met with an immense amount of fanfare. The Astartes, upon realizing that the approaching heldrake belonged to Ksaiwon, rushed out of their sparring grounds and guard posts, lining up in parade-perfect rows to offer salutes of obedience. It was profoundly unnerving, to say the least. Amphis set to work getting everyone to gather in one place, around the broken end of the crashed cargo ship itself.

A few minutes later, all of the space marines were assembled. Ksaiwon sat on Mags's back, looking down on them all, putting together the right words. Out at the edge, the humans, cultists and servants, flitted about, trying to find good angles for the drama. Eventually, Amphis returned to inform them that everyone who was going to arrive, had.

A crowd of this size was within Ksaiwon's powers to address, if they projected properly. They pulled in a breath and began.

"I really cannot thank you all enough for saving my life a few days ago. I never expected that my act of allyship on the eldar planet would be repaid with an act of such amazing bravery. But apparently, that wasn't enough for you, and that's where it's gone too far. I mean this as respectfully as possible, but I don't want you following me. I… I reject your service. I reject any oath you might swear to me, I reject the pedestal on which you all want to place me. I shall go my own direction, and you must go yours."

The rejection passed through the 20th Host as an invisible wave. For a few heartbeats, Ksaiwon thought it was over, that the natural space marine disinclination toward disobedience or intense thought would reassert itself and the 20th could go off and become barbarian raiders, as was their wont. Then the voices started to arise. Brother turned against brother, simmering arguments suddenly bursting to the surface. Others pressed forward through the crowd, reaching out gauntleted hands and trying to shout over the din.

Mags let loose a mechanical growl, claws digging into the ground. Ksaiwon soothed her as best as they could, but they could not help but become slightly panicked.

"Amphis! Control your people!"

"I will do what I can!"

Ksaiwon rose from the saddle and began racing down Mags's neck. "Isn't your kind supposed to be loyal?"

Amphis took a moment to respond while he handed out orders to some of his daemonkin, shouting at the front rows of space marines to control themselves. Ksaiwon leapt off of Mags's head, hands yearning to take hold of Claw while they glared daggers into Amphis's back.

"Loyalty, yes," Amphis said. "Loyalty is in our blood. But that can mean loyalty to an idea just as much as to a commanding officer."

"And I am neither," Ksaiwon said. "I'm barely more than a stranger. Why do they worship me as though I am their savior?"

"Because you showed us kindness, mercy. Brotherhood!"

"Oh no," Ksaiwon groaned. "Not you again."

The huge figure of the space marine known as "Ishtar", he who had challenged Ksaiwon to a duel the first day they met the late Yarol Uthrek, shouldered its way to the front of the host before he continued his speech. "We are the Secondborn, spawned from mutant hybrid seed, those who have known only war and spite since the day we were forged into something more than men. And then we saw a new way, a being with a blessed air who gave aid merely because he had aid to give. How could we not see that we have had an encounter with something greater?"

By the time Ishtar finished speaking, the courtyard was consumed with total silence. Ksaiwon's jaw fell open from shock and confusion. Slowly, they turned, facing Amphis with an expression of open disquiet.

"A blessed air?"

Amphis nodded solemnly. "It is… difficult to put into words if one has not experienced it firsthand. But you possess an aura of… importance. Not quite raw power, though power is a component of it; but a sense of eminence. A sense that to follow you would be to become a part of something greater."

"A blessing of the chaos gods?"

Amphis shrugged. "Many choose to interpret it that way. I cannot say that I know whether that assessment is accurate or inaccurate."

Ksaiwon looked back at Ishtar, then at the other marines at the front of the crowd, still in open-mouthed shock. "Is this true?"

"Yes."

"Indeed."

"He speaks truth."

"It is so."

And on and on and on down the line. Ksaiwon shivered as the magnitude of the truth washed over them, and their calculating mind took in the implications. This was now far more serious, far more fundamental, than Ksaiwon had realized. They sent a string of scrap-code to Mags, who took two gentle steps forward, lowering her head to be only a handful of meters off the ground. Ksaiwon leapt, catching themself on Mags's lower jaw, then climbed. They pivoted, sitting side-saddle on Mags's snout, one leg crossed over the other as both dangled over the crowd.

This close, Ksaiwon did not need to shout nearly as much, which made what came next much easier. "I need you all to understand who I am, exactly. Because I am mad. Completely and utterly. Up until about a hundred days ago, now, I was just a skitarius, ordinary aside from the accident of my genetic enhancement at birth. Then I was… wounded. A daemon prince's sorcery struck me down in combat, and when I awoke I was not the same as I was before.

"I have thoughts, ideas, opinions, things in my mind whose origins I do not understand. I know things I could not possibly know. I understand technology better than any tech-priest, and remember the faces of men who have been dead for thousands of years. And I have… I have knowledge of my goal. The goal that I must search for, no matter where I am and what I do."

Ksaiwon pointed off towards the horizon, the same direction that had been burned into their knowledge during every second of the speech. It was there; it was always there. "Fifty-two thousand light years in that direction lies a rogue planet, cast from its star of birth millions of years ago to wander in endless dark and cold through the void of space. It is known as The Pin, and it has been used since the Dark Age of Technology as a repository for that which the most powerful beings in the galaxy wish to be locked away forever.

"I have to go there. I have to break through twenty thousand years of built-up defenses, countless thousands of sleepless defenders, and find… something. I know not what. But I have the strangest feeling that I will know when I get there, and that if I do find it, everything will make sense again."

Ksaiwon hesitated. This was the first time they'd put it all in words, and deep down they were afraid that it would all be laughed off and forgotten. An entire macroclade of space marines didn't make for the best of confidantes, but in that moment, Ksaiwon needed them to understand.

"So you see, I'm insane!" Ksaiwon shouted. "I'm mad, I'm damaged, and I have a death wish! My only plan is to march off into the void, searching for a goal that I do not understand and which I could not possibly achieve, at which point I will get myself horribly killed. If you all follow me, you're just dooming yourself to the same gods-damned fate, and for as much as I may despise your existence, I would like to think that I have enough common decency to at least not want that."

And then there was silence. No jeering, no protest. For a moment, Ksaiwon wondered if they'd somehow completely broken the Astartes, discovered a fault in their programming which would lead inexorably to a total system crash. Amphis was the first to speak up.

"A mad quest, inspired by inscrutable visions, possibly of divine inception? A quest doomed to failure, and yet which will bring about enlightenment if successful? What better way is there to die, than in support of such a pilgrimage?"

A roar of applause rose up from the 20th Host, a roar so loud that it felt to Ksaiwon like burial under a million tons of earth. The worst part of it all was that Amphis was right. The language of pilgrimage and quest was not how Ksaiwon would have defined it, but they could not deny that, in absence of greater knowledge, it was an accurate characterization. In a way, the 20th Host, bound by ancient and inscrutable mental precepts passed down from gene-font to aspirant, were just as doomed as Ksaiwon themself, bound by visions.

Eventually, the noise died down, and all attention fell to Ksaiwon once again. They rose from their seat, standing now on top of Mags's head rather than sitting. Twenty-four hundred eyes, stoic and stalwart, glistering and wrought, mutated and predatory, all fell to them.

"Very well then," Ksaiwon said. "I take command. But I warn you all now: we shall be doing things my way."

 

[dragonsaffron]

...I have a confession to make. The real Morningstars, the story I actually really wanted to tell? It starts here. All of this other stuff was just necessary backstory.

You can maybe see why it's so difficult for me to actually get people into this story.

 

[HarakoniWarhawk]

This is where the fun begins~.

Saffron, if this is what you merely consider a backstory to the real fic, then holy feth am I pumped to read what's coming.

 

[Avangelion]

It's been a while so I forgot which chapter/Legion the 20th host are from lmao

So- now Ksaiwon's got their spess mehreen kids lmao, lil-big ducklings XD

I wonder who else they'll pick up along the way?
Goddess this'll be funsies, and the 20th host learning Ksaiwon's way OwO

 

[dragonsaffron]

It's been a while so I forgot which chapter/Legion the 20th host are from lmao

So- now Ksaiwon's got their spess mehreen kids lmao, lil-big ducklings XD

I wonder who else they'll pick up along the way?
Goddess this'll be funsies, and the 20th host learning Ksaiwon's way OwO

Click to shrink...

They're Word Bearers. Though the Secondborn are technically built from Ultramarine-successor geneseed, because that was what they had to rebuild the Host with after a particularly bad fight a few decades back.

Also I'm glad you realize they'll be picking up more peeps along the way, because the answer is SO MANY THINGS. WE COLLECTING ALLIES LIKE POKEMON UP IN THIS BITCH. POWER OF FRIENDSHIP.