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Rapping my way to divinity in this crapsack galaxy (Skyrim/Warhammer 40K/Some D20 Elements, Semi-SI)
- Thread starter Grimmatt
- Start date
Okay, I have updated the Hunting Excursions chapter! Added two more scenes, but all in all... not much more of this mini-arc. Also yes, behold the power of one of Ahkroonikaan's Dragon Priest Masks. There is more to it than first seen... but yes, its a scary ass mask with some scary ass powers.
Bishop Ponce
Heretics and worse than that even, idiots! To be sure, he would charge and gut the smirking spawn of a serpents scrotum himself before throwing the corpse onto the pyre of his family if he was able to at the moment! Because worse than the heresy, than the decadence and profound waste of it all, the pleasure drunk fools would have the inquisition down on their heads! And good old Ponce could forget about promotions, because a priest that allowed this to spread under his watch?
And now there was one of the Eldar murder clowns at the table with them. Bad enough that he had to tolerate the sorcerer, but at least that one was sanctioned. This one? Lips curled into a frown, as the creature laughed and joked with the heretic, fingers moving over the cards and shuffling. Even as cards were dealt, placed before him... he had half a mind to simply spit and do his best to deny Cerf. Which of course is when the clown spoke.
"Now, my good bishop, I would hope that as a loyal servant of the God-Emperor, you would do your very best to equip yourself with the tools needed to enact his will?" There was something mocking, something teasing in the clowns voice, even if it seemed to echo and whisper as if from the shadows inside of his ear, as if the clowns murmured it privately to him. And yet, he could swear, as Cerf laughed, that the Xeno was joking at his expense.
Or at least, as his eyes narrowed, that is what Cerf might be aware of. And so, voice a growl even as he sneered. "And what would that matter to a Xeno like you?" His finger itched for the trigger of a flamer, to end this entire charade, holy hate burning in his heart. But the mask itself winked (xeno witchcraft!), and there was that mocking smirk and tone.
But... could the Xeno be trusted? "Why, at the end of the day, I appeal not to your faith, not to your trust. But simply this." A hand gestured towards the preening prick, who was clearly hearing a very different conversation. "Between the pair of us, firstly, which do you hate more? Secondly, while my enemies enemy is not necessarily my friend, he remains my enemies enemy."
Sorcery and witchcraft were clearly on display, as that mask had another layer, of bloody teeth and a mad smile, as all sanity fled from witchfire eyes. And so, what was a loyal servant of the Emperor to do, as he matched with a deaths-head grin, but to join in on butchering the servant of darkness first?
Oh, that fool had been a charming and devilish rogue, and yet, as a noble and generous soul, he was, alas, forced to allow the good bishop his winnings. To be fair, the old man was a deft hand at the card table, the legacy of a misspent youth according the man. If only he had been so stubborn, he could have had someone around that was an actual challenge!
Though, how much of that was his own skill, and how much was that of the fools cunning remarks and deflections, that would be hard to tell really, as he entertained with ribald gossip and hidden truths, as the mask, cracking and shifting released the most beautiful perfume and granted glimpses of delights he would never have dreamed of!
A test perhaps, from the Mistress of Delights? Now, that was something to light a flame in the blood, to rouse the passions to greater heights! To be sure, the bishop had mostly won time (for what was time, but a weapon in the hands of the cunning?), but his chainsword had been returned to him, as had his hand flamer. All by disposable lackeys of course, just in case the fool decided to squander his lead by attempting to purge them. But joy of joys, the old bore had decided to play!
With surprising swiftness, the old man moved past the carefully curated plants, past the hedges and trees, vanishing into the hunting grounds. Oh, what need there was, to chase, to run him down, to impale the priest on his triumphant lance! But not to kill, not in the first blow. No, that would be to maim, to strike and wound, to see if he would continue. Because the hunt was not about the kill. No, it was about the chase, the thrill as the prey squirmed and squealed....
And there was the horns, calling him to seek out old Ponce! He wondered, just how would the old man do it, even as he followed the obvious tracks, horse at a trot, as he recognized the place to where the codger was looking to ambush him. And yet, even as he entered into the Rose Maze, the old man did not know the ways through it... or at least, none of his servants had ever reported it. Which truth be told was nothing overly worrisome, merely something which to flay the ones meant to report on the bishop.
Turn by turn, he moved into the maze, the path etched by the priest... who he should have overtaken by now. Aristocratic lips frowned, fingers tightening on the lance, hand holding his steeds reigns tight, coming to a halt as he placed it to the side of the saddle, taking instead the crossbow. For this did not seem right, and it was far too... normal. The birds were signing, the small creature scampering under the rows, and only the signs that led into the heart of the maze betrayed Ponce's presence.
And so, he entered into the heart, a bower where lovers would meet to exchange kisses and sighs, for poetry to be written and shared as you stared into the eyes of your beloved, where an old man was breathing heavily on a delicate bench, golden roses woven throughout, with strands of purest white and silver joining them. And so, the huntsman fired, bolt aiming for the old fool. Only for a thrown rose of all things to knock the bolt aside.
"Tell me, oh noble sir, would you like to know this masks most dazzling performance?" And there he was, as Ponce's head shot up. It was the fool, still wearing his mask... but now clad in mirror raiment to the noble lord of House Cerf! Such boldness, such effrontery, while somewhat amusing?
Well, there was but one proper reply. "I think, oh fool, that it matters little. But tell me, as you have been most droll on this hunt, shall I have my cooks roast your balls in wine or honey?" It was quite the conundrum really, as the fools balls must be larger than the excuse he had for a brain... even as the fool began to walk in a strange way and the world seemed to shift on its axis, to spin, as he and the fool opened their mouths at the same time, as they spoke the same words.
They were amused, they were mocking... even as he stood across from himself for a moment. "Why oh noble sir, tis the art of Walking Like You." And then he brushed himself off, as he fell inside of himself, a suit worn by himself as he screamed inside of his own head, as he spoke. "But still, my good priest, how might this repentant soul convince your good self that he is sincere in his rejuvenated faith?"
And so the priest smiled, shark like, flames flickering in his eyes, as all of his ambitions, all of his plans were to be thrown onto the pyre!
Heretics and worse than that even, idiots! To be sure, he would charge and gut the smirking spawn of a serpents scrotum himself before throwing the corpse onto the pyre of his family if he was able to at the moment! Because worse than the heresy, than the decadence and profound waste of it all, the pleasure drunk fools would have the inquisition down on their heads! And good old Ponce could forget about promotions, because a priest that allowed this to spread under his watch?
And now there was one of the Eldar murder clowns at the table with them. Bad enough that he had to tolerate the sorcerer, but at least that one was sanctioned. This one? Lips curled into a frown, as the creature laughed and joked with the heretic, fingers moving over the cards and shuffling. Even as cards were dealt, placed before him... he had half a mind to simply spit and do his best to deny Cerf. Which of course is when the clown spoke.
"Now, my good bishop, I would hope that as a loyal servant of the God-Emperor, you would do your very best to equip yourself with the tools needed to enact his will?" There was something mocking, something teasing in the clowns voice, even if it seemed to echo and whisper as if from the shadows inside of his ear, as if the clowns murmured it privately to him. And yet, he could swear, as Cerf laughed, that the Xeno was joking at his expense.
Or at least, as his eyes narrowed, that is what Cerf might be aware of. And so, voice a growl even as he sneered. "And what would that matter to a Xeno like you?" His finger itched for the trigger of a flamer, to end this entire charade, holy hate burning in his heart. But the mask itself winked (xeno witchcraft!), and there was that mocking smirk and tone.
But... could the Xeno be trusted? "Why, at the end of the day, I appeal not to your faith, not to your trust. But simply this." A hand gestured towards the preening prick, who was clearly hearing a very different conversation. "Between the pair of us, firstly, which do you hate more? Secondly, while my enemies enemy is not necessarily my friend, he remains my enemies enemy."
Sorcery and witchcraft were clearly on display, as that mask had another layer, of bloody teeth and a mad smile, as all sanity fled from witchfire eyes. And so, what was a loyal servant of the Emperor to do, as he matched with a deaths-head grin, but to join in on butchering the servant of darkness first?
Oh, that fool had been a charming and devilish rogue, and yet, as a noble and generous soul, he was, alas, forced to allow the good bishop his winnings. To be fair, the old man was a deft hand at the card table, the legacy of a misspent youth according the man. If only he had been so stubborn, he could have had someone around that was an actual challenge!
Though, how much of that was his own skill, and how much was that of the fools cunning remarks and deflections, that would be hard to tell really, as he entertained with ribald gossip and hidden truths, as the mask, cracking and shifting released the most beautiful perfume and granted glimpses of delights he would never have dreamed of!
A test perhaps, from the Mistress of Delights? Now, that was something to light a flame in the blood, to rouse the passions to greater heights! To be sure, the bishop had mostly won time (for what was time, but a weapon in the hands of the cunning?), but his chainsword had been returned to him, as had his hand flamer. All by disposable lackeys of course, just in case the fool decided to squander his lead by attempting to purge them. But joy of joys, the old bore had decided to play!
With surprising swiftness, the old man moved past the carefully curated plants, past the hedges and trees, vanishing into the hunting grounds. Oh, what need there was, to chase, to run him down, to impale the priest on his triumphant lance! But not to kill, not in the first blow. No, that would be to maim, to strike and wound, to see if he would continue. Because the hunt was not about the kill. No, it was about the chase, the thrill as the prey squirmed and squealed....
And there was the horns, calling him to seek out old Ponce! He wondered, just how would the old man do it, even as he followed the obvious tracks, horse at a trot, as he recognized the place to where the codger was looking to ambush him. And yet, even as he entered into the Rose Maze, the old man did not know the ways through it... or at least, none of his servants had ever reported it. Which truth be told was nothing overly worrisome, merely something which to flay the ones meant to report on the bishop.
Turn by turn, he moved into the maze, the path etched by the priest... who he should have overtaken by now. Aristocratic lips frowned, fingers tightening on the lance, hand holding his steeds reigns tight, coming to a halt as he placed it to the side of the saddle, taking instead the crossbow. For this did not seem right, and it was far too... normal. The birds were signing, the small creature scampering under the rows, and only the signs that led into the heart of the maze betrayed Ponce's presence.
And so, he entered into the heart, a bower where lovers would meet to exchange kisses and sighs, for poetry to be written and shared as you stared into the eyes of your beloved, where an old man was breathing heavily on a delicate bench, golden roses woven throughout, with strands of purest white and silver joining them. And so, the huntsman fired, bolt aiming for the old fool. Only for a thrown rose of all things to knock the bolt aside.
"Tell me, oh noble sir, would you like to know this masks most dazzling performance?" And there he was, as Ponce's head shot up. It was the fool, still wearing his mask... but now clad in mirror raiment to the noble lord of House Cerf! Such boldness, such effrontery, while somewhat amusing?
Well, there was but one proper reply. "I think, oh fool, that it matters little. But tell me, as you have been most droll on this hunt, shall I have my cooks roast your balls in wine or honey?" It was quite the conundrum really, as the fools balls must be larger than the excuse he had for a brain... even as the fool began to walk in a strange way and the world seemed to shift on its axis, to spin, as he and the fool opened their mouths at the same time, as they spoke the same words.
They were amused, they were mocking... even as he stood across from himself for a moment. "Why oh noble sir, tis the art of Walking Like You." And then he brushed himself off, as he fell inside of himself, a suit worn by himself as he screamed inside of his own head, as he spoke. "But still, my good priest, how might this repentant soul convince your good self that he is sincere in his rejuvenated faith?"
And so the priest smiled, shark like, flames flickering in his eyes, as all of his ambitions, all of his plans were to be thrown onto the pyre!
To Hunt a Missing Dragon, a Dragon Hunter is Needed
Critaag the Slayer enjoyed being back in Skyrim, where things made sense. Also, where all of his stuff was. Sure, there was the occasional need to do some politics, but life needed something to prevent it from being perfect. Of course, as he beheaded another Deathlord, he was still able to get away, to explore all those all barrows and dungeons that were just laying around the place. Much better than listening about how The Ragged Flagon was being all but besieged by cultists of Meridia.
Then again, the College was supposed to have a few Auroran's erupting from the midden. So... he closed the chest, thoughts of loot vanishing, a frown on his face. Yeah, he already did this. He was not touching another damn beacon!
Two months. Two months of every chest he opened having that damn orb inside of it. Now, while a man was allowed to say no to the gods... after a certain point it was just not worth trying to ignore them. Idly drumming his fingers on the polished wood of his desk, he pondered the merits of hitting the lady of infinite energies with a dragonrend to the face. Alas, even if it worked? She would likely take away Dawnbreaker.
And that sword was not just great against the undead, but was Sofie's favourite nightlight! So it was that the Dragonborn gave a resigned sigh and placed his hand on the orb. A pulse of light and warmth... but no 'a new hand touches the beacon' chiming. No, instead?
"Greetings champion. I wished to congratulate you on collecting most of the dragon priest masks." Most? He looked at his trophy wall, were all fourteen masks were located. All fourteen masks, even as the deadra continued. "Alas, it seems you have not been able to locate the Walking Wyrms Relic Masks however." He paused, head in mid shake, mouth open to try and tell her to stop with the obvious attempt at manipulation. Well, it was either that or she got suckered into some of the children's stories about the trickster dragon.
Then again... "You assumed they would be drawn to me, or at least that I'd have stumbled across them?" Because could he walk to a privy without all but tripping over something? Yeah, he wished he was that lucky. He missed the quiet and peaceful times, even if the crazy had pushed him beyond the razors edge to stand in myth and legend.
"I could but hope. After all, the Dancing Mirror was used recently after all, and where that one is? The Unwritten Memory and Marching Tempest are usually close at hand. Alas, Sotha Sil and Tiber Septim are in no position to let us know were they may have placed those two." So, what she was saying is that two of the masks had been held by gods at some point... which honestly just made his hands itch to have them added to the trophy display (in a different dimension, a certain Necron felt a sudden feeling of kinship).
But of course... "And who was the last to have the Dancing Mirror?" Because honestly? She seemed to be interested in the relics. Which raised the question of course.... of why. Unless she wanted him to hunt them down for her. Which would conflict with his own plans for a sweet collection.
"Why, I held the Dancing Mirror along with the wyrms bones champion. Keeping them safe until my beloved decided to wake and be with me once more." Okay, the tone? That just started ringing alarm bells, because even he could tell she sounded like a young girl speaking of kidnapping and keeping her true love a prisoner 'until he came to his senses.' In somewhat related news, the book club Serana, Lydia and Jordis were part of? Yeah, some kinds of porn a guy was better off avoiding.
Still... "I notice you are using the past tense?" Because he can guess where this is going. And brother? Your tales may have been some of my favourite growing up, but if push comes to shove? You are getting thrown under the dwarven steam cart. Better you than me in the grand tradition of little shits of brothers to their elder kin!
All said and done, the screaming voice, as a pissed off goddess decided that yes, she was going to vent at the hired help (he was aware he was a mercenary in several respects). Of course, most of it was in a language that he did not really understand, but from the tone, cadence and way the light strobed? This was 'pissed off rant about a man stealing bitch number 4, variation D.' That, and he made out Nocturnal more than once, meaning that this might be a clash of patrons.
And that he should have gone to the flagon to see what was going on. So, he waited. Took another sip of mead from the bottle. Nodded along occasionally while going 'uh-huh'. Got up and used the washroom, went into the kitchen to make a sandwich and returned to find that she had not stopped and was STILL going on about something. Looked outside and noticed the time. "So, my lady, what would you like me to do about it?" At this point? It was to get her to shut up and leave him alone.
Still, after a moments pause, her demand was certainly... well, yeah, this was going to be a pain. "Champion, you shall track down the bones of Ahkroonikaan from where they were stolen from beyond the bounds of Nirn! You shall deliver unto me my dragon!" The demand was booming, shaking the glass windows (which thankfully was on the lake, not inside a town) as the divine made her will known. "You may keep the masks, so long as I have my beloved."
All said and done, there was just one thing to do, before working down and tracking down a dragon for marital purposes instead of the more normal martial ones. "I accept your ladyship!" And not just because Serana thought she smuggled in some tools for training dogs over the last few nights. That it got him out of the house before he could see what she had planned? Just a bonus really.
Then again, the College was supposed to have a few Auroran's erupting from the midden. So... he closed the chest, thoughts of loot vanishing, a frown on his face. Yeah, he already did this. He was not touching another damn beacon!
Two months. Two months of every chest he opened having that damn orb inside of it. Now, while a man was allowed to say no to the gods... after a certain point it was just not worth trying to ignore them. Idly drumming his fingers on the polished wood of his desk, he pondered the merits of hitting the lady of infinite energies with a dragonrend to the face. Alas, even if it worked? She would likely take away Dawnbreaker.
And that sword was not just great against the undead, but was Sofie's favourite nightlight! So it was that the Dragonborn gave a resigned sigh and placed his hand on the orb. A pulse of light and warmth... but no 'a new hand touches the beacon' chiming. No, instead?
"Greetings champion. I wished to congratulate you on collecting most of the dragon priest masks." Most? He looked at his trophy wall, were all fourteen masks were located. All fourteen masks, even as the deadra continued. "Alas, it seems you have not been able to locate the Walking Wyrms Relic Masks however." He paused, head in mid shake, mouth open to try and tell her to stop with the obvious attempt at manipulation. Well, it was either that or she got suckered into some of the children's stories about the trickster dragon.
Then again... "You assumed they would be drawn to me, or at least that I'd have stumbled across them?" Because could he walk to a privy without all but tripping over something? Yeah, he wished he was that lucky. He missed the quiet and peaceful times, even if the crazy had pushed him beyond the razors edge to stand in myth and legend.
"I could but hope. After all, the Dancing Mirror was used recently after all, and where that one is? The Unwritten Memory and Marching Tempest are usually close at hand. Alas, Sotha Sil and Tiber Septim are in no position to let us know were they may have placed those two." So, what she was saying is that two of the masks had been held by gods at some point... which honestly just made his hands itch to have them added to the trophy display (in a different dimension, a certain Necron felt a sudden feeling of kinship).
But of course... "And who was the last to have the Dancing Mirror?" Because honestly? She seemed to be interested in the relics. Which raised the question of course.... of why. Unless she wanted him to hunt them down for her. Which would conflict with his own plans for a sweet collection.
"Why, I held the Dancing Mirror along with the wyrms bones champion. Keeping them safe until my beloved decided to wake and be with me once more." Okay, the tone? That just started ringing alarm bells, because even he could tell she sounded like a young girl speaking of kidnapping and keeping her true love a prisoner 'until he came to his senses.' In somewhat related news, the book club Serana, Lydia and Jordis were part of? Yeah, some kinds of porn a guy was better off avoiding.
Still... "I notice you are using the past tense?" Because he can guess where this is going. And brother? Your tales may have been some of my favourite growing up, but if push comes to shove? You are getting thrown under the dwarven steam cart. Better you than me in the grand tradition of little shits of brothers to their elder kin!
All said and done, the screaming voice, as a pissed off goddess decided that yes, she was going to vent at the hired help (he was aware he was a mercenary in several respects). Of course, most of it was in a language that he did not really understand, but from the tone, cadence and way the light strobed? This was 'pissed off rant about a man stealing bitch number 4, variation D.' That, and he made out Nocturnal more than once, meaning that this might be a clash of patrons.
And that he should have gone to the flagon to see what was going on. So, he waited. Took another sip of mead from the bottle. Nodded along occasionally while going 'uh-huh'. Got up and used the washroom, went into the kitchen to make a sandwich and returned to find that she had not stopped and was STILL going on about something. Looked outside and noticed the time. "So, my lady, what would you like me to do about it?" At this point? It was to get her to shut up and leave him alone.
Still, after a moments pause, her demand was certainly... well, yeah, this was going to be a pain. "Champion, you shall track down the bones of Ahkroonikaan from where they were stolen from beyond the bounds of Nirn! You shall deliver unto me my dragon!" The demand was booming, shaking the glass windows (which thankfully was on the lake, not inside a town) as the divine made her will known. "You may keep the masks, so long as I have my beloved."
All said and done, there was just one thing to do, before working down and tracking down a dragon for marital purposes instead of the more normal martial ones. "I accept your ladyship!" And not just because Serana thought she smuggled in some tools for training dogs over the last few nights. That it got him out of the house before he could see what she had planned? Just a bonus really.
Tears, Wine, Perfection; Redeeming Dinner
Hive Paris
Serge Cerf
Time was rippling and pulsing, the skein of the dream a dancing drum to the thunder of wingbeats and oraboral diving, selves devoured as they weaved from possibilities into set presents, shattering and sliding into the singularity that strode ever forward. All of it rather minor in some respects, even as a dragon wondered just what he would be getting up to. Ah well, a problem for a future instance of himself, as the mirror reverberates, black tears sliding along the cracks, purple and pink fluids oozing along each edge, nibbling at the edges of his face.
Ah, this is what it is like to see into the sea of souls! Or at least to be aware of it, as corruption seeks to peel his face back, a long tongue made of wine lapping at the eyes (something to ignore, as mortals are unaware of this. Lucky bastards), crooning that soon the torments and pleasures to enlighten him shall begin soon. Only for the figure to be knocked aside by another, thrown into a pit where there is only moans of pleasure, viscera expelled in vigorous activities used to mark noble flesh like a cattle to be slaughtered.
How good is it then, as he sits at the head of the table, as he looks over his slaves, lackeys and sycophants, nursing a glass of sweet wine, that a part of him mourns that the original design shall never come to pass? Well, as he takes a sniff of the excellent vintage, he may as well give the promised speech. "My friends, we have done well, and my bid for the throne?" He chuckles, proud and eager, as a once proud duchess was mounted by her hunting hounds. "Now, now my dear Deorangeville, not at the table, there are children!"
He tsked, even as laughter echoes out, the children themselves engaged in their own little cruelties and debaucheries. Why, what those little girls are doing with knives is enough to have a shiver and chill go down his spine! "The throne alas, should be mine." He sighs, a clear mask of disappointment and frustration clear. "Alas, the poxy one has sat their corpulent immensity down on my chair, and considering how how often that fellow bathes, why, the sheer state of the palace is deplorable!"
He wrinkled his nose. "Why, it has even let commoners inside!" Oh, how they all hissed and recoiled, muttering breaking out as everyone considered all of the filth that would need to be cleaned. "Now, as you are guessing, the sheer stain all of this leaves? I would be better destroying it and making a new one entirely. However!"
The pause is drawn out, a clear invitation that requires a few minutes for the host before him to take the dangling bait. Alas, if only he had not purged those with greater initiative! "Would his solar highness share his illumination with us lowly souls?" Ah, flattery and groveling, a nice spice, as the would be king takes a loaf of bread, breaking it and soaking it in the wine, reveling in the looks of disgust and revulsion on some of their faces. Still, he may as well get the punchline of his little jest.
Bowing to the assembled crowd, there is shock on their faces, a smile cracking this face. "Why, I do believe that it would be a delight to improve the morality of those assembled here. Perhaps with some blessed promethium?" The tone is thoughtful, as the dragon, the beast, ceases to walk like me, slipping me off like I was merely an old coat...
Not that I was able to enjoy it, flames erupting from the hidden sprinklers, coating me, burning and melting as I screamed, as flesh burned... and claws gripped me, crooning and biting, a tongue sliding into my eye, plucking it to moans and and laughter.
Ahkroonikaan
Well, that was an unpleasant experience, and one of the primary reasons why, as the mask slid back into shadows and dreams, I tried to limit using the mask. Yes, it was a step beyond even shapeshifting, as I stretched, bones cracking and popping, but having myself stuffed into the metaphysics of a mortal? That was confining in ways mortals are not really equipped to understand. That, and his mind and soul were filthier than an open sewer. It was going to simply take ages to get the sleaze out of my scales!
Of course, there were some things I could do to relax, as I pondered the Tunnel Snakes, how to rise them up, to make them look better and distribute the mushrooms they are cultivating in such a way as to become a new hive industry. And eventually a planetary and sector boon that would be a dagger lodged in Nurgles kidneys!
Still, time to look over some of the reports sent back by future selves while drinking some cranberry juice (transmutation was such a lovely spell). And of course, to write up the report and notes for my initial self. Well, none of it involved actual paperwork, so much as remembering things yet to come and making notes to consider things in the past. After all, I needed to remember how this went so I would do it. Which of course, is when the memories come slamming in.
Because of course. This was a war after all. Now, how to counter this little counter-offensive...
Amdor
The blade sank deeply into the last of the whores dancing cultists, a twist rendering the heart to so much shredded meat. It was a simple thing, cathartic and relaxing to take the field personally, to hunt down the nests of the fools. To see just how they managed to hide. In truth, Serge Cerf gathering the leadership was boon and bane both, as that meant security was lessened at the estates. On the other, the chances of capturing someone who actually knew anything of note was... minimal.
Still, there was material evidence to go through, and he had people for some of it. The joy of competent underlings, as illegal tech-adepts began their work making sure the dataslates were not trapped. The last of those that would alert others of their presence silenced. Objects being checked for occult significance... and out of nowhere, a splitting headache as someone let off the spiritual version of a flashbang close by and all of his tracking wards and signs on the leadership of the cult burst into flames at once!
It was not just stop, dropping and rolling on his mind as he shed the charms. Rather, was there an inquisitional investigation he was stumbling into? Or was this more a revenge strike by the faithful of the human emperor? Frankly, fingers kneading his forehead, it could be either... as the smell of rotting flowers tickles at his nostrils.
He could see it then for a moment, far off. The hive unfolding like a great flower, pollen driven by the winds as insects spewed forth, a cloud of buzzing and all devouring flies and a writhing carpet of maggots, hulking toads leaping out as slugs gurgled joyfully. At the forefront, the maggots held up banners, music playing as a ringmaster laughed.
Serge Cerf
Time was rippling and pulsing, the skein of the dream a dancing drum to the thunder of wingbeats and oraboral diving, selves devoured as they weaved from possibilities into set presents, shattering and sliding into the singularity that strode ever forward. All of it rather minor in some respects, even as a dragon wondered just what he would be getting up to. Ah well, a problem for a future instance of himself, as the mirror reverberates, black tears sliding along the cracks, purple and pink fluids oozing along each edge, nibbling at the edges of his face.
Ah, this is what it is like to see into the sea of souls! Or at least to be aware of it, as corruption seeks to peel his face back, a long tongue made of wine lapping at the eyes (something to ignore, as mortals are unaware of this. Lucky bastards), crooning that soon the torments and pleasures to enlighten him shall begin soon. Only for the figure to be knocked aside by another, thrown into a pit where there is only moans of pleasure, viscera expelled in vigorous activities used to mark noble flesh like a cattle to be slaughtered.
How good is it then, as he sits at the head of the table, as he looks over his slaves, lackeys and sycophants, nursing a glass of sweet wine, that a part of him mourns that the original design shall never come to pass? Well, as he takes a sniff of the excellent vintage, he may as well give the promised speech. "My friends, we have done well, and my bid for the throne?" He chuckles, proud and eager, as a once proud duchess was mounted by her hunting hounds. "Now, now my dear Deorangeville, not at the table, there are children!"
He tsked, even as laughter echoes out, the children themselves engaged in their own little cruelties and debaucheries. Why, what those little girls are doing with knives is enough to have a shiver and chill go down his spine! "The throne alas, should be mine." He sighs, a clear mask of disappointment and frustration clear. "Alas, the poxy one has sat their corpulent immensity down on my chair, and considering how how often that fellow bathes, why, the sheer state of the palace is deplorable!"
He wrinkled his nose. "Why, it has even let commoners inside!" Oh, how they all hissed and recoiled, muttering breaking out as everyone considered all of the filth that would need to be cleaned. "Now, as you are guessing, the sheer stain all of this leaves? I would be better destroying it and making a new one entirely. However!"
The pause is drawn out, a clear invitation that requires a few minutes for the host before him to take the dangling bait. Alas, if only he had not purged those with greater initiative! "Would his solar highness share his illumination with us lowly souls?" Ah, flattery and groveling, a nice spice, as the would be king takes a loaf of bread, breaking it and soaking it in the wine, reveling in the looks of disgust and revulsion on some of their faces. Still, he may as well get the punchline of his little jest.
Bowing to the assembled crowd, there is shock on their faces, a smile cracking this face. "Why, I do believe that it would be a delight to improve the morality of those assembled here. Perhaps with some blessed promethium?" The tone is thoughtful, as the dragon, the beast, ceases to walk like me, slipping me off like I was merely an old coat...
Not that I was able to enjoy it, flames erupting from the hidden sprinklers, coating me, burning and melting as I screamed, as flesh burned... and claws gripped me, crooning and biting, a tongue sliding into my eye, plucking it to moans and and laughter.
Ahkroonikaan
Well, that was an unpleasant experience, and one of the primary reasons why, as the mask slid back into shadows and dreams, I tried to limit using the mask. Yes, it was a step beyond even shapeshifting, as I stretched, bones cracking and popping, but having myself stuffed into the metaphysics of a mortal? That was confining in ways mortals are not really equipped to understand. That, and his mind and soul were filthier than an open sewer. It was going to simply take ages to get the sleaze out of my scales!
Of course, there were some things I could do to relax, as I pondered the Tunnel Snakes, how to rise them up, to make them look better and distribute the mushrooms they are cultivating in such a way as to become a new hive industry. And eventually a planetary and sector boon that would be a dagger lodged in Nurgles kidneys!
Still, time to look over some of the reports sent back by future selves while drinking some cranberry juice (transmutation was such a lovely spell). And of course, to write up the report and notes for my initial self. Well, none of it involved actual paperwork, so much as remembering things yet to come and making notes to consider things in the past. After all, I needed to remember how this went so I would do it. Which of course, is when the memories come slamming in.
Because of course. This was a war after all. Now, how to counter this little counter-offensive...
Amdor
The blade sank deeply into the last of the whores dancing cultists, a twist rendering the heart to so much shredded meat. It was a simple thing, cathartic and relaxing to take the field personally, to hunt down the nests of the fools. To see just how they managed to hide. In truth, Serge Cerf gathering the leadership was boon and bane both, as that meant security was lessened at the estates. On the other, the chances of capturing someone who actually knew anything of note was... minimal.
Still, there was material evidence to go through, and he had people for some of it. The joy of competent underlings, as illegal tech-adepts began their work making sure the dataslates were not trapped. The last of those that would alert others of their presence silenced. Objects being checked for occult significance... and out of nowhere, a splitting headache as someone let off the spiritual version of a flashbang close by and all of his tracking wards and signs on the leadership of the cult burst into flames at once!
It was not just stop, dropping and rolling on his mind as he shed the charms. Rather, was there an inquisitional investigation he was stumbling into? Or was this more a revenge strike by the faithful of the human emperor? Frankly, fingers kneading his forehead, it could be either... as the smell of rotting flowers tickles at his nostrils.
He could see it then for a moment, far off. The hive unfolding like a great flower, pollen driven by the winds as insects spewed forth, a cloud of buzzing and all devouring flies and a writhing carpet of maggots, hulking toads leaping out as slugs gurgled joyfully. At the forefront, the maggots held up banners, music playing as a ringmaster laughed.
Great it's back cannot wait for more
Pestilent Parade; The First Coda of the Lord Sorcerer
Volks, Verdun and Paris were free of the rotten taint that had threatened to overwhelm and engulf them, fought back at terrible prices as humanity rallied and spat defiance in the face of the endless horrors of the warp. With faith, steel and fire the yoke of damnation was thrown off their necks, even as the plagued hosts cried foul at the upset to their plans. Humanity would not be dying easily this day, and yet it was decreed that the world would be consumed by disease, that the rot would feed the grandfathers garden.
Some preparations were already in place for any set backs, the most disappointing of the children fed squealing to the roots of the emerging from the greater garden beyond, to anchor the arriving flower in their flesh, to the material world. How they wept and sang in delight at being able to make up for their failures, for not being able to spread the gifts they had been entrusted with. Still, in the end the remains of the Workers Emancipation Force could be used to fuel the rise of the new order, even if their current forms would never see it.
It was with a grand and rousing cheer that the bloom started to manifest, giving off such a sweet and putrid aroma that made those lacking weep pus, releasing their bile onto the ground in heaving moans. It was something, as the flies twitched and swelled, that deserved a grand and glorious parade, something to spread the good word and cheer to the drab and sad places that languished out of the Grandfathers embrace. Lesser blooms, lesser gardens bloomed elsewhere, but all had the same thought as they smiled, as they prepared to march out.
Far away from this world, strange figures would notice that the currents of time in this place were moving strangely, the great strings vibrating, building into something that was not yet manifested, the shadow of something swimming in the eddies of time. At once something of the material world, and yet oddly, beyond it. Something against their timeless calculations, as crystal wings opened on the skies above the hive of Grand Garden.
The figure, such as it was, was small. No larger than a singular space marine, clad in simple robes devoid of heraldry or decoration, and with a simple wooden staff that may as well have been a walking stick. The hosts of decay smiled and waved, inviting him to join them. He was, to all senses, a simple traveler. But, the leader of this particular host? Well, there was no harm in inviting a fellow into the celebrations, was there not? "Greetings traveler, here for the festivities?"
He made sure that his great gut of writhing worms and jelly jiggled, hand reaching out in invitation. After all, they had already won, even if it was taking some of the more serious lot a while to understand that. "Forgive me."
The words were soft, polite and calmly spoken, but... perhaps he did not hear through the crusts in his ears? "Eh, whats that? What is there to forgive?"
Honestly, he was curious, as the calm face looked up, the faint smile on almost bland features. "It has been so long since I cut loose, properly cut loose anyway." That was... odd, as the man raised his staff, smile on his face. "Still, lets shake a little rust off these old bones."
This was strange, as he was about to simply gut the mad fellow and get it over with. Then the staff came down with the peal of thunder, lines in the ground cracking, shattering as force rippled, gouts of flame emerging from the earth, despite the fact that this area was in no way tectonically active. Las fire and stubbers shot out, cracking against raising stone, shattering chunks even as he hurled himself away from the sorcerer! "Get the heavy stuff lads, this one is..."
He paused, as the air gathered above them and split, a pressure bomb over most of the army, freezing air delivered from the upper reaches joining the molten steam, as the cracks widening, expanding as if they were on mere plates, mere stepping stones over a lake of molten rock! Claws of obsidian impaled good, hard working fellows, crystals coating them as distant stars opened their eyes, a song that made him weep as he scrambled, trying to get away from the killing ground, towards the rest of the lads.
Crystals shone, clear and bright, dragged down into molten depths, mere moment bulging as giants of ash and iron rose from their molten womb. Humanoid, but each was the height of five men, and carried blades of bound flames, stomping forward with roars and into the army, the sorcerer that called them here, or fashioned them from the rock, rising into the skies on wings of star light.
Patterns were traced, more mnemonic aids dues to being dreadfully out of practice, blazing glyphs of astral fires drawn from the night and imposed on the day, the storm clouds gathering dark overhead, spirals forming, fists of swirling winds laced with hail and lightning gathering about swaths of the parade like toys, tossing them about as little more than models in the hands of an irate child. Try as they might to run, they could not, the ground shaking and heaving, fingers of flame erupting from all sides.
To be sure, as they raised their weapons into the air, as they tried to shoot the glowing figure down... they could not touch it. Around it, the light bent, bullets bounced and shells diverted course, not a one bothering him. Four more times the staff rose. Four more times around the hive of Grand Garden did it fall. Runes burned themselves into the air, the stars above the gardens shifting, the grinding of gears made of bone thundering to activation chants, star light lattices containing flows of utter void.
Crystal rung. Flames rose as a star was brought into being, as the figure sang. A song of purity. A song of cleansing. A song of defiance and hope and desperate courage. Inside the hive, rot burned, the very essence of corruption and decay burnt away inside of a stellar furnace, the weeping and the damned herded inside of it, screaming as the 'gifts' were torn away, the hive was rendered down into ash, as its brilliant light grew, until with a roar, it erupted, tendrils of questing fire channeled along the connecting roots, gardeners hastily severing blooms from their plots, blood red leaves turned a brilliant and shining white.
After all, they could hardly have blooms of cleaning and purity inside of the garden!
Some preparations were already in place for any set backs, the most disappointing of the children fed squealing to the roots of the emerging from the greater garden beyond, to anchor the arriving flower in their flesh, to the material world. How they wept and sang in delight at being able to make up for their failures, for not being able to spread the gifts they had been entrusted with. Still, in the end the remains of the Workers Emancipation Force could be used to fuel the rise of the new order, even if their current forms would never see it.
It was with a grand and rousing cheer that the bloom started to manifest, giving off such a sweet and putrid aroma that made those lacking weep pus, releasing their bile onto the ground in heaving moans. It was something, as the flies twitched and swelled, that deserved a grand and glorious parade, something to spread the good word and cheer to the drab and sad places that languished out of the Grandfathers embrace. Lesser blooms, lesser gardens bloomed elsewhere, but all had the same thought as they smiled, as they prepared to march out.
Far away from this world, strange figures would notice that the currents of time in this place were moving strangely, the great strings vibrating, building into something that was not yet manifested, the shadow of something swimming in the eddies of time. At once something of the material world, and yet oddly, beyond it. Something against their timeless calculations, as crystal wings opened on the skies above the hive of Grand Garden.
The figure, such as it was, was small. No larger than a singular space marine, clad in simple robes devoid of heraldry or decoration, and with a simple wooden staff that may as well have been a walking stick. The hosts of decay smiled and waved, inviting him to join them. He was, to all senses, a simple traveler. But, the leader of this particular host? Well, there was no harm in inviting a fellow into the celebrations, was there not? "Greetings traveler, here for the festivities?"
He made sure that his great gut of writhing worms and jelly jiggled, hand reaching out in invitation. After all, they had already won, even if it was taking some of the more serious lot a while to understand that. "Forgive me."
The words were soft, polite and calmly spoken, but... perhaps he did not hear through the crusts in his ears? "Eh, whats that? What is there to forgive?"
Honestly, he was curious, as the calm face looked up, the faint smile on almost bland features. "It has been so long since I cut loose, properly cut loose anyway." That was... odd, as the man raised his staff, smile on his face. "Still, lets shake a little rust off these old bones."
This was strange, as he was about to simply gut the mad fellow and get it over with. Then the staff came down with the peal of thunder, lines in the ground cracking, shattering as force rippled, gouts of flame emerging from the earth, despite the fact that this area was in no way tectonically active. Las fire and stubbers shot out, cracking against raising stone, shattering chunks even as he hurled himself away from the sorcerer! "Get the heavy stuff lads, this one is..."
He paused, as the air gathered above them and split, a pressure bomb over most of the army, freezing air delivered from the upper reaches joining the molten steam, as the cracks widening, expanding as if they were on mere plates, mere stepping stones over a lake of molten rock! Claws of obsidian impaled good, hard working fellows, crystals coating them as distant stars opened their eyes, a song that made him weep as he scrambled, trying to get away from the killing ground, towards the rest of the lads.
Crystals shone, clear and bright, dragged down into molten depths, mere moment bulging as giants of ash and iron rose from their molten womb. Humanoid, but each was the height of five men, and carried blades of bound flames, stomping forward with roars and into the army, the sorcerer that called them here, or fashioned them from the rock, rising into the skies on wings of star light.
Patterns were traced, more mnemonic aids dues to being dreadfully out of practice, blazing glyphs of astral fires drawn from the night and imposed on the day, the storm clouds gathering dark overhead, spirals forming, fists of swirling winds laced with hail and lightning gathering about swaths of the parade like toys, tossing them about as little more than models in the hands of an irate child. Try as they might to run, they could not, the ground shaking and heaving, fingers of flame erupting from all sides.
To be sure, as they raised their weapons into the air, as they tried to shoot the glowing figure down... they could not touch it. Around it, the light bent, bullets bounced and shells diverted course, not a one bothering him. Four more times the staff rose. Four more times around the hive of Grand Garden did it fall. Runes burned themselves into the air, the stars above the gardens shifting, the grinding of gears made of bone thundering to activation chants, star light lattices containing flows of utter void.
Crystal rung. Flames rose as a star was brought into being, as the figure sang. A song of purity. A song of cleansing. A song of defiance and hope and desperate courage. Inside the hive, rot burned, the very essence of corruption and decay burnt away inside of a stellar furnace, the weeping and the damned herded inside of it, screaming as the 'gifts' were torn away, the hive was rendered down into ash, as its brilliant light grew, until with a roar, it erupted, tendrils of questing fire channeled along the connecting roots, gardeners hastily severing blooms from their plots, blood red leaves turned a brilliant and shining white.
After all, they could hardly have blooms of cleaning and purity inside of the garden!
- Location
- Viet Nam
Glad to have you back.
And still him holding back a bit, even as he gets into some of the exotic and esoteric shit he has not really gotten too much into for a while. But hey, Warhammer runs on Rule of Cool anyway, so yeah
Good to be back... even if also updating some other things. Muse is as muse is.
Pestilent Parade; The Second Coda of the Lord Sorcerer
Ashes drifted in the wind, embers carrying the faintest hint of hymns as they flickered and danced. And then a star erupted into being over a fallen garden. It was not a silent star, nor was it a falling one, tendrils of light and flame reaching from it, the soul of the world stirring around that grasping hand. A gesture was made, a gesture of defiance, of love and sacrifice, of need and hope, as the flame fell, as the star raced down into the depths, into the geothermal tap the hive was built around. Down unto the very foundations of what used to be some place very different.
A moment of stillness, and then the hive began to shake, to quake and move, heaving as if it was alive. Trapped in their few remaining pockets, the few remaining loyalists, wracked by famine and disease, gripped their weapons tightly, fearing what deviltry was to come. Again and again the hive quaked, before it simply erupted, molten rock and metal surging forth in a tide of iron and gold, the walls of the megastructure glowing with heat, defilement and corrupting burning and being cast out, as the flame came for the loyalists.
They were engulfed, each and every last one, the light sinking into them. Children, mothers and fathers cried in relief, in wonder, as nourishment filled their bodies, as they were made whole. Around them, the hive was being made whole, even as it changed, as the metal itself sang. It was a simple song in many respects, a song that was muted, fallen silent and distorted with age, with the endless growth that choked it out. And yet, this place was a home. A bastion of safety for humanity among the cold and uncaring stars.
It was the song of a home, that while it had become something that fed on those that lived inside of it, while it was not able to do as fully as it wished to, had remained a home for countless mortal souls. And now, the lord of plagues had come, ruined what few systems it had left to keep its people alive, tormented and made it a den of cancers?
No.
No. More.
NO. MORE.
Restorative energies raced through every plate,. every nail, every wire. Rust and decay were destroyed in the racing inferno, the ages turning back, as the furnace roared in the depths. Priest and pauper, young and old, as one, they listened, as one they joined their voice to their home, as they moved, past the downed forms of the weeping, of those who had been lost, but not yet damned. Weeping, hands gripped them and bade them to rise, as the hive quaked around them, ancient engines online.
What few survivors of the pestilent hosts on the battlefield outside, as they tried to return, died to flame and bullet. Gone was the smoke and soot stained citadel. Even as the citizens returned to work, to factories given over to war, it was gleaming as if freshly forged, glowing with its own inner light, remade in the image of gleaming fortress on a hill.
In many ways, what happened to Grand Garden had been because there were hold outs in the old agri-hive, people not yet given over to powers of ruin and corruption. And so, there was no need to hold back over Tri Rivers Hive. Oh, the rivers themselves had long since been drunk dry, centuries before any native of the world was born, but there was a memory there, for what was water, but memory?
The beds of those ancient streams made into roads by which an army march, rumbled, pebbles shaking and bouncing, the leader of the parade lifting his arm, curious as the army assembled for battle. On the one hand, you had to give them credit, they held for a moment or two. On the other hand, they were not exactly prepared for water, white foam shaped in the image of a vast host of honey badgers, crawling over each other and leaping, fighting amongst each other as they raced down the riverbed.
Rotten and pestilent flesh was torn asunder as they tried to scramble up the slopes, white foam chasing them and dragging them back in, bald men made of soap and suds with mops smacking them into the rushing river, dragged down into the depths as they raced back towards the hive, the ground crumbling as if struck by some massive fist, a sinkhole forming to swallow the hive itself, a great lake or inland sea forming from the wreckage, only a few of the mutated followers of the grandfather managing to cling to wood, to float...
And to narrowly avoid the cleaning men scrubbing them into the waters, sharks and octopi of ice emerging to drag survivors down, a vast whale of repurposed metal opening its mouth and sucking them down, a whirlpool of steaming hot water, growing rich with soap bubbles as the bald men throw themselves in. What few of those remaining jolly hosts scream as they are pulled into the depths, all parts of them unclean worn and scrubbed away.
Down to their very souls, none of them able to join the garden.
Anger pulsed in Papa Bileguts, a most unpleasant irritation along his bowels, a smile not on his face, as he became aware of what happened to his followers in other garden plots. This was most vexing, most troubling... and now? With this sort of gauntlet thrown down in front of him, with so many of his dear little children dead and in such a way that he had no mulch to contribute to the garden... well, he could already feel his fathers disappointed gaze on him.
But stiff lip and tallyho and all that. There was but one course of action, as he forced himself through the stem of the flower, as it unfolded with a putrid reek, the fumes choking and rotting the lungs of the mortals close by, as he emerged. His chaps needed some proper leadership, and even if he was going to lose, well, he was going to give this saint, because what else could it be, a right and proper thrashing first!
A moment of stillness, and then the hive began to shake, to quake and move, heaving as if it was alive. Trapped in their few remaining pockets, the few remaining loyalists, wracked by famine and disease, gripped their weapons tightly, fearing what deviltry was to come. Again and again the hive quaked, before it simply erupted, molten rock and metal surging forth in a tide of iron and gold, the walls of the megastructure glowing with heat, defilement and corrupting burning and being cast out, as the flame came for the loyalists.
They were engulfed, each and every last one, the light sinking into them. Children, mothers and fathers cried in relief, in wonder, as nourishment filled their bodies, as they were made whole. Around them, the hive was being made whole, even as it changed, as the metal itself sang. It was a simple song in many respects, a song that was muted, fallen silent and distorted with age, with the endless growth that choked it out. And yet, this place was a home. A bastion of safety for humanity among the cold and uncaring stars.
It was the song of a home, that while it had become something that fed on those that lived inside of it, while it was not able to do as fully as it wished to, had remained a home for countless mortal souls. And now, the lord of plagues had come, ruined what few systems it had left to keep its people alive, tormented and made it a den of cancers?
No.
No. More.
NO. MORE.
Restorative energies raced through every plate,. every nail, every wire. Rust and decay were destroyed in the racing inferno, the ages turning back, as the furnace roared in the depths. Priest and pauper, young and old, as one, they listened, as one they joined their voice to their home, as they moved, past the downed forms of the weeping, of those who had been lost, but not yet damned. Weeping, hands gripped them and bade them to rise, as the hive quaked around them, ancient engines online.
What few survivors of the pestilent hosts on the battlefield outside, as they tried to return, died to flame and bullet. Gone was the smoke and soot stained citadel. Even as the citizens returned to work, to factories given over to war, it was gleaming as if freshly forged, glowing with its own inner light, remade in the image of gleaming fortress on a hill.
In many ways, what happened to Grand Garden had been because there were hold outs in the old agri-hive, people not yet given over to powers of ruin and corruption. And so, there was no need to hold back over Tri Rivers Hive. Oh, the rivers themselves had long since been drunk dry, centuries before any native of the world was born, but there was a memory there, for what was water, but memory?
The beds of those ancient streams made into roads by which an army march, rumbled, pebbles shaking and bouncing, the leader of the parade lifting his arm, curious as the army assembled for battle. On the one hand, you had to give them credit, they held for a moment or two. On the other hand, they were not exactly prepared for water, white foam shaped in the image of a vast host of honey badgers, crawling over each other and leaping, fighting amongst each other as they raced down the riverbed.
Rotten and pestilent flesh was torn asunder as they tried to scramble up the slopes, white foam chasing them and dragging them back in, bald men made of soap and suds with mops smacking them into the rushing river, dragged down into the depths as they raced back towards the hive, the ground crumbling as if struck by some massive fist, a sinkhole forming to swallow the hive itself, a great lake or inland sea forming from the wreckage, only a few of the mutated followers of the grandfather managing to cling to wood, to float...
And to narrowly avoid the cleaning men scrubbing them into the waters, sharks and octopi of ice emerging to drag survivors down, a vast whale of repurposed metal opening its mouth and sucking them down, a whirlpool of steaming hot water, growing rich with soap bubbles as the bald men throw themselves in. What few of those remaining jolly hosts scream as they are pulled into the depths, all parts of them unclean worn and scrubbed away.
Down to their very souls, none of them able to join the garden.
Anger pulsed in Papa Bileguts, a most unpleasant irritation along his bowels, a smile not on his face, as he became aware of what happened to his followers in other garden plots. This was most vexing, most troubling... and now? With this sort of gauntlet thrown down in front of him, with so many of his dear little children dead and in such a way that he had no mulch to contribute to the garden... well, he could already feel his fathers disappointed gaze on him.
But stiff lip and tallyho and all that. There was but one course of action, as he forced himself through the stem of the flower, as it unfolded with a putrid reek, the fumes choking and rotting the lungs of the mortals close by, as he emerged. His chaps needed some proper leadership, and even if he was going to lose, well, he was going to give this saint, because what else could it be, a right and proper thrashing first!
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