The Return (IC, Ft, Re-intro)

[Chronosia]

OOC: Please do not post in this thread until I say that the introduction proper is done. Please do not clutter it with meaningless OOC. OOC thread is here; viewtopic.php?f=5&t=27823

IC:

Chronosia Prime was once a beautiful world. Once; in a time now thought of as direst infancy and antiquity, when Marcus De Drakan first selected it as the cradle of the Imperium; it had been a world of fine cities, of learning and light. Now the cities are dark havens of blasphemy, metal tumours clinging to the bones of the world; for the world has bones, as living things are wont to do.

Chronosia Prime was once a beautiful world, before the touch of Chaos, before it became a Daemon World.

The Gods had marked the land as their own, twisted it with foul power and preternatural life; it was said that the world ate the faithless, gobbled them down into the depths, raised mountains of their skulls...It was no wonder that the populace kept to the cities, huddled in manufactories and other avenues of endless toil. The skies of that world were grey and dark, hiding it from the cruel light of a crimson sun, an eye of the Blood God glaring eternal upon the promised land. Chronosia Prime was the crucible through which Chronosian Man had struggled and triumphed, bringing his reign to the stars; dismembering alien empires and crushing the throats of false prophets. It was the holiest world in the Galaxy, more beloved than even ancient Terra.

And at its apex, there was The Palace.

Artisans and Tech Adepts had toiled long to create The Palace, to raise up a lasting edifice to the glory of Mankind. Marcus De Drakan had directed the construction of great statues and mighty frescoes, capturing the glories of ages past. The images of Mankind's 'Golden Age' under the God-Emperor had long since been replaced with darker, truer imagery. The Great Crusade and all the old Imperium had stood for were lies, fables for naïve children. Were there not Gods in the heavens? Did Chaos itself not now breathe through Chronosia, fuelling it to heights once undreamed of? Now the hymns were fell oaths drawn eternal from supplicating lips; millions of faithful filled the hallways and catacombs; eager to serve or be sacrificed. Now the art was too dark and maddening. To look too long upon it was to forfeit your soul to vice, corruption and damnation.

The Palace was a thing of cruel beauty, the beauty of war or of the warp. T'was a power that defied convention, a lustre only the mad could see and comprehend.

In the darkest tunnels of the palace, a man walked alone. He wore the grey robes of a clerk or priest, leaning on a worn stick of black iron. He paused for a moment, his back straightening, lungs tensing with the intake of air, resting for a time before the first pair of many guards which lined this ancient hallway. Terminator armoured figures stood, silent and implacable, sigils blazing on every surface. These were the honoured and glorious dead of Remiel's Legion, their armour given over to the touch of the Warp; dire sentinels in the darkness.

Fitting warriors for the retinue of a God, the man thought with a smile.

The thing that had once been a warrior, that had once been holy war-gear, leant forward now; shuddering with the effort, as if it hadn't moved in a geological age. Breath steamed from its helmet as it moved. The thing's ornamental horns were twisting up into a grimace as it snarled with metal fangs, eyes alight with warp-fire. The man turned from it, letting the daemonic thing relax back into stasis and the dream of ages. He still had far to go and a dire duty to tend to. The Emperor was not a being to be kept waiting

--

Hydran. Cradle of war. The pulsing forge hearts of the Imperium, they stand as monumental edifices of machinery and manufacturing. The resources of entire vassal systems and slave-worlds flow into Hydran, to be recast as the weaponry which sustains the eternal vigilance of the Chronosian people, fuelling their limitless ambitions and conquests to the furthest reaches of the universe. As a thrumming centre of industry and production, the system was no stranger to traffic. The surrounding space was filled with stations, ships, transports, merchants and the glowering profiles of defence emplacements, their platforms bristling with gun-ports. This day, however, a most unusual visitor would grace the steel steppes of Hydran's core worlds.

A lander detaches from the bowels of one of the many orbiting ships, tearing through the atmosphere of Hydran without regard for protocol; bleating voices cant at it in binaric streams of ineffectual rebuke, anger rising even in the cold code-constructs of their language. Weapons systems train upon it, flickering energy dancing across relays, great batteries ready for life and it's bloody end. They stop as the ship passes, faint traces of debased command rites dancing through their systems, the voice of Machine-Spirit madness writhing beneath their metal skins.

The ship touches down upon the hallowed ground of Hydran without announcement or ritual, and with no obeisance to the daemonic spirits of the machines. The world could crush it with a gesture, smite it with fire from a hundred thousand guns. It does not. From the shadows slink tech-guard, their flesh subsumed by glorious augmetics, black armour enfolding like a carapace, red bionic eyes glowering from the shade of horned helmets.

<Identify>

The vessel's hatch falls open with a thunderous clatter, cutting through even the industrial tumult of Hydran. Lesser men might have flinched, but the Tech Guard do not. Robbed of fear and doubt, the programmed killers ready to be unleashed in calm directed slaughter or maddened frenzy. But for now a single figure emerges now, robes red as the ancient deserts of Mars, edged in black and gold. It stands, bearing a staff topped by the eight pointed cog; sigil of the allegiance of the Chronosian Mechanicum to the True Path. Slowly, it begins to walk, almost ignorant of the Tech Guard, the Skitarii now turning their weapons towards it.

<Identify>

The blurt of malignant scrapcode that issues from the figure sends the Skitarii warriors into convulsions. The beautiful mesh of muscle and machinery rise in rebellion at the corruptive touch of Chaos. They thrash madly; sinking to their knees as weapons fail to fire, sight dimming in a tide of blinding feedback. The emissary walks on, towards a vast staircase. Beyond it lies the Forge Temple that he seeks. Even now he can see his destination beyond.. He glances up at the towering figures which guard the entrance; the immense forms of two Imperator Titans, silent and ever-vigilant, glaring back at him. Here is a symbol of the Machine God's might. Here is a sign of the anarchy his passing will bring.

His words shall set whole worlds to burning, whole empires to ruination, entire legions to walk.

--

<What is the meaning of this intrusion? You would dare foist such code upon my warriors? Would corrupt Hydran with your tricks? You will explain>

The Emissary cannot help but smile, a fleeting remnant of human emotion flickering across what remains of his flesh-face. The Fabricator General of Hydran stands before him, a figure in the great black robes of his office; regarding him now with a clutch of gleaming red bionic eyes, mechadendrites and sensor-spines shifting as though with their own will.
<Esteemed Lord, my mission is of greater priority than you know. I bring direct word from our most glorious Emperor Remiel; he who is the creed of the True Path personified, who is the instrument of the Gods and the prophet of the Omnissiah Chaotica. He speaks through me. It would do you well to listen>

<Impudent pup. You presume to lecture me in matters of metaphysical philosophy? You come bearing the trinkets of state and the authority of the Emperor, yet you are a mere Magos, an instrument of the first Forges of Chronosia Secundus; eclipsed long by the glories of deified Hydran. I can reference precise matters of theosophical devotion, trade output, production quotas; all of which shame you in the eyes of our mutual Master.

Speak. Let me hear this message, that our Lord deems so important as to debase me so with your presence, with your insult.>

The smile returns now, creeping across the Emissary's face. He almost wishes he still possessed human speech organs. Perhaps then he could laugh, voice aloud his mockery and his disdain. He, Magos Alixis Voigne, has been chosen; what is the highest authority next to that honour?

<It shall be inloading shortly, Fabricator General. The Emperor has much to say, to all of his loyal subjects. He asked me to deliver this short message personally however; Hydran must be ready. It's previous successes are unacceptable next to what must soon come to pass, what must be done in his name. Hydran must be ready to give all in the cause of war and faith.>

[Chronosia]

The man came at last to the Throne Room. It was so black as to seem a void, swallowing light with it's walls of black steel and obsidian. It had been carved into the heart of the palace, gouged from the flesh of the world that it ruled over. A vast staircase dominated it, rising up to meet the Throne. Stumbling forward, eyes upraised, the man at last saw the Emperor, the face of his liege-lord, the-

The man managed to stifle his scream.

The figure before him was not the Emperor, beloved by all Chronosia, not the figure of greatest awe and most dire power. No, the thing before him seemed almost entirely of the Warp, a beast of the aethyr squatted upon the throne of power. The blue armour, surely the holy plate of an Astartes, was twisted; not simply by material pressures, but seeming almost to undulate and move of its own volition, moulded by madness into some ever-changing pattern. The face was skinless, an echo of Remiel's perfection certainly, each muscle writhing like a snake, moving away from the bone; dear Gods the bone...Glyph carved whiteness pulsed with supernal energies, the thing had no eyes- merely pools of fire- and from its mouth poured manifest lies, wriggling like a nest of worms from those fleshless, mocking lips.

The man stumbled, grasping tight to his staff for balance. He felt his very soul recoil at the sight of it, watched the insanity-provoking agents of Tzeentch flit about the figure, lighting him with a terrible purple flame, the touch of the Immaterium everywhere. He blinked, looking up again.

The figure was different now.

Gone were the trappings of the Lord of Sorcery, replaced instead by the hideous stink of it's most terrible opposite. The King of Rot. That was the first thought that skittered across his psyche upon beholding this new abomination. Pitted, rusted plates of armour clung like scabs to the thing, parts of its body withered beyond recognition while others were bloated by decay. Shrunken heads hung from the belt of the great ruin of a man, pus and bile dripping from their whispering lips. The diseased and the unborn, blinking crooning corpse-things, formed his throne, somehow bearing the terrible and glorious weight of it upon their diseased musculature.

He felt vomit rise in his throat, felt his skin pallor as blood rushed from his face. It was as though a chill had swept over him, a wracking cough building in his lungs...Dear Gods, was he dying? Had this thing struck him ill with but a glance? How could it? What was it? A hand clutched at his tunic, pain scything through him, forcing his eyes closed, white agony splitting his vision, forcing him to his knees. He opened them, and beheld the next horror.

The corpses had been struck by some tremendous cleansing heat. The suppurating, oozing flesh was purged from the pristine white bone that now formed a great throne of grinning skulls and skeletal detritus. The same flame must have seared the armour free of weakness, of rust, rot and lack of purpose. Here he was baptised in blood, every gleaming surface anointed in the stuff of life itself. His face was helmeted, etched with kill markings and honour pledges; how many lives had this being taken in his devotion to the Blood God? The thought crossed the man's mind as he laboured to rise, wincing with the effort. He watched as the figure rose now, a cloak of skin fluttering behind it in the ephemeral breeze. The dog-like visages of Khornate daemons snapped at him through the thinness of the veil that held back the warp, only to flee when they drew too close.

What sort of being was this usurper? What could it be to drive back even the servants of the almighty Gods? How great and terrible a servant it must be!

It had altered again, flickering before his very eyes like a mirage, shimmering as if in heat haze as it descended, step by step, drawing ever nearer to his prone form. The air was alight with a shimmering musk, the scent of narcotics drifting about the great figure, burning the man's eyes as he squinted through the haze. Lithe female figures flitted about, their pale naked skin revealing deep welts as though from intensely masochistic pursuits. Inhumanly long tongues draped from their rouged lips, teasing across them with acutely honed hunger, dancing across sharpened fangs. Their hands were claws, repulsive and animal, yet he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to be so exquisitely violated, to see his intestines rolling between them, yearning for the inevitable incision...

Shuddering now, every muscle spasming in subconcious lust, he attempts to straighten, to stand tall and proud before the figure these succubi attend, to look upon- Gods, look at it! Eyes trace across the perfection of the armour; every plate oiled and artificed. Fabulous mural work covers its breastplate in etched, yet flowing, gold and silver; daemonettes rutting with satyrs upon a bed of ruined, soiled humanity. He views faces which ought to be twisted in agony grinning as though in the most sublime pleasure, and he envies them; he yearns to join them. The face that regards him is flawless, androgynous and perfect, smiling with a mixture of wry amusement and carnal affection. The gauntlets close about his cheeks, bracing him, forcing him to regard it as the illusions collapse.

He regards a living God. He beholds Remiel De Drakan.

“My child” The divinity breathed, his every word effortlessly filled with power, domination. The man shuddered, lolling in his master's grasp, his hood falling back to reveal the cabling that punctured his bare skull. “My most favored of acolytes, so touched...So gifted. Are you ready to receive my message? My great revelation?”

“Y-yes...” His voice was a hiss now; overeager, filled with abject devotion. How lucky he was to be chosen, to stand before his Master and be burnt upon the altar of progress. The Imperium would change, it would shudder and grow with the tumult to come; he would be a seed, a catalyst of most blessed evolution. And yet...

It was as though something lurked behind his Lord; enfolding him in the umbral coils of it's form. A chittering, writhing thing. An abomination waiting to be birthed, to claw its way into the warp, to squat upon the thrones of Gods and roar its birthcry to the heavens. He could hear billions of voices chanting the Name; “Remiel, Remiel, Remiel.”

Followers. Zealots. Children. Victims. Sacrifices.

He wondered, with his last thoughts, how he could have been so blind, how he could have missed so much...How close everything now was.

The gauntleted hands slide up, clasping the psykers head, digging into the supple flesh, eliciting a gasp of pain. He could feel it, the pulsing iron will of the Emperor, thrumming within his mind; tearing through him till it felt as though his skull would detonate. His eyes caught fire, ablaze with corposant, tears of blood and boiling humour slipping down his blackening cheeks. His mind spasmed within its bone confines, every neuron channelling psychic talent upwards and outwards. Runes and glyphs blazed on the wall as Remiel's message hollowed the man, ripping everything that had once been a functional being asunder for the single purpose of delivering his grand vision to the universe, spiralling skyward to coil and entwine with countless astropathic choirs.

Though it would lack the direct intervention which had so humbled and destroyed his psyker, the proclamation would burgeon and resonate, scintillating across the galaxy like the vibrations on the skin of a drum, a constantly reiterating tattoo of pending glory. Remiel smiled, flexing his fingers, letting the ashen remains trickle through his grasp.

“Hell of a start to things” He murmured, chuckling softly. “The perfect little prelude.”

[Chronosia]

My children; my most beloved sons of the Imperium, favoured of my divinely inspired Rule, hear me. I stand before you as your Emperor, Scion of Chaos, chosen of the Gods themselves, to tell you that a new age awaits us. For too long we have been idle, simply building our forces, tending to our issues within while the galaxy has changed without; old powers have collapsed into dust, while upstarts crawl from the ashes and the ruins. Where do we stand in this new age, you may ask? What place has Chronosia in the tumult?

We stand as we have always done, outside of conventional morality; embracing the destiny set down for us by higher forces. We remain ever vigilant, ever ready, always armed.

On a distant world, the men who had once been Guard tended to their bloody work. A cell of rebel sympathizers had been rooted out by the most intricate of means; false communications deceiving them to the gentle lie that the world was facing invasion and liberation from Allanean legions and the mongrel heathens of the “Imperial Combine”, forcing the hand of those opposed to Chronosian rule.

The battles had been short and bloody, frantic skirmishes through burning streets; iron armoured killers stalking through the petrol-bomb flames with murder in their eyes and traitor's blood on their long knives. Women, children; it had been immaterial when such sedition had been involved.

In the end they had been crushed, brutalized, broken.

The survivors, the ringleaders, had been granted a special reprieve, as would befit their false saviours. On the fifth day, they were taken as a group to the highest towers of the hive, and they were crucified.

Governor-Militant Andrei Svrakov watched with muted disinterest as another screaming rebel as pinned to the rough wood; the iron nails quivering against bare flesh, waiting for the hammer to descend, to drive the avenging bolts home with that satisfying...

Thud.

He leant forward, an almost predatory gleam crossing his eyes as the figure writhed, screaming as the action was repeated, till he was firmly affixed. The others raised him up, his cries haunting and hollow at the top of the world.

“What has your defiance brought you, heathens? You have bent knee to false and weakling gods; mewling carpenter-god made corpse...How can such a petty mortal thing compare to the glories of the Warp? You would stand with mockeries of our glory, with the Colonial machines or their deluded little Dornalian bed-fellows, and debase your race so? There shall be no mercy on your souls, nor upon any of your kin...”

“My Lord?” A servant bowed low, clutching some device. Andrei narrowed his eyes, sighing lightly as he turned on his heel. The man's eyes were not upon him, instead they were fixed upon the dying figures above.

“What is it? Why the interruption?”

“My Lord; there is a message...One you must hear.”

--

There are so many of us, my children, billions who adhere to the ways of the True Faith. How many millions have given their lives for our cause, for our mission to unify mankind beneath the rule of the Gods; that all might see the power and glory of the Immaterium? Our enemies are many; alien fiends, subhuman filth, false religions. We stand as a bulwark for all who share our creed, an edifice of might and dominion over all those who would oppose us.

Too long have our Legions vast been caged and denied; now they shall be let loose to further our aims, to prepare for our most important of undertakings. We shall rise to heights undreamt of by all who have gone before us and all who would consider themselves as our peers.

The war proceeded well. The most gifted psykers in the Imperium had beheld the Great Beast rising to strike out against their glory, and so had launched a pre-emptive measure. The swinekin were currently looting their way through a system near to the Imperium's own borders; the perfect place to dismember their fledgling Waaaaagh, and safeguard the Imperium proper, before their predations overwhelmed it.

High above, the blue-green sky was broken by detritus which was only now spiralling earthward; the broken hulks of the Greenskin savages like shattered moon's, spilling their guts of rock and metal towards the world, rent by Chronosian strength.

A thousand Astartes warriors stood beneath the sky, watching it burn with the spoils of war. In the distance a great lance of heat and pain surged down; a Chronosian battery thinning the swinekin herd with surgical precision. This was a fine day to fight, a day to glory in the lament of the foe; Chronosian's knew that better than any other race, knew what it meant to be glorious and haughty in their victories. The Captain knew that better than most others. It was he who had bade their brothers feast before the coming tumult, knowing that they would do well to sate one appetite before indulging the other. To him violence was as much an indulgence as drug-bowls or fine wine, as extravagant an undertaking as great art or song; it was the aphrodisiac of the soul, the ultimate unleashing of primal savage humanity, pounding in his breast like the churning heart of a sun.

“They're coming, my Lord.” One of his sergeants, his shaven head bare of helmet, turned to him. The horizon was dusty, distant drums echoed alongside the constant hum of profane alien technology. “They're still so many, Gods...”

“Is that fear I hear in your voice, Tyrus?” The Captain laughed beatifically, his voice like the tinkling of a bell; not the laugh a warrior should make, but the indulgent chuckling of an aristocrat. “I would not think that one such as you, a veteran of so much and so many, should fear a simple smattering of Orks.”

“It is not fear, Captain, merely...”

“Merely?”

“Acknowledgement of the scale of our endeavour.”

“We are Chronosian, Tyrus. We have burned worlds and ended systems, snuffed out stars and purged a hundred thousand variances of alien filth or heretical subhuman from the galaxy; we do not balk at man's oldest and most primitive foe!”

“No Captain, of course not. I stand ready.”

“Good. As you say; they're coming”

They were closer now, close enough to see, to smell their stink wafting on the air; hot and animal and filthy. They were not the perfumed warriors of the Gods, not those anointed in sacred oils, draped in the flesh of innocents, readied in the raiment of resonant terrible war. They were His Legion, His most favoured sons. If it was necessary that their blood be spilled against such primitive, wretched foes then so be it.

They could hear the pounding of great drums, the hammering of shoota's and choppa's against worn armour, growing ever louder, ever more frequent. It was the calumny of war, the sound of pending violence.

“Arms, ready!” His voice echoed above the closing tumult, replaced by the sound of a thousand guns being raised and checked. There was the metallic clanking of bolt guns or their more ponderous siblings, the high whine of plasma-guns, the dull throb of melta's. They were ready, each and every warrior schooled in the arts of carnage by their distant Emperor, personally marked by the highest of priests...They were ready, Gods knew they had been made for moments such as these.

<My Lord, there is a transmission being relayed about the fleet; you must...My Lord, you must hear...>

The message from the fleet through his helmet's vox-systems faded, even as the Greenskin tide drew closer, so close that he could pick out the details in their crude graffiti and banners, close enough to begin to die. He gestured, Whirlwind's in the rear letting loose with killing fury, slamming their explosive cargo's into the massed ranks of pathetic orks. He felt a smile cross his lips, felt victory looming even as the voice filled his ears, resonating into his mind and soul.

He heard his father.

Turel, Captain of the First, felt his body stiffened by abject awe as the message passed through him, tearing through him as surely as his bolt-rounds now rent asunder the swinekin. His finger never left the trigger, not even as the Orks drew nearer and his voice, now raised to a pitched roar of longing, screamed for blades to be readied.

[Chronosia]

Our great forges swell with promise and might, buoyed with the resources of countless worlds. We pursue wars of liberation and illumination in Kaldari, in Jagada. We stand to liberate our erstwhile brethren and to spread the message of the Gods. As our ultimate victory draws near, as we prepare to tear down our foes and build a shining new future...To break the galaxy beneath our heel and stride forth into history, we must sacrifice more than ever; we must endeavour to do so much more, to take the greatest risks, to strive as we have never striven before.

In this, we are all bound, sons of Chronosia; warrior-heirs to the universe. The Kings of the Warp smile upon us, each and every one of us, we cannot fail them in our great works!

The great Engine was a Warlord, forged ages ago upon the burning surface of Chronosia Secundus. In the earliest days of the Imperium it had been baptised in holy war;it had incinerated rebel cities , decimated Greenskin legions and somewhere within it (Engine and Princeps both) still clung fondly to a memory of shattering Eldar war-engines upon distant maddening fields of war, breaking their graceful forms with hard barrages of cleansing fire.

It's name was Agonistes Invictus.

Within it's mighty frame there beat a plasma reactor heart, thrumming with the caged glory of suns, the only thing powerful enough to rouse the thing to war. Fluttering kill-banners were draped across its shoulders and between it's mighty legs, listing the campaigns and engine-kills it had accumulated down the dark years of it's service to Chaos. Every surface was carved with runes that made the eyes ache, that seared themselves into the mind; stripping away sanity, molecule by blessed molecule.

The command bridge was almost empty, containing only the corpses of the Titan's crew and a massive tank of bloodied liquid, sitting almost entirely quiescent. Something stirred within, ragged fingernails raking at the glass as the Princeps spasmed again in his delirium. The MIU had gone rampant and rabid, flooded his mind with scrapcode murmurings, slid across his mind in a tide of daemonic whispering and madness. He could hear it still, chattering against the inside of his skull, pounding against his temples as it dug through his memory, forcing him to-

Flank speed, Moderati! The foe is ahead! Give me full stride! Full stride, damn you! Can't you see it? Auspex; give me auspex! It's right-

There. He could visualise it now, the enemy machine stalking through the flaming ruins of a city. It had felt good, he supposed, to grind it to ashes beneath its heel, to sear it clean of life with the immense weapons of the Titan- of his Titanself. Yes; he hungered for the kill, yearned to cleanse it. The Princeps was impaled by various implants and machinery grown wild, like thorned branches coiled through his emaciated form, sustained by daemonic indulgence. It enjoyed tormenting him, torturing him, a roiling crucible of blood in which it could prepare its dire ministrations against mortals.

He was caught in a seizure again, arm forced up through the bloody gruel. He felt his muscles burning as the cannon readied, blood seeming to boil in his veins before the volcano cannon fired. He watched with abstract eyes as a building exploded, showering the enemy engine in flaming debris before the blast hit it, shields fritzing out in a shower of sparks and a booming gust of wind. A volley of missiles finished the thing as the Warlord stalked forward, warhorns booming in triumph before fading to leave the feral purr of its movements. There was more killing to be done, more terror to unleash, more...

...A message was being received...

-

My brothers, my sisters, this is the beginning of a new age. No longer shall we sit idle nor let self-proclaimed overlords rule from their vantage points. We shall bestride this galaxy as befits our station, as warriors and conquerors, as the chosen people of the True Gods.

Let none stand before us or stymie our advance. This is the age of the Chronosians, the days when we shall prove ourselves as never before and ascend to new heights, the days when we shape our legacy in this galaxy and carve our validations into the very heart of existence.

All who hear this must surely know, judgement has come; a day of great liberation, Change and wrath.

This day is ours, this day is forever holy.

Go with peace, my children. Strive as never before.

Remiel stepped back, seating himself in his immense throne. So much would ensue from so petty and mortal a thing; a simple speech that could set entire systems to burning, entire armies sent to their doom on the honeyed words of an Emperor. It pleased him to think of such things, of his destiny and his power or of the distant wars he supported.

More than that; it pleased him to have such dominance over a people, such a complete control. Wasn't that the first lesson of being a fickle jealous God? He let his laughter wash over the chamber as the thought drifted through his mind. He would wait now, and see what his manifold lessers thought of his little announcement.

[Balrogga]

It has been a long time, a long time indeed.

The echoes of the actions of Remiel and his “awakening” reverberated throughout the known universe attracting the attention of one who had set many strings into motion long ago for this very event. The Rise of Remiel has again happened. For years those webs have lain silent and unmoving, awaiting a silent and subtle twitch to show when the Chaos Emperor would again rise. Today there was a twitch, traveling across light years as the ancient Eldritch enchantments spurred into life.

As Remiel drew in the power of his servant and sent his message, the actions caused webs to vibrate unheard across the abyss and void to where something was sitting, listening with the patience of a hunter waiting for the hunt. A massive fortress drifted in the blackness of space illuminated by raw energy as power coursed through the structure like the blood in a great beast. The Battlefortress built long ago by their own hands once held a Chronosian, the last time it was used to render a simple argument moot by making the object of the conflict cease to exist. This was long ago and many improvements had been made since then to the living structure although you would not be able to tell if you had been fortunate to view both incarnations of The Fist of Darkness.

At the heart of The Fist resided a being, nothing else could describe him better. The Warlord was the living avatar of the Ta’Nar, sharing a Link with all the others. This was Nhur-Galladu, the Warlord of the Ta’Nar. Nobody really knew where they had come from, their past lay shrouded in mystery and the Ta’Nar liked it that way. Nobody knew what they really looked like either for they seemed to appear differently to each race.

Nhur-Galladu chuckled to himself as he felt the faint tugs. “It seems as if Remiel finally stirs from his hibernation. Cal, prepare to transfer to Chronosia. It seems I have a visit to make an old friend.”

“Yes Warlord.” The Shipmind of the Battlefortress twisted time and space until it was no longer in either. It then pulled the Multiverse until Chronosia was “below” the structure and began to tare reality apart to make an opening it could fit through. Through the rupture massive war fleets of Chronosia could be seen scrambling to destroy the intruder which dared enter the Holiest of holy, the Throneworld of Remiel.

As the massive structure slipped into Real Space sensors aboard the ships would suddenly detect massive gravitational signatures that easily rivaled their own sun and power fluctuations which amounted to the consumption of the entire planet in a year. The ebon structure appeared to be a giant cross but when it arrived, the upper half slowly parted and rotated about forty-five degrees. Four massive barrels were exposed with none pointed at the Throneworld below.

Moments later an apparition formed before Remiel, one dressed in robes of white mist and trimmed with golden sunlight. As the form solidified the familiar face of Nhur-Galladu stood before Remiel wearing the White and Gold of the Warlord of the Fallen Empire of Balrogga.

“Well, I see you finally got bored and started to stir things up again. What do you have in mind?”



The Fist


---

[Telros]

*placeholder for a post*

[Chronosia]

The shadows that enrobed the great throne seemed to shudder and squirm, a thousand daemonic whispers suddenly hushing at the presence of the Warlord; ancient disquiet stirred in the hearts of beings who had enslaved civilisations and ended empires, the aeon old terror of prey confronted by predator. The Balroggans, after all, had once been of the Warp- it was one of the reasons that the Chronosian Imperium tolerated their alien nature.

The figure on the throne rose in one fluid motion, stalking forward as the infinite attentions of the warp and its denizens abandoned him, indicating no fear of the Warlord. He looked upon him as he might a grudging equal, or an extremely accomplished servant. Amusement flickered in the blue depths of Remiel's eyes, his lips tightening into a smile.

“You and your ilk always did know how to make an entrance, Warlord, I'll give you that” He chuckled deeply, his great ceramite gauntlets rising to resound together in booming claps, metal heavy upon metal.

“What I have planned? To summarise it in a single concept would be demeaning to the very scale of what I propose. The galaxy overflows with vermin, Warlord, it seethes with the inane hordes of self-deluding fools. We have watched as lesser men sought to divide the galaxy itself, provoking a shadow conflict where there are no true winners and no real stakes.

We have seen the Hyperborian plague infest and defile the galaxy with its spoor-race, sickening us to our very core with their simple alien perfidy.

A new order is required; the galaxy must be cleansed of its failings and it's lesser inhabitants. The galaxy must burn and a new figurehead must pave the way. All my preperations, all the many years of planning have led to these events- I shall ascend, Warlord. I shall rise and be as the Gods; I shall undo and remake and tear asunder.

We will illuminate the masses, my friend. We shall forge a shining future from the pestilant corpse of an impotent galaxy, crush those that resist beneath our heels and make slaves of all who remain.

What say you?”

[Balrogga]

Nhur-Galladu only grinned a most ferral grin, his mouth stretching too large almost as in a Cheshire Cat mockery.

"Where shall we start?"

The Ta'Nar most certainly noticed the cowering demon spawn and was pleased they remembered, it was only right since the Ta'Nar had practiced genocidal hunts against them when they inhabited the Warm, the Ta'Nar had grown immensely since then but the ancient orgasm of The Hunt still filled their very essence and Nhur-Galladu relished in ancient memories of devouring their prey body, soul, and mind. Ah, the good old days.

"The unwashed do not deserve the air they breathe; we should choke the live out of them and let the weak smother in their own excrement. They deserve nothing more from their Masters.”

“Where are you planning to start?”

[Chronosia]

"A more accurate question, Warlord, is where am I not planning to start? The galaxy will burn; such is the will of Chaos. I have many potential targets in mind, many possibilities that deserve the full and glorious attention of Chaos. Our armies shall pour across the meagre reality and purge it, purify it for the day when it might be touched by the limitless power of the Warp." He chuckled gently, now face to face with the Ta'nar Warlord. He showed no fear. In truth, he had no fear.

He was a pure being.

"In the coming days I will have need of your strength and the strength of your allies. I appoint you as my Ambassador to the Empire, my voice to your fellows. Together with their aid, and the aid of CAGE, we shall be unstoppable. We shall change the face of the universe, old friend, we will show them all so much...The Warp shall burn away their illusions and their weaknesses. We shall show them a galaxy rendered clay by the whim of Chaos, and they shall rejoice.

[Balrogga]

“YES, The Warp. Hell Incarnate, just the thing to warm things up a bit.”

Nhur-Galladu chuckled. “I have been calling this place ‘Home’ for a while; it would be nice to bring in some real trappings from our actual Home to liven things up a bit. It will also be nice to stretch one’s wings and act without the false inhibitions we have to endure. It will be nice not to pretend to be a weakling for once, the mortals fear their Betters. These fleshlings that mew in fear from the darkness sickens me. I believe it is time to boil the meat and feed the leftovers to those that answer our call.”

“I agree, we best start stirring things up soon while the time is ripe to sow distrust, confusion, and false sense of security among the pitiful. We will become the Reapers and harvest this universe leaving nothing behind.”

Nhur-Galladu smiled at his comrade. It truly was a Cheshire-Cat grin that seemed too big.

“Every infernal needs a flashpoint. Have you determined where this will be yet?”

[Trailers]

OOC: Tag.

[Huerdae]

The Chronosian movements were hard to ignore, even though it was not near the Huerdaen Domain. The sudden aggression caught their attention like a flame drew a moth, and though the deployments strained the Star Navy to the limit, there was no way they could ignore the continued growth of the chaos empire. During their own expansions, the Huerdaen Star Empire had grown in strength drastically, but it knew that such a trend could not continue forever without work, and with another beginning the same trend, they saw no possibility other than eventual conflict.

With the strain on the Star Navy's resources, only a single battle group could be dispatched, and with no actual knowledge of Chronosian combat tactics, the Navy sent what it knew best. True and tested warships filled the group, with a Juggernaught-class battleship, the I.M.S. Illustrious forming the heart of the group. As escorts, it bore a trio of Deathwings, and a single Deathbringer, with attendant destroyers. It was, if nothing else, capable of standing and holding. They were confident that whatever the outcome, word would be returned to them by their own kind.

The Gate into the system placed the Huerdaen warships outside the furthest orbiting planet, but it was close enough to allow them to be clearly seen by the conflicting forces. Even as they watched, the large greenskins continued their assault on the world, but it was not a concern of the Star Empire. Instead, the warships held their position, sending a simple, audio-only message to the Chronosian garrison.

"This is I.M.S. Illustrious of the Huerdaen Star Empire. Your people have been making aggressive movements into the galaxy, and we have not been so blind as to ignore it. Our concern lies in your planned expansions, and whether or not they conflict with our own. You are powerful, and growing, but we do not wish conflict with you yet. Let us know your intentions, and we will respond in kind."

[Skaugra]

Atkinson's World, backwater planet near Chronosian territory

A simple security contract, they said...

Minimal risk, they said...

"They're charging!"

"Covering fire!"

"Where the Hell is that medic?!"

Johan popped up over the concrete divider of the highway his company was holding. He hadn't expected these...whatever they were to be so resourceful. Johan's company had been assigned the task of holding the highway that led into the planet's capital city against what had been described to him as 'primitive guerrilla rebels.' His commanding officer hadn't said anything about them being Chaos cultists. They came on in droves, charging mindlessly into the line of fire. Putrid, stinking carcasses littered the four-lane, raised highway, creating a natural defense that helped the mercenary defenders immensely, the stupidly devout cultists tripping over their fallen brethren only to be cut down as they fell onto the wall of fresh dead.

But the tactics had changed now, and Johan and his men were slowly being forced back, hopping between burnt out, bullet ridden, and laser struck vehicles in an effort to fall back off the highway as they fought better trained soldiers in red flak armor. Outnumbered almost three to one, it was only the sake of longer-range and heavier weaponry that kept the enemy troops from overwhelming them. Johan made a prayer to God as he stood and squeezed off a burst from his Mauler, ripping apart a hapless cultist. He was greeted by the response of half a dozen lasguns peppering his cover and a grazed cheek that sent Johan reeling in surprise.

"Shit!" Johan felt his face, recoiling his hand when the searing pain of the burn he'd suffered flared up. Looking over towards his radioman, he shouted over the din of gunfire. "Get command on the horn and tell them we're pulling out! We can't hold the highway any longer!"

The radioman looked to Johan to say something, and then froze as he looked over his commanding officer. As if in slow motion, Johan's head turned to face what he was looking at. His blood froze. In a cascade of unholy flame and a cacophony of tormented wailing, a creature slowly appeared atop the vehicle that Johan was using as cover. It glared down at him with feral rage, its tongue slithering around in its mouth, an enormous sword held in one hand. Johan couldn't move, he couldn't scream, he couldn't do anything as the creature raised its weapon above its head, the point of the blade directed at Johan's skull.

---------------------

Frieda sighed lightly as he looked across the blasted cityscape at her target. A cultist stood over a corpse, howling in the distance over his first kill. Such savages, she thought. Her cross hair was aligned with the pole just over the poor bastard's skull. Her finger squeezed the trigger. She felt a tremendous recoil slam into her shoulder as the weapon roared. Her eye watched as the round flew true, becoming smaller and smaller before drifting down ever so slightly. The cultist's head suddenly exploded, and Frieda couldn't help but smile at her own handiwork. Granted, her instructor would've told her it was a waste of a slug, but Frieda gained personal satisfaction from those kinds of kills, especially at such tremendous ranges.

Slowly, she angled her sights to look across the cityscape once more, her sights trained now on the highway. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the...whatever it was materialize atop a ruined car. It terrified her that such a creature could exist in this universe. She had to end its existence. Leveling her sight barely an inch above its head, she watched as it raised its own weapon above its head to strike down the fallen soldier she'd seen at the foot of the car. She squeezed the trigger...

---------------------

It was the end. He could see the blade dive towards his face. Johan shut his eyes.

He felt the spatter of blood before he heard the distant crack. Opening one eye, he was amazed to see that the creature had disappeared now. Standing up, he looked over the side of the car to see where it had gone and he was pleasantly greeted by the creature's corpse. That's when he remembered where he was and promptly ducked just in time for a fusillade of lasgun shots to tear apart the air where he'd been standing. Breathing heavily, he motioned for his men to fall back as another roar tore up the air around them just seconds after another of the elite cultists was thrown backwards by the sniper's well trained shots.

"Use the sniper's fire as cover, but don't let up on them," he ordered, firing a burst with his Mauler into the cultists while backpedaling. He glanced back towards downtown several kilometers away, giving thanks to God for his sniper angel...

[Chronosia]

“Oh I don't know, Warlord. These things often have the most simple of beginnings.” The Emperor chuckled darkly, raising his arms to the distant heavens, drawing the Balroggan's attention to the soaring heights of his chamber; decorated as they were with murals, tapestries and flickering wards. “It may be upon us even now”

He leaned forward, grinning like a feral thing, his eyes glimmering like embers in the light of braziers. The blades at his side glinted in the firelight, refracting it like diamonds. These were the daemon blades. One gifted and the other wrenched from Remiel's father. The blades had slain Emperors and kings, changed the course of entire nations. As the Warlord glanced at them, it seemed as though he saw himself- laid low, the blade piercing his heart as he drew his last warp-touched breath. The bloated, twisted form that towered over him was unclear, uncertain, save it's blazing eyes.

And then it was gone, like a dream or an illusion.

-

Far below the ships which had violated the Chronosian theatre, Turel was gripped by madness. The words of Remiel sang in him, alive in every killing urge and instinct; burning through muscle as he parried and returned the orkish strikes. For every greenskin cur he slew, his fugue deepened. Only the blood of the invader would suffice; only total victory would safeguard the future of a Chronosian galaxy.

Far above, a man stood on the command deck of his charge; the pulse of the plasma reactors sending a shudder through the metal. His auspex scanners had already revealed the enemy invaders to his sight, the Adepts of the Dark Mechanicus presenting him with an image of the enemy through the radioactive aftermath of orbital war, the clouds of orkish debris and expended munitions. He let a smile cross his lips. His entreaties to the Captain below had fallen on deaf ears. A pity; but there were few who could cease an Astartes caught as they were in brazen, wanton battle-lust. His words, would have to suffice.

As the debris cleared and the great vessel lumbered forth, it revealed itself. A Ramilles class Star-Fort. So vast that it dwarfed the Chronosian vessels clustered around it, some moored in its great docks receiving repairs or resupply, it must have appeared as a vast and terrible edifice to the Huerdae fleet. Each crenellation and redoubt ached with weapons batteries and defensive emplacement. It's every sensor and attention had turned, inexorably, towards the approaching fleet.

In the name of the Chronosian Imperium I hail thee, Illustrious. I am Admiral Vasilov, proud servant of the Emperor, Remiel De Drakan; Scion of Chaos, Beloved of the Ruinous Powers and True Master of Mankind by their will.

We are the servants of his divine will, of the will of the Gods who guide our path. What you see here is a trifling mobilisation; an effort to drive back the savage Ork. The great beast is pacified by our martial strength and you rightly tremble at the words of our deeds. I invite you hence, to discuss terms with me. To compare our ambitions, aims and allegiances. To see if a compromise, even an arrangement, might be brought about.

-

“Fire.”

The Single word rose from a low growl in the man’s throat as he surveyed the battered outskirts of the city, bracing himself for the coming shockwave as the nearby artillery positions responded to his command. Everything shook, the earth tremoring, power reverberating through his bones- the world swallowed up in sound and dust and fury. In the distance, another housing complex collapsed into rubble. The pulverised masonry of the city got into everything eventually; coating hair, hacked up from abused lungs or clinging tenaciously to skin despite constant scrubbing.

Like war, it infected all it touched. General Acastus regarded the city with thinly veiled contempt. This whole planet was a festering cesspool, crawling with inferior life. The Chronosian invasion would change that; reinvigorate and replace. The galaxy was changing, the burning advance of Chronosian purity the key to the survival of humankind. They would see the myriad alien races beaten down, the xenogen filth expunged in cleansing flame. Aberrant creeds would be struck from record and memory; the true path of Chaos all that was needed to ensure the continued dominance of Chronosian man.

Another wave of artillery committed itself to ruinous action. In the distance a series of towers detonated spectacularly; another sniper's refuge removed from the game. He watched all of this, the thrum and bustle of terrible war, the advancing lines of troops and tanks- and thought it good.

[Skaugra]

Johan didn't have time to pay attention to the sniper's demise. The soldiers in blood-red garb were making it difficult on his unit to fall back. Las shots and slugs flew through the air around him. There was a sharp pain as a slug flew past his face by mere centimeters, and Johan ducked back behind the car he'd sought refuge behind. Across the divide, Delta and Golf squads were pinned down by what the locals called a 'heavy bolter.' He'd never heard of such a weapon before, but he had seen its destructive power earlier before when it had first arrived. It had torn four of his men apart in short order, resulting in them being pinned amongst the abandoned and wrecked vehicles they were at now.

"These fuckers just won't quit!" Jonas raised his Mauler over the fender of the truck, blind firing back towards the enemy line that was slowly advancing, the red troops hopping between cars.

"What do we do, Sarge?!" Allen, a younger mercenary, called out, aiming between two vehicles and picking off a couple unfortunate soldiers.

"Arno!" Johan glanced towards their radioman. Arno's eyes were glazed over, his body rocking slowly. "God damn it, cover me!"

Obliging their commanding officer, Allen and Jonas blasted rounds down the highway stretch, allowing Johan just enough time to slide over to Arno.

"Arno!" Johan shook the man hard, forcing him out of his daze. "Arno!"

Arno looked up. "Yeah?"

"Get command on the line and get some support! We're not gonna be moving anytime soo-"

There was a sound of flesh exploding, and then an immediate scream thereafter.

"Allen's down!"

Allen had taken a round to the leg, and it had blown his whole leg off, the appendage sitting a half foot away. Liam, the squad medic, was already over his comrade, dragging the man back as Allen screamed his head off. Johan cursed, looking back to Arno. "Tell command to send whatever support they can! Highway two eight one, Manifred Causeway!"

"Yes, sir!"

Leaving Arno to his job, Johan quickly made his way to Jonas' side. His Mauler belched rounds down the causeway, striking another enemy in the torso just as he broke cover.

"Command had better send us something, or we're screwed," said Jonas, squeezing another burst off from between the cars.

"Keep your pants on, Jonas," Johan replied, dropping his spent mag, replaced it, and then racked the slide, resuming fire once more.

[Jagada]

Atkinson's World,
Near Chronosian-Skaugrian Border

'Sanity is for the weak' - Chaos Space Marines

Within the blackness of space a man cannot see with his own eyes, even with the clearest of windows, in space there is no contrast or comparsion to be had, no stark colours to relieve the eyes. No way to see beyond your ship, it was why thousands of years ago, when man took her first tedious steps into the galaxy from that cursed rock called Terra that he developed a series of instruments, controlled and calculated by vast and uncomprehension, to the mortal mind, logic engines that would ensure her safety and allow her to see into the space beyond her mortal capacity. Not much had changed in the thousands of years since those days, Mankind still required these sensors to see around him in space, without them his abilities were severely limited. As much as it pained him to admit, Astartes were just as limited. They might be able to literally shoot a fly three kilometres away but they could not see any further into the pitch of space without those same instruments. It was a string, one of the very few, that still connected an Astartes to a mortal. In more naive days mortals would constantly reminds his kind of that when boarding ships together to go fight distant, useless wars against the enemies of the False Emperor Marcus De Draken. In such times Astartes were weak in mind and soul and allowed mortals free-reign over their thoughts and opinions. Such times had vanished and even though mortals were an intricate part of the Chronosian Imperium, no self-serving Chaos Marine would openly admit a mortals usefulness.

Though such philosphical things were far from his thoughts, they had entered the Chronosian Battlefleet's sensor's extreme range from half hour ago and had yet to be hailed or detected. They floated onwards guided only by the most basic of ways -- advanced mathmatical calculation, and the constant unwavering coordination by the bridge crew. Their ship had floated as a ghost since their arrival in system a week ago, just when the Chronosian assault on the world as begun. Many of his commanders had urged him to immediately hail the battlefleet to ensure they would have a spot in the planetary operations, but he had refused. Bitterness, rage, and desperation rank from his men to the point that it overrode the putrid sink that was already about them. He would not have the chapter, his chapter, so debased as to throw themselves into the nearest conflict without thought. That was not saying he hadn't planned on getting involved -- in fact, it was his orders to get involved in the operations, orders passed down by the Warmaster supposedly, he couldn't be sure though. The Black Order marines whom occupied Tarsonis, led by the Champion Vatilii had handed him the orders on the heels of informing him that he and his chapter were banished from Tarsonis. His rage had been kept in check only my his burning desire to prove himself to the Chronosian Imperium, and show them that his Chaos Marines were the equals of any of their fellow comrades.

'Equals?' snorted Vatilii upon hearing of his declaration, 'You are bastard step-sons at best -- at worst, some sick curse placed upon us by the gods for our failure to subdue your inferior kind sooner.'

'Are we not Chaos Marines?' he'd shouted, 'Are we not the Chaos Emperor's chosen sons?'

'You are bastards, and you are forever damned to a life of servitude, to be sent to unglorious places and to die for simply reasons,' he stated inbetween an insane cackle, 'Accept it Satoloc, you are nothing, and this world is mine.'

'No Vatilii. We are the damned sons of the Daemon Emperor,' he'd said with total calm, 'We are the Children of the Great Grandfather! We are the Blightbringers and our destiny cannot be denied.'

Those were idealic words made, and had soon been lost in the constant turmoil of the thoughts that burned within his mind. He hated Vatilii and one day he would watch the life leave that bastards eyes as he riped his still beating hearts from his chest. That visual image of that pleased him immensely, and that day would come -- in a hundred years, a thousand, ten thousand maybe, it didn't matter how long it took, one day it would happen.

'Chapter Master Satoloc, appoarching Battlefleet's close sensor range, they will likely detect us as soon as we enter,' stated one of his battle-brothers, overseeing the the work of the muling slave mortals who were hardwired into their workstations aboard the bridge.

'Are all companies in their designated areas?' he asked curtly, to which he was given confirmation, 'Then engage emergency shut-down of all systems of life-support, and other urgent systems. We are a ghost ship.'

With a simple reply, more a moan, from one of the humans at his workstation the ship began to quiet even more -- as if it were even possible. Thoughout the Battle Barge all systems shut down, several mortals were caught in the walk-ways urgently attending to business about the ship and were killed instantly as life-support shut down -- the freezing cold of space immeidately permating the ship's outter decks. Their deaths were acceptable and planned, Satoloc had little care in his hearts for weak mortals and those foolish enough to be caught in the open would only have held his chapter back.

The same battle-brother told him a few minutes later that they were sliding into close-range of the Battlefleet's sensors. Satoloc had the ships enginseers on standby in case they were detected, and immediately power-up and message would have to be sent to avoid being fired upon. No one liked being snuck up on, and Chronosian Battlefleets were already unstable, and quite literally insane, in the best of times. Yet as they floated closer and closer, there was nothing. The Battle Barge floated by one of the fleet's destroyers at extremely close range and still did it not trigger a response. Satoloc smiled as the ship slowly, but surely made its way to the center of the Battlefleet formation, the whole time running as if it were a rock.

'We've pressed our luck far enough, my lord,' stated Auger, Commander of the Fourth Company, 'No doubt the fleet had noticed us as blanks upon their sensor sweeps up until this point. Even with their blood boiling from the conflict below, it is only a matter of time before they decide to have a look out the window.'

Satoloc chuckled lightly, Auger was of coarse right, as he was most of the time. His plan had worked far better than expected. Ghosting from the moment they left warp-transition was a common enough strategy and their arrival might have been sensed by the fleet navigators but after surveyor sweeps detected nothing they would assume a warp anomoly and pay no more heed to it -- all the while as they ship appoarched the fleet random sweeps would not detected them, even as they entered its extreme range, and once they were within close range, shutting down all life-support to the outter decks and only permitting it in the ones in the center would provide a few more minutes of invisibility. No doubt once they began to drift in the middle of the formation, several ship surveyor units would register a massive null-spot in their sweeps -- common at such close range. He'd estimated they only had three minutes until one of the ship commanders got smart enough to send recon flights out.

'Two of the destroyers have launched scout craft, they will physically see us in a few moments,' stated the Chaos Marine, leaning over the workstation of one of the mortals.

'Enough of these games,' said Satoloc with a smile, 'I've made my point. Power-up all systems immediately, weapons feeds online. Firing solutions on the ships around us. Prepare to immediately send a message to the flag ship to idenfity ourselves as The Maggot, of the Daemon Emperor's Chaos Marine Chapter, the Blightbringers.'

Satoloc couldn't help but notice the amused smile on Brother Auger's face, for all his seriousness, he knew that Auger enjoyed the grandstanding.

[Chynddaredd]

There was a flash of blinding light, lasting barely a second, as if it hadn't even existed at all. The Emperor and the Warlord would've dismissed it as a mere trick, however the fact that the throne room had completely changed was something that made it impossible to ignore. The demonic cathedral that had stood proudly, steeped in the blood and bones and adornments of Chaos was now merely a memory, as the walls became colourful mosaics of fawns chasing naked girls, of imps in bubble baths, tigers in the finest suits of armour sitting around a table drinking tea and laughing faces in all the colours of the most magnificent rainbow. Trees with blue leaves stretched to the ceilings, and the floor was replaced with a giant mushroom which floated upon a purple sky; whilst the roof was a sparkling lake that reflect all that sat below it, the waters menacingly close to succumbing to gravity but remaining firmly affixed to the roof. And from seemingly nowhere, an orchestra played a lively tune with the brass section playing a completely different piece. And loudest of all was the clapping, fast at first but slowing. At the side of the mushroom island, stepping out of seemingly nowhere, was a tall, thin man, with a short, well groomed beard as white as snow, and a full head of hair red as blood. His eyes were black orbs that sat in the amused face, and his clothing, a fine purple tuxedo with green shoes, seemed to be twisting and dancing and smiling all its own, whilst the laughing carving of a face that formed the handle of the long cane looked about the room whimsically, enjoying the euphoric colours.

"Gentleman, gentleman, please, forgive me. I was feeling manic today, so decided to change your throne room to something more jolly. Don't you enjoy it? Don't worry about the bill, I'll cover it completely, Remiel! Now, please, allow me to introduce you. Remiel de Draken, meet Nhur-Galladu. Nhur-Galladu, allow me to introduce Remiel de Draken. Now that we're all friends, can we finally get down to business? You too babble like old women and get nothing accomplished. I should eat your large intestines like spaghetti for such small devotion to the Gods, I should. Hahahaha! Now then, don't you enjoy a good laugh? Anyways, boys, let's get to business, because business is fun, except when it's not fun, and there's nothing I hate more than unfun business. What's all this nonsense about killing people and burning worlds? Very unsporting of you. Both of you. I'm very disappointed in both of you. So disappointed that I could go for some soup. Anyone else hungry?"

[Chronosia]

For a moment, a very long seeming moment, the Emperor was silent. Strange and unnatural things danced around him, the illusionary taint of the interlopers presence. He felt his lips curl into a tight smile, a grin breaking across his flawless features as the laughter poured from him. He laughed long and hard, guffawing and slapping his knees before this stranger, the sharp crack of metal on metal booming throughout the mad realm that had been prepared.

“Oh you are an amusing little thing; aren't you? It takes heart and balls to penetrate so deep into the heart of my domain and still have a sense of humour; can't say you have much taste in interior design, mind.” He looked around “I mean, honestly.”

A single fist rose, clenched with effort rather than pure anger. His eyes closed, a whispered cant carried on the underlying celestial winds of the warp, borne on the soul-bought power of Remiel's own psychic mind.

The figmented world cracked, great gouges rent into its fabric as the Emperor raised his single fist, the warp-taint of Tzeentchian daemons seeping through, fire and hunger consuming the illusion that surrounded them. Remiel smiled again, this time tinged with triumph, as the fool's puppet show became nothing. But neither did the Throne room return to them. Darkness surrounded them, as certain as the deeps of the void.

Remiel raised one hand to scratch at his chin, the other on his hip and his foot tapping, seeming altogether like a brooding father, contemplating some parental decision. “Now...Where were we...” A hand rose up again, this time seeming very much as though it held a remote control. He fiddled, as though pressing many buttons.

“Hm...” Reality flickered back into focus, but this time they stood atop a great Hive City, where crucified heathens were being tormented by a raging crowd of Chronosian loyalists. “Nope; that's not it.” Another click

They stood in the ruins of a blazing city, a Titan rampaging about them, war-horns blaring with fell intent. It seemed to notice them, stomping forwards- weapons screaming. “Nope; wrong again...” The great foot raised above them, poised to smash them into nothingness. Click.

They were in the midst of a pitched battle. Astartes threw themselves without regard for safety against the fetid hordes of the Ork. Here a greenskin bisected by whirring chainblade, here an alien face destroyed by bolter fire. All glorious. A triumphant example of Chronosian might. Remiel lashed out with one hand, the face of the ork that had been charging at him from behind imploding with the strength of the blow.

Click.

“Ah, this is much much better”

They stood in the midst of a vast structure, hewn from the earth itself. The great walls were adorned with blasphemous sigils, etched into the rock and dust of this terrible place. In the distance, great lines of symbols could be seen, reaching towards the horizon and the distant urgent pulse of other shrines. There was a sense, though, a soul-deep feeling that this was the true shrine- the most important.

“The Crucible of Gods” Remiel breathed, his face creased in awe and lust. “The place where I shall shrug off the material flesh and ascend; the faith of billions buoying me to deserved godhood. So close I can taste it, so...Perfect and inevitable. Is it not wonderful, my guests?”

--

A voice cut through the darkness of space, echoing about the bridge of the Astartes vessel.

Maggot; you are welcomed with all the due authority of his esteemed majesty, Lord of the Warp, Scion of Chaos, True Master of Mankind, Remiel De Drakan.

You have full operational remit for this sector of space and these attendant worlds. Our Liege Lord bequeathes but one message unto your untried brood;

Bring this rock to compliance. Make the shitfilth suffer for opposing the Imperium

[Balrogga]

As Nhur-Galladu and Remiel were talking, he noticed the Glammer emitting from the human. The Ta’Nar was not afraid, probably one of the few sentients in the universe who did not fear the man before him. Being what he was, Remiel was still just a human, a meatbag whom he had nothing to worry about. The Ta’Nar race had fought much worse throughout their existence from evolution in the Abyss where even the noisome daemons learned to not bother them until it eventually became taboo to do so out of fear of the G’Than’Dihr, the genocidal hunt which left entire areas devoid of daemonic life. If left alone, the Ta’Nar would leave them alone, something the Chaos Lords most likely appreciated.

It was about this time when a distortion washed over the room. Nhur-Galladu looked to his side to catch the energy signature of a teleport forming and upon arrival of a tall lanky individual, energy seemed to flow outwards from him causing a faded double image to be set up over the actual objects of the room. The fool was actually trying to use an illusion against Remiel in his own House.

Nhur-Galladu simply looked at the intruder. It was not his place to exact punishment in a guest’s house so he merely waited for Remiel’s reaction, steeling himself for the possible backlash that would soon arrive. This would get interesting very soon.

[Chynddaredd]

"Little?" The lips twisted into a snarl, both enraged and amused at once, and the black eyes illuminated themselves in a brilliant glow, changing to a bright orange. "LITTLE?!" The elder shouted, turning angrily towards Nhur-Galladu, "DID HE JUST CALL ME LITTLE?!" Jerking his hand, he brought the cane square into the face of the Chronosian, the tip resting inches from the Emperor's forehead. "I will have you know that I am 7'2"!" The old face softened, and the cane descended back to the floor. "Of course," he being laughed, "That is when I'm not 3'8", or 20'5"! But that's only when I'm not being anything else, mind you." The eyes resumed their colour of night, and sat peacefully as precious onyx set magnificently within the high cheekbones, and the old man looked about the place, observing the sigils and runes, effigies to foreign deities that mimicked his own mind. It was a magnificent cavern, truly a work of art set deep within the protruding stone skeleton of a planet. The sheer power that emanated from everywhere, so raw and intoxicating, was as if a beautiful flood that washed over him, and he breathed in deeply as one does when they smell fresh bread.

"Personally, I think mine was more inspiring. The only thing I feel inspired to do here is cut out your liver and paint a mural of it. But then, I forgot my paint set." Turning back to Remiel, an epiphany struck. "Ah! But you expressed interest!" Reaching into his trousers, he produced two golf-ball sized objects, and a human heart, still dripping with the essence that it was meant to supply to the rest of the body. "Although, really, these had nothing to do with getting me here." Leaning closer, as if conspiring against the Warlord, the being whispered to the Emperor. "If you really want to know," he said with a grin, "It was a simple matter of tearing a whole in this realm, as if pulling apart a rib cage, and stepping through. Very good way to travel. No in-flight service, but I never was one for peanuts."

With a quick jump and a twirl, he moved swiftly to the side of the Ta'Nar and threw his arm around his shoulder. "Now, as I'm sure we can tell you, ascending is a tricky business. Isn't that right, Nhur-Galladu?" He chuckled and moved again, walking a short distance from the two before turning and giving a bow. Then, with the same instantaneous effect as before, a spiraling staircase to nowhere appeared, its ballisters made of a greenish glass fabricated in the forms of smiling gargoyles; the steps themselves made of fire, the flickering tongues of the flames jumping hungrily at the legs of the old man as he began to ascend to the top, but failing to set alight any part of it. "See? You have to fight with gravity, whilst ascending."

[Thrashia]

tag

[Balrogga]

Nhur-Galladu watched the happenings without any expression on his face. He expected the Emperor to rip the clown in half at any moment and waited for the entertainment to arrive. When the prancing idiot actually tried to approach the Ta’Nar, Nhur-Galladu caused his telekinetic field to lash out and throw the idiot several meters. For good measure he laced the aura with a touch of Electrokinesis, not enough to kill but enough to hurt like hell and have a slight stunning effect.

“Please don’t touch me.” The voice was without emotion and barely showed interests, the Warlord certainly was not interested in this fop.

“Try to do it again and you will be considered as attacking my person and I will take the appropriate actions even if I am a Guest of Remiel and in his house. My Guest status is the only reason you have not been stripped of your flesh already. Remember that and thank your Host, whom you are treating with extreme disrespect.”

Nhur-Galladu turned to his Host and bowed with respect. “My apologies for my outburst, I felt it necessary to remind him of his place.”

The Ta’Nar turned back to face the clown and watched as he finished creating those stairs to nowhere. They extended up into the darkness of the sky surrounding the planetoid they were standing upon.

[Chronosia]

Remiel smiled. A single cold smile, crossing his lips and lingering there as he observed the beings tirade. How amusing the meandering actions of lesser beings proved to be, how simple and patheic the endless march of the random was; with beings such as this accomplishing nothing through pointless machination. He wondered who puppeted this inane being, who pulled the strings that had brought it to this place. He pitied such removed taskmasters, to have their pawns bandied about in sheer futility.

"Little." He spoke the single word and regarded the hovering thing. He chuckled. "Little indeed. Small and insignificant in action and opinion, lacking in deed or point. I tolerate your presence here only because you proclaim to have a message for me, and if I were to deny you your voice you would continue to pollute the sanctity of my refuge with wheedling cries to attention. Turn your mewling to your task. Deliver your message and I shall see if anything you say has worth."

-

The enemy counterattack hammered against the ruined fragment of building, sending sparks and chunks of masonry in a myriad of directions, the mad snowfall of war and predation. Trooper Matthias Vimar crouched lower, a growl of anger building in his throat as he waited- leaning out to deliver the full fury of his lasgun only when the enemy assault had died down.

"Gakking fools! Can't they see it's pointless to resist" He spat to one side, his saliva grey with dust. "They can't last long; the Imperium prevails! For the Gods!"

A cheer went up from the soldiery around him, their cries drowned out by the distant rolling thunder of artillery. Each took a grenade from their belts and committed them over the rim of their cover, listening to the rapid rattle of detonation.

"GO!" They plunged into the maelstrom of battle, guns roaring with righteous fury, with the determination of unholy zealots. A natives head cracked back as the lasgun burned a bloodless hole through his forehead, shuddering as he dropped down into lifelessness. Elsewhere Chronosians plunged bayonets into stomachs, or bisected faces; their wrath vented even upon the bodies of the dead. Heretics, rebels, resisters of the True Path. There was to be no pity for such beings, only death and suffering eternal.

A vox unit growled. Orders from Command. A landing zone was to be cleared. The Emperor had favored this battle with the presence of his chosen sons.

The Astartes were coming.

[Khandosia]

"This," said Cadaras Grendel, "is impressive."

Honsou had to agree with his lieutenant, watching the scenes of carnage unfolding on the planet below. Flayed beasts with obsidian horns and claws ripped flesh from the bones of the hive city's defenders, while massed formations of raving traitor-guard charged into the maelstrom of battle in tides of red lacquered armor. The occasional squad of looming, armored giants would appear where the fighting was at its fiercest, casting down dead bodies like thin stalks before the scythe. Formless things of jelly-like ooze with teeth devoured the corpses of the fallen. Winged bat-creatures of utter darkness capered in the air, filling the air with their apocalyptic shrieking. The violent tide of warp-spawned abominations filled the city, killing and destroying without mercy. The tide of horrific forms rampaged inwards, towards the heart of the city, and there was nothing that the defenders could do to stop it.

"They're about to break," said Honsou, pointing to the image of a line of defending soldiers trying to bravely form a firing line despite that several of its members dropping their weapons and fleeing.

"Useless cowards," said Ardaric Vaanes, the renegade Raven Guard warrior Honsou had recruited several decades before prior to leaving the Chaos world of Medrengard. "They were broken long before this."

"Is this what we're here for then," asked the Newborn. "To simply watch a pointless slaughter. There is no conquest or honor is this."

"Honor?" hissed Grendel with a bark of bitter amusement. "What the hell's honor got to do with anything?" The grinning Iron Warrior made a sickening smile at the Newborn.

"And who said anything about conquest?" said Honsou. "At least, the time for that is far from now."

"So what are we doing here?" asked Vaanes.

"We're here to destroy, pillage, and massacre," said Grendel with relish, the scars around his face weeping infected fluid. Vaanes grimaced in disgust, and not without reason.

Grendel's face was a horrific mask of poorly-healed scars, his Astartes ability to survive normal wounds tested to its limit by the damage done in previous wars that Honsou had led his great company of Iron Warriors through. To see him with the Newborn was like seeing two twins standing together, for its face was as dreadfully malformed as Grendel's. The Newborn was shaped from the corpses of Medrengard, a hideous fleshmask sewn together by the daemonic Savage Morticians. His stormcloud eyes stared at the images of the burning world with a pain-filled innocence. The thought almost made Honsou laugh, knowing of the hundreds of slaughters and murders it had done in his name. Clad in the armour of the Iron Warriors, there was nothing innocent about the Newborn.

Only Ardaric Vaanes alone of all Honsou's followers had ever come through their previous conflicts without disfigurement or injury. Unlike Grendel or the Newborn, his power armor was matte black and devoid of all heraldic devices. They had been stripped bear over the course of time and wear, and Vaanes had chosen not to renew them. It was a point of interest to Honsou, the reasoning behind Vaanes's choices. But he set such doubts aside, since the former Raven Guard warrior had helped Honsou navigate the rituals of the Blood Harvest to gain a large warband with which to wreck whatever destruction he saw fit.

Honsou stood on the bridge of his flagship, a Malevolent-class battleship, the Eternal Torment which had been bartered from the Chaos shipyards at Badab more than a century ago from the Dark Mechanicus. It sat in orbit over the burning world like a hovering spectre, its gun-metal gray hull bisected by the yellow and black bands that denoted the heraldry of the Iron Warriors. Around the Eternal Torment were three Infidel-class destroyers, which were captured and corrupted Cobra destroyers. They had been part of a pirate fleet until their leader had lost in ritual combat to one of Honsou's champions and then swore a blood-oath to serve the Iron Warriors. A dozen large barges, ugly monstrosities that bulged out in strange directions followed in the wake of the larger ships, bearing several thousand traitor guardsmen and slaves that the Iron Warriors employed in their battles.

The Chaos warband had arrived through a warpstorm of gargantuan proportions, such that Honsou had felt sure he and his men would be destroyed by the vagaries of the warp. They had come upon and area uncharted and unknown to them and had wandered for several decades, slaughtering and pillaging any worlds they came upon, recruiting new members into the ranks of Iron Warriors as needed and swelling the number of slaves that were kept in his ships holds.

Then Honsou had heard the call. No one that had any kind of connection to the dark gods of the Warp could have ignored it. It was like a pulsing ember of malevolent flame that cast its gaze across the galaxy. It had guided Honsou and his warband to this world. Captured soldiers and a wounded transport had given Honsou all the information and navigational data he had required. It seemed that the gods had played a joke on Honsou, casting him to an unknown universe, to find one great warlord that had somehow come to cow all other greater champions under his banner. Whereas many might have felt awe, Honsou gritted his teeth in envy and hatred.

"I did not become a Warsmith of the Iron Warriors to bend knee to another man," declared Honsou. He turned to his lieutenants, looking each of them in the face. "We will cast our own pall upon these worlds and carve a place for the Iron Warriors."

"What next then?" asked Grendel.

"Let the monster have its moment and destroy this world, and others," said Honsou, nodding towards the viewscreen. "This planet means nothing to us, it is just the lighting of the fuse."

"And then?" pressed Vaanes.

"Then we make our own mark," said Honsou. He had already selected a trio of systems that his corrupted navigators had found, ripe for destruction and pillaging.

"This other warlord will undoubtedly come in force," promised Vaanes.

Honsou grinned. "That's what I'm counting on."

[Skaugra]

Highway 281, Manifred Causeway

"Fuckin' shit!"

Another of the insane cultists leaped over the car that Johan had lined up behind, swinging his rusted meat cleaver for Johan's head, screaming foul, incoherent curses at the mercenary. Johan's skills proved true as he deftly parried the strike with his Mauler's chain bayonet, causing the cultist to stumble and fall. With the opportunity now his, Johan fired a burst of rounds into the back of the splayed-out cultist before returning to the firing line.

"Johan! Command is on the horn!" Arno waved over his field commander.

"I'm kinda busy right now, Arno! What do they want?!" Johan sighted down his Mauler and blasted one of the red armored soldiers with a three-round burst. Blood spray filled the air where the soldier had been.

"They're calling a full withdrawal to the inner city! They want you at the field headquarters at Arden and Reagan-"

Johan gave Arno and incredulous look, stopping him midway through his sentence. "Do you see what's in front of us, Arno?!" Johan gestured towards the enemy forces down the highway bridge. "Tell those pig-headed fuckwits that, unless they provide immediate assistance or give us an evac, we're fuckin' stuck holding this bridge!"

"I was just about to tell you-" And yet, Arno was interrupted once more. This time, it wasn't a frustrated Johan, but an enormous explosion at the far end of the bridge. Everyone on the firing line ducked their heads, shielding themselves from the debris that flew through the air. As the debris settled, Looking into the sky, Johan found the source just as it passed over head. A pair of Sparrow gunships swung in low towards their position, rockets pods and auto cannons blazing as they tore apart the enemy section of the bridge. Cheers went up among the mercenaries as they watched the carnage unfold before them. There was a low roaring, and they all turned to see an Eagle transport swung down onto the bridge, its tail gunner spitting rounds in the direction of the enemy. The gunnery sergeant held onto the lip of the transport, beckoning the infantry aboard.

"Alright, let's move!" Johan waved towards the transport. "Everyone on the Eagle! Let's go!"

--------------------

Field Headquarters, Harrow Government Center, Mayview Hive City

It was a rather quiet night in the Mayview Hive City. Colonel Rogers looked up towards the shield that protected the hive city from the massive fleet above and sighed. He could see the ominously twinkling lights in the night sky. Two weeks it had been since their arrival. Before then, it had been easy. Minor insurrections and skirmishes. They were easy to put down. The blasted cultists and the more organized Brotherhood of Blood. their numbers hadn't been so great, but now with the fleet in orbit, two thirds of the population of the planet were in open revolt. Cities across the planet were caught up in conflict, and, one by one, Mayview Hive City was losing contact with the other cities. Hope was slowly dwindling away.

Turning back from the balcony, Rogers entered the meeting room once more. "Gentlemen, time is growing short."

Gesturing to the display on the wall, the assembled command structure turned to view the contents. Rogers continued. "We are slowly being pushed back by the insurgent and Chronosian armies, and it is only a matter of time before they fully besiege the city." Touching the screen, he enhanced the image around Mayview Hive City to a one hundred mile by one hundred mile square. Lines were drawn, blue representing friendly lines and red Chaos, respectively. "We control a seventy five mile, radius around the city proper, give or take ten miles. However, recent scout reports show that the enemy is massing inside the twenty five mile enemy zone."

The red side of the line then continued to brighten. "If scout reports are accurate, the enemy numbers around the city are well over one hundred thousand. If intelligence reports are correct, this number could increase ten fold over the next two days." The red side grew darker. "In one week, ten fold from that." The screen darkened again, and Rogers turned back to the assembled command. "And, assuming we manage to hold out from that, ten fold from that in another week."

"So, what you're saying is that we should just give up?" A young officer looked around the room nervously.

Rogers looked at the young officer for three seconds, and then drew his sidearm and shot the poor bastard square in the head. The other officers didn't even flinch as they watched him bleed on the floor, tipped over in his chair. After a brief moment, everyone returned their attention to Rogers.

"If you find anyone like that within your command, don't hesitate to do the same thing I did."

There was a murmur of approval.