NationStates

The great armored mass of the Mortem was nothing compared to the mighty asteroid it orbited. Savaged by a thousand thousand comets and home to untold millions of tons of minerals, the Asteroid was itself the size of a moderate continent and many times more important. Unlike many of the wandering marauders that lived and died on the fringes of the Imperium of Chaos, the Tears of Darkness were Astartes, demigods forged for one purpose, war. Warfare on a scale and intensity that most mortals would never know was their only goal, and several thousand years earlier they had done it in the name of the God Emperor of Man. Transported by fell energies to this unknown Galaxy, the Tears had first labored to find some other Imperial Assets, in time realizing that they were alone.

Alone was figurative though, as they were quickly located by the Imperium of Chaos, specifically their brother Astartes of the Blight Bringers. Together they had earned the Tears of Darkness a place in the mighty machine that was the Imperium, a machine as savage and vast as the one the Tears of Darkness had so recently left. What followed for the Chapter of Demigods was nothing short of disgraceful however. Sworn to serve the Emperor Remiel, the Tears of Darkness turned their destructive potential upon themselves in a great purge/civil war that was known as the, “Rectification”. Because of this conflict, the once thousand strong Chapter was now hovering just above four hundred Astartes, barely enough to warrant a place in the Imperium's order of battle.

The Asteroid the Mortem now orbited was their crypt-keep, a massive mausoleum that was as close to a home planet as the Tears of Darkness had come in over a dozen centuries. It's shadow cloaked hallways led for thousands of kilometers and terminated in a mighty cathedral-arena that was as much an alter to the ancient gods of battle as it was a council chamber where the Brothers would decide the Chapter's fate. Traditionally, such councils are accompanied by honor duels, a tradition that was now as foolish as it was necessary in the sense that it was one of the few ties they still had to their days of Imperial Service.

Chapter Master Azoth was engaged in one such duel, stalking about his opponent, Kneze Maikov with a predator's instinct. His ashen gray plate armor growling with more than just the hungry mutter of it's power plant, Azoth was close to ascension to Daemon hood, though this was not due to his leadership qualities. Under Azoth the Purgators had left the Imperium of Man, became the Tears of Darkness, then proceeded to butcher themselves with an zealotry known only to fanatics. Now the once mighty brotherhood stood, emaciated, and in all aspects starved of the things that made it a force to be feared. Because of this Kneze Maikov had challenged the Chapter Master, determined to die to change the fate of the Tears, though it was never quite clear if their fate could be altered. With only two Apothecaries and a very limited amount of Gene-seed, the Chapter was doomed to a slow death if nothing was done.

Roaring Maikov swung at the Chapter Master, his chainblade snarling as it struck Azoth's right shoulder guard. After two agonizing seconds it slid clear, the rent it carved little more than an annoyance. In retaliation the Chapter Master swung his power axe in a dazzling figure eight before focusing it into one powerful blow that dented the chest piece of Maikov's armor and cracked his bone breastplate beneath. With a smile the Chapter Master slowly whispered, “That pain in your chest is your lungs being perforated by bone shards...brother.”

Azoth was correct, Maikov's autosenses had already alerted him to the small holes torn in the delicate sides of his two primary lungs, luckily his enhanced body possessed a third which was enough to keep him fighting, for now. He responded with a roar and a vicious swipe at Azoth's legs, a swipe that was expertly parried. With his free hand the Chapter Master punched Maikov in the helmet before bringing his axe to bear on the Astartes' right knee joint. The blow did not sever the leg, but it cut deep, deep enough to make quick movement difficult.

Azoth was playing with him, the damned Daemon was enjoying this! The thought echoed in Maikov's head as he tried trick after gamble, taking more blows to the body and limbs until he was capable of little more than just swinging blindly. Tiring of the game, the Chapter Master smashed his axe into his opponents side and pulled downward, forcing the challenger onto his knees. Seizing the helm of the dying Astartes, Azoth gave a vicious tug that saw the man's neck broken. With a tenderness that was unfitting for a killer such as he, Azoth laid the corpse on the ground and softly whispered, “A worthy attempt.”

Reveling in his victory, it was only after several minutes that Azoth realized he alone celebrated his victory. The weary and scarred warriors who returned his stare through the unemotional lenses of their helms did not cheer, they did not move, they only stood and silently asked, “Why should we support you?” He lowered his arms slowly and in the space of an instant tried to think of a plan, he found that for once he could not. His wily combat veteran's mind had failed him and just as he was about to roar his defiance his Marines turned upon him. Hacking, slashing, shooting, the entire four hundred remaining Astartes descended upon him and only when his body was torn asunder did they slow in their outburst of violence. Slowly the hacking blades were sheathed and the question of who was to lead arose.

Just as another bout of infighting appeared to begin a deep voice from the rear of the hall roared,

“I shall lead.”

Stepping forward slowly with complete economy of motion was the ancient warrior Perune. His terminator armor was one of only ten suits the Warband possessed, marking him as one of Azoth's champions and a grizzeled veteran. Upon his right fist growled a chainblade while in his left sat a squat Storm Bolter that was both drawn and hungrily sweeping the crowd. Every step he took left a faint footprint of blood, blood that was eternally seeping out of the thousands of cracks in his armor, exposing him to fresh pain-sensations with every move. Most loved of Slaanesh, Perune was also a veritable killing machine and it was rumored that Daemon-hood was not completely impossible for the mighty chamption.

Standing alone now in the center of the mighty chamber he solemnly repeated,

“I shall lead us.”

The silence of the Sorcerer's cell was infuriating, the whispers of the Warp neglecting to flow as they usually did, when the blood was fresh. Stretched atop the only piece of furniture, a utilitarian table-cot, was a dried and completely desecrated corpse, it's innards long since devoted to the Changer of Ways. Carved into the table top was a combination of runes and fell phrases in the tounge of Daemons, usually enough to cast himself out into the Sea of Souls, this time not enough to even allow a whisper to penetrate the unseen veil that preserved reality. It was infuriating, and someone would likely die for this.

Gathering his robes about him, the Sorcerer arose and angrily stalked from his room, taking care only to nod to his personal guard Tor. Walking the halls and corridors of a star ship run by traitors was enough to warrant a bit of paranoia. Many times his prophesies had led them to near ruin, or cast them back against their faithless brothers who still offered petty prayers to the False Emperor. Unlike Tor who's steps rang out loud and true, as was the norm for most Astartes, the Sorcerer moved silently, his stealth a gift from his lord, Tzeentch.

The Tears of Darkness were almost even split in devotion between the Changer of Ways and the Prince of a Thousand Pleasures, with the exception of Tor, who was lost entirely to the Blood God. His quiet mutterings were just audible through his helm, and the Sorcerer timed his steps to the sound of, “Blood and skulls and souls, blood for the blood god...skulls for the skull throne...souls for the soul eater.”Each step accenting yet another offering to Khorne, each step carrying him farther into the subtly warped battle barge, Mortem.

Distant screams from the menials who staffed both the guns and engines could be heard, yet to the Astartes that dominated the bridge screams of pain was akin to the sweetest music. Dominating the command throne was Perune, his terminator armor stained with the blood of both Azoth and the former “Admiral”. Resting only a fraction of a step behind the throne stood his two chief supporters, Apothecary Veles and Tech Marine Svarog. Only with the Apothecary's aid was the Chapter's gene seed recovered and stored, yet to be inserted into fresh recruits that had yet to be raised. Comparatively, without Svarog's support the Chapter would find itself running short of everything from armor to ammunition within mere days. He and his small group of servitors was directly responsible for the production that occurred deep within the bowels of the ship, production that relied upon raw materials that were not necessarily easy to come by.

Taking care to appear submissive, the sorcerer ascended the first two steps of the raised dais and inclined his head to the new War Band Leader. With a soft chuckle Perune said,

“Arise Brother Jarlio, pay me no honor that you would not pay Brother Captain Azoth.”

Raising his head slowly the Sorcerer Jarlio smiled tightly before slowly saying,

“Brother Perune, your predecessor had a habit of making his underlings do him honors more fitting of some Feudal World Monarch than an Astartes.”

Nodding slowly the new “Captain” replied,

“Yes, he was a worm.”

The slight edge in his voice spoke of how much the Terminator Clad Marine enjoyed the relatively worthless small talk, prompting the sorcerer to quickly say,

“I have yet to hear the whisper of the Prince of Madness. I believe I require a new sacrificial victim to stir the warp enough to cause some truth to arise from the eternal gibbering that is the norm of that realm.”

Sighing the larger Marine softly said,

“Jarlio, where shall we find another Psyker? Do you suggest I sacrifice our Navigator? Do you believe I will offer you Morana?!”

Shaking his head quickly Jarlio began to say,

“No Lord, I fear we must ex-”

Somehow determining that now was the time to speak, Tor spread wide his hands and roared out,

“We must hunt, we must kill, we must rend the flesh! Skulls and blood and souls for Khorne!”

Smiling Perune softly muttered,

“Were we all as..enthusiastic as our Brother...”

There was a silence until one of the few human bridge crew approached and abased himself before the group of Marines. Submissively he said,

“Lords, the Navigator requests that we exit the Immatrium, she claims to require rest and nourishment.”

Perune merely waved his hand, and with a violent shudder the ship exited the Warp a few moments later. As it settled in the darkness and silence of the void the wail of a klaxon heralded that it was not alone. Smiling, Tor roared,

“Prey, skulls for the skulls throne! Souls for the Soul Eater!

Like a monstrous predator the Mortem drifted across the void, it's mighty weapon arrays remaining silent, it's crew starving for a fight. The prey tried to run, it turned as quickly as a bloated merchant vessel could, but it's crew knew that before long the behemoth like battle barge would catch them. Thomas Ilonious was an honorable man, a merchant who had long captained his own trading vessel, he was a bit of a coward. Ilonious had heard whispers of the pirates that plagued the reaches of space close to the fringes of the Imperium of Chaos and because he was a bit of a coward he gave the order to run, all the while planning on how exactly he'd race to the lone savior pod as they passed near the closest planet.

Unknown to him however the first of the boarding ships had already gone out from the Mortem, sleek devices that were more akin to artillery rounds than ships, they had crossed the gulf of space much faster than anticipated and were now only moments from latching onto the hull. The Merchantman rocked only seconds before the boarding ships made contact, the victims of an expertly timed barrage from the forward lances of the Mortem. Shaking a second time, the Merchantman was suffering a strangely few number of damaged systems. “Curious.” Thought the Captain, his unasked question answered immediately by one of his crew,

“Captain, we have sensor anomalies on decks three, nine, and twelve. Engine Crews report banging on the outer hull and the Navigator's quarters cannot be raised on the Vox!”

It took less than a second for the Merchant-Captain's calculating mind to reach an acceptable course of action. With a firm voice he said,

“Send in a detail!”



Clutching old shotguns and brutal looking knives the detail sent to investigate the sensor anomaly on deck three passed right by the hunter and his brothers. Standing wearily around the raw wound in their vessel, the mortals were only alerted to the presence of the Astartes by the soft whisper of, “Blood and skulls, blood and skulls...”. Turning as quickly as possible, they were still far too slow to match the gene enhanced Tears as they emerged from the darkness. Armored fists struck out and cracked skulls and ribs, the majority of the Marines remaining silent while one of their number cried praises to a god the warband did not favor. Covered in the biological fuel of the detail, Tor held the final surviving man in an iron grip. Forcing the mortal onto his knees, he drew a battered chainsword from his right hip. With a shudder he said,

“Open your mouth mortal.”

The crewman was held fast by the icy fingers of terror, and the Astartes was in no mood to wait. With a quiet grunt into his helm Tor forced his chainblade into the man's mouth, shattering teeth and breaking his jaw. With a wild scream he activated the abused blade, tearing the man's head apart in several seconds and spraying a fine mist of crimson onto his and his battle brothers armor. Consecrated in the blood that his God thirsted eternally for, Tor lost all semblance of control and with his free hand took hold of his daemon possessed chain axe. Beast like howls broke free from his lips and the lone Astartes sprinted off into the bowels of the ship, hungering for bloodshed.

Without a word his brothers followed, though in a much more controlled manner. Muttering prayers to their chosen deities or in many cases remaining silent, they swept the hallways and corridors with their bolters, shooting any targets that appeared. Bolt rounds were ill-suited to fighting unarmored mortals, popping them like overinflated balloons in most cases. That was of course when they came across a mortal that wasn't cleaved apart by the madman who came before them. Luckily the Navigator was spared, probably because his attendants had offered a much more worthy target having attempted to resist.

The squad seized him and voxed back to the Mortem,

“Objective secured.”



With all boarding parties withdrawn, the Mortem powered away as quickly as possible. Thinking themselves spared, the crew of the Merchantman was surprised when they discovered a series of hull weakening charges that were timed to coincide with the violation of their plasma reactor and warp drive. In the wake of the Tears of Darkness Battle Barge was a mulch-dimensional explosion that claimed the lives of all aboard, a sacrifice to the Changer of Ways as surely as it was an act of piracy.



Alone in his incense filled chamber, Sorcerer Jarlio stood over the still struggling Navigator with a wickedly curved dagger. Mouthing words that were never intended for mortals to speak, daubed in paint that formed symbols never meant to be formed in this dimension, he circled the sacrifice in a predatory manner. With a final cry of,

“Prince of a Thousand Faces, Changer of Ways, Master of Magic, Lord Tzeentch; look upon your serrvants and deliver unto us a sign! Tell us where to go to bring forth Change, tell us your will!”

Dragging the dagger across the Navigator from collar to hip, the Sorcerer reached in and pulled forth the man's entrails. Screaming in pain, the Navigator had only scant instants before Daemons began to feast upon his soul while the body still lived and in those instant he spoke pure prophesy, straight from the lips of Change God. With an attentive ear, the Sorcerer listened.

The captive psyker twised and gibbered under the strain of his soul's destruction. Daemons swirled about him in the Warp and for the very few seconds he bleated out prophesy they were held at bay, perhaps only by the influence of the Tears of Darkness Patrons from beyond.

“T-t-take solace in the company of Brothers! To the planet of Gilgamesh go, campaign for the Gods of the Warp, set free the captive whims of Chaos! The False Emperor, not a corpse is he, but the Everchosen! To the Bringers of Nurgle's Favor you must call, only together shall you form the chosen realm of the holy immatrium!”

With a shudder the man finailly died, his soul torn apart by the hungry denizens of the Warp. Jarlio however was not done, seizing upon the relatively weakened barrier between the two realms of existence the Sorcerer quickly waved several arcane runes into the air and shouted,

" Vzhertvu etogo sushchestva , iskrivlenie blagoslovlen vtoroe zrenie , ya svyazatʹ tebya Cikavac v ruiny yego plotʹ ! Svyazannyĭ so mnoĭ, slovom i delom , ya beru ot etogo cheloveka yego serdtse, yego chernye yaĭtsa, i zastavit vas k zhizni ! Vo imyaChanger putyeĭ , prinimayut formu! "
“By the sacrifice of this being, warp blessed with second sight, I bind you Cikavac into the ruins of his flesh! Bound to me, in word and deed, I take from this man his heart, his black egg, and force you into existence! In the name of the Changer of Ways, take form!”

The light shimmered and flickered in a way that was impossible in all but the most insane of dimensions. His slave-cultists cried out but the sorcerer stood unafraid for he felt no fear. As the winged Daemon-Slave forced the man's body to bow before the Sorcerer. In a language that was older than humanity the servant softly said,

" Pozvolʹte mne sluzhitʹ vam moĭ gospodin ".
“Allow me to serve you my lord.”

Raising his hand the Sorcer said,

“Take yourself through the blessed realm of the Gods and deliver a call to our brothers the Blight Bringers. Offer them a place in our new realm, if they so will it.”

Muttering riddles that had no answer the Daemon said, “As you will it, so shall it be.” With a loud snap it was gone, back into the Warp, engaged on a mission that could see the fate of the Galaxy altered.



Roaring like an ancient behemoth, the Thunderhawk swept over the war-ravaged landscape with the grace and demeanor of some bird of prey. Ashen clouds obscured the ruined city that the Tears of Darkness had claimed as their own, but it was visible on the auspex and in the mind of the Sorcerer. Unlike most ruins, that glowed with the pain and fear of those who once called them home, the broken city before them was completely blank as if it did not exist in the warp. Truthfully the Sorcerer was only able to locate it because it was not visible, finding it by it's shadow or lack of one. When he tried to focus upon where the city should be, he heard only the deep booming laughter of a beast older than time itself and the steady repetition of a single name, “Utopia”.

Above the planet hung the Mortem, silently surveying the primitive civilizations with a mixture of warpcraft and mechanical devices, the latter proving to be more effective while the former proving useful only in locating small bands of nomadic herdsmen. It seemed that on this war ruined world, the worship of the true gods was already alive and well. Two parties had been dispatched to the surface, representing the two faces of the War Band. One was led by the Sorcerer Jarlio, while the other was led by the Tech Marine Svarog. Arguing for a more enforced worship of the Dark Gods, Jarlio had went to the seemingly warp touched ruin while the more secular inclined Svarog taking his own unit to investigate the remnants of a technocracy to the south.

Like the sorcerer, Svarog was intrigued by his group's destination, the mighty cities of the Technocracy appearing to be only partially inhabited as if emptied by a great pestilence or war. Ferried to the Technocracy by a heavily modified thunderhawk, Svarog could sense what his bird saw via his direct interface with the Machine Spirit. What he saw was a land that was both beautiful, if he could still feel such a distinctly human emotion, and savage. As the metal predator swept over the landscape, primitive nomads howled and offered sacrifice, warriors proclaimed their intent to cause combat, and Psykers sent out questing tendrils of consciousness to determine what the thunderhawk was. To the machine like mind of Svarog it was all highly illogical and the human part of his mind suggested, humorous.

Deep in his labyrinth, Tzeentch twisted the threads of fate just so that both of the thunderhawks set down as one. The Sorcerer in the ruins of the blasted city, and the Tech Marine in the center of the Technocracy. Smiling in his million and one realities the Prince of Madness had delivered unto his chosen warriors a new future, if they could force it's formation.



Unlike his Brothers, Svetovid was not already a powerful lord or ranking officer of the Warband. He was simply an Astartes, if one could simply be one of the finest warriors in creation. Alone he marched through the ashen wastes, leaving the smoldering wreckage of the shuttle he had commandeered behind. Before him towered a range of peaks that he knew obscured a Warp-blessed city known as Tur, how he knew this he could not say, but he did.

Fighting up the barren slope, the Marine could feel something unimaginably ancient watching his ascent, and a part of his thought, hungering for his flesh. Through his armor's auto senses he was able to taste the contents of the soil beneath him and the air above, what he gathered was that this land was baptized several times in both nuclear fire and massed death. Every handhold that came away was a product of millions of years of bone and stone buildup and fusion, resulting in an entire mountain that was as much the ruins of humanity as it was a geological formation.

Stretching his hand over the edge of the final precipice and hauling himself up to behold the ruined land the lone Demi-god was for a moment stunned into silence. Blasted and damned ruins stretched out before him, culminating in an impossibly shaped fortress that ended in an open platform. Sitting upon a blasted throne of pig iron and twisted human bodies there was an ancient being clad only in clutters of human ligaments. Rising as it took in the sight of the lone warrior, the Daemon said,

“Come fight me mortal, for I require a new clutter.”

Raising his ancient gladius in a salute the Astartes roared,

“I am Svetovid, Warp Thing, know that I will be your end.”

In response the Daemon whispered,

“I am known to your kind as Stuhac and I offer you my lands and worshipers if you can succeed. If not I shall feast upon your soul and body, both here and in the Sea of Souls!”

Smiling beneath his helm Svetovid replied,

“Deal.”

The Silence had not been easy to take, the utter feeling of loneliness and lack of direction had gnawed upon all of them for many months as they blindly surged across the Warp screaming the names of the Ruinous Gods over every frequencies, the astropaths driven mad several times over, many dying to attempt to reestablish a link back to Chronosia – all of it had been for naught. They were alone for all intents and purposes and even the Warp was quiet these long months. There had been infighting and disunity, some had proclaimed that they had been cast out by the Ruinous Powers, while others screamed of independence and a new destiny not bound to either Jagada or Chronosia. Satoloc would here none of it. He had changed much in the years since the invasion of Atkinson’s World and its eventual capitulation, the once pure white armor was filthy with long-dried blood, dirt, and other, less identifiable things that one would be better not asking about. His wounds had never healed and in fact had become infested, oozing with pus or gangrene had long set in and they wept with a sickly red color that spoke of utter inflammation. His eyes were yellowed as his kidneys had shut down; even his third one had failed finally. His chest heaved with every movement, with every word it seemed he would topple over at any second. For some time following the Silence he had quarantined himself within his quarters as his Chapter began to fall into panic and disunity.

The Plague Lord took his bloody toll upon his newest champion, he had held his hand allowing the Chapter Master to grow arrogant with the slow infestation of his wounds, of the slowing growing ache in his joints and the miasma of pain that slowly crept within his skull. Like any good virus it had been slowing working, a lethal cocktail of a number of unknown plagues, viruses, and bacteria which hit the Chapter Master suddenly. Mortals would have been slain by these diseases in mere moments and in fact many of Satoloc’s mortal slave-crew died when the disease began to somehow escape his chamber and spread throughout the ship. Some of his own Astartes were plagued beyond recognition, their faces a twisted parody of their former selves and their bodies bloated and swollen with the glorious gifts of Grandfather Nurgle. Some had of coarse been gifted perhaps too much and had succumb to their gifts before their Astartes post-human bodies could regulate and deal with the pathogens flooding threw them. Satoloc had heard the screams and the wailing over the internal vox systems as they blindly continued to plummet through space – screaming for more gifts from Nurgle while simultaneously bellowing their desire to find the Daemon Emperor’s Realms.

For nearly two months, no mortal or Astartes dared enter their liege’s room, an attempt has previously been made by mortal servants who desired to assist, their minds long-rotted by the diseases coursing through their veins and their sanity gone to the wind. There had never been any sound after they managed to pry open the scab-covered door to Satoloc’s chambers, nor when they entered it and closed it behind them. Three days later, their bones had been found outside of the door, gnawed on and splintered. Since then no mortal’s mind was so rotted as to give them the impression to enter those nightmarish walls. The tension was growing as more losses mounted amongst the Blightbringers, some driven to the point of madness and began to roam their ships as psychopaths with only murder on their minds. While cowardly mortals plotted in dark corners of their vessels the overthrow of their masters in some great uprising, to show them that they were the true-believers and servants of Papa Nurgle. The Chapter had been brought to the breaking point, upon the edge of an abyss that they could simply not afford to go over.

The Fleet had warped in system near a relatively temperate world, known simply as Arc and it had been placed within the data-banks of the Chaotic Imperium centuries before but had been labeled ad relatively undeveloped, feudal world. Satoloc never gave the order for the world to burn, but burn it did. Led by Captain Ansroll, the 13th Company had departed from the fleet with their strike cruiser and had come into orbit over the world before deploying en masse. The rest of the fleet, staggeringly had joined up with them, but gave no support, they merely watched as the madness played out below them. The 13th Company committed several orbital bombardments, devastating whole cities and continents, they then deployed in small, seemingly independently roaming bands of madmen who stalked the country-side killing any who resisted them. For weeks they slaughtered and maimed with bolter and chainsword and were merry. The reaped a great and bloody harvest for the Plague Lord, or so it had been believed. Though when the 13th Company returned, their armor covered in blood and their chainsword clogged with the life-waters of the human biology – they had been changed. Their bloated, corrupted forms had shrunk, their bodies were obviously tore by the experiences upon Arc. None of them looked as they should and they spoke not one word to their comrades and brothers, merely boarding their strike cruiser and returning to general formation. When vox was attempting, the only thing ever returned was: “Souls for the Soul Eater … Skulls for the Skull Throne …” over and over in something barley above a whisper.

No action had been taken; the Chapter was in no condition has honor duels occurred on every vessel and madness been almost a currency. Although even as the walls seemed to close in around them, even as the favor of the Plague Lord seemed too much – Satoloc had emerged from his chambers and with him came a million million worms, and parasitic insects which bore into the Maggot and its crew. His voice boomed and his rage simmered just beneath the surface. He had been reborn, no more was his armor a simple piece of adamantium, but a living thing. Where it cracked pus oozed, with large parasites swimming within the slow-moving rivers of the stuff, while flies cavorted, pushing themselves into the Chapter Master’s eye sockets, moving freely around on the yellowish orbs which seemed to stare at everything yet at nothing. His skin was a greenish-yellow, and parts of his face were clearly rotted off, and the aroma he brought forth blinded the senses of mortals and strained his fellow brothers. Upon his chest-plate there grew a great, bacterial horn which showed no signs of being artificial, his super-human chest had been altered by the Great Grandfather and reshaped to his liking. His gut had swollen beyond reasonable proportions and the pale, sickly skin had been stretched well beyond its limit, and yet it held in some regard for the Chapter Master’s organs and entrails did not litter the ground, yet they hung freely down from the holes that had been torn in the overstressed skin. As always was the sign of any true champion of the Lord of Pestilence, there was always the flesh-flies which hung and chewed upon the flesh of the rotten or unworthy.

There was silence as well, the day that Satoloc had emerged from his chambers – for the Maggot made not a sound as he slowly walked up and down the ship. His yellowish eyes spoke of retribution and judgment and one wished to look upon them for they knew of their sins and lack of faith … their fear was ripe. It was said that Astartes did not feel fear, for the Daemon Emperor had commanded them not to, but this had been proven false to some extent as they had allowed the Silence to blind them to their faith and their training and Satoloc would not permit it to stand with penitence. He personally dragged mortals from their chambers and brought them to the various Rot Altars to the only Ruinous God worthy of his worship and sacrificed them in the most horrific ways imaginable The flies had truly feasted that night as the sacrifices continued, and blood ran like rivers within the Maggot. Entrails were hung all over the ship, and they too had been rotted for surely if Astartes were effected then so too were mere mortals – insignificant creatures who wiggled and squirmed like worms within a cold corpse, unthinking and unknowing of the inevitable doom of their existence. The Chapter Master carved their teeth out of their still living gums and feasted upon them as he continued his ritual. Their brains were removed piece by piece and by willingness or force they were made to make certain responses, even as their mouths lulled and their drool turned to blood – they were slowly killed by him. He showed only joy at their comments which always started with pleading and begging for mercy, then as he removed portions of their brain tissue was replaced by hatred and threats of violence and finally they descended into either pure madness, and wailed about prophecy and worthless things or become as humble as children – taking the knife from the Chapter Master, who always presented it to them like a father would to his child, and allowed them to spill their own entrails and feast upon them before snapping their necks.

Astartes were not spared the judgment of the Chapter Master, for after a week of ritual sacrificing of the menial mortals within his vessel, Satoloc had demanded all of his brothers fall to their knees and repent for their lack of faith – all did so except those aboard the 13th Companies strike cruiser, formerly named Bacterium, but had since made it very clear that the ship had been redesigned, Soulcleaver. They, under the orders of Captain Ansroll had outright refused to kneel to the Great Grandfather and had proclaimed the glory of the Lord Khrone, the Blood God. They cited the recent slaughtering of Arc, which the rest of the Chapter did not partake in, as a sign of their true faith. Many thought Satoloc would slay them all right then and there, but their demise did not come quite so quick. No, such would have gone against the very whims of Papa Nurgle whom had whispered into Satoloc’s now broken mind and told him of his wishes. The 13th Company would be spared for they had long since lost his favor and had fallen into the barbarism of the Lord of Skulls worship, they were lost to them Plague Lord and he no longer cared for them or their souls – let them die a meaningless death upon an unknown world.
The Astartes before him lay as a broken and ruined mess, his skull was half-caved in and had he not been blessed by Nurgle would surely have died from the injury, his legs were broken and one of his rotted arms had literally been ripped off – yet he lived. He had failed to sacrifice his assigned mortal in the proper way and the displeasure of Papa Nurgle had radiated within Satoloc’s mind and he therefore had the Chaos Marine brought before him, and there he was broken and rent. Even once his skull had caved in under the repeated armored punches by his fellow Astartes, Satoloc had required his legs to be smashed by controlled-bolter fire and one of his arms removed. All of it had been a test to see if Papa Nurgle would restore his favor in this Marine or take his soul now and plant it within the Garden.

‘If there is life within you …’ rasped Satoloc, his voice something between a beast and a whisper, ‘…then raise … brother!’

The marine began to twitch and slowly, agonizing used his remaining arm to slowly haul himself off his back. He roared in pain the entire time, and spouted praises to Papa Nurgle. Sickly black blood squirted from his open wounds and boils upon his face finally ruptured from the stress. His lungs had been damaged, Satoloc did not know the extent, for his breath was more labored then normal and his lips, while already deathly pale, seemed even worse. With a final roar he lifted himself up and stood tall before his Chapter Master – yet remained silent.

Satoloc’s head twitched for a second and he nodded, ‘The Great Grandfather had seen your triumph here, brother, and he knows you are now eternally loyal to him!’

The Astartes staggered for a moment, but finally retained his posture, ‘I live and I die for Grandfather Nurgle …’

Satoloc grinned savagely, ‘That you do … brother. Fortunately for you … you now have the opportunity to prove … such devotion.’

His fellow brother began to let out a roar of defiance but Satoloc’s fist connected with his chest and all that escaped his lips was an agonizing rasp as lungs collapsed completely. Satoloc stood over him for a few moments savoring the look of defeat, yet utter hatred within his brother’s eyes, his glanced at the shadows, ‘You may feast’, he then turned and left the chamber. From the darkness the mortals slowly crept out, their bodies a twisted parody of their Plaguebringer cousins within the Immaterium, their jaws were slack and their stomachs empty. Their skin was dabbed in Nurgle-runes, all of which had already bound their souls to daemons within the Warp … the demons merely waited for their life to end to consume their souls completely. They descended upon the Astartes, his strength completely spent and his mind already convulsing due to a lack of oxygen. He might have gone into a suspended animation coma, something that had saved some of his brothers on Atkinson’s World, had Papa Nurgle not rotted the necessary organs. He felt every bite into his flesh and within his mind he wailed for it all to simply end. It did a few hours later when his post-human body finally succumbs to the trauma.

As Satoloc stalked from the chambers, his advanced hearing relishing the sounds of the Children of the Pox clawing at the rusted armor of the faithless as they craved their daily dose of flesh, he smiled. The Great Grandfather had blessed him beyond measure for everything around him had come to him thanks only to his patron god. Though he knew a time was coming very soon where he must end this streak of penance and prepare the Chapter for the unfortunate truth – the Chronosian Imperium was not going to be found. For whatever reason it simply did not exist within the Warp, either the Daemon Emperor had forsaken them and thus used his growing powers to blind them to the Imperium – or the Lifegiver upon Jagada, the Nekromancer Narkos, had committed some grievous trespass against the Imperium and had been slain. Perhaps even now Jagada burned from the flames of war, his spongy ground catching fire behind the horrific temperatures of orbital bombardment, perhaps the Chronosians even decided to use their warp-magic to burn out the daemon sun at the center of Jagada’s solar system, or maybe the Warmaster’s legion had descended upon the world and burned it to ash in a wave of bloodshed not seen in many years. It mattered little for the result was still the same; they were now alone and must forge their own destiny amongst the lonely stars of the Milky Way.

Has he begun to ponder the possibility of piracy, perhaps basing them out of a world nearby rich trading lanes, his mind reeled with static noise. He jerked reflexively for it had been many months since anyone had even attempted to vox him on a personal level.
The voice of Augur was glared into his mind, a voice he both welcomed and missed, ‘My Lord Satoloc, I apologize for this interruption but there is something happening with the astropath aboard my vessel.’

‘…What?’ breathed Satoloc. He had no time for the rambling of astropaths – even under normal circumstances there was but a step from madness, under the chains of the Ruinous Powers they might as well be call animals for all their help.

‘It,’ he began, as Augur had never agreed to recognize astropaths as human, ‘Speaks of prophecy.’

Satoloc sighed heavily, nearly every astropath had spoken about such things in these last months, ‘He … is mad … slay him, we shall retrieve another one for you when we make contact with the Imperium. Stay … close to friendly vessels and use short-range vox communications …’

Augur’s tone changed, and Satoloc could tell before he even spoke – was that annoyance? Disrespect even seemed just as likely a word to use, ‘My lord, this is different. He speaks about the Tears and Chronosia.’

The Tears of Darkness was what the captain was referring to and this fact was not lost upon him for it was he and his Blightbringers whom had brought the Tears into the loving embrace of the Chronosian Imperium. ‘…Explain…captain…’

Augur coughed, removing phlegm from his throat, it was so common these days amongst his men, a sign of Nurgle’s favor, that it didn’t even register in his mind, ‘The Tears cannot contact the Imperium either … and … it says that Chronosia itself has gone dark. It’s not a matter of locating the Imperium, because it no longer exists.’

Satoloc reeled at the thought that Chronosia was gone. It could likely have been war, for the Imperium was always at war with its enemies and even some of its allies, the mad brilliance of the Daemon Emperor were not to be challenged by him. Though no war could have wiped out the Imperium so quickly as to prevent its call for aid from his far-flung Astartes, ‘Prepare your ship … for my coming … captain …’

‘It shall be done my lord,’ was the captain’s entire reply before closing the link. Blessed silence, save for the thousand thousand flies that swarmed within his skull, chattering about mutilation and glorious infection.

The Chapter Master of the Blightbringers began to make his way down the long-corridors of the Maggot, passing several mortals who kneeled and quickly moved out of his way, all praising him. His fellow Astartes showed the same respect by moving out of the way, yet they only bowed their helms in supplication rather than fear. As it should be, thought Satoloc. He entered one corridor that took him by surprise in its length for he had not remembered it so long, yet did not allowed it to bother him. Though as his cracked and rusted armor stomped down the corridor, his wheezing like so many dying men’s last breath, he realized he was not alone. He stopped and sighed, knowing the familiar stench of the Warp all about him. He did not move, but waited and sure enough about twenty paces ahead of him, out lurked a tall, raven like creature. Its body covered in feathers and runes, its break a long and vicious thing, while its beady eyes spoke of half-truths, and partial-lies. It was a Changer of Ways, one of the daemons of the Raven God, arch-rival of the God of Stagnation, his patron deity.

To its credit the creature stomached what it saw very well, for most daemons were wary when being in a vessel clearly blessed by their rivals. It finally composed itself and whispered, ‘Chapter Master Satoloc …’

‘I am he,’ he spoke fiercely, his voice then softened and began like a ghostly whisper, all too much like a true grim reaper would sound, ‘…you are out of your domain Changer … why do you come aboard a vessel dedicated and blessed by the Great Grandfather …’

The Changer of Ways tilted its head to the right and left, like some mocking parody of a domesticated avian and then chittered to itself for no apparent reason, ‘I bring news of the birth of a new way for you and your Chapter. Chronosia is weak and stagnant.’

Satoloc snorted, ‘Stagnation is one of the key virtues of the Plague God. The Daemon Emperor is not weak, trickster, and neither am I so faithless as to believe such lies.’

Of course it was a blatant and bold lie he told without hesitation – he no longer believed the Daemon Emperor to be so mighty as he once did. During his own penance within his chambers, the Lord of Flies had shown him visions of entire worlds burning in the flames of war – of Chronosia Secundus in ashes from a nuclear hellfire storm that wiped out the greatest industrial world within Remiel’s dominion.

‘Do not mistake me for some wretched mortal, Satoloc,’ the daemon spoke boldly,‘I serve Tzeentch, Changer of Ways, and rival of the Maggot King. You and your brothers have been chosen to aid in the raising of a new Chaos banner. Should you choose to accept such a bold destiny, you will find that your captain’s astropath will have the directions burned upon the flesh of is brain … welcome to a new … darker dawn Satoloc.’

Majestic structures curved away from the landing pad, perfect amalgamations of glass and plasteel. Shimmering images flowed through the buildings, heralding the march of the Tech Marine and his servitor retinue. Yet he was left unmet, and as Tech Marine Svarog marched farther into the gleaming city the suspicion that he was almost completely alone began to ring true. The streets were swept clean, devoid of all life. Buildings towered above him, yet they did not bustle with the trade and commerce as any hive city or forge world should.

Passing another of the mighty structures, Svarog lowered his servo arm that hovered above his right shoulder and stabbed it into the gleaming wall. As he had guessed the shimmering was in reality the flow of data, unrestricted and magnificent data. He drank deep the virtual pool, amassing the knowledge of the Technocracy in only a few moments. It seems that some still lived, deep in the most central of spires. The outer limits meanwhile were under attack from the primitive plains dwellers, the walls being manned by a mixture of what appeared to be inefficient models of servitor analogues and self aware machines.

Ushering his own servitors with a howl of binary, Svarog made his way deeper into the dying city of knowledge, intent on locating the few who remained and asserting the dominance of his new Mechanicus. Emboldened by the raw data, the Tech Marine was ignorant of just what dwelt in the very core of this city, and with every step he unknowing went closer to the greatest predator south of Tur.



Perune gazed upon the world with a smile. His Tech Marine, Sorcerer, and unknowing Champion all had found targets and prizes worthy of them, now it was his turn. With an almost imperceptible nod he signaled the mortal auspex operator to target one of the pre-determined cities. An island-city zoomed into view, similar in nature and organization to the untold billions of hive cities across the galaxy. While these people did not worship the Corpse or Daemon Emperors, they were still mere mortals and that was enough for the Tears of Darkness.

Rising from the command throne, Captain Perune roared into the Vox net,

“Brothers, prepare yourselves for battle!”



Each drop pod fell with the fury of an orbital bombardment, streaking across the sky in an incandescent display of might. The ground around the Hive City of Gorod Polis shook with fear as all ten of the pods struck home at the same instant. Hatches were blown open and the ten chosen squads of the Tears of Darkness emerged, free from their adamantine prisons and let loose into the cityscape.

Running through buildings, the Tears made their way to the rooftops spreading terror as surely as they were ending lives. There had yet to be any resistance and because of this the Tears’ Bolters remained silent, they chose instead to kill civilians with blades or fists delighting in the weakness of the mortals. Perune himself joined in the slaughter, teleporting directly into the chambers of what appeared to the be city’s ruler. He and his five chosen Druzhina waded through the ineffective small arms fire, laughing as the Kneze’s rounds simply bounced off of their Tactical Dreadnought Armor.

Closing to within an arms reach, Perune grabbed hold of the Kneze with one mighty fist and simply squeezed. There was a moment of resistance and then a quiet pop as the man’s body simply crumpled in the Captain’s grasp. With a soft grunt he tossed the broken man aside, waving his Druzhina forward into the fortress proper. The chatter of his men’s storm bolters began to fill the air as the fortress garrison realized that there were enemies in their midst. Raising his own ornate weapon, the Captain fired three rounds and killed as many men, smiling in joy as their upper torsos exploded outward as the bolts detonated within.

Perune lowered his smoking weapon and growled into the vox,

“Brothers, the city burns!”



Brother Sudz and his squad quietly crept across the rooftop of one of the hundreds of hab complexes. Their mighty armor’s heat signature and noise muffled by the same techniques as the Corpse Emperor’s Raven Guard. Concealed as they were, they went completely unnoticed by the company of hostile Motorized Infantry that desperately tried to organize below them. Antiquated vehicle designs that their armors auto senses identified as BTR-80s pulled into the small square below and disgorged fresh troops that were quickly marshaled and ordered to the front.

Said front was really the limit between the untouched eastern quarter and the ravaged western sectors, the east being spared only because the Tears were delighting in the destruction of the west. Roughly one hundred fifty brothers had been dropped into the city, almost half of the Chapter’s strength and more than enough to completely destroy the hive. Destruction however was not the goal of the Tears, or at least it was not the only goal. They were to raze the city to the ground, making a name for themselves amongst the mortal population and hopefully garner support and followers.

A key component of this strategy was the shattering of the enemy’s morale.

One of the Brothers in the squad raised his head up over the lip of the hab complex’s roof and monitored the enemy while Brother Sergeant Siva coordinated the deadly barrage that was only moments away. Facing Sudz and his other three brothers, Siva quietly muttered,

“I want the first missile to hit vehicle marked beta. Brother Likho believes that to be a mobile command unit. Brother Sudz, rake your heavy bolter across the medical tents and the exposed personnel. I want about twenty five percent casualties, the rest wounds. That leaves you with the multi melta Brother Vampir, I want you to force your way to a lower floor and then onto a balcony. Fire at any and all targets of opportunity.”

They all nodded and winked runes of compliance over the armor net, Sudz however quietly added,

“Brother, what of Assault Squad Alkonost?”

Siva nodded slowly and Sudz knew he was smiling beneath his helm as he said,

“They have a surprise in store for the survivors.”

The small group broke and took up positions all along the rooftop. Siva allowed the humans below to muster yet another contingent before giving the order to fire. Out of the darkness the first missiles streaked, a football shaped object that was surrounded in smoke and flame. Impacting on the side of the BTR with a cough, it detonated a millisecond later in a great ball of flame and shrapnel. The mobile command unit was completely destroyed, it’s bits raining down upon the men that were then raked by Sudz’s heavy bolter. Chugging deeply, the deadly weapon spat heavy caliber rounds through limbs and torso with ease, shredding the medical tent and the wounded within before dealing damage to the men that were caught completely by surprise. Vampir fired as well, his melta leaving a beam of pure energy as it ate into the fuel stores that were placed dangerously close to be building.

Detonating with disastrous effects, the blast was enough to bring down a segment of the building and very nearly crush the Astartes as well as their prey. Cursing, the Marines arose from the ruble and waded into the kill zone, keeping up their disastrous rain of fire even as the roar of their Brothers’ jump packs was heard. Landing amongst the shell shocked survivors, Assault Squad Alkonost began to reap a bloody tally with their chain blades and bolt pistols, delighting in the slaughter and screeching out obscene truths on the vox, they were gone as soon as the last defender fell.

The entire engagement had taken two point three minutes, and when the smoke cleared only the wounded that had dropped to the ground were left. Four minutes later the Astartes of Squad Siva were gone, back into the night. In the opposite direction limped the walking wounded, spreading tales of the enemy who killed with the fury of daemons.



Svetovid dueled with the Daemon for hours, using every trick he had been taught and fighting with the skill and savagery of the greatest of heroes. Still the Daemon fought, still it mocked him, still it refused to give an inch. Covered in a score of minor wounds, the mighty Astartes was beginning to weaken and tire, his enhanced biology unable to maintain the level of ferocity he battled with. Slashing and hacking, he had long ago abandoned any thoughts for a quick victory and instead was focused on mere survival. There had to be a way, there had to be some trick he could pull.

With a soft chuckle the Daemon swung it’s blade down in a mighty two handed swipe, cleaving the stone where Svetovid had stood only a second before. As he rolled to the side he swung up his bolter and fired a full clip of rounds into the Beast’s chest watching in horror as the wounds slowly closed before him and the bolts were fired back out towards him. Several deflected off of his armor, while several others were avoided by a desperate lung to the side.

He was exposed and very soon to be dead, or so Svetovid thought. Shouting his defiance to the heavens his end did not meet him. Instead he saw the Daemon standing over him with a wicked grin upon it’s face. It leaned over him, the beast’s terrible form changing into that of a man, and said,

“Warrior, you have proven yourself worthy to serve me. I offer you my hand as a sign of fealty to me.”

Svetovid thought for a few moments and then grudgingly grabbed hold of the foul tendril-limb before him. Without any difficulty the Daemon hauled him to his feet and for the one second their hands were stilled joined the Astartes struck. Jabbing his blade through the eye of the beast, Svetovid held on for dear life and shoved it farther and farther in. The beast responded with a roar of outrage and stabbed him in the chest, it’s fell blade sucking the life from him even as he ended the life of the Daemon. Warp fire covered his body and in the second before he grew dark the beast was vanquished.

Unholy light flowed into him, and he felt his wounds seal. Indescribable pain accompanied his miraculous salvation, and as he ascended to his feet the Astartes saw hunched humans emerged from the ruins around the throne. In the place of the Daemon’s body stood an ancient helm and axe which Svetovid grabbed before ascending to the throne. Sitting heavily he allowed the power of the warp to flow through him, the power that had sealed his wounds. Gazing upon his new realm, he hardly heard the voice that whispered,

“A new host, and in time another conquest.”

The dead streets offered no answers as the long tech marine made his way deeper and deeper into the bowels of the ruined city. Ruined was not the correct word, yet nothing else could articulate the unique desolation that comes with a total lack of life. Each step he took boomed into the empty hab blocks and commercial buildings that lined the broad streets, every sweep of his auspex detected nothing but the most distant of signatures. It was these that he hunted, these that he searched for. While he already had proclaimed himself master of this dead city, he needed subjects to restore the fires in the distant manufactoriums.

Walking without any signs of contact, the Tech Marine allowed himself to ask the emptiness in low gothic,

“Where are all of the inhabitants?”

There was a moment of silence before a voice replied,

“All around you.”

Sweeping his bolter up from his belt, the Tech Marine barked a defensive formation to his servitors in binary and switched his visual modes from normal to thermal. Expecting the bright clusters of hidden humans, he instead saw only cold stone. Silence reigned and Svarog was almost sure he had imagined the voice which disturbed him greatly, for the capacity to hallucinate had been removed when he had ascended to near total integration with the blessed machine. Out of desperation he slowly said,

“From where do you speak?”

The voice replied,

“I am the information you have tasted, I am the life that your own machine seeks.”

Lowering his Bolter slowly, Svarog asked,

“What are you then, human or Xeno?”

There was a long pause, almost as if the voice was considering what it was or what it had been. Finally it replied,

“I was once human, but am something more now. I believe you can say the same.”

One of the Tech Marine’s Servitors approached and removed his helm, revealing his half bionic face to the unseen observer. Slowly he said,

“I, am Astartes and I demand that you answer me.”

A watery gargle responded and it took the Tech Marine’s machine augmented brain to process that this was laughter. The damned thing dared laugh at him, him a man who had learned all of the secrets of the Mechanicus and some of the arcane arts of the Dark Mechanicus. Roaring he shouted,

“I shall end you!”

With a mighty bellow he stabbed his Mechadendrites into the nearest pillar of information and cast his mind into the stream of data. Racing alongside the amazingly powerful streams, he traveled millions of miles only to reemerge mere feet away. The informational realm was much larger than the material, and while it did not have the property altering characteristics of the warp, it was different, very different from the matrium. Even from this distance he felt the waves of power radiating from the center of this great network, and like a salmon swimming upstream he fought them to get closer.

Every inch took hours, days even, yet finally he drew near. Exhausted but determined, the Tech Marine paused on the threshold of the very core of the system to view what could only be one thing, a functioning Standard Template Construct Machine. The Adeptus Mechanicus scoured the stars looking for remnants or readouts from them, and here Svarog had found one that was seemingly intact. Just as he beheld it a shadow fell across the stream of data and he felt the eye of the machine upon him.

Immediately the Tech Marine drew back in horror, a sentient machine was against all the Adeptus Mechanicus Stood for, and even the Dark Mechanicus was weary of the implications. Memories of the Iron Men from tens of thousands of years prior still reverted within the metallically enhanced skulls of all Tech Adepts and Svarog was filled with disgust. Roaring in code, he flung himself at the STC with the intent of winning it for the War Band and the Ruinous Gods.

An invisible duel raged in the information arteries of the dying city, with waves of binary crashing upon shields of code for several straight days. Svarog was exhausted, the fight an immense undertaking even for one of the Adeptus Astartes but still he fought on. The rewards of victory would be unimaginable, a complete STC would elevate the War Band to heights that would rival the Imperium of the Daemon Emperor!

Fueled by this Svarog began to press the sentient STC back on all fronts, pounding it with wave upon wave of viruses and coded attacks. He stood upon the threshold of victory, outlined by miles of code that would see him assume control of the entire city upon the death of the STC’s mind. Before his wrath the machine’s defenses began to fail, the AI unable to contend with the slightly warped Tech Marine. Surging forward, Svarog could only watch in anger as the STC detonated it’s physical form, escaping as pure information into a pre-made humanoid body. This body then promptly disappeared, dropping off of the Technocracy’s grid as quickly as it had appeared.

While the ruins of the STC were sure to contain all manner of technological breakthroughs, the greatest of prizes had alluded him. All was not lost however as Svarog found that he could command the entire city at will within or without the realm of information. With a whim he reignited the fires of the manufactoriums and with merely a mutter he roused legions of servitors that quickly went to work in them and their deep mines. Ruling the city alone, for now, Svarog was master of a new domain one he named, “Gorod Komp”. With this industrial base firmly brought into the Tears of Darkness Camp, the foundations of Statehood and Empire had been laid.

The veil between the Materium and the Immaterium had always been but the thinnest line, a thousandth of the width of the thinnest paper, and practically just as fragile. The madness of the Warp was always but the merest moment from breaking forth, the barrier so weak and contemptible, and yet it held the very Ruinous Gods themselves within their domain, it contained the roiling madness of the Immaterium and made possible the mortal realms. Though Humanity in its arrogance had long since found a way to break this barrier, to open wide the only thing that has ever truly held the gods within check and they did it openly and brashly. It had permitted the gods to corrupt their bodies and foul their minds, and still their ships barreled through the Warp with but the thinnest veil around themselves in hopes of staving off the billion billion daemons that lay just beyond it, baying for the souls of those within. The true followers of Chaos, however, had no such problem, they did not engage Geller Fields at any time, rather preferring the madness of the Warp to consume them and their minds – welcoming the voices as prophecies. The Maggot and the Blightbringer Fleet had sailed through the Sea of Souls a hundred times or more and each time Satoloc was more impressed than the last. He saw faces, faces of mortal he’d slain in battle, screaming at him. At times they would find the will, through all the torture and corruption placed upon their soul, to penetrate through the adamantium, rusted-covered, hull and appear on the bridge as a very bold and vengeful apparition – screaming and wailing a thousand curses upon the Chapter Master. He paid them absolutely no heed; his mind had long since rotted and sanity was but a distant memory.

Just as the Raven God’s messenger had said, the navigational information had indeed been burned within the flesh of Augur’s astropath. The wretch had not died during the experience and Augur had taken great pleasure in slowing removing the mutant’s upper skull bone, and peering within, the creature wailed the entire time, begging for death and mercy as Augur had made his apothecaries inject it with a number of stimulating agents which in fact amplified the pain it received. The information went on for hours, well beyond the time it should have taken, even if pleasure was desired. Augur had only stopped in his madness when Satoloc had warned him that his patience was at an end. The region of space the Blightbringer’s were directed towards was largely dead, a rarely travelled portion of the Milky Way that all other major galactic empires had simply paid no heed to or had no real need or desire to go to. It lay far from the more travelled shipping lanes and was very far away from Chronosian space. Even as the fleet began to make their way towards the destination, ripping open the veil that separated mere mortals from actual gods, and rammed their ships through with little care – knowing they were favored by the monsters that lay within the swirling purple miasma, Satoloc had pondered the words of the Changer. A new Chaos empire, it hardly seemed likely. The Daemon Emperor could simply not be killed, even if all the gods disfavored him, his power and the worship of him by the wretches of Chronosia and all her subservient worlds granted him an almost unlimited supply of power within the Warp. Still, if the gods instead favored him … perhaps there was the slimmest chance of triumph.

The Maggot left the Warp like a ruthless predator, the souls of thousand clinging to its hull, attempting in vain to return to the Materium, their existence within the Warp nothing but an endless span of madness and torture – playthings for gods and daemons. The Blightbringer fleet exited alongside and behind the Maggot, coming through their own Warp jump-points. It was a grand procession of power, unrivaled in scope except by the Legion themselves. Satoloc ordered the fleet above the world with all due haste while contact was initiated with the Tears of Darkness. Within hours, the Maggot stood above the world known as Gilgamesh, for such had been told to him by the flies that inhabited his body and made him their vessel. No time was wasted with the petty formalities or permissions that lesser creatures engaged in, Astartes did not ask for clearance nor permission to land upon worlds – they simply did it. Beyond that the Tears had shown no hostility towards them on their initial approach or their establishment of orbiting the world, and in fact seemed eager to permit the Blightbringers upon the world. Satoloc smiled, for surely they too had received the message of the gods. This was truly a blessed endeavor, made possible only by the will of all the Ruinous Powers.

‘Brothers, let us make our claim upon this wretched world,’ bellowed Satoloc over the fleet vox, ‘Let us bring the words of Grandfather Nurgle to these misguided individuals.'

The pods from various strike cruisers launched, but Satoloc’s warship showed no signs of leaving. He had favored Augur, whose astropath had led them here with his blessings and sacrifice. His First Captain relished the chance for from orbit he alone had chosen where to descend upon the wretched world below. Hundreds of miles south of the Tears’ initial landing zone there had been detected by the fleet’s sensor systems an absolutely unheard of presence of metals – varying in range, strength, and size that boggled the mind. On top of it, there was a city targeted, although it had only been targeted exactly because it was invisible to the sensors. A massive, toxic cloud has risen above the apparent port-city, and it appeared as thick of the ground upon which the city sat, hung like a dark omen above the industrial city-scape. First Captain Augur had seen Chronosia Secundus once since his service to the Daemon Emperor began and as the Thunderhawk’s began their final approach, breaking through the toxic clouds what he saw before him, while it could not match it in size nor scope, was easily a paler version of it. Massive columns of smoke and pollutants rose above the city like so many dark fingers, while before there could be seen a sea of people, languishing in the streets. They wailed and cried out as the Blightbringer’s passed overhead, their sensors sweeping the area more precisely since they were through the toxic cloud.

As far as his Astartes post-human eye could see there were smoke-stacks, vessels, massive industrial manufactorums, and everywhere there was the signs of ultimate stagnation, of a sort of senselessness to it all. In the streets, literal caravans of military-grade equipment rolled down the roads heading towards the outskirts of town – but for what, Augur could not determine. This entire he saw via his pict feed, linked with the drop pods external pict-screens. A few moments later the pods slammed home into the ground, he heard explosions and his sensors told him that they had landed within an inferno, a potent cocktail of petroleum, chemicals, and fertilizers – all of which had been touched off by his descent. He paid it no real heed, for his body was far beyond that of mortals, and as the explosive hinges blew off the adamantium doors, he was the first to exit the drop pod. He waded through the fire like some dark legend of old, the flames licking and lashing him severely but his armor shrugged it off and the diseases within him wailed in defiance of the flames which slowly ate them away. All around him his men of the First Company departed, exiting the inferno to find the fearful, wide-eyed faces of the city’s inhabitants cowering in the dark corners, some two hundred yards away.

‘For the Great Grandfather,’ he said flatly and cold, firing even before he finished the proclamation. With that the guns of over a hundred of Chronosia’s finest were unleashed upon the unsuspecting inhabitants.

First Captain Augur had been followed in his assault upon the city by numerous companies within his Chapter, but one had deployed but not in his favor. The 13th Company, of Captain Ansroll had ordered his entire contingent of Khornate worshippers to be dropped upon the middle of a developing battlefield. The dropped some three hundred miles to the east of the industrial wasteland Augur was deploying to, and even as they descended they all could smell the blood. Augur would find out later, as would all the Blightbringers while the city constantly made war-machines. It was not for themselves, but rather for the hordes of religious fanatics who constantly warred amongst themselves. For how long they had warred would never be determined – centuries, maybe even millennia? The day the 13th Company descended upon the world was the day the religious zealots came to know the power of a true god, Khorne.

The battlefield was littered with the dead, the dying, and the destroyed. War machines, destroyed in battles fought before any current mortal lived, lay strewn across the battlefield forming a literal geological layer. The mortals from five-different gods came together, each of them baying for blood, for favor, and for domination – such was the ways of the foolish and the bloodthirsty. They cried to their own unique gods for favor and deliverance for a chance to prove themselves to the deities they willingly laid down their lives for. This day, they would be shown the folly of such blind obedience to false gods. The five armies, led by mutated husks of what once had to be men, roared their hatred one last time before barreling across the battlefield, many of them dying long before engagement be triggering landmines and traps laid decades before, but only now being triggered. Bodies and blood were thrown into the air and yet the armies did not halt. None could remember why they did this, nor could they remember why they hatred their enemies so much – one could only remember that millennia before there had been some slight, some insult given to one another, and they had warred ever since. Their children were brought up to hate and kill one another, and their children’s children and so forth and so forth for a many years as a man could reasonable conceive of, and yet none had ever considered peace. Peace was obtained through war, and war was the most purifying experience any of them could hope for – what else was there upon this damned world, where the value of life was measured only in a man or women’s sheer brutality and cunning. They charged across the battlefield as each of their primitive, mutated kings, bellowed of their guaranteed victory. If one believed all them, than a pantheon of gods far more powerful than mere mortals looked down upon them with favor and blessings.

They clashed. The ground beneath them shook with the force of tens of thousands of souls ripping one another apart in a great, brutal dance of savagery seen all too often upon this world of Gilgamesh. Swords, spears, hammers, and the almost comically common machine-gun and lasgun erupted at close range. The concept of tactics had not survived the religious wars waged by these fanatics with only the thought of ending the lives of the other ‘heathens’. Mass-projectile fire erupted across flesh at close range as limbs were torn and skulls pulped by the force as swords and hammers and axes and arrows ended the lives of so many, one could not feel sorry for these people for their lives were a hellish existence with madness but one thought away and all reason and logic long lost in the sheer brutality of their very existence. For them, death in this battle was a blessed mercy, perhaps the only mercy bestowed upon them by their false gods, for it would save them a miserable life upon a damned world.

The first soul to look upon the sky was a poor young man; a sword had found his gut followed by an arrow to his throat. He fell back with the litanies of his gods upon his lips, he awaited salvation by them for his king had told them that no man truly ever died, that he would be resurrected by his gods to fight on so long as he had proven worthy. He believed he had, for he had slain four men all by himself. The fire he saw falling from the sky was a relief to him, an obvious omen that his gods favored his people just as his king had foretold – they were to be saved, cleansed by blessed holy fire. He was fortunate for his heart stopped beating moments later and his soul passed to the Warp. There no gods of righteousness and strength awaited him, only a trillion trillion daemons who all looked upon his soul with lust and greed. His existence was far from over, but he wailed for all time that it actually was. The drop pods slammed in the dead center of the five armies, killing hundreds in their initial impact, the hulls radiating heat which scorched so many more he were too close. The five armies back away, each king blaming his counterpart for witchcraft and treachery. They were proven all wrong barley thirty seconds later as they heard numerous tiny explosions, and the armored doors fell down.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ bellowed a voice that left mortals quailing for a moment and kings uneasy, ‘Skulls for the Skull Throne!'

The Astartes of the 13th Company charged forth from their drop pods, their bolt pistols ringing out killing dozens before they ever reached them, their chainswords devouring flesh and splintering bone. They roared with joyous praise to the Skull Throne and there was never a short supply of blood. Truly – they had found a world blessed by the Blood God! The mortals initially showed fear and trepidation before the might of these warriors, but the lashings of their kings and the sheer madness that confronted them was something they simply could not ignore. The 13th Company was actually surprised when the mortals counter-attacked, gunfire ripping across their armor harmlessly, swords and axes clinging and splintering against the sides of their adamantium armor ineffectively. Mortals sacrificed themselves, throwing themselves upon the company’s chainswords, so that their muscle and fat and sinew would clog or weigh-down the blade giving their compatriots time to climb upon the hulking giants, who towered even above their kings, and find a weakness in their armor. The 13th was shocked by the resistant but countered it even more fiercely. For three days they chopped and rent and bloodied their foes, the weak mortal flesh unable to stand against Astartes strength and technology.

Indeed this world was blessed …

Perune sat atop a throne of bone. The bones of the defenders of Gorod Polis had been taken by his Battle Brothers and crafted into a monstrous monument to brutality. Skeletons writhed for the delight of his new Sorcerers, many becoming aware of their gift only after the culling of the Hive. Yet equally prevalent were the devotees of the Prince of Excess, with Astartes suddenly realizing that the fundamental truth of existence was experience. However the largest following was the Cult of Perfection, Warriors seeking to honor Slaanesh through mastery of the martial arts.

Already the ruined city of Polis was starting to glow in the fires of rebirth, with many Astartes realizing their talents for fortification warfare could also be applied to architecture. Perfection in all things was quickly becoming the mantra of the largest of Cults to form within the Tears, and because of this Captain Perune knew that he had to quickly bring the local kings to heel before his Chapter fragmented. He had dispatched Daemon and Mortal emissaries to the four corners of the globe and all but the most independent attended to him.

Groveling before him, often naked or bearing ritual wounds of abasement, the petty rulers of Western Gilgamesh swore fealty to him. All save the Princes of the Undercities to the east of Gorod Polis. In the distant past, several catastrophic nuclear and psyonic incidents had torn the surface of Gilgamesh to pieces and reformed it in the twisted image of a forgotten god. At the time a populous city known only as Yana was buried by thousands of tons of rock which was held aloft and shaped into a great cavern. Alongside the survivors warp blessed creatures had taken up residence in this new dark realm, and the tribulations of facing them daily had made the citizens of the Undercities strong and independent. If Perune wanted to unite Gilgamesh, he would have to take the fight to them.



Stone scraped off in sheets as the hulking terminator armor clad figures forced their way deeper and deeper into the seemingly unending tunnels below the surface. Occasionally they came across a malnourished human or even a quiet settlement, ringed by ancient stone walls and illuminated by weak fires. In their wake they left just another devastated ruin, another broken society that had failed to respond to the change they brought. Their hulking forms sent tremors through the stone walls that heralded their arrival, though the death they brought still seemed to surprise their victims.

Numbering only twenty terminator clad warriors, the vanguard was to act merely as a herald of Perune, dictating his terms to the rebellious city. Led by one of Perune’s most ruthless Lieutenants, the Vanguard was quickly becoming an elite strike force deployed only to reign in the more rebellious of the local rulers. In the relatively short time the Tears of Darkness had been on world they had united dozens of fragmentary kingdoms and republics into a mighty Federation. While they lacked the tenacity of the Word Bearers, the Tears of Darkness were not as unreligious as some of the Renegade Chapters known to pirate the edges of the decadent and distant Imperium of Man.

Great cathedrals to the four true gods were already being constructed by sweating masses of laborers, and many of the Tears had left the Chapter to carve their own tributary states out of the wastes. To the four corners of Gilgamesh the worship of the Primordial Truth was carried, though it was not painless. Bones lined the streets of many of the newly conquered cities and the Tears of Darkness ensured that in their wake came the tolling of funeral bells and the wail of enslaved prisoners of war. Only the under cities remained however, and the Vanguard would not fail their Chapter Master.

Gradually sloping downwards, the tunnels abruptly ended and the Vanguard entered a massive cavern. It was so large that even the Astartes eyesight could not piece the gloom that obscured the ceiling high above and the far side dozens of miles away. What they could see however was light, lights dominated the darkness and outlined an impressive city that could compete with any Imperial Hive in the Tears’ home galaxy. The Vanguard did not react save for a slight shuddering as they realized collectively that their mission would have to be altered. Instead of intimidation, they would act as diplomats, and in the heart of their leader Brother Martius the fires of ambition raged.

Stone scraped off in sheets as the hulking terminator armor clad figures forced their way deeper and deeper into the seemingly unending tunnels below the surface. Occasionally they came across a malnourished human or even a quiet settlement, ringed by ancient stone walls and illuminated by weak fires. In their wake they left just another devastated ruin, another broken society that had failed to respond to the change they brought. Each step reverberated with the sound of destiny as the hulking warriors penetrated deeper and deeper into the shadows and darkness.

Storm Bolters sweeping back and forth, the terminator clad veterans could almost literally smell the humans that they knew were on all sides. They had picked up after the fourth village was burned, wasted things that kept just far enough back to avoid being shot yet close enough to be an annoyance. Occasionally the veterans could smell something else, something twisted. Their leader, Brother Likho forced his way through an opening that was hardly larger than his mighty frame and then stopped abruptly.

Likho was a warrior without peer, second only to Perune. He had killed untold thousands and entire worlds had burned at his hand. Thrice blessed by the Prince of Pleasures he was currently on the road to obtaining perfection in the arts of close quarters combat. Beautiful and terrible sights he had beheld before, but nothing like Gorod Yano. It was a city within a cavern, a city that would put the hives of any Imperial World to shame. Stretching farther than even Likho’s eye could see, it also swept upwards towards the very distant cavern roof. Walls that were as majestic as they were formidable swept up out of the shadows and terminated in crenulations that were staffed by what appeared to be servitors.

Around the walls stretched shanty towns and smaller family keeps forming a maze that was as much a defensive position as it was people’s homes. The twenty terminators fell in beside their leader and together they gazed upon the city. Standing still for many minutes, the silence was only broken when Likho roared,

“We go forward for the Gods and Perune!”