Kamangr
Stella!!
Huh, so Abdul had long since been Lost?
The Lost Primarch Quest
- Thread starter Daemon Hunter
- Start date
- Pronouns
- Human/Form/Keyblade
He's not, it's just that xemness for some reason wanted to make a character that was susceptible to chaos.
and in reality, he is not likely to fall to Chaos he has actually more Cr than many librarians
- Location
- United States
What keykingdom said. He's actually just a Librarian I made so we'd still have a solid unit when we're sending most of the Legion after some big Chaos threat. Say, if we were going to try to assassinate an Exalted or something. We'd send Kesar, a third or more of our Legion, and likely all or most of our Heroes. But that just means that the other worlds we'd be facing would either get our newer or less useful Heroes, or they'd get our host of incredibly weak Protos. You know, the ones with no traits or bonuses.
Hence having a character who's Lore was so...not anti-Daemon. If we have a guy we can't, our shouldn't, send against Daemons he'll be regulated to all those other worlds we've been ignoring, or forced to ignore. Meanwhile, he's strong enough that his involvement will, over time, save enough Wardens to fund a whole new campaign against Chaos.
As far as his actual Stats are concerned...Yeah, it's worth noting his traits give him a whooping +15 CR which means that, ironically, after the Chaplain Program is expanded to include him he'll be completely immune to Corruption outside of the Warp itself, being the only non-Hero that can claim that title.
Sidenote: Not sure you read the extra section, but all of that is actually a single CR check, and while I was originally going to hide whether he passed or failed it....he passed.
Glimmerfrost
- Location
- USA
Auro stared down at the disassembled flamer that had been his primary weapon for decades. It was a venerable design for sure, with most of its inefficiencies purged due to refits over the years, but it was in the end a simple hand flamer, nothing more or less.
Which for the most part was fine, as few creatures in the galaxy were able to survive flames tens of thousands of degrees washing over them, and even more importantly it spilled free energy into the world for him to Shift.
Yet, it was simple and routine for a weapon that had served for as long as it had. It had seen the station war melting countless metal monstrosities into liquid puddles, it saw service on Cadia where its flames had consumed cultists and had allowed him to ripe apart armies. It had last seen service of note upon the icy world of Fenris during the incident with the Lord of Stagnation.
Burning away corruption and ice as he fought in minor battles while hunting for the fallen of the sixth legion. It had been more than enough to twist the battle in his favor even as the winds provided him with energy to spare, yet more forms of energy was always beneficial and the flames burned away the ice from the strange frost casters that the Fallen used.
Now, however the battle was over and his reward glittered in his palm. Six glimmerfrost crystals, the heart of all Helfrost weapons, taken from the slain Fallen Wolves with the permission of the others with him. Two of the six shimmering in the light akin to shimmering silver diamonds of purest frost, pure of any imperfections and even now consuming the energy of the nearby air.
Auro stared down at the crystals as he pondered once more if they were warp based or akin to the crystals of Aegis in that they had an effect upon the warp, but weren't of the warp. If they were of the latter then they would need to be either returned or destroyed, while the former would mean they could be used.
Flicking his finger towards the waiting Null Rod, the field began to rise and the warp fled from the room, yet the glimmer frost crystals remained solid and producing the normal chill that was the mark of their existence, only slightly dimmed. A faint twitch of the lips was all that Auro allowed himself as the proof was given that the crystals were almost certainly safe to use or at least no worst than the Aegis crystals that already lined his Shield and Armor.
Carefully separating the six apart, the two second most perfect were placed aside as the most perfect was placed in a special pot that he had created for this test. A simple metal container with the rune of plasma on the bottom, easily reaching near the melting point of the metal but not quite over it, Placing the crystal suspended in the middle of the pot, he moved back to the others and the disassembled flamer.
The most impure of the six was quickly placed alone as even from a distance dark lines perforated the glimmering crystal and the chill surrounding it fluctuated randomly. Glancing at it Auro quickly determined that it would be carefully cut apart along the growth lines to preserve the unique nature of the crystal.
Taking the broken crystal and with a firm hand Shift was brought to bear and gravity bent as it was twisted. Shearing the crystal apart with no damage beyond that which he wanted, with metronomic precision the crystal slowly broke down as it was carefully pruned, shards of corrupted matter were quickly incinerated and otherwise eliminated while the pure shards taken for later use. The very center of the crystal where Auro had expected to find the worst corruption was instead nearly perfect, in fact it was the single most perfect example of a Glimmerfrost crystal he had ever seen.
Carefully placing the near perfect spherical core to the side for later experiments, the other four shards of much less purity were brought together to form a new pile. Heaving his heavy shield up onto the table, Auro began to work with firm and steady hands integrating the four shards into the crystalline matrix that he had had added to the shield only a few years ago, during Aegis. As he worked he found the crystals that refined the warp from Aegis interacted with the Glimmerfrost and soon the entire surface of the shield was covered in ice.
Yet, the ice grew in designs and swirls that replicated the placement of the crystal matrix to near perfection presenting yet another layer of armor over the already potent Force Shield. With the shield upgraded with the crystals he turned now to the flamer.
Pulling out from a drawer a blueprint he had crafted over the course of several years in-between working on the rune of true light, the blueprint was for a combi weapon of fire and ice, for ever since he had learned of the possibilities of Helfrost he had sought to find one of the crystals to attempt to grow his own and make use of them for weapons.
Over the course of days he worked on the flamer as he followed the plans he had crafted and refined with tech marine supported in preparation for this day. First came the chamber separated into two sections with a seal of adamantium to prevent the two fuels from touching. Next came the separating of the firing system to allow for both weapons to be fired at once or separately. In the end the new weapon was finished and able to fire both floods of flames and ice.
Sitting back to take a short break Auro looked down with what for him passed for pride at the completed Frostflame flammer, the first and so far only one of its design in the galaxy to his knowledge. The blueprint had worked perfectly and he made a note to send the blueprint to the sixth legion within the month for they should have a record of what he had used one of their resources for.
Setting aside Frostflame and the Frost Shield, Auro turned once more to research and relaxed under the null field.
AN: again not my best work reads a bit choppy but gets the point across I feel.
Which for the most part was fine, as few creatures in the galaxy were able to survive flames tens of thousands of degrees washing over them, and even more importantly it spilled free energy into the world for him to Shift.
Yet, it was simple and routine for a weapon that had served for as long as it had. It had seen the station war melting countless metal monstrosities into liquid puddles, it saw service on Cadia where its flames had consumed cultists and had allowed him to ripe apart armies. It had last seen service of note upon the icy world of Fenris during the incident with the Lord of Stagnation.
Burning away corruption and ice as he fought in minor battles while hunting for the fallen of the sixth legion. It had been more than enough to twist the battle in his favor even as the winds provided him with energy to spare, yet more forms of energy was always beneficial and the flames burned away the ice from the strange frost casters that the Fallen used.
Now, however the battle was over and his reward glittered in his palm. Six glimmerfrost crystals, the heart of all Helfrost weapons, taken from the slain Fallen Wolves with the permission of the others with him. Two of the six shimmering in the light akin to shimmering silver diamonds of purest frost, pure of any imperfections and even now consuming the energy of the nearby air.
Auro stared down at the crystals as he pondered once more if they were warp based or akin to the crystals of Aegis in that they had an effect upon the warp, but weren't of the warp. If they were of the latter then they would need to be either returned or destroyed, while the former would mean they could be used.
Flicking his finger towards the waiting Null Rod, the field began to rise and the warp fled from the room, yet the glimmer frost crystals remained solid and producing the normal chill that was the mark of their existence, only slightly dimmed. A faint twitch of the lips was all that Auro allowed himself as the proof was given that the crystals were almost certainly safe to use or at least no worst than the Aegis crystals that already lined his Shield and Armor.
Carefully separating the six apart, the two second most perfect were placed aside as the most perfect was placed in a special pot that he had created for this test. A simple metal container with the rune of plasma on the bottom, easily reaching near the melting point of the metal but not quite over it, Placing the crystal suspended in the middle of the pot, he moved back to the others and the disassembled flamer.
The most impure of the six was quickly placed alone as even from a distance dark lines perforated the glimmering crystal and the chill surrounding it fluctuated randomly. Glancing at it Auro quickly determined that it would be carefully cut apart along the growth lines to preserve the unique nature of the crystal.
Taking the broken crystal and with a firm hand Shift was brought to bear and gravity bent as it was twisted. Shearing the crystal apart with no damage beyond that which he wanted, with metronomic precision the crystal slowly broke down as it was carefully pruned, shards of corrupted matter were quickly incinerated and otherwise eliminated while the pure shards taken for later use. The very center of the crystal where Auro had expected to find the worst corruption was instead nearly perfect, in fact it was the single most perfect example of a Glimmerfrost crystal he had ever seen.
Carefully placing the near perfect spherical core to the side for later experiments, the other four shards of much less purity were brought together to form a new pile. Heaving his heavy shield up onto the table, Auro began to work with firm and steady hands integrating the four shards into the crystalline matrix that he had had added to the shield only a few years ago, during Aegis. As he worked he found the crystals that refined the warp from Aegis interacted with the Glimmerfrost and soon the entire surface of the shield was covered in ice.
Yet, the ice grew in designs and swirls that replicated the placement of the crystal matrix to near perfection presenting yet another layer of armor over the already potent Force Shield. With the shield upgraded with the crystals he turned now to the flamer.
Pulling out from a drawer a blueprint he had crafted over the course of several years in-between working on the rune of true light, the blueprint was for a combi weapon of fire and ice, for ever since he had learned of the possibilities of Helfrost he had sought to find one of the crystals to attempt to grow his own and make use of them for weapons.
Over the course of days he worked on the flamer as he followed the plans he had crafted and refined with tech marine supported in preparation for this day. First came the chamber separated into two sections with a seal of adamantium to prevent the two fuels from touching. Next came the separating of the firing system to allow for both weapons to be fired at once or separately. In the end the new weapon was finished and able to fire both floods of flames and ice.
Sitting back to take a short break Auro looked down with what for him passed for pride at the completed Frostflame flammer, the first and so far only one of its design in the galaxy to his knowledge. The blueprint had worked perfectly and he made a note to send the blueprint to the sixth legion within the month for they should have a record of what he had used one of their resources for.
Setting aside Frostflame and the Frost Shield, Auro turned once more to research and relaxed under the null field.
AN: again not my best work reads a bit choppy but gets the point across I feel.
February 14th Omake Rewards
- Location
- Elsewhere
1. Alright, omakes. And here we have the Alpha Legion discussing Guilliman. As one can imagine, there's a fair bit of bad blood there, and I have kind of alluded to their relationship as being extremely broken. It was interesting seeing the discussion on his CR, which is admittedly rather low. As for your reward:
[] +5 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to the Alpha Legion's next roll (Currently 4 sets of bonuses)
[] +10 to Guilliman's next roll
2. Then we have Mysterio's Hydroxis Sector, which is a mess of massive proportions. And all due to mundane human greed. It's a very interesting sector, and it's one I've got some plans for. As for your reward:
[] +5 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +/-10 to rolls for the Hydroxis' Sectors generation when it shows up
[] Pick a Primarch, they'll have their ME table shuffled slightly to increase the odds of this sector appearing
3. Then we have Horus thinking of the distinction between the Eldar. That distinction alone could make for a fairly interesting bit of lore, just due to how the Imperium works. As for your reward, it was already given.
4. Then we have Horus' thoughts turning towards POlaris itself, and as before, it was already rewarded:
*+10 to Horus' next roll against Polaris
5. Up next we have Kesar having a lot to do. As before, this was already rewarded:
6. Then we have Kesar looking into Titan void shields. It's an interesting point on how he was willing to sacrifice the Titan Legion on Aleph is needed, and as before, already rewarded:
7. Then we have a continuation of the Titan void shields, and once more already rewarded:
8. Then we have Kesar working on the Rune of Subtlety. As before, already rewarded:
9. Then we have the same rune, but this time with some interesting references to the Twins. As before, already rewarded:
10. Then we have the Rune Planet and the frustrations that come with it. It's a rather difficult long term project, but it does come with considerable benefits when finished. As for your reward, it was already given:
1. Then we have Kesar commenting on the trial and error aspect of the rune world as it is a very new thing. As before, already rewarded:
2. And then we have the Exalted of Khorne having a great time within the warp. A battle beyond the likes of anything that has been seen since the War in Heaven. Needless to say, Khornate and the Orks are enjoying it. As for your reward:
[] +5 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] GM reveals number of Khornate Greater Daemons at one of the ritual sites (chosen randomly)
[] +/-10 to the Blood and Thunder War's next roll.
3. Then we have a really nice omake on what Malcador is thinking. It's a great view into his thoughts on the Primarchs, and a really peaceful read. As for your reward:
[] +5 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] Malcador gets an extra action in Year 31
[] Slight increase in Kesar-Malcador's relationship
4. Then we have Leman facing off against an AI, this one with a philosophy that he can actually relate to. As before, already rewarded:
5. Then we have the continuation with the AI, and once more already rewarded:
6. Then we have Ferrus and his actions against the Dark Age fortress. Let me just say that he has really found a newfound hatred for sieges. And has had his respect for Perturabo for doing this in the past rise substationally. As for your reward:
*+10 to Ferrus' rolls against this world for the year
7. Then we have Sanguinius against a world with Kessler syndrome. I do like the commentary on how their defenses are basically trash, as it was fun to read. As before, already rewarded:
8. Then we have Sanguinius thinking up some ways to get better sensor readings of the world, and interesting idea. As before, already rewarded:
9. Then we have Zeta planning to deal with a spy within Pert's domain. I do like the way you showed the change in Primarch command as being rather unpleasant for her. For spies that's never fun. As before, already rewarded:
*+10 to Zeta's rolls for the year
10. And then we have Konrad trying to figure out how to deploy his forces. As before, already rewarded:
*+10 to Konrad's rolls on Vereena
A Dragons Defiance (Must Read)
A Dragons Defiance
No god worth their divinity never reacted to their enemies. They were always proactive and on the move against them. Always attack, always press forward, never back down, and never retreat. Khaine despised cowards, those that hid behind their walls and fortifications. You don't earn the title of the Bloody Handed God by laying brick and mortar, just for it to be destroyed by your foes because you failed to press the attack.
So, Khaine gave his followers the power to press their advantage, ever strike at the heart of their enemies, and crush them beneath their feet. In war, the only true victory was the death of one's enemies and seeing their broken bodies. Likewise, fire ensured that nothing remained and proved the folly of fortifications, as men roasted and burned inside that which they thought would save them.
Any adherent that sought safety in such monuments of stupidity would have no place in Khaine's army.
The ages passed, and Khaine's unspoken mandate persisted. His armies waxed and waned across ten thousand wars and against an endless horde of enemies. All was good; all was right as the Bloody Handed God expected from his followers. Then Khaine heard the sounds of a stranger and the banging of what he assumed to be a hammer, calling towards his realm in worship.
"Lord of War, I build this bastion in your name."
Khaine looked upon this call for a blessing and sneered upon seeing an Eldar, wearing his colors and sigil, hands covered in grime and blood and holding a hammer, building a fort and asking for his favor. Angered at this perceived weakness, Khaine ordered one of his lesser followers to go and break the bastion.
Time passed, and Khaine heard the voice again...
"Lord of War, I have built this bastion in your name."
Incensed, the Bloody Handed God looked back at the Eldar and saw that his bastion had grown and finished...and a broken force of Eldar was now at the Eldars feet. Khaine ordered two armies sent this time around.
Again, time passed, and Khaine's focus was distracted once again by the same voice and the pounding of a hammer.
"Lord of War, I defend this bastion in your name."
Why this had not been resolved eluded Khaine, but he had grown beyond tired of it. He ordered two new armies and to be lead by a minor champion. The undying warrior would break this bastion down for sure. Meanwhile, Khaine began to look into this Eldar that continued to mock and defy him. One of his siblings was at work here, for how else could it explain this mortal's success against his forces?
How long had they been stuck here now? Time lost all meaning. They might have been fighting for three days, three months, to three years, and it wouldn't have mattered. The outcome for their battle had remained the same. The Crystal Dragons were dying. Attempting to piece together what exactly happened was pointless. Their stories would end here unless something were to be done and soon.
For Menethanil, all thoughts of victory were gone now. A withdrawal from this warzone was needed to survive to carry on their Shattered Lord's legacy. He was the sole Exarch now. His sister Laeris had died only recently, while their father died buying their forces time to fortified this rotten position.
Menethanil wasn't a stranger to such terrible battlefields. Still, even he found that being stuck between two competing Daemon Princes in the middle of the Warp exceeded their skills and capabilities. They had paid for it, quite dearly—daemons around them at all sides, along with their mortal armies to act as fodder.
And yet, nothing was stopping them from holding the line. The concept of a defense doctrine among the Eldar was generally seen as a notoriously unpopular doctrine for the nimble and lithe race. You don't ask for a race of artists, dancers, and agile warriors to hold still and let the enemy take shots at you. That was the work of "peasants" and "mon'keigh."
But the Crystal Dragons were a shrine that understood the necessity and glory surrounding the art of defense. You were the rock that broke the wave, the tree rooted in place against the typhoon, and one that stood before your enemies and told them, "no, you move."
The Shattered Lord taught them that destruction was a multi-faceted approach. Sometimes, it was the act of defiance that brought the most destruction towards a foe. The realization that they died for nothing, that their enemies held their place, and the fear that they would have to charge again and again towards their death. It was the destruction of the spirit, not of the body.
Hence even after all the losses and suffering, knowing that his sister and father and hundreds of thousands of others were gone now, that only 3,000 stood against the many, none of the Crystal Dragons gave into despair. Were they losing? Yes. Was death on the horizon? Absolutely.
Yet they were going to meet it with a curse on their lips and the blood of their enemies on their hands. Their bodies would be ruined, but on the front, not the back. Their guns and swords and flamer would be depleted and broken, just like bodies of their foes beneath their boots.
A defeat here was one of the body's failures, not the spirit.
However, Menethanil knew that to die now would also be a waste. This was not the great battle that father spoke of, nor was the Exarch keen to die in this nightmare, trapped between two foes who only found the Dragons arrival another possible "victory" to use against their opponent with the defeat of the Dragons.
To hell with this pettiness. Menethanil would sooner let his body be devoured by one of the crystals than allow either of these bastards his skull or soul. The daemons hadn't breached their fourth layer of defenses yet, meaning they had more than enough time. Menethanil figured that now was the moment to make his announcement. If they were indeed going to die in this realm, they might as well prepare to go on their own terms.
Khaine accused Isha of aiding the Eldar, her pathetic love towards her children blinding her as always. But she heard not of this fortress or who defied him.
Then he accused Cegorach, that fool had already tested his patience time and time again. But he only laughed and shook his head, remarking about closed fortress gates before wheezing.
He went to Asuryan, Lord of Creation, and asked him if he granted a piece of wisdom to this Eldar. Finally, Asuryan spoke and pointed him towards Vaul, Lord of Forges and Smithing.
When Khaine found Vaul, he demanded to know why he would assist a lowly Eldar, let alone one who claimed to be his servant. The Bloody Handed God accused the God of Smiths that he was attempting to undermine his followers. Yet Vaul spoke clearly, even as he worked on whatever project upon his forge.
"Aye, I helped him. I gave him a hammer that would allow him to mold crystal to his liking. He's a builder by trade and smith at heart, but he calls upon your name through the ache in his soul. There is only pain now, fire and vengeance in that one's heart. For one hundred times, he built a home for his family, and one hundred times was it destroyed by your enemies. Rather than curse your name, this one seeks to stand in defiance of your foes. Yet you spurn his calls because you think he hides behind walls?"
Vaul would ultimately laugh before ending the conversation, causing Khaine to storm out of his forge and cursing his kin. It would eventually be another one of those moments that Khaine would remember when the time came, far into the future, to collect a promised commission from the Forge God.
But in the meanwhile, Khaine was left with new questions. If Vaul only gave this Eldar the ability to create a fortress, how was he winning against his armies?
At first, their Citadel hadn't originally been anything more than an emergency fortress. Menethanil's father planned to use it as a place for the Crystal Dragons to rally and organize their supply lines after arriving in this nightmare. They had been attacked for so long now that the casualties immediately started to pile on within hours of establishing their first wall. Thousands of Eldar died, their bodies joining the crystal that would save more of their brothers.
But then more and more died as the hordes of daemons attacked them in droves. No doubt tasting the blood in the air, but a Crystal Dragon does not bleed. They turn either into fire or crystal in the end. The Black Smoke had been bellowing non-stop. The walls and foundations of the now Hellfire Citadel grew to such lengths that Menenthanil now could survey up to twenty kilometers of land at the very top of it (which he did routinely) and could see the battle unfold in real-time.
He could hear the constant whizzing of shuriken rounds, whining melta blasts, and bellowing blue-flames hitting the hordes of daemons and unwashed daemons. Sometimes he could even hear the Orks that had been intruding upon this battle. At first, father and Laeris had done the smart thing, trying to bring in more of the greenskins in this battle. The Orks attacked everyone, but they were ultimately fruitless, trying to break the Hellfire Citadel walls.
It was a familiar doctrine, causing frustration towards the enemy, a cornerstone in the Crystal Dragons shrine. Their aspect embodied that psychological warfare, the destruction of the enemy's ego and pride, would result in them making more and more mistakes.
Unfortunately, Menethanil saw that while the daemons were getting restless, they weren't impatient and throwing themselves against their walls. They wanted to siege out the Dragons, and if Menethanil was honest with himself, that was likely the optimal strategy here. The endless tides of daemons would ultimately win out.
To the Crystal Dragons' credit, they at least had the supplies and resources to withstand a long-term siege. The only silver lining to go from a quarter-million to a few thousand, there were plenty of things left behind by the dead. At the very least, they wouldn't be fighting to the knife in the end.
"I want to send a message out." Menethanil ordered towards what remained of his sub-commanders, "And I want all our enemies to hear it as well. We shall taunt the beasts and let them fight over each other while trying to reach us."
Khaine did not feel anxious about anything; rarely, if ever, did Khaine feel uneasy about such a minor event as this. He wanted to know what exactly it would take to kill this bastard Eldar and smash his fortress. The Bloody Handed Gods' disdain for this annoyance grew with every second, which might as well have been a year for the flicker lives of the mortals. But he sent his armies and a lesser champion all the same.
He almost roared in fury when he heard the voice of the Eldar calling out to him.
"Lord of War, I remain standing the face of these foes."
Once again, his armies had failed utterly, and his champion was stuck trying to find a weakness in the bastion. Worse yet, the fortress had grown exponentially. Now it stood as tall as a hill, bursting with crystal towers and portcullises. And now other Eldar were commanding the walls. This annoying mortal had gained followers now.
When Khaine saw his champion, he looked frustrated, exhausted, and beyond enraged. Khaine then reached out and demanded to know why he had failed to take this blasted fortress. How did his forces not break the walls of this affront to Khaines sensibilities?
"A thousand pleas, my master, but it is not the walls that are hindering us. The master of this fortification is a dangerous foe. He stands before us, unwavering and unafraid. I've seen him stand before us in bulky, plated armor that burns with the flames of Vauls forges and with crystal weapons that cut through all defenses. More than that, that armor emits a black smoke that is impossible to see through and burns out eyes and mouths. There are no tricks to his style, no mercy in his attacks, and if not the flames that kill you, then it shall be his strikes or the smoke."
How many more times must Khaine be humiliated by this Eldar? He had enough. He called for six armies and one of his greatest champions with orders to bring down this citadel and kill all inside it. There would be no more hindrances or excuses. Before the end of this century, this monument to arrogance would be destroyed.
There was another attack. Menethanil found it hard to gauge if it happened in the morning or evening. It wasn't easy to surmise how time might have even worked in this place. Sometimes he looked up and saw moons shining as bright as the morning star, other times, there were dozens of suns above them, yet it was pitch black. They had to measure the passing of time via the crystals; they had the ability to keep track of such things that way.
What made this attack standout was that the daemons had breached the fourth defensive layer, but while they were attempting to fight the Dragons' response force, a war-party from the opposing side arrived, followed by a small group of Orks. A four-way battle ensued, and when it was over, the Dragons had taken the fourth layer back but lost sixteen warriors.
Death by a thousand cuts. That was the only way to chip away at the Crystal Dragons. There was no alternative otherwise. Their enemies could throw themselves against their walls of crystal and flame, surviving to breathe in the black smoke or torn to shreds by their heavy catapults. It broke their bodies, but it was only when that broke their souls that the Dragons felt victory.
Menethanil loved watching their foes climb over their dead, especially when they had to retreat. He enjoyed seeing their blood burning upon their crystal walls. And he and the Dragons savored the look of defeat in their eyes. Even a daemon and an ork could become defeated given enough a thorough trouncing.
But even so, the Dragons were not invincible nor immune to their own defeats. Just as they break their enemies' spirit, so does the risk exist for them. Every Dragon was told from the start that fear was the mind-killer, but it was also what gave them the strength needed to survive and learn. There was no life without fear, but one's life cannot be controlled by fear. Once you realized that, you understood its importance as a defensive measure.
The Crystal Dragons never used it as a weapon because they didn't have to. All they needed was their weapons, a fortified position, and let the flames and smoke do the rest of the work. Unlike most Aspect Shrines, the Dragons excelled in finding the most optimal and low-key war solutions.
"Exarch," His second approached him, "We are ready to send out the signal. All you need to do is speak atop the tower, and it will be transmitted."
Menethanil nodded before he smirked towards his second, "Our finest hour approaches, Aryom."
Aryom nodded, "I only wish the others were here to see it, but their souls shall at least sense it in the crystal." No one knew for sure if the bodies of those that entered into the crystal walls were still "alive" in the sense that they hadn't been recycled. It was a long-standing belief among their Shrine that as long as their walls held, so did the spirits of fallen Dragons.
---
For the first time in eons, Khaine wondered if he failed to properly analyze his enemy. The Lord of War wasn't a fool, certainly not like that blood-crazed warlord in his Brass Citadel. However, he had been fooled far too many times now to allow himself to make such amateur mistakes these days.
Why had this Eldar succeeded for so long? A fortress was but a place for your enemies to focus their ire and strength upon. It was nothing more than an attempt for weaklings to outlast one's opponent. No one ever won a war by sitting in a foxhole or inside a bunker. You had to attack constantly and with the force to obliterate your enemies. More than that, failure to do so would only allow your foes to gather their strength and prepare to counter-attack.
Yet here was this Eldar and his forces, standing in defiance of Khaine's champions and armies. What did he want? A blessing? There had to be more to this than such a 'basic' request. Vaul had been willing to provide this Eldar with one of his tools even, which defied expectations and made Khaine what exactly the Forge God had gotten out of this.
Khaine was missing something in this whole situation. But whatever he was missing perhaps didn't matter, or it might be too late to determine it. Sooner or later, his champions and armies would destroy that defiant citadel.
And then he heard the same voice again, but this time it felt quite different.
"Lord of War!" There was a distinct lack of reverence in the Eldar's tone, "My kin and I have defended this bastion against millions of your followers, dozens of minor champions, and the Grand General you call Yrel, Queen of the Crimson Fiefdom! All have been defeated or continue to die in an attempt to breach this bastion! Through fire and crystal and smoke yet all for nothing! No more arrogance, no more pride, and no more courage in the face of such adversity we have broken their spirits!"
The Eldar spoke true, as Khaine surveyed the battlefield and saw that the Crystal Bastion had now truly ascended into becoming a towering, monumental citadel of crystal, fire, and black smoke. There were no bodies to be found around it, and Khaine saw why once he saw the bodies of his fallen being absorbed into the crystal. Now he understood how it was growing to such lengths, and it wasn't entirely granted by Vaul's tool.
Now the Lord of War was furious, not for any perceived notion of desecration of the bodies; Khaine only wanted the best in his armies. The failures of this campaign deserved their fates. Khaine didn't want weakness infecting the rest of the rank and file, and certainly not any more of his champions. But to see Yrel and a dozen other of his most powerful fail? No, this was no longer just a freak accident or fluke.
Khaine, the Bloody Handed, and Lord of War grabbed his sword and begun his journey to this distant battlefield.
The Exarch gazed upon the battlefield and activated the psychic amplifier, one of the few pieces of heavy technologies they had secured before arriving in this wasteland of a battlefield. His father had used to draw in the Orks, what Laeris had used to rally the Dragons.
Now, Menethanil was going to do both of those tactics at once.
He cleared his throat before speaking, "Now hear this," His voice echoed across almost a hundred kilometers, but even so, the fighting wasn't going to stop, "I shall speak to all that seek the destruction of this bastion and the defenders inside it. Let me start by asking you to look around at your fellow soldiers, your masters, and your own situation. I want you to recognize and realize that you, your comrades, and your masters will die upon our walls. You have all attempted to breach our defenses no less than a hundred times and have failed and have made our defenses stronger. Do you assume that you have us trapped, surrounded, and cut off from any hope of escape? All you have done has made it easier for us to kill you, to let you stand in the blood and guts and burning bodies of those that sought to take this one citadel stuck between two armies of two daemonic princes who have refused to attack us directly. From what I am standing, I have seen neither hide nor hair of your so-called masters ready to fight and die in an attempt to take this bastion of defiance against your profane forces and gods."
Menethanil paused as he looked around at the grim but determined faces of his fellow Dragons. They were his family, literally born of the sons and daughters of the First Dragon from ages past. They were brothers and sisters, cousins and relatives, whose eyes were all stained the darkest black from prolonged exposure to the Black Smoke. They were united by fire, smoke, and crystal and, more importantly, shared history and linage.
"There will be no surrender, yet I'm sure even the most foolhardy of you lot recognized that. But what you all failed to realize was that we also did not give up and succumb to the despair you thought you dealt us with our losses. You think that a victory is within your grasp because you are all around us. That once our numbers dwindled further, we will give us. But you all fail to realize that as long as one Dragon remains standing, you haven't won a damn thing. We will hold this bloody line with fire, smoke, and crystal as we have for ages past. Come forward, come forward and die against our walls, burning and fading into the night like the filth you all are, we are waiting."
He thought about his father, his sister, and the others that fell in battle to get them this far. The Crystal Dragons were an Aspect of Khaine that had been forgotten in the grand scheme of things but had become crucial in such dire times. The resistance against the hopelessness their species faced a cry of hate towards their foes and keeping the flame of hope, of the future, burning in their hearts.
Before he decided to cut-off the amplifier, Menethanil felt something well up in his chest...he felt pride. The Exarch realized that his father and sister and the thousands of others that died did not die in vain. They helped the living make it through to the next battle to help keep those embers burning into the night.
Whatever possessed Menethanil to start singing the Crystal Dragons song of creation, he would never know, but it felt right in that moment.
A red eagle glides above the citadel
He swore he would be victorious
From every side, the crows weave in and out
In the furrows and in the hollow ways!
But suddenly the hammer of Vaul sing out
Upon the battlements, stand up warrior
The sun is shining, everywhere the crystal rumbles
Young hero here is the great combat!
And Verolin, the victorious,
Cry out such that the
Echoes can be heard as far as the Warp,
Stop there! You shall not pass….
No more haughtiness, no more arrogance,
Flee, you barbarians and lackeys,
This is the home of the defiant,
And you will never pass!
Yet as he began singing, he heard those around him starting to join in as well...
The enemy advances with fury,
A vast wave in a living ocean,
Sowing death everywhere he passes,
Drunk on noise, carnage, and blood;
They are about to pass when,
A hero, raising their head in a final attempt,
Though dying, cries out: grab your swords
Go to it warriors, you dead, arise!
And Verolin, the victorious,
Cry out such that the
Echoes can be heard as far as the Warp,
Stop there! You shall not pass….
No more haughtiness, no more arrogance,
Flee, you barbarians and lackeys,
This is the home of the defiant,
And you will never pass!
By the end of it...Menethanil heard the entire remaining elements of the Crystal Dragons signing, amplified by the crystals that made up Hellfire Citadel. Somehow, he knew that the dead were singing with the living, one final act of proud resistance and spite towards their enemies as they began a frenzied approach to stop the Eldar.
But our children, in a noble fighting spirit
Raised themselves up; and soon the red eagle,
Rage in his heart, powerless in his crime,
Sees his final hope disappear.
The vile crow faces the Eldar spirit
Falling bloody, it is the last fight
The assassins flee before the warriors!
And Verolin, the victorious,
Cry out such that the
Echoes can be heard as far as the Warp,
Stop there! You shall not pass….
No more haughtiness, no more arrogance,
Flee, you barbarians and lackeys,
This is the home of the defiant,
And you will never pass!
It felt good to know that they angered multiple armies with the act of singing, and at that moment, Menethanil felt a ghost of a smile on his face.
Yet, this Menethanil had been the victim of numerous attacks and setbacks. His enemies were jealous of his ability to build, and each time he made a home for his family, these enemies conspired against him. How many times did he rebuild his house, to see it destroyed again? It was more than a hundred times because Menethanil had to find his spirit every time he tried to make a home for his family.
He was a coward by Khaine's metrics, simpering and allowing others to ruin his works.
At one point, something changed in the builder. He had a vision, claiming that he would build a great citadel and that his progeny would become great builders and warriors. This vision caused him to fight back against his enemies...but first, he reached out to Vaul and asked him to grant him a boon. Vaul answered, giving him that tool needed to make the crystal structures.
Menethanil...built the crystal structure that would be the future blight upon Khaine's armies with his enemies' blood and bones. The builder became a killer and asked for the Bloody Handed God blessing shortly afterward. What drove the builder turned warrior to request the blessing wasn't the demand for vengeance but to prove a point.
Destruction of one's enemies had gone beyond just the ruination of their bodies, but the death of one's mind and spirit. Menethanil knew what it was like to become grounded into feeling utterly powerless, that there was no hope, no chance of winning against impossible odds. Yet, he defied this fate and even welcomed the Lord of Wars armies and champions to attack him.
Soon his family and others flocked to his fortress; Menethanil himself spent the next three centuries training and learning the ways of war, turning his building skills towards constructing a skillset of war. The unholy trinity of flame, smoke, and crystal.
When Khaine personally arrived on the battlefield, all his armies and champions, who survived anyway, flocked to him as supplicants. Only General Yrel reported the exact details of the situation before Khaine said that he would speak directly to the Eldar inside his fortress.
He saw that his armies' mortal followers were tired, defeated, listless. His champions, meanwhile, were angry, frustrated, and refused to look at the citadel. General Yrel looked exhausted and flatly remarked to her master that if he could destroy that blasted Citadel, it would be a great weight off her shoulder. Yrel almost sounded like she was ready to beg for him to do it.
Seeing it all first hand, Khaine started to realize just how terrible this campaign had been for so many.
Khaine did not ask or request or demand entrance into the Citadel that now stretched into the very skies of Verolin...but its gates opened up for him all the same. He could've destroyed these fortifications without a second glance, but Khaine wanted to see the dregs that defied his armies for so long.
Seeing the crystal in person made Khaine realize that the substance was psychically active and alive with the fallen warriors' souls. They could not make anything, let alone attack, but it hinted that the fortress was growing with each defeated army. Perhaps if Khaine spent an eternity sending armies against this, the crystal would grow to encompass the entire planet.
The Eldar inside bowed before the Lord of War, while Menethanil approached and held the hammer of Vaul towards the Gods towering figure. They all wore plated armor, carried swords of crystal and flamers. There was also a strange smoke in the air.
"Lord of War," Menethanil spoke, his voice tired but filled with awe and respect towards the living War God before his mortal eyes, "Your presence honors me, but you have also granted us this mercy in not destroying our home, at least not yet. One can only assume that you are here to exact justice upon the slights against your forces, which, in turn, are slights against you."
"I SHOULD BURN YOUR SOULS..." The Lord of War uttered to Menethanil, but he did not follow up on that threat. Khaine wanted to hear what this Eldar had to say.
"And you would be within your rights, my Lord. I can only offer the tribute of Vaul's Hammer to you. It might be a minor thing for the Forge God, but it is all that I can offer to you."
Khaine looked down at the hammer and slowly shook his head, "I DON'T WANT A PATHETIC TRIBUTE. I WANT TO KNOW WHY YOU SOUGHT TO TEMPT MY FOES AND IRE."
Menethanil nodded and put the hammer down before speaking, "I've heard your grievances towards the concept of building fortresses; you call them monuments to stupidity and cowardice. However, I ask you this, Lord of War? If a warrior holds his ground against a superior foe, survives, and breaks the enemy's spirit...then what difference does it make if he did it on the open field or behind a bastion wall?"
The towering, flaming, and bloody god of war said nothing, allowing Menethanil to continue.
"We are not cowards behind walls, hoping for the enemy to leave us alone. We challenged them to a fight, and we won each time. I stood against hundreds of thousands and dozens of lesser champions inside my fortress. Those who survived were broken in mind and spirit because they realized that they would have to try the same approach repeatedly. You do not reward those that wait outside in a protracted siege, hoping to starve one's enemies out! If those armies out there broke against our walls, to die, either in body and soul, then I did what you've always wanted against your enemies...I brought destruction upon them all! I-we are your indomitable fury and might, and these crystalline fortresses are monuments to those that sought to undermine or challenge it. The bones of ours and your foes are the foundation to an ever-lasting reminder to your enemies that Khaine's bloodlust and power shall be felt in the fire and smoke billowing out of these bastions of war."
"ENOUGH," Khaine spoke loudly before quieting down and thinking of this situation. It took him only a minute to come to a decision, "BOW BEFORE ME, BUILDER."
Menethanil did so without an ounce of hesitation, "YOU AND YOUR KIN RESISTANCE AND PERCEPTION HAS...INTERESTED ME. I WILL ALLOW FOR THIS PLACE TO BECOME A SHRINE TO MY FURY AND AN ASPECT OF WAR, BUT YOU AND YOURS WILL FOREVER SERVE IN MY ARMIES. YOU WILL BUILD ME FORTRESSES WITH THE INTENT TO BREAK AND KILL MY FOES, IN MIND, BODY, AND SPIRIT. YOU WILL NEVER BACK DOWN, NEVER SURRENDER, AND ENSURE THAT MY ENEMIES TASTE THE BITTER TASTE OF DEFEAT. GIVE THEM NOTHING, BUT TAKE FROM THEM EVERYTHING."
"We shall, Lord of War!"
"DO NOT GROVEL BEFORE ME," Khaine then held up his burning sword and aimed it at Menethanil, "LET IT BE KNOWN, TO ALL OF THE ELDAR AND MY LORDS, THAT I, KAELA MENSHA KHAINE, DECLARE THAT THIS CITADEL SHOULD BE LEFT AS A SHRINE IN MY NAME AND THAT THE ONE KNOWN AS MENETHANIL SHALL BE THE FIRST OF MY CRYSTAL DRAGONS, THE BUILDERS OF MY ENEMIES DEFEAT AND GUARDIANS OF MY REALMS. SO IT SHALL BE, UNTIL THE END OF TIME OR UNTIL THE END OF THE CRYSTAL DRAGONS."
It was over, this campaign was over, and with it, Khaine created a new Aspect Shrine on the world Verolin. As he left, eager to leave this place behind...he heard the newly created Crystal Dragons chanting and singing into the night. Their song reverberated across the crystal, likely loud enough that a ship in orbit could've heard them.
As Khaine returned to his armies, he saw the visible relief on their faces. The Lord of War sneered at such displays and hated that a builder had proven a point to him. A fortress could be a place for cravens and weaklings to hide behind...or it could be a place for an army to break, for entire wars to grind to a halt, and for the morale of an army to be destroyed slowly from the inside.
The Crystal Citadel glowed in the waning dusk, the fires, and black smoke, creating a haunting and distorted image of it. All the while, voices continued to sing. They defied a god, only to swear fealty to him. Menethanil would, in due time, become one of his Phoenix Lords, and he would keep the hammer of Vaul, using it to create great fortresses and bastions in Khaine's name.
None of which the Lord of War would ever visit, for some part of him didn't want to stand in a place that defied him and won.
"By the light of the fire, we hold against the darkness. For we carry the embers of the past with us into battle to rekindle the flames of our future."
- Crystal Dragon prayer
"GIVE THEM NOTHING, BUT TAKE FROM THEM EVERYTHING."
- Khaine to the first Crystal Dragon
"Let us be firm, pure, and faithful; at the end of our sorrow, there is the greatest glory of the world, that of the men who did not give in."
- Charles de Gaulle
---
- Crystal Dragon prayer
"GIVE THEM NOTHING, BUT TAKE FROM THEM EVERYTHING."
- Khaine to the first Crystal Dragon
"Let us be firm, pure, and faithful; at the end of our sorrow, there is the greatest glory of the world, that of the men who did not give in."
- Charles de Gaulle
---
No god worth their divinity never reacted to their enemies. They were always proactive and on the move against them. Always attack, always press forward, never back down, and never retreat. Khaine despised cowards, those that hid behind their walls and fortifications. You don't earn the title of the Bloody Handed God by laying brick and mortar, just for it to be destroyed by your foes because you failed to press the attack.
So, Khaine gave his followers the power to press their advantage, ever strike at the heart of their enemies, and crush them beneath their feet. In war, the only true victory was the death of one's enemies and seeing their broken bodies. Likewise, fire ensured that nothing remained and proved the folly of fortifications, as men roasted and burned inside that which they thought would save them.
Any adherent that sought safety in such monuments of stupidity would have no place in Khaine's army.
The ages passed, and Khaine's unspoken mandate persisted. His armies waxed and waned across ten thousand wars and against an endless horde of enemies. All was good; all was right as the Bloody Handed God expected from his followers. Then Khaine heard the sounds of a stranger and the banging of what he assumed to be a hammer, calling towards his realm in worship.
"Lord of War, I build this bastion in your name."
Khaine looked upon this call for a blessing and sneered upon seeing an Eldar, wearing his colors and sigil, hands covered in grime and blood and holding a hammer, building a fort and asking for his favor. Angered at this perceived weakness, Khaine ordered one of his lesser followers to go and break the bastion.
Time passed, and Khaine heard the voice again...
"Lord of War, I have built this bastion in your name."
Incensed, the Bloody Handed God looked back at the Eldar and saw that his bastion had grown and finished...and a broken force of Eldar was now at the Eldars feet. Khaine ordered two armies sent this time around.
Again, time passed, and Khaine's focus was distracted once again by the same voice and the pounding of a hammer.
"Lord of War, I defend this bastion in your name."
Why this had not been resolved eluded Khaine, but he had grown beyond tired of it. He ordered two new armies and to be lead by a minor champion. The undying warrior would break this bastion down for sure. Meanwhile, Khaine began to look into this Eldar that continued to mock and defy him. One of his siblings was at work here, for how else could it explain this mortal's success against his forces?
---
How long had they been stuck here now? Time lost all meaning. They might have been fighting for three days, three months, to three years, and it wouldn't have mattered. The outcome for their battle had remained the same. The Crystal Dragons were dying. Attempting to piece together what exactly happened was pointless. Their stories would end here unless something were to be done and soon.
For Menethanil, all thoughts of victory were gone now. A withdrawal from this warzone was needed to survive to carry on their Shattered Lord's legacy. He was the sole Exarch now. His sister Laeris had died only recently, while their father died buying their forces time to fortified this rotten position.
Menethanil wasn't a stranger to such terrible battlefields. Still, even he found that being stuck between two competing Daemon Princes in the middle of the Warp exceeded their skills and capabilities. They had paid for it, quite dearly—daemons around them at all sides, along with their mortal armies to act as fodder.
And yet, nothing was stopping them from holding the line. The concept of a defense doctrine among the Eldar was generally seen as a notoriously unpopular doctrine for the nimble and lithe race. You don't ask for a race of artists, dancers, and agile warriors to hold still and let the enemy take shots at you. That was the work of "peasants" and "mon'keigh."
But the Crystal Dragons were a shrine that understood the necessity and glory surrounding the art of defense. You were the rock that broke the wave, the tree rooted in place against the typhoon, and one that stood before your enemies and told them, "no, you move."
The Shattered Lord taught them that destruction was a multi-faceted approach. Sometimes, it was the act of defiance that brought the most destruction towards a foe. The realization that they died for nothing, that their enemies held their place, and the fear that they would have to charge again and again towards their death. It was the destruction of the spirit, not of the body.
Hence even after all the losses and suffering, knowing that his sister and father and hundreds of thousands of others were gone now, that only 3,000 stood against the many, none of the Crystal Dragons gave into despair. Were they losing? Yes. Was death on the horizon? Absolutely.
Yet they were going to meet it with a curse on their lips and the blood of their enemies on their hands. Their bodies would be ruined, but on the front, not the back. Their guns and swords and flamer would be depleted and broken, just like bodies of their foes beneath their boots.
A defeat here was one of the body's failures, not the spirit.
However, Menethanil knew that to die now would also be a waste. This was not the great battle that father spoke of, nor was the Exarch keen to die in this nightmare, trapped between two foes who only found the Dragons arrival another possible "victory" to use against their opponent with the defeat of the Dragons.
To hell with this pettiness. Menethanil would sooner let his body be devoured by one of the crystals than allow either of these bastards his skull or soul. The daemons hadn't breached their fourth layer of defenses yet, meaning they had more than enough time. Menethanil figured that now was the moment to make his announcement. If they were indeed going to die in this realm, they might as well prepare to go on their own terms.
---
Khaine accused Isha of aiding the Eldar, her pathetic love towards her children blinding her as always. But she heard not of this fortress or who defied him.
Then he accused Cegorach, that fool had already tested his patience time and time again. But he only laughed and shook his head, remarking about closed fortress gates before wheezing.
He went to Asuryan, Lord of Creation, and asked him if he granted a piece of wisdom to this Eldar. Finally, Asuryan spoke and pointed him towards Vaul, Lord of Forges and Smithing.
When Khaine found Vaul, he demanded to know why he would assist a lowly Eldar, let alone one who claimed to be his servant. The Bloody Handed God accused the God of Smiths that he was attempting to undermine his followers. Yet Vaul spoke clearly, even as he worked on whatever project upon his forge.
"Aye, I helped him. I gave him a hammer that would allow him to mold crystal to his liking. He's a builder by trade and smith at heart, but he calls upon your name through the ache in his soul. There is only pain now, fire and vengeance in that one's heart. For one hundred times, he built a home for his family, and one hundred times was it destroyed by your enemies. Rather than curse your name, this one seeks to stand in defiance of your foes. Yet you spurn his calls because you think he hides behind walls?"
Vaul would ultimately laugh before ending the conversation, causing Khaine to storm out of his forge and cursing his kin. It would eventually be another one of those moments that Khaine would remember when the time came, far into the future, to collect a promised commission from the Forge God.
But in the meanwhile, Khaine was left with new questions. If Vaul only gave this Eldar the ability to create a fortress, how was he winning against his armies?
---
At first, their Citadel hadn't originally been anything more than an emergency fortress. Menethanil's father planned to use it as a place for the Crystal Dragons to rally and organize their supply lines after arriving in this nightmare. They had been attacked for so long now that the casualties immediately started to pile on within hours of establishing their first wall. Thousands of Eldar died, their bodies joining the crystal that would save more of their brothers.
But then more and more died as the hordes of daemons attacked them in droves. No doubt tasting the blood in the air, but a Crystal Dragon does not bleed. They turn either into fire or crystal in the end. The Black Smoke had been bellowing non-stop. The walls and foundations of the now Hellfire Citadel grew to such lengths that Menenthanil now could survey up to twenty kilometers of land at the very top of it (which he did routinely) and could see the battle unfold in real-time.
He could hear the constant whizzing of shuriken rounds, whining melta blasts, and bellowing blue-flames hitting the hordes of daemons and unwashed daemons. Sometimes he could even hear the Orks that had been intruding upon this battle. At first, father and Laeris had done the smart thing, trying to bring in more of the greenskins in this battle. The Orks attacked everyone, but they were ultimately fruitless, trying to break the Hellfire Citadel walls.
It was a familiar doctrine, causing frustration towards the enemy, a cornerstone in the Crystal Dragons shrine. Their aspect embodied that psychological warfare, the destruction of the enemy's ego and pride, would result in them making more and more mistakes.
Unfortunately, Menethanil saw that while the daemons were getting restless, they weren't impatient and throwing themselves against their walls. They wanted to siege out the Dragons, and if Menethanil was honest with himself, that was likely the optimal strategy here. The endless tides of daemons would ultimately win out.
To the Crystal Dragons' credit, they at least had the supplies and resources to withstand a long-term siege. The only silver lining to go from a quarter-million to a few thousand, there were plenty of things left behind by the dead. At the very least, they wouldn't be fighting to the knife in the end.
"I want to send a message out." Menethanil ordered towards what remained of his sub-commanders, "And I want all our enemies to hear it as well. We shall taunt the beasts and let them fight over each other while trying to reach us."
---
Khaine did not feel anxious about anything; rarely, if ever, did Khaine feel uneasy about such a minor event as this. He wanted to know what exactly it would take to kill this bastard Eldar and smash his fortress. The Bloody Handed Gods' disdain for this annoyance grew with every second, which might as well have been a year for the flicker lives of the mortals. But he sent his armies and a lesser champion all the same.
He almost roared in fury when he heard the voice of the Eldar calling out to him.
"Lord of War, I remain standing the face of these foes."
Once again, his armies had failed utterly, and his champion was stuck trying to find a weakness in the bastion. Worse yet, the fortress had grown exponentially. Now it stood as tall as a hill, bursting with crystal towers and portcullises. And now other Eldar were commanding the walls. This annoying mortal had gained followers now.
When Khaine saw his champion, he looked frustrated, exhausted, and beyond enraged. Khaine then reached out and demanded to know why he had failed to take this blasted fortress. How did his forces not break the walls of this affront to Khaines sensibilities?
"A thousand pleas, my master, but it is not the walls that are hindering us. The master of this fortification is a dangerous foe. He stands before us, unwavering and unafraid. I've seen him stand before us in bulky, plated armor that burns with the flames of Vauls forges and with crystal weapons that cut through all defenses. More than that, that armor emits a black smoke that is impossible to see through and burns out eyes and mouths. There are no tricks to his style, no mercy in his attacks, and if not the flames that kill you, then it shall be his strikes or the smoke."
How many more times must Khaine be humiliated by this Eldar? He had enough. He called for six armies and one of his greatest champions with orders to bring down this citadel and kill all inside it. There would be no more hindrances or excuses. Before the end of this century, this monument to arrogance would be destroyed.
---
There was another attack. Menethanil found it hard to gauge if it happened in the morning or evening. It wasn't easy to surmise how time might have even worked in this place. Sometimes he looked up and saw moons shining as bright as the morning star, other times, there were dozens of suns above them, yet it was pitch black. They had to measure the passing of time via the crystals; they had the ability to keep track of such things that way.
What made this attack standout was that the daemons had breached the fourth defensive layer, but while they were attempting to fight the Dragons' response force, a war-party from the opposing side arrived, followed by a small group of Orks. A four-way battle ensued, and when it was over, the Dragons had taken the fourth layer back but lost sixteen warriors.
Death by a thousand cuts. That was the only way to chip away at the Crystal Dragons. There was no alternative otherwise. Their enemies could throw themselves against their walls of crystal and flame, surviving to breathe in the black smoke or torn to shreds by their heavy catapults. It broke their bodies, but it was only when that broke their souls that the Dragons felt victory.
Menethanil loved watching their foes climb over their dead, especially when they had to retreat. He enjoyed seeing their blood burning upon their crystal walls. And he and the Dragons savored the look of defeat in their eyes. Even a daemon and an ork could become defeated given enough a thorough trouncing.
But even so, the Dragons were not invincible nor immune to their own defeats. Just as they break their enemies' spirit, so does the risk exist for them. Every Dragon was told from the start that fear was the mind-killer, but it was also what gave them the strength needed to survive and learn. There was no life without fear, but one's life cannot be controlled by fear. Once you realized that, you understood its importance as a defensive measure.
The Crystal Dragons never used it as a weapon because they didn't have to. All they needed was their weapons, a fortified position, and let the flames and smoke do the rest of the work. Unlike most Aspect Shrines, the Dragons excelled in finding the most optimal and low-key war solutions.
"Exarch," His second approached him, "We are ready to send out the signal. All you need to do is speak atop the tower, and it will be transmitted."
Menethanil nodded before he smirked towards his second, "Our finest hour approaches, Aryom."
Aryom nodded, "I only wish the others were here to see it, but their souls shall at least sense it in the crystal." No one knew for sure if the bodies of those that entered into the crystal walls were still "alive" in the sense that they hadn't been recycled. It was a long-standing belief among their Shrine that as long as their walls held, so did the spirits of fallen Dragons.
---
Why had this Eldar succeeded for so long? A fortress was but a place for your enemies to focus their ire and strength upon. It was nothing more than an attempt for weaklings to outlast one's opponent. No one ever won a war by sitting in a foxhole or inside a bunker. You had to attack constantly and with the force to obliterate your enemies. More than that, failure to do so would only allow your foes to gather their strength and prepare to counter-attack.
Yet here was this Eldar and his forces, standing in defiance of Khaine's champions and armies. What did he want? A blessing? There had to be more to this than such a 'basic' request. Vaul had been willing to provide this Eldar with one of his tools even, which defied expectations and made Khaine what exactly the Forge God had gotten out of this.
Khaine was missing something in this whole situation. But whatever he was missing perhaps didn't matter, or it might be too late to determine it. Sooner or later, his champions and armies would destroy that defiant citadel.
And then he heard the same voice again, but this time it felt quite different.
"Lord of War!" There was a distinct lack of reverence in the Eldar's tone, "My kin and I have defended this bastion against millions of your followers, dozens of minor champions, and the Grand General you call Yrel, Queen of the Crimson Fiefdom! All have been defeated or continue to die in an attempt to breach this bastion! Through fire and crystal and smoke yet all for nothing! No more arrogance, no more pride, and no more courage in the face of such adversity we have broken their spirits!"
The Eldar spoke true, as Khaine surveyed the battlefield and saw that the Crystal Bastion had now truly ascended into becoming a towering, monumental citadel of crystal, fire, and black smoke. There were no bodies to be found around it, and Khaine saw why once he saw the bodies of his fallen being absorbed into the crystal. Now he understood how it was growing to such lengths, and it wasn't entirely granted by Vaul's tool.
Now the Lord of War was furious, not for any perceived notion of desecration of the bodies; Khaine only wanted the best in his armies. The failures of this campaign deserved their fates. Khaine didn't want weakness infecting the rest of the rank and file, and certainly not any more of his champions. But to see Yrel and a dozen other of his most powerful fail? No, this was no longer just a freak accident or fluke.
Khaine, the Bloody Handed, and Lord of War grabbed his sword and begun his journey to this distant battlefield.
---
Menethanil stood at the very top of their citadel. It would soon either be the staging ground for their victory in this campaign or their final resting place. Whatever the future held for the Crystal Dragons, they would meet it with weapons ready and a song on their lips. The flames and smoke and crystal would be their epitaph, one way or another. If their Shrine was to die, it must end in battle.
The Exarch gazed upon the battlefield and activated the psychic amplifier, one of the few pieces of heavy technologies they had secured before arriving in this wasteland of a battlefield. His father had used to draw in the Orks, what Laeris had used to rally the Dragons.
Now, Menethanil was going to do both of those tactics at once.
He cleared his throat before speaking, "Now hear this," His voice echoed across almost a hundred kilometers, but even so, the fighting wasn't going to stop, "I shall speak to all that seek the destruction of this bastion and the defenders inside it. Let me start by asking you to look around at your fellow soldiers, your masters, and your own situation. I want you to recognize and realize that you, your comrades, and your masters will die upon our walls. You have all attempted to breach our defenses no less than a hundred times and have failed and have made our defenses stronger. Do you assume that you have us trapped, surrounded, and cut off from any hope of escape? All you have done has made it easier for us to kill you, to let you stand in the blood and guts and burning bodies of those that sought to take this one citadel stuck between two armies of two daemonic princes who have refused to attack us directly. From what I am standing, I have seen neither hide nor hair of your so-called masters ready to fight and die in an attempt to take this bastion of defiance against your profane forces and gods."
Menethanil paused as he looked around at the grim but determined faces of his fellow Dragons. They were his family, literally born of the sons and daughters of the First Dragon from ages past. They were brothers and sisters, cousins and relatives, whose eyes were all stained the darkest black from prolonged exposure to the Black Smoke. They were united by fire, smoke, and crystal and, more importantly, shared history and linage.
"There will be no surrender, yet I'm sure even the most foolhardy of you lot recognized that. But what you all failed to realize was that we also did not give up and succumb to the despair you thought you dealt us with our losses. You think that a victory is within your grasp because you are all around us. That once our numbers dwindled further, we will give us. But you all fail to realize that as long as one Dragon remains standing, you haven't won a damn thing. We will hold this bloody line with fire, smoke, and crystal as we have for ages past. Come forward, come forward and die against our walls, burning and fading into the night like the filth you all are, we are waiting."
He thought about his father, his sister, and the others that fell in battle to get them this far. The Crystal Dragons were an Aspect of Khaine that had been forgotten in the grand scheme of things but had become crucial in such dire times. The resistance against the hopelessness their species faced a cry of hate towards their foes and keeping the flame of hope, of the future, burning in their hearts.
Before he decided to cut-off the amplifier, Menethanil felt something well up in his chest...he felt pride. The Exarch realized that his father and sister and the thousands of others that died did not die in vain. They helped the living make it through to the next battle to help keep those embers burning into the night.
Whatever possessed Menethanil to start singing the Crystal Dragons song of creation, he would never know, but it felt right in that moment.
A red eagle glides above the citadel
He swore he would be victorious
From every side, the crows weave in and out
In the furrows and in the hollow ways!
But suddenly the hammer of Vaul sing out
Upon the battlements, stand up warrior
The sun is shining, everywhere the crystal rumbles
Young hero here is the great combat!
And Verolin, the victorious,
Cry out such that the
Echoes can be heard as far as the Warp,
Stop there! You shall not pass….
No more haughtiness, no more arrogance,
Flee, you barbarians and lackeys,
This is the home of the defiant,
And you will never pass!
Yet as he began singing, he heard those around him starting to join in as well...
The enemy advances with fury,
A vast wave in a living ocean,
Sowing death everywhere he passes,
Drunk on noise, carnage, and blood;
They are about to pass when,
A hero, raising their head in a final attempt,
Though dying, cries out: grab your swords
Go to it warriors, you dead, arise!
And Verolin, the victorious,
Cry out such that the
Echoes can be heard as far as the Warp,
Stop there! You shall not pass….
No more haughtiness, no more arrogance,
Flee, you barbarians and lackeys,
This is the home of the defiant,
And you will never pass!
By the end of it...Menethanil heard the entire remaining elements of the Crystal Dragons signing, amplified by the crystals that made up Hellfire Citadel. Somehow, he knew that the dead were singing with the living, one final act of proud resistance and spite towards their enemies as they began a frenzied approach to stop the Eldar.
But our children, in a noble fighting spirit
Raised themselves up; and soon the red eagle,
Rage in his heart, powerless in his crime,
Sees his final hope disappear.
The vile crow faces the Eldar spirit
Falling bloody, it is the last fight
The assassins flee before the warriors!
And Verolin, the victorious,
Cry out such that the
Echoes can be heard as far as the Warp,
Stop there! You shall not pass….
No more haughtiness, no more arrogance,
Flee, you barbarians and lackeys,
This is the home of the defiant,
And you will never pass!
It felt good to know that they angered multiple armies with the act of singing, and at that moment, Menethanil felt a ghost of a smile on his face.
---
Verolin. This world was called Verolin. It was home to an Eldar clan, where an Eldar patriarch named Menethanil had built this...stronghold to Khaine. He wasn't a soldier, not by trade, but rather by necessity. He had been a builder, a creator of things, likely even a follower of Vaul.
Yet, this Menethanil had been the victim of numerous attacks and setbacks. His enemies were jealous of his ability to build, and each time he made a home for his family, these enemies conspired against him. How many times did he rebuild his house, to see it destroyed again? It was more than a hundred times because Menethanil had to find his spirit every time he tried to make a home for his family.
He was a coward by Khaine's metrics, simpering and allowing others to ruin his works.
At one point, something changed in the builder. He had a vision, claiming that he would build a great citadel and that his progeny would become great builders and warriors. This vision caused him to fight back against his enemies...but first, he reached out to Vaul and asked him to grant him a boon. Vaul answered, giving him that tool needed to make the crystal structures.
Menethanil...built the crystal structure that would be the future blight upon Khaine's armies with his enemies' blood and bones. The builder became a killer and asked for the Bloody Handed God blessing shortly afterward. What drove the builder turned warrior to request the blessing wasn't the demand for vengeance but to prove a point.
Destruction of one's enemies had gone beyond just the ruination of their bodies, but the death of one's mind and spirit. Menethanil knew what it was like to become grounded into feeling utterly powerless, that there was no hope, no chance of winning against impossible odds. Yet, he defied this fate and even welcomed the Lord of Wars armies and champions to attack him.
Soon his family and others flocked to his fortress; Menethanil himself spent the next three centuries training and learning the ways of war, turning his building skills towards constructing a skillset of war. The unholy trinity of flame, smoke, and crystal.
When Khaine personally arrived on the battlefield, all his armies and champions, who survived anyway, flocked to him as supplicants. Only General Yrel reported the exact details of the situation before Khaine said that he would speak directly to the Eldar inside his fortress.
He saw that his armies' mortal followers were tired, defeated, listless. His champions, meanwhile, were angry, frustrated, and refused to look at the citadel. General Yrel looked exhausted and flatly remarked to her master that if he could destroy that blasted Citadel, it would be a great weight off her shoulder. Yrel almost sounded like she was ready to beg for him to do it.
Seeing it all first hand, Khaine started to realize just how terrible this campaign had been for so many.
Khaine did not ask or request or demand entrance into the Citadel that now stretched into the very skies of Verolin...but its gates opened up for him all the same. He could've destroyed these fortifications without a second glance, but Khaine wanted to see the dregs that defied his armies for so long.
Seeing the crystal in person made Khaine realize that the substance was psychically active and alive with the fallen warriors' souls. They could not make anything, let alone attack, but it hinted that the fortress was growing with each defeated army. Perhaps if Khaine spent an eternity sending armies against this, the crystal would grow to encompass the entire planet.
The Eldar inside bowed before the Lord of War, while Menethanil approached and held the hammer of Vaul towards the Gods towering figure. They all wore plated armor, carried swords of crystal and flamers. There was also a strange smoke in the air.
"Lord of War," Menethanil spoke, his voice tired but filled with awe and respect towards the living War God before his mortal eyes, "Your presence honors me, but you have also granted us this mercy in not destroying our home, at least not yet. One can only assume that you are here to exact justice upon the slights against your forces, which, in turn, are slights against you."
"I SHOULD BURN YOUR SOULS..." The Lord of War uttered to Menethanil, but he did not follow up on that threat. Khaine wanted to hear what this Eldar had to say.
"And you would be within your rights, my Lord. I can only offer the tribute of Vaul's Hammer to you. It might be a minor thing for the Forge God, but it is all that I can offer to you."
Khaine looked down at the hammer and slowly shook his head, "I DON'T WANT A PATHETIC TRIBUTE. I WANT TO KNOW WHY YOU SOUGHT TO TEMPT MY FOES AND IRE."
Menethanil nodded and put the hammer down before speaking, "I've heard your grievances towards the concept of building fortresses; you call them monuments to stupidity and cowardice. However, I ask you this, Lord of War? If a warrior holds his ground against a superior foe, survives, and breaks the enemy's spirit...then what difference does it make if he did it on the open field or behind a bastion wall?"
The towering, flaming, and bloody god of war said nothing, allowing Menethanil to continue.
"We are not cowards behind walls, hoping for the enemy to leave us alone. We challenged them to a fight, and we won each time. I stood against hundreds of thousands and dozens of lesser champions inside my fortress. Those who survived were broken in mind and spirit because they realized that they would have to try the same approach repeatedly. You do not reward those that wait outside in a protracted siege, hoping to starve one's enemies out! If those armies out there broke against our walls, to die, either in body and soul, then I did what you've always wanted against your enemies...I brought destruction upon them all! I-we are your indomitable fury and might, and these crystalline fortresses are monuments to those that sought to undermine or challenge it. The bones of ours and your foes are the foundation to an ever-lasting reminder to your enemies that Khaine's bloodlust and power shall be felt in the fire and smoke billowing out of these bastions of war."
"ENOUGH," Khaine spoke loudly before quieting down and thinking of this situation. It took him only a minute to come to a decision, "BOW BEFORE ME, BUILDER."
Menethanil did so without an ounce of hesitation, "YOU AND YOUR KIN RESISTANCE AND PERCEPTION HAS...INTERESTED ME. I WILL ALLOW FOR THIS PLACE TO BECOME A SHRINE TO MY FURY AND AN ASPECT OF WAR, BUT YOU AND YOURS WILL FOREVER SERVE IN MY ARMIES. YOU WILL BUILD ME FORTRESSES WITH THE INTENT TO BREAK AND KILL MY FOES, IN MIND, BODY, AND SPIRIT. YOU WILL NEVER BACK DOWN, NEVER SURRENDER, AND ENSURE THAT MY ENEMIES TASTE THE BITTER TASTE OF DEFEAT. GIVE THEM NOTHING, BUT TAKE FROM THEM EVERYTHING."
"We shall, Lord of War!"
"DO NOT GROVEL BEFORE ME," Khaine then held up his burning sword and aimed it at Menethanil, "LET IT BE KNOWN, TO ALL OF THE ELDAR AND MY LORDS, THAT I, KAELA MENSHA KHAINE, DECLARE THAT THIS CITADEL SHOULD BE LEFT AS A SHRINE IN MY NAME AND THAT THE ONE KNOWN AS MENETHANIL SHALL BE THE FIRST OF MY CRYSTAL DRAGONS, THE BUILDERS OF MY ENEMIES DEFEAT AND GUARDIANS OF MY REALMS. SO IT SHALL BE, UNTIL THE END OF TIME OR UNTIL THE END OF THE CRYSTAL DRAGONS."
It was over, this campaign was over, and with it, Khaine created a new Aspect Shrine on the world Verolin. As he left, eager to leave this place behind...he heard the newly created Crystal Dragons chanting and singing into the night. Their song reverberated across the crystal, likely loud enough that a ship in orbit could've heard them.
As Khaine returned to his armies, he saw the visible relief on their faces. The Lord of War sneered at such displays and hated that a builder had proven a point to him. A fortress could be a place for cravens and weaklings to hide behind...or it could be a place for an army to break, for entire wars to grind to a halt, and for the morale of an army to be destroyed slowly from the inside.
The Crystal Citadel glowed in the waning dusk, the fires, and black smoke, creating a haunting and distorted image of it. All the while, voices continued to sing. They defied a god, only to swear fealty to him. Menethanil would, in due time, become one of his Phoenix Lords, and he would keep the hammer of Vaul, using it to create great fortresses and bastions in Khaine's name.
None of which the Lord of War would ever visit, for some part of him didn't want to stand in a place that defied him and won.
Auro's Dream Weapon
- Location
- USA
I don't know if this will work, but I made this drawing for an omake and frankly I don't really know what to type for it so I am just going to explain the drawing.
Basically its a blueprint for Auro's dream weapon, a modified bolter that can fire specialized bolt variants to further his ability to control the environment.
Basically its a blueprint for Auro's dream weapon, a modified bolter that can fire specialized bolt variants to further his ability to control the environment.
Train of Thought, No Coherency Low-Brow Omakes (non canon)
Altered
Duality | Redeemed
- Location
- Terra
Train of Thought, No Coherency Low-Brow Omakes:
JOIN US! CHAOS ALWAYS WINS! OR NOT, DEPENDS ON IF TZEENTCH IS PRESENT!
Abandon Reason, Logic, and Common Sense Ye Who Enters the Realm of Three Random Useless Omakes
tHaT Is VeRy rUdE mY UgLy bRoThEr!
I got nothing else at the moment.Of course you don't you worthless fool.
JOIN US! CHAOS ALWAYS WINS! OR NOT, DEPENDS ON IF TZEENTCH IS PRESENT!
Abandon Reason, Logic, and Common Sense Ye Who Enters the Realm of Three Random Useless Omakes
tHaT Is VeRy rUdE mY UgLy bRoThEr!
SCREAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!
If there was one thing that characterized the battlefield, aside from the screams - god those screams... - it was the corpses. Human, Astartes, Daemon, Xenos, Mechanicus forces... almost everyone was represented in terms of dead. It was an awful sight, it was a great sight, it was as expected.
Only Nurgle and Khorne could consider dead bodies a wonder. How anyone can be on their side, no one knows.
Las-fire filled the air, the red lasers swiftly being answered by gigantic globs of bacteria being shot back even as slow moving organic tanks of daemons decided to land amidst the ranks, crushing more then a fair few poor saps. Unfortunate for them Mankind had prepared for such items. The suicide vests easily created by the Mechanicus forces went off and flames erupted from beneath these ugly cretins, tossing their horrendous bulk up into the air even as they themselves screamed in rage and pain. Whoopsie daisy. Forgot that Daemons go boom with enough applied explosives. Damn the humans for being smart. Damn them for making me laugh. Its like firecrackers going off.
Aiden laughed, it was a dark bitter thing. How could it not be? The Primarchs had tossed them at this planets like scraps off a plate, consigning them to death against the horrible creatures. And those things were even worse in what they offered. At least the Primarchs would see them dead, those ugly monstrosities would mutate their bodies, corrupt their souls and pollute a million worlds before giving them up to death. A little morbid. Probably true. Could have been worse though. Could be stuck with not existing.
He knew which way he'd fall. Dead, not corrupted.
The walking biohazards though, they didn't like that. To be fair, they didn't like much. It wasn't a surprise. They were pathetic depressed things trying to pretend they'd managed to uplift themselves to some eternal bliss. Fuck, drugs would have been better. At least the lies told were believable there.
Lifting his las-rifle, the normal human who had managed to survive a whole three days here - a new record, though not much of one given this was only the third day, watched his laser burn its way through one of the giant pustules of an enemy's eye. It was to his grim satisfaction that the thing bellowed in rage before swallowing a couple of grenades down its gullet. The ensuing explosion was a masterpiece of a gory disgusting mess.
Again the screams echoed and the Imperial Army member watched with trepiditiion as the tactic backfired and the bio-mass that made up the body of the creature they destroyed swiftly brought his fellow Imperials to their knees as their bodies mutated from the virus running through them. It was disgusting.
A smart, if suicidal lemming of a man managed to make his way up - standing tall despite the pain and the fact his own body was uncontrollably wapring to resemble one of the walking dead. His fate sealed, the man did what any brave and crazy sould would do. He grabbed two of the others and hefted them onto his shoulders before pulling a pin on eithers belt and rushing onward into the incoming hoard.
There wasn't time to keep watching as a voice nearby shouted out some crazed chant glorifying an ugly bastard named Nurgle - must have been that grandfather of their's they kept going on about - if it was up to him, they could have fucked the bastard already rather then literally suck his jollies by waxing on poetically as they had been. Alas, Aiden wasn't in charge of the enemy, but he was in charge of his las-rifle and so he did as all men in charge of such a destructive tool did.
It was to his pleasure that his resulting action saw a line of corpses created as the laser cut its way through the enemy's ranks depriving them of their more talkative members. Screams he could handle - but any man would grow tired of lickspittles and brownnosers. He'd rather have listened to the torturous cacophony that was binaric cant then have those fuckers speak.
Actually that wasn't a bad idea and he said so aloud, watching as his Captain flushed red. Seems Gregory wasn't keen on letting people know him and the Cog-Girl or whatever she was, did the dirty. Oh well, still it was a better sound then what the enemy offered.
Sighing, he looked back at the never ending wave of walking diseases and let loose with his rifle again and again. Just a normal day on Palilalia.
If there was one thing that characterized the battlefield, aside from the screams - god those screams... - it was the corpses. Human, Astartes, Daemon, Xenos, Mechanicus forces... almost everyone was represented in terms of dead. It was an awful sight, it was a great sight, it was as expected.
Only Nurgle and Khorne could consider dead bodies a wonder. How anyone can be on their side, no one knows.
Las-fire filled the air, the red lasers swiftly being answered by gigantic globs of bacteria being shot back even as slow moving organic tanks of daemons decided to land amidst the ranks, crushing more then a fair few poor saps. Unfortunate for them Mankind had prepared for such items. The suicide vests easily created by the Mechanicus forces went off and flames erupted from beneath these ugly cretins, tossing their horrendous bulk up into the air even as they themselves screamed in rage and pain. Whoopsie daisy. Forgot that Daemons go boom with enough applied explosives. Damn the humans for being smart. Damn them for making me laugh. Its like firecrackers going off.
Aiden laughed, it was a dark bitter thing. How could it not be? The Primarchs had tossed them at this planets like scraps off a plate, consigning them to death against the horrible creatures. And those things were even worse in what they offered. At least the Primarchs would see them dead, those ugly monstrosities would mutate their bodies, corrupt their souls and pollute a million worlds before giving them up to death. A little morbid. Probably true. Could have been worse though. Could be stuck with not existing.
He knew which way he'd fall. Dead, not corrupted.
The walking biohazards though, they didn't like that. To be fair, they didn't like much. It wasn't a surprise. They were pathetic depressed things trying to pretend they'd managed to uplift themselves to some eternal bliss. Fuck, drugs would have been better. At least the lies told were believable there.
Lifting his las-rifle, the normal human who had managed to survive a whole three days here - a new record, though not much of one given this was only the third day, watched his laser burn its way through one of the giant pustules of an enemy's eye. It was to his grim satisfaction that the thing bellowed in rage before swallowing a couple of grenades down its gullet. The ensuing explosion was a masterpiece of a gory disgusting mess.
Again the screams echoed and the Imperial Army member watched with trepiditiion as the tactic backfired and the bio-mass that made up the body of the creature they destroyed swiftly brought his fellow Imperials to their knees as their bodies mutated from the virus running through them. It was disgusting.
A smart, if suicidal lemming of a man managed to make his way up - standing tall despite the pain and the fact his own body was uncontrollably wapring to resemble one of the walking dead. His fate sealed, the man did what any brave and crazy sould would do. He grabbed two of the others and hefted them onto his shoulders before pulling a pin on eithers belt and rushing onward into the incoming hoard.
There wasn't time to keep watching as a voice nearby shouted out some crazed chant glorifying an ugly bastard named Nurgle - must have been that grandfather of their's they kept going on about - if it was up to him, they could have fucked the bastard already rather then literally suck his jollies by waxing on poetically as they had been. Alas, Aiden wasn't in charge of the enemy, but he was in charge of his las-rifle and so he did as all men in charge of such a destructive tool did.
It was to his pleasure that his resulting action saw a line of corpses created as the laser cut its way through the enemy's ranks depriving them of their more talkative members. Screams he could handle - but any man would grow tired of lickspittles and brownnosers. He'd rather have listened to the torturous cacophony that was binaric cant then have those fuckers speak.
Actually that wasn't a bad idea and he said so aloud, watching as his Captain flushed red. Seems Gregory wasn't keen on letting people know him and the Cog-Girl or whatever she was, did the dirty. Oh well, still it was a better sound then what the enemy offered.
Sighing, he looked back at the never ending wave of walking diseases and let loose with his rifle again and again. Just a normal day on Palilalia.
If there was something the Shades of the Warden understood, it was doing their duty. Even moreso when their duty was expressedly handed down to them by the very Warden himself.
God had given them their duty, thus they would see it fulfilled. Even if the duty meant butchering their way through the obese depressed manics that constituted the enemy. Seriously, God had given them this? These things to fight?
Had the Warden thought so little of them that he believed such creatures were the most dangerous they could fight? Sure plenty died to these things, but far more of them enemy met their end at the hands of the Shades.
What was it about diseased lunatics that they thought they could take on religious zealots sponsored by an actual military and backed up with actual training? Did they think magic and various horrific plagues would save the day everytime? If so, they were sorely wrong.
The evidence was against them. The million dead for only a hundred thousand shades proved it. Ignore the few million artillery shells and lasers that had filled the air, alongside a few thousand tons of promethium fuel to set more then a few miles of land ablaze. It was all the hard work of these proud, religious zealots who... fought diseased lunatics that were also religious zealots themselves.
A clash for the ages! The Warden vs the Obese Depressed Walking STD! Their God was great, the other god.... what other god? If you know what I mean?
And so it was that simple, the Shades marched proudly onwards - nary a feeling side from sheer religious joy and hatred as they brutally murdered their way through enemy lines. Cultists died, both sides as these crazy religious wackos made their way into town. One man's death, was anothers rejoicment. Each thing that died to these Shades was one less the Angels would have to face. And why wouldn't the Shades deliver shade to the Angels of the Lord?
They had a god-given duty. Destroy these heretics, these blasphemers. God have given them unto them, and they would give unto these heretics the edicts of the Warden. Death to the Daemon! Death to the Cultist (if you're a chaos cultist that is)! And death to those that dared to ruin chocolate which was the drug of the happy, with depression!
Fuck Nurgle! The battle cry of over a thousand chocaholics everywhere! How dare he taint it! Never had the Imperium seen such religious anger incited over food, never would it again!
God had given them their duty, thus they would see it fulfilled. Even if the duty meant butchering their way through the obese depressed manics that constituted the enemy. Seriously, God had given them this? These things to fight?
Had the Warden thought so little of them that he believed such creatures were the most dangerous they could fight? Sure plenty died to these things, but far more of them enemy met their end at the hands of the Shades.
What was it about diseased lunatics that they thought they could take on religious zealots sponsored by an actual military and backed up with actual training? Did they think magic and various horrific plagues would save the day everytime? If so, they were sorely wrong.
The evidence was against them. The million dead for only a hundred thousand shades proved it. Ignore the few million artillery shells and lasers that had filled the air, alongside a few thousand tons of promethium fuel to set more then a few miles of land ablaze. It was all the hard work of these proud, religious zealots who... fought diseased lunatics that were also religious zealots themselves.
A clash for the ages! The Warden vs the Obese Depressed Walking STD! Their God was great, the other god.... what other god? If you know what I mean?
And so it was that simple, the Shades marched proudly onwards - nary a feeling side from sheer religious joy and hatred as they brutally murdered their way through enemy lines. Cultists died, both sides as these crazy religious wackos made their way into town. One man's death, was anothers rejoicment. Each thing that died to these Shades was one less the Angels would have to face. And why wouldn't the Shades deliver shade to the Angels of the Lord?
They had a god-given duty. Destroy these heretics, these blasphemers. God have given them unto them, and they would give unto these heretics the edicts of the Warden. Death to the Daemon! Death to the Cultist (if you're a chaos cultist that is)! And death to those that dared to ruin chocolate which was the drug of the happy, with depression!
Fuck Nurgle! The battle cry of over a thousand chocaholics everywhere! How dare he taint it! Never had the Imperium seen such religious anger incited over food, never would it again!
There had been one Primarch who used fire like it was a necessity, that was Vulkan. The Burning Legion of the Eternal Wardens sought to model the rather famous and obviously very intelligent son of the Emperor. Fire was a necessity, fire was love - fire was life.
Plaguebearers found that out the hard way as their shambling pustulent bodies screamed out in pain, their very flesh melting to the bone - the blessing of Nurgle keeping them alive amidst the very flames that sought to burn out even their immortal soul. Despite being innured against harm by the very Plaguefather himself, they'd unfortunately come across the very thing that had eternally been their opposite. Fire.
Fire burned. It burned very well. It burned the plague cells, it burned the flesh, it burned the noxious fumes they produced and the droning insects they'd surrounded themselves with. And most of all, it burnted their very disease ridden soul. Made all the worse by the fact that these weren't normal flames. These were flames of purity. Meant to burn the corruption of chaos, the taint of disease. They burnt the very intrinsic essence that the Grandfather of Disease had bound them too.
It was a primal assault, one on a metaphysical, conceptual, and quite physical level.
It was quite the experience, or so Slaanesh claimed. And honestly, it was perhaps the best weapon to use against the daemons of nurgle. Especially when it attracted the attention of Slaanesh who still hadn't gotten over the Grandfather's insult to it that one time.
Some magic here, a whisper there and obviously qn accidental misplaced button in that area and such flames really did these things dirty as they purified their bodies, stripping the very bonds so tightly stitched into their souls apart and turned that sickly flesh of theirs into ash. It was a glorious excess of not only flame, of result, but also of pain that these Daemons felt and somethign Slaanesh savored for.
As the Plaguebearers burned, the Burning Legion continued their dumping of promethium into the battlefield letting it rain down over entire fields of cultists and daemons before quickly springing into action. Sailing through the air, carried by those jump packs their flamers spat out liquid death as the jellied promethium blessed with purity burned strongly, setting ablaze all it touched and torched entire batallions of enemy.
The screams were music to Slaanesh's ear and obviously trumpets of victory to the Wardens. What else could they be when you forced the most depressed in to a choir of screeches that would wake even the most tired Dreadnaught.
For once in his life, Nurgle wasn't happy to sit back and relax. But the Wardens were more then happy to help him retire as they continue to burn away his precious grandchildren that the unfeeling monster had sent to die. As they sought to purge his very concept from existence on a level so small that even the most powerful of the old Federation's microscopes wouldn't have been able to see the scale.
It was a losing battle for everyone, but one that they would all fight as they continued to inflict such righteous punishment upon these lesser daemons.
If there was ever a time for some enterprising Nurglite Daemon to invest in reasonable therapy, it was now. Unfortunate that these are stupid warp creatures and not actual intelligent beings capable of formulating independent thought beyond serve my God and backstab my God. Seriously Tzeentch, why?
But the Burning Legion kept Burning and that was all they asked for.
Plaguebearers found that out the hard way as their shambling pustulent bodies screamed out in pain, their very flesh melting to the bone - the blessing of Nurgle keeping them alive amidst the very flames that sought to burn out even their immortal soul. Despite being innured against harm by the very Plaguefather himself, they'd unfortunately come across the very thing that had eternally been their opposite. Fire.
Fire burned. It burned very well. It burned the plague cells, it burned the flesh, it burned the noxious fumes they produced and the droning insects they'd surrounded themselves with. And most of all, it burnted their very disease ridden soul. Made all the worse by the fact that these weren't normal flames. These were flames of purity. Meant to burn the corruption of chaos, the taint of disease. They burnt the very intrinsic essence that the Grandfather of Disease had bound them too.
It was a primal assault, one on a metaphysical, conceptual, and quite physical level.
It was quite the experience, or so Slaanesh claimed. And honestly, it was perhaps the best weapon to use against the daemons of nurgle. Especially when it attracted the attention of Slaanesh who still hadn't gotten over the Grandfather's insult to it that one time.
Some magic here, a whisper there and obviously qn accidental misplaced button in that area and such flames really did these things dirty as they purified their bodies, stripping the very bonds so tightly stitched into their souls apart and turned that sickly flesh of theirs into ash. It was a glorious excess of not only flame, of result, but also of pain that these Daemons felt and somethign Slaanesh savored for.
As the Plaguebearers burned, the Burning Legion continued their dumping of promethium into the battlefield letting it rain down over entire fields of cultists and daemons before quickly springing into action. Sailing through the air, carried by those jump packs their flamers spat out liquid death as the jellied promethium blessed with purity burned strongly, setting ablaze all it touched and torched entire batallions of enemy.
The screams were music to Slaanesh's ear and obviously trumpets of victory to the Wardens. What else could they be when you forced the most depressed in to a choir of screeches that would wake even the most tired Dreadnaught.
For once in his life, Nurgle wasn't happy to sit back and relax. But the Wardens were more then happy to help him retire as they continue to burn away his precious grandchildren that the unfeeling monster had sent to die. As they sought to purge his very concept from existence on a level so small that even the most powerful of the old Federation's microscopes wouldn't have been able to see the scale.
It was a losing battle for everyone, but one that they would all fight as they continued to inflict such righteous punishment upon these lesser daemons.
If there was ever a time for some enterprising Nurglite Daemon to invest in reasonable therapy, it was now. Unfortunate that these are stupid warp creatures and not actual intelligent beings capable of formulating independent thought beyond serve my God and backstab my God. Seriously Tzeentch, why?
But the Burning Legion kept Burning and that was all they asked for.
I got nothing else at the moment.Of course you don't you worthless fool.
The Slicing Orbs of Zandros.
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
Hiya! Decided to make an omake on an Aspect Shrine, one that 'exists' in canon in the sense that it's name is known and that its Craftworld is destroyed but nothing else. Welp, it got rolled for along with the others (and fucking hell are the rolls for all of them crazy) and it was fluffed as an Aspect Shrine of trapmasters so I decided to omake it based off of that and my own ideas! Hope it's good and doesn't have too many mistakes! 0u0
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The Slicing Orbs of Zandros.
There is a tale that is scarcely told by the Aeldari, not a secret tale but merely another fading remnant of ancient mythology carried on by old tomes and whispered by the most experianced storytellers while the better known ones are remembered.
One time the Laughing God came to Khaine, long before they had stained their hands with blood, and offered a challenge with a great smile on their face.
Cegorach spoke to the War God about a fortress they had built within the Webway for ten years, constructed with the greatest skill and most devious trickery the deity possessed, called the Twilight Loom. Now that it was finished, the Great Harlequin offered to have it tested by Khaine and claimed that the warrior would not be able to best the trials of might and mind of the fortress within ten days.
But such plain simplicity was anathema to the First Fool, so they added a wager to fuel their proposal. If Cegorach won then Khaine would lay down a prized weapon, or Cegorach would bestow a gift of knowledge if Khaine won.
The War God accepted the challenge and immediately head for the fortress, moving deep into a corner of the Labyrinthine Dimension until they saw the shrouded castle. Cast from light and shadows woven together, flickering as water shimmering against sunlight, it appeared as thought it was crafted from the star-filled night itself.
For the first three days Khaine passed through the chambers of the Twilight Loom with ease. The trials of might were crushed, and the trials of mind were solved with the experienced of having long suffered the trickery and twisted jests of the Laughing God.
And then on the fourth day the penultimate section of the fortress was reached and Khaine found no way to get past it. The challenge was an ethereal shifting maze of a thousand tunnels, space twisted to the point that even a god could scarcely comprehend what they saw. Whenever the warrior walked through a tunnel, he somehow ended up back where he came from.
For the next five days the War God struggled to find a way through the the labyrinth, failing to figure out how to solve the riddle as they kept arriving at the beginning.
As Khaine's anger grew his fires grew brilliant with his rage as he raised his weapon to try striking down the twisting paths before him. But just before he struck, he noticed that the light of his roaring flames had cast shadows within the tunnels of things unseen.
Within each passage were thousands of threads, flowing as waves across the length of the tunnels, that were so thin that the warrior could not see them or even feel their touch. The War God reached out to touch one of the wavering strings and saw the shadows grow wild, patterns flashing on the ground as the threads were all rewoven and the pathways shifted once more.
With the answer now known Khaine examined each of the tunnels of the labyrinth that he could see until he saw the one with the fewest cords and carefully began to walk through it without touching a single piece of the hidden twine.
The warrior tempered his wrath to ensure he did not burn the threads yet still possessed enough fire to see them all. He realised that he had walked further than he had before, the path he choose shifted only by the slightest amounts, until he eventually reached the other side of the maze right as the ninth day neared its end.
Before Khaine was the source of the threads, a great sphere made out of tightly woven shadowsilk that was still only barely able to be seen by the War God. It laid as a barrier of the final room of the Twilight Loom, simplicity after complexity.
Khaine lifted up his weapon and brought it down over the orb just a moment before the tenth day and cut it in half. Inside was Cegorach, strings wrapped around their fingers, who laughed and applauded the warrior.
The castle shuddered for a moment from the strike and then, like a dream as its dreamer began to awake, it slowly vanished as though it never existed.
The Great Harlequin whispered secrets to came to the War God's ears. They spoke about the importance of the threads, of seeing that which was unseen and the connections that existed.
The First Fool spun tale after tale as the strings around their hands unravelled, now being bound to the warrior so he could wield the thin shadows.
And thus Khaine had been granted the Aspect of the Trickster.
-----
After the Fall of the Aeldari Dominion, as the golden age of the race had died, shining stars rose from the ashes.
Asurmen, the first of the Phoenix Lords, journeyed across the wayward ships of the Aeldari and taught his ways to them while some of his best students would one day become the greatest warriors of the race.
One day the Hand of Asuryan came to the strange Crafworld of Zandros. A smaller vessel that flew as far as it could away from the disaster that would soon fall, its populace secluded and wary against others as they carefully guarded what knowledge and history they saved from the apocalypse created by She-Who-Thirsts.
Yet they welcomed Asurmen as he came, recognising what he and his knowledge represented. Warriors and defenders rose from their number, shrines to Kaela Mensha Khaine constructed as the people of Zandros became honed for war. With one inhabitant in particular showing exmeplary worth and attunement with the
Zanduail, one of the greatest archivists of Zandros, quickly proved to be the most skilled student that the Phoenix Lord taught on the Craftworld. With the teachings from the Hand of Asuryan, and the collection of knowledge she held before, she went to form her own path as her teacher left.
The stories of Cegorach, especially the obscure tale of the Twilight Loom and their gift to Khaine, were seen as a well of inspiration and potential that would serve to defend Zandros. Focusing on the arts of trickery, the usage of cutting threads and manoeuvring with them she formed a new Aspect Shrine and became the Phoenix Lord of the Slicing Orbs.
Clothed in black armour and a helmet of red, representing the head of Khaine over the unseen and blood splashed across shadows, the people that would fight for Zandros bowed their heads to the champion of Khaine that would guide them and prepare them for whatever they would face in the dark times ahead.
The most skilled and experienced of the Craftworld's Bonesingers were tasked by the Phoenix Lord to create weapons to suit the order of warriors she would lead and the story behind them. To carefully weave Wraithbone into the smallest, thinnest strands of shadowsilk and sing the sharpest blades that would gently pass by the threads.
The Aspect Warriors were trained with these weapons rigorously, their Phoenix Lord teaching them her vision as webs of monofilaments and the means to use them were mastered. Defence, subterfuge and precise ambushes all gracefully melded together as the students under Zanduail were honed for battle just as Asurmen had done for her.
Yet Zanduail and her Slicing Orbs rarely left their home of Zandros. Unless a battle other Eldar faced was truly dire the Aspect Shrine focused almost entirely on protecting their Craftworld and destroying any that dared try to invade it or steal from it.
Few outside of Zandros ever glimpsed at or even heard of the Aspect Warriors or its master. As a result none of the other Craftworlds followed the Aspect Shrine, causing the Slicing Orbs to be unique only to Zandros as was the case for a number of other shrines.
And then, on a day that would forever be remembered by its survivors as the Second Fall of the Aeldari, the Changer of Ways struck at the heart of the Craftworlds to seal their doom and attempt to devour them all as She-Who-Thirsts did.
Zandros, and the whole of the Slicing Orbs, were cast into the Warp as the minions of the vile god that caused this fate to occur descended on them.
-----
A Lord of Change screamed as a thousand threads of shadowsilk cut their body to tiny pieces. Horrors wailed as discs of Wraithbone were hurled and guided through the blood dripping web of sharp death. Confusion erupted as Flamers tried to burn away the strings as their vision was distorted by the disguise of the traps.
The sorcerous daemons that came to Zandros had arrogantly assumed that what they faced would be easy prey, that the isolated and secretive Craftworld would be no match against their power and skill. They were wrong.
Wires both mundane and made of Wraithbone sprung from countless portions of Zandros, from long singular lashes that sliced through whatever was in their path to large nets that shot out from unseen cannons to cut apart whatever was in its way.
The most deadly weapon of the Craftworld was one that was the namesake to the Aspect Shrine and the story it was born from, the Labyrinth Orbs. Spherical explosives with implanted holo-field to keep them hidden before detonation and afterwards as it left the area around it full of monofilament webs, every cutting string shrouded in a distorted view.
With the skill that they were used with, and the carefully chosen placements and timed surprise attacks, the Slicing Orbs decimated the monsters they faced. The threads almost never touched a warrior, their helmets allowed them to see the thin strings to move and fight through without touching a single one.
Zandros had become a deathtrap so fortified, reinforced and effective that its protections dwarfed even the twisted fortresses of Port Commorragh. The Aspect Shrine had prepared for such a dire situation since it was created by its Phoenix Lord, even if they hoped that it would never come to pass.
And every single one person on the Craftworld fervently fought as hard as they could to defend it and the precious stores of knowledge and history from the clutches of Chaos.
Civilians that didn't fall to the daemons did whatever they could to defend the world, many joining the Slicing Orbs. The Bonesingers barely spared a moment of rest as they created, maintained and replenished whatever they needed to work on. Others focused on saving as much of the artifacts and cultural works that were potentially vulnerable from the onslaught.
Many still died, and Zandros suffered more than it ever had as armies of Chaos tried to breach it, but the Craftworld had proved itself to be a force to be reckoned with even to the likes daemons. It was even managing to find a way out of the Warp much earlier than anticipated.
Until, annoyed at the Craftworld's effective defiance, the Great Schemer commanded one of their greatest, most nightmarish champions to attack Zandros and bring it to its knees.
Ghargatuloth, the Prince of a Thousand Faces, was a monster that was a very powerful member of the Court of Change. A being fascinated about mortals and the mortal plane, particularly humanity and the Imperium of Man. They possessed the ability to grow stronger for every secret it knew and took. Now it came to plunder the treasures of knowledge that Zandros held.
It came in the form of an Eldar warlord, matching and mocking the appearance of those it faced, and under its command the tide of the war changed. The holographic illusions seen through easily, along with the traps and warriors they shrouded. Defences circumvented, counter attacks thwarted as the daemonic forces were lead to victorious conquest.
The populace of the Craftworld became decimated, countless losing their lives as the Forger of Hells easily manoeuvred through the fortified Zandros in a way that surpassed even an Exarch of the Slicing Orbs. Worse than that, the Prince of a Thousand Faces had managed to raid a massive bounty from the library-vaults of the Craftworld.
Ancient records and tomes of history, precious antiquities from now destroyed temples, devices that contained recordings of the Aeldari Dominion and everything else was all taken by Ghargatuloth. From obscure trinkets and simple poems to priceless relics and complicated guides on psychic development, nothing was scared to their hunger for knowledge.
With each piece of knowledge stolen, devoured within, the Prince of a Thousand Faces grew stronger. As the people of Zandros realised what was happening they were forced to do the unthinkable for what was left inside the remaining vaults of knowledge. All that could be copied and remade was destroyed in all but the memories of those that did the deed, while what couldn't was guarded above almost all else.
Throughout this struggle Zanduail tried to fight the champion that besieged her home, the Phoenix Lord wielding the greatest weapon that the Craftworld had made. A sword in the shape of a needle, carved by the greatest Bonesingers with songs from ancient sagas and stories of war that Zandros remembered, its end bound to a long rope woven of woven shadowsilk.
It was granted the name 'The Kiss of Threads', and was attuned to the will of its one and only wielder. With it Zanduail had become known as the Frayed Needle, the title spoken in awe by Zandros and spat with disgust and hate by those that raided it.
She had pierced through any foe in her way, the blade dancing through the air with a speed that left it as a blur to even an Eldar's senses. The Phoenix Lord was able to form webs of cutting strings by quickly guiding it through a group of victims, weaving the blade until its cutting strings left them as chunks.
But against Ghargatuloth she was no match to the accursed monster that butchered her Craftworld, she could not hope to kill it and defend what she swore on her life to protect. All she could manage was to distract the Whisperer of Darkness and slay all lesser enemies that came, which was all she needed to ensure the survival of what remained of Zandros.
Lashes of shadowsilk from their weapon, explosions of wires and shards along with well trained skill went against the sorcery and power of the daemons. Many sections end up being destroyed completely in the war for survival.
Others of the Craftworld not focused on battle, or defence of artifacts and those that now kept priceless knowledge and history in their heads, try to steer the great vessel out of the Warp, to break free before it's too late. Until, as the ninth year of being trapped in the Immaterium passed, a way was discovered.
Due to the actions of the Slicing Orbs and their Phoenix Lord, desperate sacrifices and magnificent cunning warfare, Zandros managed to escape the invasion of Chaos as it pulled back into the Materium through the combined efforts of every remaining survivor able to assist.
The Prince of a Thousand Faces did not continue their assault as the Craftworld left, content with the great massacre they managed and wealth of secrets taken. Barely a tenth of the souls remained of those that called Zandros their home, and they knew that they lost more than lives as so much of what precious wonders it guarded were lost.
There was no rejoicing after the Craftworld absconded and realised it wasn't being followed, just quiet relief and mourning for what occurred. Repairs began immediately, as well as restoring all the cultural and informational works that were left.
A number of Zandros's populace began saying that they had to go find the other Craftworlds when they were able to and help them, others saying that the only way they could ensure that the knowledge would survive was to share it with them.
Some that believed that Zandros might have been the only survivor hesitantly suggested to share what they could to those that weren't even Eldar, to ensure that some legacy remained even if they didn't. The idea was disliked but not dismissed, the implications of the Craftworld Eldar dying and being forgotten lingered heavily within Zandros.
Yet, even as it escaped from the Aether realm, Zandros was not free from danger yet. The damage it suffered was too great for it to continue travelling through space, or to even keep it from further falling apart.
It ended up crashing unto a nearby world covered in dense jungles, mercifully the collision granted minimal harm. Repairs continued, able to slowly make progress while keeping it from further deteriorating, while the Aspect Shrine rebuilt all the defences and set new traps to prepare for whatever they would face next in their relatively vulnerable state.
It initially surprised those of Zandros when what they next encounter turns out to neither be daemon, nor Ork, nor human or any other race that they would expect to fight. An army of Eldar had arrived, appearing as Wraithbone ships coming to aid. The surprise quickly shifted into pure hatred as the ships attack and shut down their Mimic Engines to reveal their true form.
The army had been a large band of cruel pirates from Port Commorragh, known as the Oblivion Shades, who realised in delight that they had the perfect opportunity to both enslave a decimated populace of Eldar and plunder the ruins of the Craftworld they came from.
The vile, cruel kin from the the Dark City met no mercy against Zandros as the Slicing Orbs readies itself for war yet again.
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After facing nine years in the Warp, slaughtering the forces of Chaos until one of its worst monsters arrived, fighting the Oblivion Shades was a much easier battle.
The Kabal had managed to thrive in Commorragh even as its civil war erupted, becoming even sharper and more hardened than before, and assumed that the crashed Craftworld and its decimated populace would be no match against their power and skill. They were wrong.
Invaders were massacred, cut into pieces as monofilament wires were thread through their bodies. Haywire bombs detonated against vehicles and equipment. The Aspect Warriors were butchers to those in their traps.
Even so soon after the crash, after just initially recouping from the losses and substantial damage, Zandros rivalled some of the worst and most paranoid fortifications that were built on Commorragh. And the Slicing Orbs didn't stop in making it stronger and defending those that were steadily restoring the Craftworld even in the middle of the war.
More than a few of the raiders felt fear, even genuine terror, as they tried to infiltrate the confines of Zandros and had to be careful of every step and action lest it lead to sudden death. Even when rooms full of fresh viscera and blood dripping wires were found, there was never a guarantee that there were no more traps to be sprung.
The attackers took to wearing heavier armour after most of those that wore light protection, or little at all, were dead in moments against the wires and the skirmishes with the disc hurling fighters that practically danced between the cutting threads.
Worst of all the fighters was the Phoenix Lord, the Frayed Needle, which was a dreaded sight to even the most powerful of the Oblivion Shades as she effortlessly slaughtered anything that was put against her and whatever deathtraps she had set up. There was no defence against the greatest of the Craftworld's defenders.
Although, for all the skill of those they faced, the Kabal was correct that the Aspect Shrine and all else of Zandros was in a weakened state and did not have enough numbers to constantly repel the invasion. The Oblivion Shades began to push further and deeper despite the efforts of the Slicing Orbs.
As the Kabal started to sense victory its leaders mocked and derided the Aspect Warriors for having their home taken into the Immaterium and having so many of their people killed. In response the Oblivion Shades were sent a collection of mostly intact severed heads, a small pile of Sybarites with a few Dracons, as the tide of battle shifted in favour to the Slicing Orbs again.
When the raiders were pushed back they realised that more than just simple repairs and the constructions of defensive traps. The Craftworld, and the areas surrounding it, had been transformed into a true fortress that fully displayed the strength of Aspect Shrine and its full potential.
A labyrinth forged in honour of the Aspect Shrine's origin, designed heavily by its Phoenix Lord. A fortified citadel dedicated to various acts of unseen death for the killers that roamed in its shadows. Great webs of wires able to spring from every corner and room, monofilaments made from mundane materials and collections of shadowsilk, along with various other things that laid hidden in the great deathtrap.
Even some of the weapons recovered from dead attackers were used, especially whatever poisons and toxins were available. Zandros was willing to do whatever it took in order to ensure that it and all it had left would survive while the enemies it faced were crushed, the strategy working flawlessly as the Oblivion Shades made no more progress with its attacks.
Many of the higher ups of the Kabal were starting to realise how deadly an order of warriors that survived what must have been a brutal assault from the forces of Chaos could be. Some privately admired the defences of the labyrinth, even finding inspiration in the masterful work. But while they grew more cautious and a little respectful of what they faced, the Kabal would not stop its assault.
Though instead of just fighting by itself it began to send human warriors in droves, to suffer in their stead and wear down the traps and defences. The Oblivion Shades had owned the world and the primitive Mon-keigh on it, enslaving those they wished and giving the rest substances so addictive that they were forced to serve the cruel masters that gave them it.
Yet against the fortress there was little progress even as countless humans died, flooding the labyrinth with corpses and blood while the Kabal carefully followed behind. The Oblivion Shades were forced to start buying more human slaves and mercenaries from Commorragh in bulk to support their invasion, to the point that they alone were starting to heavily influence the prices within the Dark City for them.
But the Slicing Orbs, led by the Frayed Needle, would not falter in their defence of Zandros. They would ensnare, kill and destroy any that tried to attack them no matter what it was. With their threads, their labyrinth defences and their skill they would triumph over whatever they faced.
Craftworld Zandros would survive the Second Fall.
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The Slicing Orbs of Zandros.
There is a tale that is scarcely told by the Aeldari, not a secret tale but merely another fading remnant of ancient mythology carried on by old tomes and whispered by the most experianced storytellers while the better known ones are remembered.
One time the Laughing God came to Khaine, long before they had stained their hands with blood, and offered a challenge with a great smile on their face.
Cegorach spoke to the War God about a fortress they had built within the Webway for ten years, constructed with the greatest skill and most devious trickery the deity possessed, called the Twilight Loom. Now that it was finished, the Great Harlequin offered to have it tested by Khaine and claimed that the warrior would not be able to best the trials of might and mind of the fortress within ten days.
But such plain simplicity was anathema to the First Fool, so they added a wager to fuel their proposal. If Cegorach won then Khaine would lay down a prized weapon, or Cegorach would bestow a gift of knowledge if Khaine won.
The War God accepted the challenge and immediately head for the fortress, moving deep into a corner of the Labyrinthine Dimension until they saw the shrouded castle. Cast from light and shadows woven together, flickering as water shimmering against sunlight, it appeared as thought it was crafted from the star-filled night itself.
For the first three days Khaine passed through the chambers of the Twilight Loom with ease. The trials of might were crushed, and the trials of mind were solved with the experienced of having long suffered the trickery and twisted jests of the Laughing God.
And then on the fourth day the penultimate section of the fortress was reached and Khaine found no way to get past it. The challenge was an ethereal shifting maze of a thousand tunnels, space twisted to the point that even a god could scarcely comprehend what they saw. Whenever the warrior walked through a tunnel, he somehow ended up back where he came from.
For the next five days the War God struggled to find a way through the the labyrinth, failing to figure out how to solve the riddle as they kept arriving at the beginning.
As Khaine's anger grew his fires grew brilliant with his rage as he raised his weapon to try striking down the twisting paths before him. But just before he struck, he noticed that the light of his roaring flames had cast shadows within the tunnels of things unseen.
Within each passage were thousands of threads, flowing as waves across the length of the tunnels, that were so thin that the warrior could not see them or even feel their touch. The War God reached out to touch one of the wavering strings and saw the shadows grow wild, patterns flashing on the ground as the threads were all rewoven and the pathways shifted once more.
With the answer now known Khaine examined each of the tunnels of the labyrinth that he could see until he saw the one with the fewest cords and carefully began to walk through it without touching a single piece of the hidden twine.
The warrior tempered his wrath to ensure he did not burn the threads yet still possessed enough fire to see them all. He realised that he had walked further than he had before, the path he choose shifted only by the slightest amounts, until he eventually reached the other side of the maze right as the ninth day neared its end.
Before Khaine was the source of the threads, a great sphere made out of tightly woven shadowsilk that was still only barely able to be seen by the War God. It laid as a barrier of the final room of the Twilight Loom, simplicity after complexity.
Khaine lifted up his weapon and brought it down over the orb just a moment before the tenth day and cut it in half. Inside was Cegorach, strings wrapped around their fingers, who laughed and applauded the warrior.
The castle shuddered for a moment from the strike and then, like a dream as its dreamer began to awake, it slowly vanished as though it never existed.
The Great Harlequin whispered secrets to came to the War God's ears. They spoke about the importance of the threads, of seeing that which was unseen and the connections that existed.
The First Fool spun tale after tale as the strings around their hands unravelled, now being bound to the warrior so he could wield the thin shadows.
And thus Khaine had been granted the Aspect of the Trickster.
-----
After the Fall of the Aeldari Dominion, as the golden age of the race had died, shining stars rose from the ashes.
Asurmen, the first of the Phoenix Lords, journeyed across the wayward ships of the Aeldari and taught his ways to them while some of his best students would one day become the greatest warriors of the race.
One day the Hand of Asuryan came to the strange Crafworld of Zandros. A smaller vessel that flew as far as it could away from the disaster that would soon fall, its populace secluded and wary against others as they carefully guarded what knowledge and history they saved from the apocalypse created by She-Who-Thirsts.
Yet they welcomed Asurmen as he came, recognising what he and his knowledge represented. Warriors and defenders rose from their number, shrines to Kaela Mensha Khaine constructed as the people of Zandros became honed for war. With one inhabitant in particular showing exmeplary worth and attunement with the
Zanduail, one of the greatest archivists of Zandros, quickly proved to be the most skilled student that the Phoenix Lord taught on the Craftworld. With the teachings from the Hand of Asuryan, and the collection of knowledge she held before, she went to form her own path as her teacher left.
The stories of Cegorach, especially the obscure tale of the Twilight Loom and their gift to Khaine, were seen as a well of inspiration and potential that would serve to defend Zandros. Focusing on the arts of trickery, the usage of cutting threads and manoeuvring with them she formed a new Aspect Shrine and became the Phoenix Lord of the Slicing Orbs.
Clothed in black armour and a helmet of red, representing the head of Khaine over the unseen and blood splashed across shadows, the people that would fight for Zandros bowed their heads to the champion of Khaine that would guide them and prepare them for whatever they would face in the dark times ahead.
The most skilled and experienced of the Craftworld's Bonesingers were tasked by the Phoenix Lord to create weapons to suit the order of warriors she would lead and the story behind them. To carefully weave Wraithbone into the smallest, thinnest strands of shadowsilk and sing the sharpest blades that would gently pass by the threads.
The Aspect Warriors were trained with these weapons rigorously, their Phoenix Lord teaching them her vision as webs of monofilaments and the means to use them were mastered. Defence, subterfuge and precise ambushes all gracefully melded together as the students under Zanduail were honed for battle just as Asurmen had done for her.
Yet Zanduail and her Slicing Orbs rarely left their home of Zandros. Unless a battle other Eldar faced was truly dire the Aspect Shrine focused almost entirely on protecting their Craftworld and destroying any that dared try to invade it or steal from it.
Few outside of Zandros ever glimpsed at or even heard of the Aspect Warriors or its master. As a result none of the other Craftworlds followed the Aspect Shrine, causing the Slicing Orbs to be unique only to Zandros as was the case for a number of other shrines.
And then, on a day that would forever be remembered by its survivors as the Second Fall of the Aeldari, the Changer of Ways struck at the heart of the Craftworlds to seal their doom and attempt to devour them all as She-Who-Thirsts did.
Zandros, and the whole of the Slicing Orbs, were cast into the Warp as the minions of the vile god that caused this fate to occur descended on them.
-----
A Lord of Change screamed as a thousand threads of shadowsilk cut their body to tiny pieces. Horrors wailed as discs of Wraithbone were hurled and guided through the blood dripping web of sharp death. Confusion erupted as Flamers tried to burn away the strings as their vision was distorted by the disguise of the traps.
The sorcerous daemons that came to Zandros had arrogantly assumed that what they faced would be easy prey, that the isolated and secretive Craftworld would be no match against their power and skill. They were wrong.
Wires both mundane and made of Wraithbone sprung from countless portions of Zandros, from long singular lashes that sliced through whatever was in their path to large nets that shot out from unseen cannons to cut apart whatever was in its way.
The most deadly weapon of the Craftworld was one that was the namesake to the Aspect Shrine and the story it was born from, the Labyrinth Orbs. Spherical explosives with implanted holo-field to keep them hidden before detonation and afterwards as it left the area around it full of monofilament webs, every cutting string shrouded in a distorted view.
With the skill that they were used with, and the carefully chosen placements and timed surprise attacks, the Slicing Orbs decimated the monsters they faced. The threads almost never touched a warrior, their helmets allowed them to see the thin strings to move and fight through without touching a single one.
Zandros had become a deathtrap so fortified, reinforced and effective that its protections dwarfed even the twisted fortresses of Port Commorragh. The Aspect Shrine had prepared for such a dire situation since it was created by its Phoenix Lord, even if they hoped that it would never come to pass.
And every single one person on the Craftworld fervently fought as hard as they could to defend it and the precious stores of knowledge and history from the clutches of Chaos.
Civilians that didn't fall to the daemons did whatever they could to defend the world, many joining the Slicing Orbs. The Bonesingers barely spared a moment of rest as they created, maintained and replenished whatever they needed to work on. Others focused on saving as much of the artifacts and cultural works that were potentially vulnerable from the onslaught.
Many still died, and Zandros suffered more than it ever had as armies of Chaos tried to breach it, but the Craftworld had proved itself to be a force to be reckoned with even to the likes daemons. It was even managing to find a way out of the Warp much earlier than anticipated.
Until, annoyed at the Craftworld's effective defiance, the Great Schemer commanded one of their greatest, most nightmarish champions to attack Zandros and bring it to its knees.
Ghargatuloth, the Prince of a Thousand Faces, was a monster that was a very powerful member of the Court of Change. A being fascinated about mortals and the mortal plane, particularly humanity and the Imperium of Man. They possessed the ability to grow stronger for every secret it knew and took. Now it came to plunder the treasures of knowledge that Zandros held.
It came in the form of an Eldar warlord, matching and mocking the appearance of those it faced, and under its command the tide of the war changed. The holographic illusions seen through easily, along with the traps and warriors they shrouded. Defences circumvented, counter attacks thwarted as the daemonic forces were lead to victorious conquest.
The populace of the Craftworld became decimated, countless losing their lives as the Forger of Hells easily manoeuvred through the fortified Zandros in a way that surpassed even an Exarch of the Slicing Orbs. Worse than that, the Prince of a Thousand Faces had managed to raid a massive bounty from the library-vaults of the Craftworld.
Ancient records and tomes of history, precious antiquities from now destroyed temples, devices that contained recordings of the Aeldari Dominion and everything else was all taken by Ghargatuloth. From obscure trinkets and simple poems to priceless relics and complicated guides on psychic development, nothing was scared to their hunger for knowledge.
With each piece of knowledge stolen, devoured within, the Prince of a Thousand Faces grew stronger. As the people of Zandros realised what was happening they were forced to do the unthinkable for what was left inside the remaining vaults of knowledge. All that could be copied and remade was destroyed in all but the memories of those that did the deed, while what couldn't was guarded above almost all else.
Throughout this struggle Zanduail tried to fight the champion that besieged her home, the Phoenix Lord wielding the greatest weapon that the Craftworld had made. A sword in the shape of a needle, carved by the greatest Bonesingers with songs from ancient sagas and stories of war that Zandros remembered, its end bound to a long rope woven of woven shadowsilk.
It was granted the name 'The Kiss of Threads', and was attuned to the will of its one and only wielder. With it Zanduail had become known as the Frayed Needle, the title spoken in awe by Zandros and spat with disgust and hate by those that raided it.
She had pierced through any foe in her way, the blade dancing through the air with a speed that left it as a blur to even an Eldar's senses. The Phoenix Lord was able to form webs of cutting strings by quickly guiding it through a group of victims, weaving the blade until its cutting strings left them as chunks.
But against Ghargatuloth she was no match to the accursed monster that butchered her Craftworld, she could not hope to kill it and defend what she swore on her life to protect. All she could manage was to distract the Whisperer of Darkness and slay all lesser enemies that came, which was all she needed to ensure the survival of what remained of Zandros.
Lashes of shadowsilk from their weapon, explosions of wires and shards along with well trained skill went against the sorcery and power of the daemons. Many sections end up being destroyed completely in the war for survival.
Others of the Craftworld not focused on battle, or defence of artifacts and those that now kept priceless knowledge and history in their heads, try to steer the great vessel out of the Warp, to break free before it's too late. Until, as the ninth year of being trapped in the Immaterium passed, a way was discovered.
Due to the actions of the Slicing Orbs and their Phoenix Lord, desperate sacrifices and magnificent cunning warfare, Zandros managed to escape the invasion of Chaos as it pulled back into the Materium through the combined efforts of every remaining survivor able to assist.
The Prince of a Thousand Faces did not continue their assault as the Craftworld left, content with the great massacre they managed and wealth of secrets taken. Barely a tenth of the souls remained of those that called Zandros their home, and they knew that they lost more than lives as so much of what precious wonders it guarded were lost.
There was no rejoicing after the Craftworld absconded and realised it wasn't being followed, just quiet relief and mourning for what occurred. Repairs began immediately, as well as restoring all the cultural and informational works that were left.
A number of Zandros's populace began saying that they had to go find the other Craftworlds when they were able to and help them, others saying that the only way they could ensure that the knowledge would survive was to share it with them.
Some that believed that Zandros might have been the only survivor hesitantly suggested to share what they could to those that weren't even Eldar, to ensure that some legacy remained even if they didn't. The idea was disliked but not dismissed, the implications of the Craftworld Eldar dying and being forgotten lingered heavily within Zandros.
Yet, even as it escaped from the Aether realm, Zandros was not free from danger yet. The damage it suffered was too great for it to continue travelling through space, or to even keep it from further falling apart.
It ended up crashing unto a nearby world covered in dense jungles, mercifully the collision granted minimal harm. Repairs continued, able to slowly make progress while keeping it from further deteriorating, while the Aspect Shrine rebuilt all the defences and set new traps to prepare for whatever they would face next in their relatively vulnerable state.
It initially surprised those of Zandros when what they next encounter turns out to neither be daemon, nor Ork, nor human or any other race that they would expect to fight. An army of Eldar had arrived, appearing as Wraithbone ships coming to aid. The surprise quickly shifted into pure hatred as the ships attack and shut down their Mimic Engines to reveal their true form.
The army had been a large band of cruel pirates from Port Commorragh, known as the Oblivion Shades, who realised in delight that they had the perfect opportunity to both enslave a decimated populace of Eldar and plunder the ruins of the Craftworld they came from.
The vile, cruel kin from the the Dark City met no mercy against Zandros as the Slicing Orbs readies itself for war yet again.
-----
After facing nine years in the Warp, slaughtering the forces of Chaos until one of its worst monsters arrived, fighting the Oblivion Shades was a much easier battle.
The Kabal had managed to thrive in Commorragh even as its civil war erupted, becoming even sharper and more hardened than before, and assumed that the crashed Craftworld and its decimated populace would be no match against their power and skill. They were wrong.
Invaders were massacred, cut into pieces as monofilament wires were thread through their bodies. Haywire bombs detonated against vehicles and equipment. The Aspect Warriors were butchers to those in their traps.
Even so soon after the crash, after just initially recouping from the losses and substantial damage, Zandros rivalled some of the worst and most paranoid fortifications that were built on Commorragh. And the Slicing Orbs didn't stop in making it stronger and defending those that were steadily restoring the Craftworld even in the middle of the war.
More than a few of the raiders felt fear, even genuine terror, as they tried to infiltrate the confines of Zandros and had to be careful of every step and action lest it lead to sudden death. Even when rooms full of fresh viscera and blood dripping wires were found, there was never a guarantee that there were no more traps to be sprung.
The attackers took to wearing heavier armour after most of those that wore light protection, or little at all, were dead in moments against the wires and the skirmishes with the disc hurling fighters that practically danced between the cutting threads.
Worst of all the fighters was the Phoenix Lord, the Frayed Needle, which was a dreaded sight to even the most powerful of the Oblivion Shades as she effortlessly slaughtered anything that was put against her and whatever deathtraps she had set up. There was no defence against the greatest of the Craftworld's defenders.
Although, for all the skill of those they faced, the Kabal was correct that the Aspect Shrine and all else of Zandros was in a weakened state and did not have enough numbers to constantly repel the invasion. The Oblivion Shades began to push further and deeper despite the efforts of the Slicing Orbs.
As the Kabal started to sense victory its leaders mocked and derided the Aspect Warriors for having their home taken into the Immaterium and having so many of their people killed. In response the Oblivion Shades were sent a collection of mostly intact severed heads, a small pile of Sybarites with a few Dracons, as the tide of battle shifted in favour to the Slicing Orbs again.
When the raiders were pushed back they realised that more than just simple repairs and the constructions of defensive traps. The Craftworld, and the areas surrounding it, had been transformed into a true fortress that fully displayed the strength of Aspect Shrine and its full potential.
A labyrinth forged in honour of the Aspect Shrine's origin, designed heavily by its Phoenix Lord. A fortified citadel dedicated to various acts of unseen death for the killers that roamed in its shadows. Great webs of wires able to spring from every corner and room, monofilaments made from mundane materials and collections of shadowsilk, along with various other things that laid hidden in the great deathtrap.
Even some of the weapons recovered from dead attackers were used, especially whatever poisons and toxins were available. Zandros was willing to do whatever it took in order to ensure that it and all it had left would survive while the enemies it faced were crushed, the strategy working flawlessly as the Oblivion Shades made no more progress with its attacks.
Many of the higher ups of the Kabal were starting to realise how deadly an order of warriors that survived what must have been a brutal assault from the forces of Chaos could be. Some privately admired the defences of the labyrinth, even finding inspiration in the masterful work. But while they grew more cautious and a little respectful of what they faced, the Kabal would not stop its assault.
Though instead of just fighting by itself it began to send human warriors in droves, to suffer in their stead and wear down the traps and defences. The Oblivion Shades had owned the world and the primitive Mon-keigh on it, enslaving those they wished and giving the rest substances so addictive that they were forced to serve the cruel masters that gave them it.
Yet against the fortress there was little progress even as countless humans died, flooding the labyrinth with corpses and blood while the Kabal carefully followed behind. The Oblivion Shades were forced to start buying more human slaves and mercenaries from Commorragh in bulk to support their invasion, to the point that they alone were starting to heavily influence the prices within the Dark City for them.
But the Slicing Orbs, led by the Frayed Needle, would not falter in their defence of Zandros. They would ensnare, kill and destroy any that tried to attack them no matter what it was. With their threads, their labyrinth defences and their skill they would triumph over whatever they faced.
Craftworld Zandros would survive the Second Fall.
Last edited:
February 15th Omake Rewards
- Location
- Elsewhere
Altered said:
Alright omakes. First up is an interesting one, as it wasn't posted on SV, mainly because it's a bit nsfw, and so was posted in a nsfw channel on the Discord. If you want to read it, go over there. As for the omake, it's basically an innuendo laden description of the Primarchs, and let me just say that I laughed so much because of it. My stomach hurt the next day, so congratulations on it Altered. As for your reward:
[] +15 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to a Primarch's rolls for the duration of the Maelstrom (not Kesar as he's maxed) (Pick the Primarch)
[] One Primarch can outright reroll their planet gen rolls and pick the best for the duration of the Maelstrom (Pick the Primarch)
Altered said:
Then we have a rather brief omake that's also in the nsfw channel. This one concerns Slaanesh having a bad day, so I think you can guess why it's there. Nonetheless, it's still hilarious to read, and I'd encourage you to read it. As for your reward:
[] +5 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] -10 to Slaanesh' next roll
[] +10 to ???
1. Up next we have the Eldar planning their own stuff for when the Maelstrom War hits. I do like the way you started it off, as well as the general idea as to how difficult it would be. For your reward:
[] +5 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +5 to the current status of Eldar artifacts rolls
[] +10 to rolls for one of the Eldar groups going into the Eye (chosen at random)
2. Then we have Fulgrim dealing with the Exodus Fleet. I will say that it was something else seeing his rolls for them, and it was nice that he was able to bring them in peacefully. It wasn't expected, but he definitely developed in an interesting manner as a result of this and what he does in the Primarch interlude I'm planning. As for your reward, it was already given
*+10 to Fulgrim's rolls against the Exodus Fleet
3. Then we have Kesar thinking on how to deal with Gallain and it's gladiators. I will say it was different seeing the threat levels thought of IC. As before, already rewarded:
4. Up next we have a Alpha Legionary agent in Ultramar. I will say that there is a reason they were banned, although it is the Twins, and there's a chance they may have done so. Hence the partially cannon. As for your reward:
[] +5 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to the next Alpha Legion roll (4.5 bonuses currently)
[] -10 to ???
5. And then we have a continuation of the Dark Eldar negaverse, and Vect continuing to suffer. Turns out 9 front wars aren't fun in the least. I will say it's fun to see his pain. As before, already rewarded:
*-10 to Vect's rolls for Year 30
6. Then we have it discussing the slave prices. Capitalism, how all bow to it. I will say that it has gotten better, although it's still far more expensive then they like.
As before, already rewarded:
*-10 to Vect's rolls for Year 30
7. And then we have Leman doing his best to drive Orks into the Maelstrom in preparation for the Maelstrom War. I will say that they did do better than normal, and two less Honored Bloodthirsters and a few Favored will be present when you dive into it, which will help out a fair bit. As before, already rewarded:
*+10 to Leman's rolls to drive Orks into the Maelstrom
8. Then we have Horus commenting on how it was just one rune that caused this. It's always the little things isn't it? As before, already rewarded:
*+10 to Horus' next rolls on Boreathia
9. Then we have Polaris discussing their own situation. I will say that they were fairly fractious during this time, and they did in the end split up. As before, already rewarded:
10. Then we have Malcador realizing the Grey Knights are obsolete. I will say it definitely wasn't expected when I started the quest, but it is a very interesting result. There's also a part of him that's annoyed at the wasted work, but he has managed to recycle it well. As for your reward:
[] +5 to a roll of the GM's choice
[] +10 to Malcador's next roll
[] -1 year to Malcador's plans for Titan
- Location
- Elsewhere
Mysterio's chosen rewards.
Might wanna nix the 'not' or the 'scarcely'.
Maybe 'heavily influence the prices'?
TinyGladiator
Just another SVer
- Location
- I move alot.
Thank you for that. Fixed.
Perturabo Interlude
- Location
- Elsewhere
GM Note: Hey guys, sorry for the delays. IRL wound up taking up so much time recently. But I'll hopefully be updating a bit more often. After this update, I'm looking to do a Primarch interlude for the various Primarchs, and then a Phoenix Lord interlude because some of them have had ridiculous rolls.
Perturabo was busy on a normal day. His schedule was strict and exacting, designed to squeeze every moment he could out of it. With the Maelstrom Ritual upcoming, his already packed schedule grew nearly unmanageable. Training the Legion, coordinating with Guilliman, building superweapons, and meeting with Calliphone took up so much of his time.
Here on Olympia, Perturabo wondered if maybe he shouldn't have revealed as much of what he had. The Emperor certainly wouldn't approve of his letter to Calliphone informing her of where he would over the next five years, and Perturabo agreed with him. It irritated him to some extent, knowing that what he had done for Calliphone was something he would have done only for Kesar.
Thinking of his brother, Perturabo reflected on what he would be like if he had never met him. Without Kesar asking him to help on Cadia, the Lord of Iron never would have surpassed Dorn. A faint flicker of a smile appeared on his face before vanishing as guilt overrode his feelings. What happened to Dorn was undeserved. Yet, he couldn't help but feel some sense of satisfaction in it.
Calliphone would hate him if she ever found out, and he was sure Kesar would as well. Waiting for her outside the palace, he glanced at his honor guard, and made a hand motion they knew well. Saluting, they withdrew, ensuring privacy for his meeting.
It was well-timed, as minutes later, Calliphone arrived. Every year he saw her, she seemed to grow older. Even with juve-nat, he could see the slight signs of aging on her. Yet each year, her mind also grew sharper, and this time, she looked at him with an oddly concerned expression on her face. "Perturabo, it's nice of you to visit."
"There was space in my schedule." The Lord of Iron responded with the truth, as he didn't expect to get the time for this. But, he had been lucky, and time seemed to make itself available over the past few weeks. "Did you get my letter?"
Calliphone seemed to consider the question far more than he thought she should. Had he made some sort of error while writing it? As he considered what he had missed, she broke his train of thought as she nodded. "Yes, and it worries me." Perturabo shuffled slightly, as he considered how to respond to that, but she then continued speaking. "But not for the reasons you think."
"And what reasons are they?" Briefly irritated by her assumption of what he thought, Perturabo momentarily let a glare slip into his expression which was met by a flash of … something from her.
"You never told me anything before. So why now?"
"What do you mean I never told you anything?" The Lord of Iron's voice rose, as he leaned forward. "I remember we talked about what I was doing with the Imperial Army on a number of occasions. As well as all the projects I work on."
"But you never spoke about the Crusade itself." A tender hand reached forward and grasped Perturabo's forearm, even as Calliphone seemed irritated at the Primarch's outburst. "You never speak about your victories, and when I asked once before, that look you gave me terrified me."
Just two decades ago, the Lord of Iron would have responded to that statement with anger. Now, the anger was still there, but it wasn't directed at Calliphone. Instead, it was directed at himself. "I … see." Talking with her was always a trial. Not because of her judgment, but because he cared what she thought of him. "The Crusade, it isn't pleasant. Not in the least."
"And so you never told anyone about it." Perturabo could tell Calliphone was trying to comfort him, and as she seemed to think on what this meant, he heard words he never expected to hear. "Have you gotten to construct the artwork you wanted?"
Perturabo hesitated. For several decades, he hadn't even considered the notion. Until recently. When he first took Machoria from Kesar's hands, he began by fortifying it as always. But, then he decided to try something different. And so he made a garden in the middle of each one of their cities. One that housed plants from a thousand different worlds, with each square meter carefully designed by himself. On a world coated with ice, the Lord of Iron brought life to those that only knew the harshness of hydroponics. Any world would have gazed upon it with envy, but those on Machoria gazed upon it as if the Garden of Eden had been brought to them.
Unbeknownst to him, Calliphone noticed her adopted brother's expression change. Initially, he was guarded, but then his face morphed into something alien that she rarely saw. He smiled.
As Perturabo continued his musings, he noticed Calliphone's expression change. She was beaming with joy. "Why are you … ?" He couldn't bring himself to say the last word. Asking her why she was happy would have been odd, to say the least.
Yet, if Calliphone thought it was strange, she didn't let it show. Instead, she brought a hand up to cover her mouth as she let out an unladylike giggle. "It's so rare to see you smile. The last time you looked like that was when you mentioned Kesar."
Perturabo didn't blush, at least that's the story he would share with anyone else. Judging by Calliphone's giggles increasing in volume, the idea that Perturabo wasn't blushing was a flimsy one. Softly, as if trying to hide what he was saying, the Lord of Iron muttered, "Just a few things."
Forcing herself to stop laughing, Calliphone slowly regained her breath before asking what she was curious about. "And what are those?"
"There's … this planet." Hesitating, the Lord of Iron looked for some hint as to whether he should continue. At his sister's nod, his speech turned smoother. "Machoria. It's … an ice world. Too cold for life on the surface. So they live underground. I visited, and I thought a garden would be nice."
"So you made one." As Calliphone sought further details, the Lord of Iron interrupted her.
"I made twelve, one for each large hive." Her expression of surprise, almost made Perturabo laugh. His own face barely betrayed his own pride, but Calliphone seemed to know. She always did. "I spent some time deciding what plants to bring, but then I realized there were enough locations. So I got all the ones I wanted."
Already interested in her adopted brother's description, Calliphone subconsciously leaned forward, hanging onto his every word. "Which one was your favorite?"
Perturabo was silent for a moment. Deeply contemplating the gardens he made, the Lord of Iron struggled to find an answer. Was it the one made of thousands of trees? Or maybe the flower garden? There was the ivy interlaced with buildings that he enjoyed designing as well. Or perhaps it was the mixed orchards open to the public? He sat there in silence for nearly twenty seconds, all the while missing his sister's smile slowly widening. "The Backdrop." It wasn't an easy decision for the Primarch, but of all the gardens, only one of them had a personal connection to the people of Machoria beyond simple greenery. "There's one underground city where I made the garden grow along a wall. Lots of vines and cave lichen. There, I made a mural with the plants, telling the known history of Machoria."
"That sounds wonderful." Glancing up at her eyes, Perturabo was struck by just how much she meant it. "Can you show me?"
The Lord of Iron smiled truly at this, "I brought pictures."
Perturabo had just a few months before he would throw his Legion into the bloodiest campaign he would ever fight. Yet, in this moment, he didn't care. He was … happy with his life. He was respected, and he was loved. He had proven himself, and it was he that was chosen for the Ritual Crusade. Of every Primarch, he was the one chosen by both Kesar and the Emperor. Yet, that joy seemed to fade away at the joy he felt in this moment. He was proud of the gardens and getting the opportunity to boast about them only made him prouder.
It took him hours until Calliphone thought she saw enough of the gardens. All the while she asked questions that showed she actually cared about what she saw rather than merely being polite. When the last picture was shown and put away, and Perturabo was set to depart, Calliphone stood up and walked over to the Lord of Iron.
Even with Perturabo seated, she still only came up to his chest. Wrapping her arms around his forearm, Calliphone hugged him as best she could before whispering. "I know you'll prove yourself even more than you already have." Letting her hand drag along his arm, she slowly released his arm. "Come back when you can, brother."
He watched her slowly walk away, turning back to where his Stormbird was, Perturabo took a step before stopping. He turned back around, at Calliphone's retreating back. "I will … sister."
Two months later, Perturabo stood on the Iron Blood, studying the corrupted world below. Kesar had his own responsibilities, and Khan was working on his own preparations. Mentally, the Lord of Iron began to tick off his preparations.
The Titans were ready to deploy, as were thousands of the Iron Warriors, the Imperial Army had been issued basic NBC gear, namely gasmasks, his plans had been disseminated, and the fleet stood ready to bombard the enemy forces if it was deemed necessary. Narrowing his eyes, Perturabo turned his attention to what seemed to be the one lightly corrupted part of the world, a mountain without rot growing upon it, and rings of enemy forces surrounding it.
Artillery could be seen bombarding the mountain in a slow but gradual wave of death. Perhaps in a century, the mountain would be destroyed, and whatever fortress within breached. But Perturabo knew that the artillery was likely just a suppression method, with hordes of cultists constantly swarming the defenders until they broke or died.
The story of Geoden would have saddened some Primarchs, but to Perturabo, it was simply a source of information. Their story was one of tragedy and desperation. Their fall was not for some twisted reason like power but instead was due to a promise of safety. That safety came, but at far too high of a cost.
Now, the Lord of Iron would amplify that cost further. At a single word, the Legion dropped upon Geoden, alongside a full forty billion guardsmen.
Perturabo was ready for a dozen different responses, he was prepared for rituals that would devastate his battle lines, as well as the sudden appearance of daemons. What he got instead, was profoundly disappointing.
The Iron Warriors landed and began setting up forward operating bases, and what came to face them was lacking. The Titans landed and marched forward, and what came to face them were tanks. Billions of guardsmen landed, and what faced them were mere dozens of millions. It was a farce of a battle. Perhaps if the Lord of Iron was a worse commander, it would have been difficult. But, having prepared for countless possibilities, and constantly ensuring his forces did what he asked, Perturabo was unstoppable.
Advancing without hesitation, the Iron Warriors upon the ground seemed to share in Perturabo's derision. Their foe simply melted before them. There was no incredible showing or skill. Just an utter annihilation of the enemy.
There was just one slight difficulty, and that was killing the Geoden soldiers around the lightly tainted mountain. The Titans were kept back to prevent collateral damage and the Imperial Army sent forward in the first wave. Then once they were engaged with the enemy, the Iron Warriors charged, and the enemy was swiftly annihilated.
There was one thing to note after the battle ended. And that was the mountain with a thousand soldiers within. Compared to the population of the planet, it was a pittance. But considering how normal humans fared on corrupted worlds, it was more than Perturabo expected, especially with the siege they had been dealing with.
Outnumbered by that margin, the Lord of Iron himself would have been hard-pressed to survive. For a human to manage this, something must have been different. As he looked upon the reports, he turned slightly towards the Astartes nearby. "Prepare a Stormbird, I will be inspecting these survivors."
On the surface of Geoden, Perturabo studied the entrance to the mountain base. Their defenses were atrocious. Even a cursory look showed him dozens of flaws that he could exploit. Looking upon the improvised turrets, the Lord of Iron forced himself to remember that not everyone was as skilled as he was when it came to defensive design. For a human, it was … acceptable. Barely.
Stepping into the base itself, Perturabo was struck with the smell of iron and burnt flesh. Looking on the floor and walls, he could see stains of dried blood. As he walked further forward, his attention was drawn to bullet patterns upon the walls, where defenders were drowned under the sheer weight of numbers. As he marched further in, the stains of blood and holes of bullets seemed to fall away, leading to an interior that was cleaned obsessively. A necessary precaution on this world.
Then he stopped. For a while now, he hadn't seen signs of battle. Until he had reached the heart of the base. Staring at the bullet holes that had been covered up just a few months prior, the Lord of Iron studied where they were placed. Mentally tracing the paths from where they were fired, Perturabo reconstructed what had happened within a moment. And his frown intensified. The assailants had come from within the base itself, rather than the entrance. What he was looking at, were signs of a rebellion within the survivors. A poor sign for the commander's competence.
Turning towards the nearest Iron Warrior, Perturabo spoke in a disinterested voice. "What was their explanation for this?" Indicating towards the marks of battle, the Primarch felt a flash of irritation as the Astartes took a moment to decipher his question instead of answering immediately.
"She said when their supplies ran low, she was forced to euthanize most of the garrison. Some soldiers took exception to that."
The Lord of Iron's frown only intensified. For this to have been ordered, their supply stores must have been incredibly low. If it was not, however, then he would execute the commander himself. Unlike what the Imperial Army might believe of him, he never wasted lives. He spent them. "How many supplies did they have? And how many soldiers were garrisoned here before she euthanized them?" Realizing the vocabulary used, the Lord of Iron paused in his thoughts and brought his full gaze upon the Astartes. "And were those her exact words?"
Nervously, the Iron Warrior swallowed before answering. "After reviewing their supply stores, they had enough food and water for another six months without desperate measures. Prior to their euthanization, there were 25 thousand soldiers with this fortress and afterward there were 2500." Mentally referencing the prior conversation with the resistance commander, the Astartes spoke slowly but carefully. "Her exact words were 'we didn't have the supplies to last, so nonessential personnel were euthanized to prevent starvation.'"
"Euthanized." Speaking as if tasting the word, the Lord of Iron considered who this commander was. A normal commander never would have made such a choice, and yet, she had done so. It was good that some mortals understood some of the calculus of war. "Take me to her. I wish to discuss her actions here."
Bezoa Milreve, the mortal commander, was a disturbing sight to many. A gaunt individual with greying hair and stress lines upon her face, she seemed a textbook example of burnout and overwork. When Perturabo entered the room, the other humans within stared at him with awe. But not her. Her eyes just shifted to him, and the Lord of Iron found himself disturbed.
Her eyes weren't just dead. He had seen dead eyes on billions of guardsmen before. He was familiar with how badly mortals could take the horrors that came with it. Yet, there was something about Milreve that was broken on a level he had never seen before.
Turning his attention from Milreve to those that served under her, he could see a mixture of emotions underneath their awe of him. Some were proud of their survival and others seemed justified as if the choices that haunted them were worth it. Yet there were some that seemed gleeful and vindictive, waiting to see Perturabo's judgment on Milreve. Instantly, the Lord of Iron found himself despising them. Some of the most irritating soldiers were those that didn't think past the short term, and he had dealt with them time and time again.
Hiding a glare, he turned his attention back to Milreve, who was clearly studying him. Perturabo spoke bluntly, not bothering to hide his thoughts on the situation. "You ordered the annihilation of the defenders in the base, why?"
She almost seemed disinterested in what he said, and Perturabo felt a flash of anger in the moment she took to respond. Responding in a voice devoid of any warmth, yet lacking coldness, Milreve explained herself. "If I didn't, we would all die."
One of the humans that Perturabo noted to have felt glee and vindication began to stand. The Lord of Iron's face contorted into irritation and as the human's mouth opened, he looked at them entirely unamused. Openly glaring at them, the other humans within the room looked at what was happening and decided to wisely remain out of it. Although the Lord of Iron idly noted that some of the humans seemed angry at the standing soldier for trying to interrupt matters. "Stand down." Perturabo didn't need to shout, instead speaking in a soft voice that promised pain should the soldier disobey. With trembling limbs, the soldier nodded, clearly not trusting their words as they shakily knelt on the floor. With the distraction dealt with, Perturabo turned back to Milreve, who continued to study him. "Why did you not attempt a breakout instead? Then they would have died for a reason."
"Some would have turned traitor instead of dying. I couldn't have them sharing the interior's design." Perturabo could see the same soldier that tried to interrupt their conversation twitch at her words. Clearly disagreeing with what she said, he had nonetheless been cowed enough by the Primarch to remain silent.
Yet, it was often those that hated the commander the most that could provide the most insight. "You there." The soldier jumped as they realized the Lord of Iron was looking at them.
Hesitantly, they responded. "Y-yes, Lord?"
"Why haven't you mutinied?" It was clear that the soldier hated Milreve, yet it was also clear that they hadn't joined the rebellion against her. "You have no loyalty, and even had the audacity to try and interrupt my conversation."
The soldier was coated with a sheen of cold sweat by now, as they stammered an apology. "I … I apologize for my … misconduct." Slowly standing up, they bowed to the Primarch. "I beg your forgiveness for that."
Impatiently, the Lord of Iron growled out his order. "My question, answer it."
The soldier physically cringed away from the Primarch, their mere displeasure enough to drive them to flee. "She kept us alive. Even in the darkest days, she kept us alive." Rapidly explaining his outlook on things, he took a deep breath to try and center himself. "I wasn't willing to go against that."
"A coward then. One with too much fear to turn traitor." Perturabo's opinion of the man was already low, yet it seemed to fall with each passing second. "Get out of my sight." As the soldier scrambled out of the room, practically running through the door, Perturabo felt a brief moment of satisfaction before he squashed it. "At least your soldiers understand that you kept them alive, but their loyalty is problematic."
"Loyalty," the word seemed foreign to her, and a hint of confusion broke through into her voice, "... is useful, but unnecessary." Gazing into the Primarch's eyes with her own broken ones, she spoke in the same voice she had this entire time, yet it seemed to be far more sinister to the Primarch. "They serve or die. At either the cultist hands' or mine."
Perturabo was familiar with the idea. He himself was known for a much higher number of commissars within the Imperial Army forces he commanded. Soldiers were meant to follow orders. He had the full view of the battlefield, and for a soldier to question him with their limited information was not just dangerous, it was insulting. For soldiers like this, the Primarch either spent their lives buying time for other, more useful units, or executed them after the fact if they lived. So far, it had kept the armies he worked with compliant and always following what he said instantly. "What would you have done if we hadn't arrived?"
Without hesitation, Milreve responded, laying out the basics of a plan she had already created. "Wait until two months of supplies are left then send 900 soldiers into the tunnels. When they reach designated defense positions, collapse them."
A ripple of shock and discontent could be seen on the humans within the room. Perturabo understood her choice, and privately he agreed with it. But humans were such irrational beings at times. When given the choice of 90% dying or all of them, they seem to always make the poorer of the choices. "Good. It would have been one of your better courses of action."
There was something that entered Milreve's eyes. Something that Perturabo found disturbing in a manner that he didn't expect. He'd seen such eyes on the surviving guardsmen he sent to their deaths, but that didn't make sense to him. He'd just approved of her actions instead of condemning them. Her voice, however, was still empty, concealing her true thoughts from even him. "And how shall I be judged for my actions?"
To Perturabo, there was but one place for Milreve, and even if she tried to retire, he wouldn't have allowed it. She was simply too useful to act as anything but a commander. "You will serve, Milreve. Your personal desires, whatever they may be, have no bearing here. You're too useful for any other fate."
"I … accept." Spitting out the last word as if it burned her, Milreve seemed to take offense to the order, and Perturabo believed he understood why. Not many humans fight in such a horrific war and volunteer to join a new one.
Turning towards the Astartes, the Primarch ordered them to bring her to the Iron Blood. With the planet about to undergo a thorough sweep followed by light orbital bombardment, Perturabo ordered all forces to withdraw. And as he did, a general walked behind, their own thoughts hidden to all but themselves.
With just a scant few weeks until he entered the Maelstrom, Perturabo looked over the final deployment information that Kesar had sent him.
Baldur's Location
[] Transfer him to Vulkan - The Lord of Drakes has been assigned to manage Kesar's compliances while he is within the Maelstrom. As such, it makes sense to assign Baldur to him. Moreover, the Captain has requested to be assigned here.
[] Transfer him to Guilliman - While Vulkan may be tasked with Kesar's domain, there are some indications that he was also meant to manage Guilliman's domain. However, something has clearly changed. While Baldur is against this course of action, it is certain that the Master of Maccrage could make use of his skills.
Night Watch Location
[] Have them enter the Maelstrom - Trillions of guardsmen will already enter the Maelstrom. Having the Night Watch alongside them can only help matters. However, the incredibly hostile environment might devastate the unit leading to large skill losses or outright requiring reconstruction.
[] Assign them to Vulkan - While the Night Watch could be useful, it may be best to ensure they survive. As Vulkan will be managing Kesar's worlds, providing him with the Night Watch would make his task easier.
[] Assign them to Guilliman - While the Night Watch could be useful, it may be best to ensure they survive. Guilliman can make good use of them, and should the worst pass, he will have the option of using them to reinforce those within the Maelstrom.
[] Assign them to the Imperial Army - While the Night Watch could be useful, it may be best to ensure they survive. While the Imperial Army will not make the best use of them due to the generals lacking the skill of Astartes, they might eventually find a way to train Night Watch equivalents en masse. Such a project, however, will take years if not decades.
Wardens
[] All will enter - Kesar's words on the matter were short. All that wished to enter the Maelstrom would.
[] All but 500 will enter - A short message from the Primarch. All but 500 of his sons would enter the Maelstrom. If the worst should happen, then the main principles of the Legion can be reproduced with significant effort.
[] All but 10 thousand will enter - A short message from the Primarch. All but 10 thousand of his sons would enter the Maelstrom. If the worst should happen, then the main principles of the Legion can be reproduced with major effort, and even the secondary ones could be recovered.
Perturabo was busy on a normal day. His schedule was strict and exacting, designed to squeeze every moment he could out of it. With the Maelstrom Ritual upcoming, his already packed schedule grew nearly unmanageable. Training the Legion, coordinating with Guilliman, building superweapons, and meeting with Calliphone took up so much of his time.
Here on Olympia, Perturabo wondered if maybe he shouldn't have revealed as much of what he had. The Emperor certainly wouldn't approve of his letter to Calliphone informing her of where he would over the next five years, and Perturabo agreed with him. It irritated him to some extent, knowing that what he had done for Calliphone was something he would have done only for Kesar.
Thinking of his brother, Perturabo reflected on what he would be like if he had never met him. Without Kesar asking him to help on Cadia, the Lord of Iron never would have surpassed Dorn. A faint flicker of a smile appeared on his face before vanishing as guilt overrode his feelings. What happened to Dorn was undeserved. Yet, he couldn't help but feel some sense of satisfaction in it.
Calliphone would hate him if she ever found out, and he was sure Kesar would as well. Waiting for her outside the palace, he glanced at his honor guard, and made a hand motion they knew well. Saluting, they withdrew, ensuring privacy for his meeting.
It was well-timed, as minutes later, Calliphone arrived. Every year he saw her, she seemed to grow older. Even with juve-nat, he could see the slight signs of aging on her. Yet each year, her mind also grew sharper, and this time, she looked at him with an oddly concerned expression on her face. "Perturabo, it's nice of you to visit."
"There was space in my schedule." The Lord of Iron responded with the truth, as he didn't expect to get the time for this. But, he had been lucky, and time seemed to make itself available over the past few weeks. "Did you get my letter?"
Calliphone seemed to consider the question far more than he thought she should. Had he made some sort of error while writing it? As he considered what he had missed, she broke his train of thought as she nodded. "Yes, and it worries me." Perturabo shuffled slightly, as he considered how to respond to that, but she then continued speaking. "But not for the reasons you think."
"And what reasons are they?" Briefly irritated by her assumption of what he thought, Perturabo momentarily let a glare slip into his expression which was met by a flash of … something from her.
"You never told me anything before. So why now?"
"What do you mean I never told you anything?" The Lord of Iron's voice rose, as he leaned forward. "I remember we talked about what I was doing with the Imperial Army on a number of occasions. As well as all the projects I work on."
"But you never spoke about the Crusade itself." A tender hand reached forward and grasped Perturabo's forearm, even as Calliphone seemed irritated at the Primarch's outburst. "You never speak about your victories, and when I asked once before, that look you gave me terrified me."
Just two decades ago, the Lord of Iron would have responded to that statement with anger. Now, the anger was still there, but it wasn't directed at Calliphone. Instead, it was directed at himself. "I … see." Talking with her was always a trial. Not because of her judgment, but because he cared what she thought of him. "The Crusade, it isn't pleasant. Not in the least."
"And so you never told anyone about it." Perturabo could tell Calliphone was trying to comfort him, and as she seemed to think on what this meant, he heard words he never expected to hear. "Have you gotten to construct the artwork you wanted?"
Perturabo hesitated. For several decades, he hadn't even considered the notion. Until recently. When he first took Machoria from Kesar's hands, he began by fortifying it as always. But, then he decided to try something different. And so he made a garden in the middle of each one of their cities. One that housed plants from a thousand different worlds, with each square meter carefully designed by himself. On a world coated with ice, the Lord of Iron brought life to those that only knew the harshness of hydroponics. Any world would have gazed upon it with envy, but those on Machoria gazed upon it as if the Garden of Eden had been brought to them.
Unbeknownst to him, Calliphone noticed her adopted brother's expression change. Initially, he was guarded, but then his face morphed into something alien that she rarely saw. He smiled.
As Perturabo continued his musings, he noticed Calliphone's expression change. She was beaming with joy. "Why are you … ?" He couldn't bring himself to say the last word. Asking her why she was happy would have been odd, to say the least.
Yet, if Calliphone thought it was strange, she didn't let it show. Instead, she brought a hand up to cover her mouth as she let out an unladylike giggle. "It's so rare to see you smile. The last time you looked like that was when you mentioned Kesar."
Perturabo didn't blush, at least that's the story he would share with anyone else. Judging by Calliphone's giggles increasing in volume, the idea that Perturabo wasn't blushing was a flimsy one. Softly, as if trying to hide what he was saying, the Lord of Iron muttered, "Just a few things."
Forcing herself to stop laughing, Calliphone slowly regained her breath before asking what she was curious about. "And what are those?"
"There's … this planet." Hesitating, the Lord of Iron looked for some hint as to whether he should continue. At his sister's nod, his speech turned smoother. "Machoria. It's … an ice world. Too cold for life on the surface. So they live underground. I visited, and I thought a garden would be nice."
"So you made one." As Calliphone sought further details, the Lord of Iron interrupted her.
"I made twelve, one for each large hive." Her expression of surprise, almost made Perturabo laugh. His own face barely betrayed his own pride, but Calliphone seemed to know. She always did. "I spent some time deciding what plants to bring, but then I realized there were enough locations. So I got all the ones I wanted."
Already interested in her adopted brother's description, Calliphone subconsciously leaned forward, hanging onto his every word. "Which one was your favorite?"
Perturabo was silent for a moment. Deeply contemplating the gardens he made, the Lord of Iron struggled to find an answer. Was it the one made of thousands of trees? Or maybe the flower garden? There was the ivy interlaced with buildings that he enjoyed designing as well. Or perhaps it was the mixed orchards open to the public? He sat there in silence for nearly twenty seconds, all the while missing his sister's smile slowly widening. "The Backdrop." It wasn't an easy decision for the Primarch, but of all the gardens, only one of them had a personal connection to the people of Machoria beyond simple greenery. "There's one underground city where I made the garden grow along a wall. Lots of vines and cave lichen. There, I made a mural with the plants, telling the known history of Machoria."
"That sounds wonderful." Glancing up at her eyes, Perturabo was struck by just how much she meant it. "Can you show me?"
The Lord of Iron smiled truly at this, "I brought pictures."
Perturabo had just a few months before he would throw his Legion into the bloodiest campaign he would ever fight. Yet, in this moment, he didn't care. He was … happy with his life. He was respected, and he was loved. He had proven himself, and it was he that was chosen for the Ritual Crusade. Of every Primarch, he was the one chosen by both Kesar and the Emperor. Yet, that joy seemed to fade away at the joy he felt in this moment. He was proud of the gardens and getting the opportunity to boast about them only made him prouder.
It took him hours until Calliphone thought she saw enough of the gardens. All the while she asked questions that showed she actually cared about what she saw rather than merely being polite. When the last picture was shown and put away, and Perturabo was set to depart, Calliphone stood up and walked over to the Lord of Iron.
Even with Perturabo seated, she still only came up to his chest. Wrapping her arms around his forearm, Calliphone hugged him as best she could before whispering. "I know you'll prove yourself even more than you already have." Letting her hand drag along his arm, she slowly released his arm. "Come back when you can, brother."
He watched her slowly walk away, turning back to where his Stormbird was, Perturabo took a step before stopping. He turned back around, at Calliphone's retreating back. "I will … sister."
Two months later, Perturabo stood on the Iron Blood, studying the corrupted world below. Kesar had his own responsibilities, and Khan was working on his own preparations. Mentally, the Lord of Iron began to tick off his preparations.
The Titans were ready to deploy, as were thousands of the Iron Warriors, the Imperial Army had been issued basic NBC gear, namely gasmasks, his plans had been disseminated, and the fleet stood ready to bombard the enemy forces if it was deemed necessary. Narrowing his eyes, Perturabo turned his attention to what seemed to be the one lightly corrupted part of the world, a mountain without rot growing upon it, and rings of enemy forces surrounding it.
Artillery could be seen bombarding the mountain in a slow but gradual wave of death. Perhaps in a century, the mountain would be destroyed, and whatever fortress within breached. But Perturabo knew that the artillery was likely just a suppression method, with hordes of cultists constantly swarming the defenders until they broke or died.
The story of Geoden would have saddened some Primarchs, but to Perturabo, it was simply a source of information. Their story was one of tragedy and desperation. Their fall was not for some twisted reason like power but instead was due to a promise of safety. That safety came, but at far too high of a cost.
Now, the Lord of Iron would amplify that cost further. At a single word, the Legion dropped upon Geoden, alongside a full forty billion guardsmen.
Perturabo was ready for a dozen different responses, he was prepared for rituals that would devastate his battle lines, as well as the sudden appearance of daemons. What he got instead, was profoundly disappointing.
The Iron Warriors landed and began setting up forward operating bases, and what came to face them was lacking. The Titans landed and marched forward, and what came to face them were tanks. Billions of guardsmen landed, and what faced them were mere dozens of millions. It was a farce of a battle. Perhaps if the Lord of Iron was a worse commander, it would have been difficult. But, having prepared for countless possibilities, and constantly ensuring his forces did what he asked, Perturabo was unstoppable.
Advancing without hesitation, the Iron Warriors upon the ground seemed to share in Perturabo's derision. Their foe simply melted before them. There was no incredible showing or skill. Just an utter annihilation of the enemy.
There was just one slight difficulty, and that was killing the Geoden soldiers around the lightly tainted mountain. The Titans were kept back to prevent collateral damage and the Imperial Army sent forward in the first wave. Then once they were engaged with the enemy, the Iron Warriors charged, and the enemy was swiftly annihilated.
There was one thing to note after the battle ended. And that was the mountain with a thousand soldiers within. Compared to the population of the planet, it was a pittance. But considering how normal humans fared on corrupted worlds, it was more than Perturabo expected, especially with the siege they had been dealing with.
Outnumbered by that margin, the Lord of Iron himself would have been hard-pressed to survive. For a human to manage this, something must have been different. As he looked upon the reports, he turned slightly towards the Astartes nearby. "Prepare a Stormbird, I will be inspecting these survivors."
On the surface of Geoden, Perturabo studied the entrance to the mountain base. Their defenses were atrocious. Even a cursory look showed him dozens of flaws that he could exploit. Looking upon the improvised turrets, the Lord of Iron forced himself to remember that not everyone was as skilled as he was when it came to defensive design. For a human, it was … acceptable. Barely.
Stepping into the base itself, Perturabo was struck with the smell of iron and burnt flesh. Looking on the floor and walls, he could see stains of dried blood. As he walked further forward, his attention was drawn to bullet patterns upon the walls, where defenders were drowned under the sheer weight of numbers. As he marched further in, the stains of blood and holes of bullets seemed to fall away, leading to an interior that was cleaned obsessively. A necessary precaution on this world.
Then he stopped. For a while now, he hadn't seen signs of battle. Until he had reached the heart of the base. Staring at the bullet holes that had been covered up just a few months prior, the Lord of Iron studied where they were placed. Mentally tracing the paths from where they were fired, Perturabo reconstructed what had happened within a moment. And his frown intensified. The assailants had come from within the base itself, rather than the entrance. What he was looking at, were signs of a rebellion within the survivors. A poor sign for the commander's competence.
Turning towards the nearest Iron Warrior, Perturabo spoke in a disinterested voice. "What was their explanation for this?" Indicating towards the marks of battle, the Primarch felt a flash of irritation as the Astartes took a moment to decipher his question instead of answering immediately.
"She said when their supplies ran low, she was forced to euthanize most of the garrison. Some soldiers took exception to that."
The Lord of Iron's frown only intensified. For this to have been ordered, their supply stores must have been incredibly low. If it was not, however, then he would execute the commander himself. Unlike what the Imperial Army might believe of him, he never wasted lives. He spent them. "How many supplies did they have? And how many soldiers were garrisoned here before she euthanized them?" Realizing the vocabulary used, the Lord of Iron paused in his thoughts and brought his full gaze upon the Astartes. "And were those her exact words?"
Nervously, the Iron Warrior swallowed before answering. "After reviewing their supply stores, they had enough food and water for another six months without desperate measures. Prior to their euthanization, there were 25 thousand soldiers with this fortress and afterward there were 2500." Mentally referencing the prior conversation with the resistance commander, the Astartes spoke slowly but carefully. "Her exact words were 'we didn't have the supplies to last, so nonessential personnel were euthanized to prevent starvation.'"
"Euthanized." Speaking as if tasting the word, the Lord of Iron considered who this commander was. A normal commander never would have made such a choice, and yet, she had done so. It was good that some mortals understood some of the calculus of war. "Take me to her. I wish to discuss her actions here."
Bezoa Milreve, the mortal commander, was a disturbing sight to many. A gaunt individual with greying hair and stress lines upon her face, she seemed a textbook example of burnout and overwork. When Perturabo entered the room, the other humans within stared at him with awe. But not her. Her eyes just shifted to him, and the Lord of Iron found himself disturbed.
Her eyes weren't just dead. He had seen dead eyes on billions of guardsmen before. He was familiar with how badly mortals could take the horrors that came with it. Yet, there was something about Milreve that was broken on a level he had never seen before.
Turning his attention from Milreve to those that served under her, he could see a mixture of emotions underneath their awe of him. Some were proud of their survival and others seemed justified as if the choices that haunted them were worth it. Yet there were some that seemed gleeful and vindictive, waiting to see Perturabo's judgment on Milreve. Instantly, the Lord of Iron found himself despising them. Some of the most irritating soldiers were those that didn't think past the short term, and he had dealt with them time and time again.
Hiding a glare, he turned his attention back to Milreve, who was clearly studying him. Perturabo spoke bluntly, not bothering to hide his thoughts on the situation. "You ordered the annihilation of the defenders in the base, why?"
She almost seemed disinterested in what he said, and Perturabo felt a flash of anger in the moment she took to respond. Responding in a voice devoid of any warmth, yet lacking coldness, Milreve explained herself. "If I didn't, we would all die."
One of the humans that Perturabo noted to have felt glee and vindication began to stand. The Lord of Iron's face contorted into irritation and as the human's mouth opened, he looked at them entirely unamused. Openly glaring at them, the other humans within the room looked at what was happening and decided to wisely remain out of it. Although the Lord of Iron idly noted that some of the humans seemed angry at the standing soldier for trying to interrupt matters. "Stand down." Perturabo didn't need to shout, instead speaking in a soft voice that promised pain should the soldier disobey. With trembling limbs, the soldier nodded, clearly not trusting their words as they shakily knelt on the floor. With the distraction dealt with, Perturabo turned back to Milreve, who continued to study him. "Why did you not attempt a breakout instead? Then they would have died for a reason."
"Some would have turned traitor instead of dying. I couldn't have them sharing the interior's design." Perturabo could see the same soldier that tried to interrupt their conversation twitch at her words. Clearly disagreeing with what she said, he had nonetheless been cowed enough by the Primarch to remain silent.
Yet, it was often those that hated the commander the most that could provide the most insight. "You there." The soldier jumped as they realized the Lord of Iron was looking at them.
Hesitantly, they responded. "Y-yes, Lord?"
"Why haven't you mutinied?" It was clear that the soldier hated Milreve, yet it was also clear that they hadn't joined the rebellion against her. "You have no loyalty, and even had the audacity to try and interrupt my conversation."
The soldier was coated with a sheen of cold sweat by now, as they stammered an apology. "I … I apologize for my … misconduct." Slowly standing up, they bowed to the Primarch. "I beg your forgiveness for that."
Impatiently, the Lord of Iron growled out his order. "My question, answer it."
The soldier physically cringed away from the Primarch, their mere displeasure enough to drive them to flee. "She kept us alive. Even in the darkest days, she kept us alive." Rapidly explaining his outlook on things, he took a deep breath to try and center himself. "I wasn't willing to go against that."
"A coward then. One with too much fear to turn traitor." Perturabo's opinion of the man was already low, yet it seemed to fall with each passing second. "Get out of my sight." As the soldier scrambled out of the room, practically running through the door, Perturabo felt a brief moment of satisfaction before he squashed it. "At least your soldiers understand that you kept them alive, but their loyalty is problematic."
"Loyalty," the word seemed foreign to her, and a hint of confusion broke through into her voice, "... is useful, but unnecessary." Gazing into the Primarch's eyes with her own broken ones, she spoke in the same voice she had this entire time, yet it seemed to be far more sinister to the Primarch. "They serve or die. At either the cultist hands' or mine."
Perturabo was familiar with the idea. He himself was known for a much higher number of commissars within the Imperial Army forces he commanded. Soldiers were meant to follow orders. He had the full view of the battlefield, and for a soldier to question him with their limited information was not just dangerous, it was insulting. For soldiers like this, the Primarch either spent their lives buying time for other, more useful units, or executed them after the fact if they lived. So far, it had kept the armies he worked with compliant and always following what he said instantly. "What would you have done if we hadn't arrived?"
Without hesitation, Milreve responded, laying out the basics of a plan she had already created. "Wait until two months of supplies are left then send 900 soldiers into the tunnels. When they reach designated defense positions, collapse them."
A ripple of shock and discontent could be seen on the humans within the room. Perturabo understood her choice, and privately he agreed with it. But humans were such irrational beings at times. When given the choice of 90% dying or all of them, they seem to always make the poorer of the choices. "Good. It would have been one of your better courses of action."
There was something that entered Milreve's eyes. Something that Perturabo found disturbing in a manner that he didn't expect. He'd seen such eyes on the surviving guardsmen he sent to their deaths, but that didn't make sense to him. He'd just approved of her actions instead of condemning them. Her voice, however, was still empty, concealing her true thoughts from even him. "And how shall I be judged for my actions?"
To Perturabo, there was but one place for Milreve, and even if she tried to retire, he wouldn't have allowed it. She was simply too useful to act as anything but a commander. "You will serve, Milreve. Your personal desires, whatever they may be, have no bearing here. You're too useful for any other fate."
"I … accept." Spitting out the last word as if it burned her, Milreve seemed to take offense to the order, and Perturabo believed he understood why. Not many humans fight in such a horrific war and volunteer to join a new one.
Turning towards the Astartes, the Primarch ordered them to bring her to the Iron Blood. With the planet about to undergo a thorough sweep followed by light orbital bombardment, Perturabo ordered all forces to withdraw. And as he did, a general walked behind, their own thoughts hidden to all but themselves.
With just a scant few weeks until he entered the Maelstrom, Perturabo looked over the final deployment information that Kesar had sent him.
Baldur's Location
[] Transfer him to Vulkan - The Lord of Drakes has been assigned to manage Kesar's compliances while he is within the Maelstrom. As such, it makes sense to assign Baldur to him. Moreover, the Captain has requested to be assigned here.
[] Transfer him to Guilliman - While Vulkan may be tasked with Kesar's domain, there are some indications that he was also meant to manage Guilliman's domain. However, something has clearly changed. While Baldur is against this course of action, it is certain that the Master of Maccrage could make use of his skills.
Night Watch Location
[] Have them enter the Maelstrom - Trillions of guardsmen will already enter the Maelstrom. Having the Night Watch alongside them can only help matters. However, the incredibly hostile environment might devastate the unit leading to large skill losses or outright requiring reconstruction.
[] Assign them to Vulkan - While the Night Watch could be useful, it may be best to ensure they survive. As Vulkan will be managing Kesar's worlds, providing him with the Night Watch would make his task easier.
[] Assign them to Guilliman - While the Night Watch could be useful, it may be best to ensure they survive. Guilliman can make good use of them, and should the worst pass, he will have the option of using them to reinforce those within the Maelstrom.
[] Assign them to the Imperial Army - While the Night Watch could be useful, it may be best to ensure they survive. While the Imperial Army will not make the best use of them due to the generals lacking the skill of Astartes, they might eventually find a way to train Night Watch equivalents en masse. Such a project, however, will take years if not decades.
Wardens
[] All will enter - Kesar's words on the matter were short. All that wished to enter the Maelstrom would.
[] All but 500 will enter - A short message from the Primarch. All but 500 of his sons would enter the Maelstrom. If the worst should happen, then the main principles of the Legion can be reproduced with significant effort.
[] All but 10 thousand will enter - A short message from the Primarch. All but 10 thousand of his sons would enter the Maelstrom. If the worst should happen, then the main principles of the Legion can be reproduced with major effort, and even the secondary ones could be recovered.
Perturabo's Invasion: 28 + 120 (Perturabo) + 105 (Iron Warriors) + 45 (Anti-Daemon) + 40 (Enemy Defenses) + 60 (Titan Legion) = 378
Geoden's Cult: 67 + 40 (Faith in Nurgle) + 40 (Resilience) + 40 (Favored of Nurgle) + 20 (Rotting Defenses) + 20 (AA Grid) + 40 (Diseases) = 267
Resistance Forces: 25 - 80 (Utterly Out of Supply) + 100 (Executions to Extend Supplies) + 100 (Utter Stomp) = 145
Geoden's Cult: 46 + 40 (Faith in Nurgle) + 40 (Diseases) = 126
IW CR: 100 + 20 (Crit) + 157 (CR) = 277
Geoden's Corruption: 57 + 80 (Bonuses) = 137
Human Hero (DC80): 72 + 10 (Omake) = 82
Geoden's Cult: 67 + 40 (Faith in Nurgle) + 40 (Resilience) + 40 (Favored of Nurgle) + 20 (Rotting Defenses) + 20 (AA Grid) + 40 (Diseases) = 267
Resistance Forces: 25 - 80 (Utterly Out of Supply) + 100 (Executions to Extend Supplies) + 100 (Utter Stomp) = 145
Geoden's Cult: 46 + 40 (Faith in Nurgle) + 40 (Diseases) = 126
IW CR: 100 + 20 (Crit) + 157 (CR) = 277
Geoden's Corruption: 57 + 80 (Bonuses) = 137
Human Hero (DC80): 72 + 10 (Omake) = 82
[X] Plan Effective means
Baldur's Location
[X] Transfer him to Vulkan - The Lord of Drakes has been assigned to manage Kesar's compliances while he is within the Maelstrom. As such, it makes sense to assign Baldur to him. Moreover, the Captain has requested to be assigned here.
Night Watch Location
[X] Assign them to Guilliman - While the Night Watch could be useful, it may be best to ensure they survive. Guilliman can make good use of them, and should the worst pass, he will have the option of using them to reinforce those within the Maelstrom.
Wardens
[X] All but 10 thousand will enter - A short message from the Primarch. All but 10 thousand of his sons would enter the Maelstrom. If the worst should happen, then the main principles of the Legion can be reproduced with major effort, and even the secondary ones could be recovered.
================
Logic of this plan is leaving Baldur where he'll be most useful and help Vulkan cope with our compliances. With Bobby G he's be wasted imo.
But have the Night Watch with Guilliman as they are premier human troops and will be useful against any attempts to attack our rear/supply lines to prevent sabotage. Giving him another reliable force to keep things together.
Lastly...we need to prepare for the future. Even if we do well we'll still take massive casualities and as such we need to make sure that we leave enough behind to ensure that the main and secondary principles can be recovered. Doing well in the Maelstrom can still be a pyrrhic victory if we don't ensure the EW can do good in the long term.
Baldur's Location
[X] Transfer him to Vulkan - The Lord of Drakes has been assigned to manage Kesar's compliances while he is within the Maelstrom. As such, it makes sense to assign Baldur to him. Moreover, the Captain has requested to be assigned here.
Night Watch Location
[X] Assign them to Guilliman - While the Night Watch could be useful, it may be best to ensure they survive. Guilliman can make good use of them, and should the worst pass, he will have the option of using them to reinforce those within the Maelstrom.
Wardens
[X] All but 10 thousand will enter - A short message from the Primarch. All but 10 thousand of his sons would enter the Maelstrom. If the worst should happen, then the main principles of the Legion can be reproduced with major effort, and even the secondary ones could be recovered.
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Logic of this plan is leaving Baldur where he'll be most useful and help Vulkan cope with our compliances. With Bobby G he's be wasted imo.
But have the Night Watch with Guilliman as they are premier human troops and will be useful against any attempts to attack our rear/supply lines to prevent sabotage. Giving him another reliable force to keep things together.
Lastly...we need to prepare for the future. Even if we do well we'll still take massive casualities and as such we need to make sure that we leave enough behind to ensure that the main and secondary principles can be recovered. Doing well in the Maelstrom can still be a pyrrhic victory if we don't ensure the EW can do good in the long term.
With how much we're going after thanks to Perty's plan...at this point 10k EW is a drop in the bucket, and while it might make a dif in one or 2 battles...if we take enough casualties and lose enough troops that our legion ends up like the Imperial Fists...how many more battles will we be unable to fight...how much worse will we be off if our Primarcy and secondary principles are lost.
This is a balance of short term vs long term here and best we prepare for both.
- Location
- USA
its not a real fraction of our power, we are still sending in 156k astartes, if 10k matter in the end then something has gone so wrong that we would be doomed either way. Basically, if we actually need the 10k reserve troops then we are almost certainly screwed with them
and what argenten said
- Location
- Elsewhere
Another way to think of it is that having 10k fewer Wardens is around a reduction of 200 Astartes per world. For worlds on the very edge, it'll make a difference, but overall it's a minor bonus. It's roughly a 7% increase in numbers, which is far from nothing but also isn't a breaker. Effectively it's risk-reward. Do you take that bonus, or do you go for a safety net for your traits?
And me, the traits have a big impact on stuff in more than just this war, so I'd rather not lose them in an effort to minmax. This to me would feel like chasing a sunk cost/diminishing returns and would rely on the rolls being good enough to make the risk worth it. The law of averages alone is not on our side in that regard...let alone parser *shudder*
- Location
- USA
For those that have not joined the Discord server, Parser is the dice bot we use and its recently been screwing us with things like 15 ties out of 20 roll sets. Other nonsense like Magnus almost losing to a DE archon, so yeah take that into account.