The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

[Rakmaar]

[MT]
[Mature]

Salskigrad,
The Rakmaarian Armed Federation
The Dachzi Neighborhood

The Dachzi Citizen was walking care free in the early morning light. The Dachzis recently had a splendid doubling of rights in the Federation. The Dachzis in earlier times had been persecuted and set under violent killing programs, called Dusolov's. The Dachzi man was named Abdulla al-Farak, he had seen these programs when he was little and had seen his mother and father beaten and shot. In his mother's case, she had been beaten, stripped of her garments, raped in front of her family, then shot in the back of the head.

This was what Abdulla was thinking about, because he was happy that his children... probably... wouldn't have to see that madness around here. But then again, he thought I could be wrong.

Suddenly he heard rumbling of armored vehicles rolling into the Drachzi Neighborhood. Abdulla saw they were APCs, BTV 80s to be exact. They had the emblem of the Double Headed Eagle, the Secret Police of Rakmaar. Each of the troopers on top the BTVs were armed with AK-101s and we wearing blue tactical uniforms. One BTV stopped nearby him and the members on top of the vehicle slid off and two walked up to him.

"<Papers, please?>" asked the operative on the left.

"<I don't have any, but name is Abdulla al-Farak,>" said Abdulla

The Operatives shared glances and one then slammed his rifle butt against the Drachzi man. And then spit on him, cursing at him, then the operatives began kicking him. One screamed, "<Traitor to the Federation and the Stratocracy. You Drachzian scum. You fucking terrorist.>"

The one who screamed then cocked the weapon and aimed at Abdulla and fired. Before the bullet entered Abdulla's skull, there were other gunshots and screaming from Drachzis inside the Neighborhood.

[9th Panzer Division]

Glor-ee [MT]

Like a rodent the thing crept towards them. It sniveled and spat hatred with every movement. It was a beast in true form, a feral abomination to mankind. The thing drew closer to the bright orange flames, moaning. It stood on its dirt and blood caked feet, its face was disfigured with scars and burns. The jet black hair looked like it'd fall out if you even brushed your fingers through it. It pounced on the unsuspecting campfire and ate its fill of the flames. A painful shriek ripped out from the campfire and the beast, and its prey were plunged into darkness.

The thing thrashed about, speaking further of its hate against the men that wronged him so much. A rifle report stained the blackness with an orange burst. And another, and another. The struggle continued, the ruined man against the campfire men, animated flames defending its simple wooden fortress. A loud, thunderous smash ended the fight and an orange flame burst out. The ugly scarred thing crumpled to the floor and sighed its last, hate-filled sigh.

[Aquilinia]

[ MT/PMT ]

Living My Dream

The sea. It had always been my dream to become a sailor, a captain even. My father had been the captain of a small cargo ship, and he had always told wonderful stories when he returned from his travels. Stories about distant lands, strange cultures, and adventures on the wide, blue ocean. But now he was dead. Killed by pirates off some wicked shore far away, together with his entire crew. My mother had died years ago, and I stood on my own. No family, few friends, no money, no home, no future. The only thing I had left was my dream.

I remember the day I chose to follow that dream as if it was yesterday – even though ten years have passed since then. It was a warm, bright summer morning, and I sat on my usual spot in Port Lawrence harbour, watching the ships coming and going. Every day since my dad died, I had gone there after school, waiting for his ship to return. Every day I saw dozens of small cargo ships such as his, but never did I hear the old man's voice calling out to me.

It had been six months since my father's death. It was also the day of my graduation from High School. But instead of celebrating with my classmates, I sat on the harbour wall, thinking about my future. I had asked several seamen whether help was needed on their ships – the only thing I knew was that I wanted to become a sailor – but nobody wanted a young sixteen-year-old Neko girl on their ship. The landlord had let me live in our old flat without paying rent until I graduated, but now I had no way of paying for my living. I looked out to the sea, and could not hold back the tears any longer. I would end up in a factory, I was sure. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and stared into the face of a man wearing a navy uniform. "Hey there," he said in a kind voice, "I have seen you around here quite a lot." He looked at me and noticed my tears. "Why are you crying?," he asked, and I told him my story. In the end, I asked, "Where can I go? I have nothing left in my life." He smiled. "Oh yes, you have. You have your dream. Make it come true! If no merchant sailor will take you, the navy will."

One month later, I finally walked into the military docks at Port Lawrence. Cadet Moonfire, 445301, assigned to ANS Republic for basic training. My dream had come true. But three weeks later, my dream had turned into a nightmare. I was the only Neko on board the Republic – and I was made to feel that. Finally, I had a day of leave. I walked through the harbour, deep in thought, when I met the man who had convinced me to join the navy. "Ah, if it isn't my little friend," he called out when he saw me. He patted the wall next to him, and I sat down. "I see you followed my advice and joined the navy. How do you like it?" His voice was friendly, as always. I shook my head. "I hate it. I'm assigned to ANS Republic, and I'm supposed to learn how to be a gunner. But all they let me do is clean up the gunnery room. They never let me take part in any proper lessons, nothing. They treat me like scum." He nodded grimly. "I'll see what I can do about that. What's your service number?" I told him, and he got up. "I'll do something about it. I promise." With that he left, and I heard nothing of him until three weeks later, when the ship's captain walked up to me in the mess. "Hey! Cat!" I sighed and turned around. "Sir?" "Seems you'll be leaving us. Admiral's orders. You'll go to Southport, officer's training. Seems you found yourself a friend, kitty. Now get out of here." I smiled and saluted. "Yes, sir, of course, sir!"

My friend from the harbour wall turned out to be the admiral in charge of the home fleet at Port Lawrence, and it seemed he had seen some talent in me that even I did not know. Fact is that I did go to officer's training. Then, I served as navigational officer on the admiral's flagship, until I was given command of my own ship – ANS Republic. Instead of getting revenge, I decided to forget and forgive, and the sailors soon trusted me. When the Republic fell, and the Empire rose from its ashes, my ship was renamed to IAS Imperial, but the crew remained the same. The admiral still visited me often, and it was through his favour that my promotion to Vice-Admiral came through, far earlier than usual.
Last year, the old admiral retired, and I took over his post, until the Grand Empress made me Grand Admiral of the Fleet – the most senior officer in the entire navy. Now, I have my own ship, the aircraft carrier IAS Felicia, and the hardships of the past are all but forgotten.

It is now eleven years to the day that my father disappeared. Last month, we discovered his ship, stranded on a little island. A makeshift settlement was nearby, where the survivors had made a new life in the wilderness. Near the village was a grave with my father's name on it. He lead the survivors, and only died last year, on the same day that I was promoted to Grand Admiral. One of the few remaining men told me that they had been living from things sold to them by sailors going past the island, and had also gotten news from them. When my father had heard of me becoming Vice-Admiral, he had broken out in tears. When I heard of that, I did the same. My father had been alive, and proud of me. All my dreams had come true.

[-Deus-]

[ PMT ]

[ The Life Blood of Daius ]

It was cold and damp, the room smelt of blood, guts and human waste. It was cramped and dark, the sickly green stains on the already dark grey walls more or less vomit or some other form of liquid waste. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of humans were packed in, wallowing in their own filth, naked and bare, shivering in the near freezing air of the room. They were mostly men and old women, all of them knew their fate though, and all of them knew where they were and what would happen to them. This was a human farm in all its glory. This was the staple “crop” of Daius. These men would be butchered, eaten, brutally processed for food. Yet the Daius workers neither cared nor flinched as they moved the crowd of men towards their dooms, whipping them and spiting on them like cattle, moving them inside it not the main processing room.

“Welcome to the team Melvin!” A man screamed out, patting another, smaller, more fragile looking man who only turned around and nodded, Melvin was his name. “Heh, I see you finally took my advice and got a job at the processing plant.” Melvin only nodded, blocking out the other man’s voice as he looked on at the passing horde of human males huddled together, their pale skin painted with blood, faeces and other human waste products, the stench nearly unbearable for Melvin who doubled over and vomited violently, heaving up chunks of this and that, the green ooze slathering itself all over the stone cold floors. “Ugh, Melvin, you bastard you. Clean that shit up, you little fucking runt. Ugh, it’s all over my shoes. Damn bastard.” The other man screamed out, waving his hands in the air as Melvin groaned, limping towards the bathroom to clean himself up.

He slowly paced himself, looking around as the front end of the human horde was pushed through a tunnel, the shouts and screams of men, small male children and elderly echoing out of the tunnel, the faint chuckle of the few men charged with “knocking out” the humans lingering around in Melvin’s mind. The man unable to reach the bathroom as curiosity stirred him to watch the heaps of dead humans drop unto the conveyor belts, the large, stinking mass filling Melvin with dread as he continued to follow the conveyor belts. He followed it for a while, watching as the heaps dropped into of a group of men charged with skinning the dead corpses, dumping the meat unto another conveyor belt that cleansed them and dumped them into a furnace. The fragile Melvin very nearly vomiting again before another man, short and stocky, with a face that screamed, “Punch me” stopped him.

“Melvin, I thought I assigned you down to the lower levels. Get down there immediately.” Melvin only nodded, stumbling on the blood soaked floor until reached the stairs to the lower level, slowly making his way into the darker pit of the processing plant. He could hear screaming, wailing, moaning, crying, every such frightful sound one could think of. Men drenched in blood and other bodily fluids passed him as he descended deeper and deeper into the belly of the processing plant. And then, with a frightful gasp he vomited again, the man unable to take his eyes off of what he saw next. Rows and rows of women, their legs and arms severed, their stomachs and chests left open and their heads shaved. Wires and pumps of all sorts were stuck into the women, pumping in drugs, chemicals and extracting waste. It was the birthing centre. Most of the women were still conscious, screaming like animals as machines constantly probed them. Yet others were silent, drifting in a coma.

Women from as young as eight to as old as sixty-five were lined up in rows, wires and pumps and other such devices plugged into their open and exposed bodies, their crying screams deafening Melvin as he walked up and down the rows, looking each woman in her cold, dead eyes, some of them begging him for help as he passed. Yet he could not help them. This was their fate. To birth humans until they could not birth humans any longer. This was how Daius survived. This is the main staple of what the people of Daius ate. This was the life blood of the nation. And Melvin, the poor soul, he would no doubt be scarred for life as he vomited once more, fainting soon after, the images of what he saw haunting him forever and ever.

[Northwest Americana]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

References to blood and murder

We Remain Forever Spiteful

April
Historical District, Mericcan, Brumaire, Northwest Americana
2050 Hours

After fifteen years of Revolution and continual bloodshed, the city that had once been touted as the city of cities could be referred to as a city no longer. Where the fantastic sculptures of the royal court once stood, there were now only shattered heaps of marble; down the streets where the magnificent Imperial Guard once marched in tandem, grass snaked its way through cobblestone; and where the colossal Imperial Palace once stood there was now nothing up a ghastly, hulking tenement building that dominated the Mericcan skyline. Erosion, grass, and flame; all were natural forms of upheaval -- working to destroy, uproot, or purge the objects of the old and make way for those of the new.

A portly, elderly man treaded down one of the grassy roads, his expensive leather trench-coat indicating that he was a socialite - abet a fallen one, now treading along a street that, in other nations, would be the exact definition of extreme urban decay. He huffed and puffed - the weight of the contents of his coat were causing him physical strain, his body slumped forward as if there were a weight around his neck. But the old man continued shuffling along - until the tenement of a palace came into near view and his ears were filled with a most intense roaring sound, with sheer passion and fervor wholly laden in the sound.

Rabble, the elderly man thought, as he continued to make his way to the back of the ashen Palace. The street eventually opened into a square, with the South Gate of the Palace in plain view. The mass of patriotic citizens celebrating "Revolution Day" were not visible, although there sheer audibility of their squabbling implied there were large amount of them present - something with the elder relished.

A sneer slithered across his face as he made his way to the South Gate - as he trudged past the smashed architecture of the ancien regime and towards the face of the all-cooperating guard that would let him into the palace - into what remained of the Royal Dominion. The pitter-patter of his feet on the cracked cobblestones as he reached the South Gate, he thought, sounded vaguely reminiscent of the popping gunfire that was employed by the Revolutionaries to emasculate the city and its Imperial residents by night.

Yes, the very Revolutionaries which had robbed and sacked all that he and his ancestors had so rightfully won over the span of countless centuries. He had been part of a world of chivalry, of traditional values, and of centuries and centuries of hard-won wealth and opulence. But the first word of discontent, the first murmurs of dissatisfaction from the common man with his lot in life, resulted in a bloodbath which destroyed his entire world. The former Thane of Mericcan now had nothing in common with the rabidly Populist society that had spring up in the Dominion's stead. Having renounced his Americanan nationality when it ceased to be identifiable with noble-blooded glory and royalty, the Thane was now, for all intents and purposes, a man without a country. A man without identity or a sense of meaning.

That is, except in the eyes of the sole guard on duty guarding the South Gate, who saw the Thane gradually approaching his position. Luckily, the city government had irrationally feared that noticeable police presence would appear "authoritarian". The old thane and the guard were alone.

A robustly built man of about forty years, the guard swung his head this way and that; thankful that the two were standing in one of the less frequented (and most dilapidated) areas of the Historical District. Suddenly, he prostrated himself before the old Thane, and spoke in a voice that barely reached above a whisper:

"The preparations have already been made by the Restoration League, Most Noble Thane Decurismus."

He was a loyal man, Decurismus thought. Of course, he would be considered a turncoat by the current regime.

Decurismus was strangely unsettled at the thought of what he was about to commit, with his wrinkled face merely steely looking forward. After a brief amount of silence, he spoke up: "I know where to go, then. And the others are in position, yes?"

"Of course, noble sir."

Another pause; Decurismus looked at the ground in solemn contemplation. Then: "It shall be done. Let me pass."

The guard fished around in his pocket for the imperial keys and discreetly opened the gate; likewise, Decurismus discreetly walked up to the large, twenty foot castle doors (nearly falling off at the hinges due to the fire damage) and entered as discreetly as possible.

The sound of his entrance echoed throughout the Southern Chamber, now turned black and decrepit from the purging force of the palatial fire.

The Thane made his way to the stairs. The losses of the Dominion would be avenged.

---

Fifty minutes of virtually aimless navigation had finally brought him to what had been termed in planning the "critical position" - one of the tallest of the castle's four steeples, towering over five hundred feet tall (quite high for a castle, but Americanan monarchs were known for their opulence). Decurismus positioned himself nearly in the center of the steeple's main window, long since turned to an ashen gray from the licking of flames long past. He then shed his coat - it slipped to the floor with a thud, uncloaking the long black instrument that all to often sows chaos and despair.

The faint hints of light in the room reflected off the weapon, exposing the figure of the Steyr TMP machine pistol. He bent - the bones in his hips creaking and cracking after 65 years of use - and grasped the weapon.

His fingers trembled - once the signal came, and he - well, he didn't want to envision the deed in his head - would he be right with the god espoused by the monarchical house? Would he be bringing glory to the ancestors that came before him - ones that brought a reign of justice and wealth to the land? His mind became incapacitated by these questions - his body began to quake more out of some deadly sense of fear that emerged from God knows where... the deepest recesses of him mind, perhaps.

Suddenly, the signal sounded. He heard the ringing of a church bell, three times in rapid succession. Now he knew he was to shatter open the window and begin firing on the crowd below, but he was paralyzied by an inner vioce; yes, the fear of the sin of murder, the fear of massacring what one had previously thought of as one's own flock.

Being called to slaughter by Church bells, he mused. How ironic.

For one second, he considered the act unholy.

Yet, he gathered up his pride. At once at hateful felling consumed his entire being, and every component of his being seemed to utter in unison:

Fire, and forever remain spiteful. Trample their liberty for your own pride and the pride of those before.

Then he heard screams from the window outside and large amounts of gunfire being expelled across the street. And then he heard his own rat-"tat-rat-tat"ing joining that of his fellow noblemen and the animalistic screams of those below. Oh dear! he would later reflect. It sounded like sheep being brought to slaughter. And then later the green-gray grassy roads were soon covered in the most vivid shade of red.

The sound finally stopped. Sirens wailed in the distance. Decurismus slumped down to the floor, exhausted emotionally from his feat and inner conflict.

The survivors below groaned. One man cursed what he could only imagine to be pro-nobility terrorists. He would later be proved right.

And the Thane could only think one thing, a thought seemingly implanted that now consumed his whole identity - one now stained with incarnadine:

You have murdered the people from pride,
and the people will murder you.

Americanan politicide would begin anew.

[Kylarnatia]

[PT]

[Mature]

[In the Sand Dunes]

---

23rd August 1823
Through the thoughts of Lt. Samuel L. Lewis, 22nd 'Sand Bug' Attatchment

Battle. It can be fought anywhere at anytime. Some didn't always want to be there, but hey, thats what you got for joining the Imperial Army. It always left me dumbstruck when I saw men, thinking they could lay in because they thought that a battle was organised at a specific time. Well, its funny when you break it to them. The only time you can say a battle is 'organised' is when one general says to another at the crack of dawn or something just as non-detailed.

In my personal opinion, they should all go back to their rich fathers and suck on their thumb in luxury for the rest of their lives whilst they let real men do all the work. Thing is, what was a real man? The Imperial Army didn't care about that, aslong as they could shout Long live the Tsarina! or something along those lines they were in. Pathetic really. Though, I guess any guy is as good as another.

I sit here in the sand dunes of the Dendera Desert, close to the eastern border of Kylarnatia. Apparantly, Tsarina Diannes High Command has learnt details of a massive Persian Army coming in, wishing to take back their so called lands which they ruled almost three thousand years ago. Problem is though, we won them fair and sqaure last time, and we weren't going to give them up now. Atleast I wasn't. Screw being made a slave by some fat bald-headed prune. I'd rather die in the sand, and on the plus side my body would be preserved much better then if it was buried six feet under in mud.

I'm whats called a 'Sand Bug' or Sapper. Our job in the military is to scramble into the enemy lines, armed only with a dagger and a blunderbus, and break them up to make them much easier targets for our snipers up ontop of the sand mounds and to also confuse the enemy. Though they never detailed in the job description that once we're in, we wouldn't get out.

In context; we'd die as soon as our job was done. We'd probably be surrounded and shot to death, or that was the logic anyway. So, we're also kind of like suicide warriors, even though we didn't think we would be at the time of enlistment. Damn that propaganda. It was probably Tsarina Diannes sleek figure on that damn poster that got me here. And that was only a drawn representation. Thanks, Your Highness.

There's obviously no point of complaining now, for the reasons that the Generals are on the other side of the field, and that the constant bluster of sand continues to get it my mouth. If there's one thing I'm proud of this army for, it is that the Generals are fighting with us and are not deciding to sit fifty miles behind the line in their tents. Oh, and the Persians have arrived. Superb, let the mass slaughter begin. And whats even greater about that is that I'm getting first cuts; great.

Our armies front line troops were all straight behind us, all shining with their bayonets and belt buckles. Light Skirmishers were on the right flank, ready to start firing once our job was done. Heh, the Persians didn't look half as good as us - and weren't that well organised either. Their front lines were thin and withered, their artillery - which for the record was only one piece - was in a poorly chosen spot and could easily be charged by our cavalry. Oh, and that was another thing; they had no cavalry. They must have been raided several times by desert raiders. And yet through all this, I still probably wouldn't survive. Double great.

It was now our time to shine. There's another fifty of us waiting to go over, to give our lives in service of the Tsarina that 'bewitched' us here, though you can't really blame her. Blame yourself for being the idiot who fell for it. The 22nd Sand Bug Attatchment about to go off for the glory of Kylarnatia, and for the safety of those back home. Though it would be a shame we'd never go back there. Our Captain pokes his head over the top of the sand dune, raises his arm and thrusts it down again. Time to run like fuck else matters.

The first thing I hear is the Persians shouting words of confusion, or at least I believe it's confusion. It was a surprise to me that none of them had started shooting, maybe they had just given up already. No, that was wishful thinking. Within a matter of seconds the crack of gunfire rang out, shortly followed by the screams of my comrades. Some that were closest to me fell, their blood squirting out and staining my white robes first before leaking out into the sand. I grab my dagger from my belt as we reach their lines, which already began to break into loose formation. At the final leg I jump forward, and now I scream down apon them like a wild beast. Hope they're scared.

I land into a group of seven of them who had not been able to break quick enough. I quickly stab the one I landed on in the head, his blood splats on my face as I also hear the sound of his skull cracking. I then rip it back out again, spilling more blood in the process as I lash out at a dazed persian who was about the grab his weapon. I slit his throat. Blood everywhere. I didn't ask for this, though I suppose he didn't ask for anything either. I pause for a moment, looking over my kill. I guess I should be proud. However it seems it'll be short lived as a bullet hits near my leg, I look up to see a group of several other persians aiming at me.

I look around, seeing that many of my attatchment are now dead. I look back to the Kylarnatian Lines to see that they're preparing to fire. Though I suppose my job isn't over until I die, so I might aswell get on with it. I quickly jump to my feet and pull out my blasterbus, making a quick couple of shots at the group. One or two fall, others simply hit the ground in trying to find very limited protection. I quickly take my dagger in hand again when my fire arm runs out of ammo and I charge at them, screaming like I did at the beginning. It did seem to give me a boost in confidence the first time.

I land this time slightly infront of them, not where I was favouring to land. Never the less I lash out with my dagger once more, making one or two of them run back in fear. It's funny to watch people run with their tails between their legs. I then hear a grunt from the ground, to see a Persian soldier with bayonet it hand thrusting it out towards me. I quickly jump out of the way and kick sand in his face, and then I slash at his face while he is blinded. His body simply falls back as eventually blood begins to stream out. I'm already getting used to the sight.

I now see that the Persian Army is already beginning to break as our men move in and the cavalry charges its only artillery piece, whilst ours are pounding away; creating new sand dunes in the distance. I cannot help but smile, feeling that I have survived as a Sand Bug. I've defied the logic of the Imperial Army, and they'll definatly know. Or, thats what I hoped. I hear one define crack of a shot, and my body becomes for a second tense before once more all loose. I look in the distance to see that one Persian man was shooting back as he ran, almost a ditch attempt at trying to keep those chasing away from him. Thing is I'm not chasing him.

I fall to my knees as I fell the blood soke through my robes. Damn and blast it, I've been hit. So much for being realised. I then fall back as my eyesight begins to fade, and I role in the sand for a short distance before coming to a stop in a pile of my fallen friends. I look up to the sun, and I wonder why I had to die here, of all places. Such was the life of the Imperial Army, living in the sand dunes...

27th August 1823
Through the thoughts of Nurse Penny Grace, Army Medic Core

Damn battles. There's always going to be heaps of casualties, half of them we cannot even save. These generals and doctors can think us women can do everything, like we are some sort of mystical force that can fix everything. I know one women they won't mess with; the Tsarina. But not even she helps us, which is hurtful to all women in the empire. I think it's only right to call her a stuck up bitch. I may be wrong, but if I am something mystical, I may not be.

I walk down the cramped paths of the small field hospital set up to aid the wounded of the latest battle. How we couldn't move these men back to the city yet I don't know, we've been here for four days and haven't made any progress in curing those saved. What more do they expect us to do with the limited supplies here? God knows what anything gets decided on these days.

I've been assigned to one man in paticular. Hes been out for the past four days since the battle, but he had lost a lot of blood and was still showing life signs. Once he came to he would probably be deemed fit and healthy and sent off again. Lucky bugger got out of cleaning his blood-soaked robes, which I had to do. Hope he's grateful. I come to his side in one of the many crammed tents, his eyes still shut. Sigh. I'm too impatient for this job.

I open my small field booklet, which is assigned to every nurse there and is used to document all the people you've treated. Why I don't know, but it's obviously important for some reason. I take my very unusual writing instrument which I'd been given in the past week, god knows how the contraption works, and I scribble in the mans rank and name; Lt. Samuel L. Lewis. He's the only surviving man of his attatchment, and a 'Sand Bug' too - he's going to get a lot of rewards for this...Though I always think to myself; were's my fucking reward?

[Mahdah]

Battle Of Mular

Gunfire erupts everywhere the sound of explosions in the distance as a platoon of 25 Mudah national gaurdsmen rush the centre of Mular
Buildings are in ruins fires are widespread "Captin! we need airsupport now!" "Foward Comrades! Not one step back!" yells the Captin the men rushing through the rubble and crators of the centre as Activist troops fire apon them,

The troops continue to rush foward men fall as they get cut down by gunfire and explosions of grenades the Platoon overun the activist engaging in brutal hand to hand combat men agaisnt men using there bear hands or there combat knives some even using bricks of rubble as the last activist is stabbed, the captin raises the flag in the middle of the centre as it flies proudly.

[-Deus-]

[PMT]

[ Mature ]

[ A Change ]

Shura moved swiftly, his shuffling footsteps like a ghost through the clear marble hallways of the Citadel. His recently dyed white hair hung shorter than usual, his frantic breaths uneven and frenzied as he ran down the halls, the empty corridors. He cleared his throat midway, thoughts, emotions, everything buzzing through his mind as he ran, leaping past a statue of the Silver Fox that crashed to the ground soon after, colliding with the marble ground and shattering to a million pieces. He tightly clutched a box in his hand, the contents of which jiggled around in the smooth, delicately crafted red box that were clasped in Shura’s pasty grey coloured hands. He wore a clean, ivory coloured suit, his messy clothing flapping about in the air as he ran towards the end of what he deemed the last hallway, his eyes staring and distant, his mind turning infinitely like a factory.

He pushed through the large, oak doorway and stepping into the large, circular room, the anti-flash walls confusing him for just a moment as he stumbled in clumsily. He looked around, blinking rapidly as his hand shook and his teeth rattled. A woman stood in front of him, beautiful, elegant, a “lady” in all traits and qualities. Lady Sio Saer. Yet she looked blankly out of the large window to the left, her nails clicking against the wooden desk she sat near, her lean frame plopped into a large, plush looking chair. She smiled when she saw him, her distant look as blank as his own, yet so much whirred around in their minds at this moment. Shura bolted up straight, saluting the women and bowing to her as he smiled and handed her the box, kissing her hand slowly, pressing his colourless, dried limps against her soft, pale skin. He could not help but smile subtly as he slowly moved next to her, sitting in the chair across from her.

She fiddled with the box for a moment. Smiling over it faintly, yet her expression changed from happiness to neutrality as she opened it and found nothing but a flower inside, a pink rose, no sparkles, no letter, no candy, nothing. Simply a rose. Yet the woman burst into laughing lunging forward and hugging Shura who blushed a deep purple, a glimpse of colour flashing over his skin before draining out again. She twirled her hair as she slowly moved back to her seat, spinning the black hair strands in curls as she smelt the rose and then slowly pinned it through her hair. She smiled again faintly, the two of them simply sitting there, staring into each other’s eyes, as if the entire conversation was happening through their eyes and mind. Moreover, in some regard it truly was. You can tell a lot from a person’s face, from the movement of his eyes, his breathing, his muscle movement, even subconsciously. In addition, it was as if a conversation of the highest quality took place now, silent, the only indication their faces, their smiles.

Shura was filled with fear, no, not fear…excitement. He was happy; he was bursting with joy and could hardly contain the feeling within him as he fought to suppress the urge to yell. No, he did not talk, he had a promise to keep, a lifesaving vow. He was not even sure if he could speak after ten years, yet regardless his actions and words with the pen meant more than words by the tongue meant more to him then anything. He held love for this woman, an uncanny bond, no, an attachment . He just could not let her go, he loved her, and she loved him. Yet being a married women they could do nothing more than share simple conversations and gifts. It was heart wrenching, nearly unbearable at times for Shura. He swallowed hard, a bit of fear and longing creeping up from the pit of his being that stung at his logic like a sword. It goaded him, pushed him, enticed him to do what he knew was wrong and yet the young man stood his ground and firmly cried “no” in his mind repeatedly. He would not fall into the trap, not again. He mumbled and made out words on his lips yet spoke nothing, his vow more important to him then his life itself. The voice, the desire pushed him, it baited him, ensnared him, pushing him forward even though in the distance he could hear someone coming. Yet in a single moment, in a flash of time, their lips touched, their cold grey skin touching beyond a simple handshake.

They sat in their chairs, locked in their brief kiss. In that short time it was as if time slowed down for Shura, all his fear, anxiety, stress, all of it draining out of him like water in a bath basin. And even though he would regret it, he loved this moment. It was perfect, simply perfect. “Sio! What…What the fuck is this!?” A bellowing voice boomed from the doorway, cutting them out of their embrace, jolting them out of their private universe in such a way that both of them were shocked nearly half to death. Sio stood up quickly, the bellowing man, the assistant to Shura, the mumbling husband of this lovely woman, now yelled out again, shaking his fist in the air and running towards them both, knocking Shura’s chair over and out of the way as he slapped Sio to the ground, the women shrieking just a bit. Shura only laid on the ground, shocked, dazed, confused, his mind slowly drifting away from consciousness. “You bitch! You fucking whore!” The man shouted over and over, hitting the women, pulling her hair, spitting on her, her frail yells of pain.

Shura slowly rose to his feet, looking blankly at the man as he hit Sio over and over again, punching her with ferocity, the dazed and confused Shura simply shaking his head “no”. “ No, no, no, no No!” Shura screamed out, his voice hoarse and shaky, his teeth bared and his stammering just barely making it incoherent. He was filled with anger, nay, rage as this man, this inferior being beat the women he loved, the women, Sio, bleeding out of her nose and weeping loudly. Shura yelled again running towards the man and bashing him in the head with his fist, Shura’s knuckles connecting with the man’s skull with a subtle crack. The man stumbled to the ground, caught off guard yet not just finished as he came to his feet and charged Shura, knocking the boy to the ground, the man’s huge fists slamming into Shura’s bony face soon after. “You like that!? Yeah, I know yea’ do you little bastard?!”

Shura cried out in pain, his nose cracking after a few more hits. He did not want to fight, no he wanted to simply talk, not even that, he wanted to simply leave. He was a pacifist, a man of words, not violence. He…he just could not come to terms with fighting, much less killing a man when it was clearly his own fault. Yet something in Shura cracked, his mind slowly chipping away as he looked to see the bruised and bleeding Sio cry on the ground like a small girl. Something changed in Shura, something…fatal. The boy yelled and spit into the other man’s face, the angered and slightly confused beast of a man falling back just a bit as Shura pushed him, the boy sliding out from under the man and jumping to his feet. Shura bared his teeth, his sharp Nai teeth drenching in his own, purple blood, the boy looking with a disgustingly murderous look on his face, his one remaining eye bloodshot. The man laughed, pointing and calling him an “animal” as he showed him off and slowly walked towards his wife, cursing at her and calling her names before slamming his fist unto her chest, cracking a rib, the women coughing up just a bit of blood as she yelped in pain. Shura sprinted towards the man, knocking him to his feet and turning him on his back as Shura leapt atop of him, the enraged boy slashing into the man’s belly with his unfiled claws, ripping it clean open, the red blood of a human painting Shura and his claws as the boy “dug” deeper and deeper through the man, his claws slicing through his skin and muscle, digging to his internal organs as the man yelled and screamed for help, crying even. He would die either way, yet Shura wanted more, he wanted to finish this, to make an example, to get rid of a man he so bitterly hated.

Shura lunged his face down, biting away at the man’s insides, ripping out his intestines and other major organs, the smaller pieces of flesh being swallowed by Shura as the other, larger organs were thrown to the side, the boy completely devouring the man’s chest, ripping his heart out and ripping it in half with his mouth, swallowing both halves in a matter of moments. His heart beat furiously, his panting, frenzied breaths slipping out of his mouth as he slowly moved towards the bloodied and astounded Sio who only looked at him and shook his head, her distant gaze somewhat…different now. He mumbled a few times, sure the man was dead and that help would arrive. He slowly bent down, sliding next to Sio and laying on her lap as he drifted into sleep, forever changed by this experience.

[-Deus-]

[ PMT ]

[ Mature ]

[ A Faithful Twist ]

Weeks had passed since that dreadful afternoon, when Shura, oh Shura, had brutally murdered the husband of Sio Saer, the poor women herself nearly beaten to death by her enraged spouse. Yet Sio survived the ordeal, growing more and more distant from society as her wounds healed. She still coughed blood now and then, the purple liquid always nearly dripping out of the side of her mouth. Her nose was still cracked and her rib had not yet fully healed. Yet she did not seem to notice, much less care. No instead, she simply drifted, fading out of public view, keeping to her home with her child. It was said she had yet to inform that bastard son of hers, that she wept every night and that hatred for Shura, the desire for him to die a painful death, was all that drove her on. However, no one knows if it was true or not, for the women seldom spoke to others. Yet on this day, something was brewing. On this day something would change.

Sio took swift steps, her quick feet shuffling through the halls of the Citadel, the woman moving with near silence. She tightly clamped a box, the same one from the day of her husband’s murder, her tears streaking down her face as she walked. She moved quickly and quietly, which was quite easy in the often times empty halls of the citadel. A bulge showed through her dingy brown jacket, no doubt a handle or some other item, she her mind was neither preoccupied nor worried about that now. No, she was here for something else, for a mission, a duty even. She was here to kill Shura. A slave walked out of a door, unknowing right in front of the hate filled women who pulled the item, a knife, out of her jacket and stabbed him twice, blood gushing out of his neck as he crimpled to the ground, the women quickening her pace and sprinting.

Another slave got in her way, attempting to stop her only to be nearly stabbed in the chest, yet only knocked to the cold marble ground. She began to yell and scream, alerting her presence to all as she went. It was insanity to even attempt this, near impossible alone and for a citizen. Yet she was intent on fulfilling this duty, intent on paying back her husband’s blood for another’s. And so she ran, quickly going from the fifth floor to the seventh, again stabbing her way through the floor, killing one man with a slash to the head, his shrill screams haunting her as she continued on her path, quickly climbing to the eighth floor. Yet her duty nearly over as she ran and tackled another, unknowing slave, the man shouting and falling with a thud as the women stabbed him in the chest, panting as she did so the red blood of the human slave painting the walls and floor around them. She left the knife in the body, slowly standing to her feet as she walked towards the end of the hall, to what she knew was Shura’s room. Her heart raced, her fear and anxiety nearly dripping out of her as she slowly moved towards the large wooden door, placing her bloodstained hands on it for a moment and pushing it open.

Shura sat on his bed, his chest bandaged up and his missing eye finally covered with a patch. He looked around, somewhat overjoyed at the sight of Sio only to be disgusted as he looked at her broken frame and blood stained hands, his mind racing as he realized this was not a friendly visit. He stood to his feet, walking towards her with his hands outstretched. He mumbled at her, yet she did not listen. No, she hissed and gritted her teeth, angrily charging the man, tackling him to the ground and punching him in the face, the man yelping with pain, his still fragile and broken nose and jaw cracking more and more as she punched harder and harder, her tears dripping on his pale skin, her anger slowly subsiding into sadness and grief. She stopped her attack, standing to her feet and walking off into the corner, loudly sobbing as Shura picked himself up, biting his lip nervously as he thought of something, anything to do. He walked towards her slowly, his hand outstretched, placing it on her shoulder and turning her around, the two of them staring at each other as Sio tried to stop her tears, yet could not. She wept bitterly, trying to keep her gaze on Shura yet she could not, the boy himself feeling helpless inside as well, grieving with her for a man he hated so bitterly.

Shura tried to smile, his jagged and sharpened teeth crookedly providing what little comfort they could give to the women as she continued to cry. He again bit his lip, drawing blood this time around, giving a fanged smile at the taste. He did not know what to do, he did not know if he should do anything, he was confused, dazed, and distant and…inhumane. Yet this woman, Lady Sio Saer, made him happy, no beyond happy even. In addition, he would return the favour, somehow, someway. In addition, with a fanged, toothy smile the man kissed her, slowly leading her towards his bed…

***

Hours had passed since that fateful moment, the two of them now nonchalantly lying in bed, intertwined like vines. They did not speak, no they didn’t even mumble or whisper, only stare. Shura would be lying if he thought he failed horribly, he’d be lying if he felt like a bastard for stealing another man’s wife. Yet he would also be lying if he thought he cared at all. No he didn’t care at all, in fact he was happy he’d done it, that he’d finally got it off his chest, that now Sio would be his. Yet that’s the thing, life is always screwing you over. And this story was no different. As Shura slowly drifted to sleep light footsteps could be heard in the distance, the sound of bellowing laughter echoed into the room, the dazed and near frightened Sio knew exactly who it was.

She bit her lip and tried to wake up Shura, gently shaking him, yet it was futile. The steps grew closer and closer, the snickering voice growing louder and louder until finally the figure emerged in the doorway, Sian Saius, the “dear” sister of Shura. Sian smiled widely, laughing with a disturbing tone, her fanged smile chilling Sio. Sian walked slowly, tapping her nails against the sleeping Shura, staring Sio in the eye with a devilish look in her eye, the women chuckling lightly. “Well hello there…Heh, so…you know what happens next correct?” Sio was paralysed with fear, her hands and legs trembling as Sian came closer and closer, soon the two of them within inches of each other. Sian laughed again, the deathly frightened Sio only whimpering and fainting, slowly drifting away into a nightmare..

[New Azura]

The Rape of Carlette, Chancellor of Fear
[MT] | [Mature]

I must answer the call of my Creator.

The Creator compels me to violently molest and rape the Chancellor‘s family. I don‘t know why he feels the way that he does, but he has complete and utter control over my physical actions. I am urged to do so, and I must obey. Yet I question why it must be this way. Has the Chancellor so grievously afflicted his Creation, that nothing else could be done to spare the wrath to come? Or is the Chancellor another reflection of some larger world, that we‘re not privy to?

I drive like a possessed man on the way to the target. I feel as if I were born into the world for this very purpose—that I didn‘t exist before I received my calling. Who am I answering the call of, exactly? What do I do when I‘m finished with the work? Do I fade into nothingness, or will there be more tasks to perform? How do I look another sentient being in the eyes and explain to them what I‘m about to do? Is there no morality, even in the vast expanses of the cosmos?

I pull into the Chancellor‘s driveway, unassuming like. I don‘t even remember how I got here—the streets passed like a blur, distorted into fantastic roving shadows that mixed together like the colors of some bland, surrealist canvas. Maybe I‘m dreaming… perhaps there‘s nothing here at all but the wanton machinations of a designer gone mad…

Kill them as violently as you can, the voice cries out. The Creator is angry, and his wrath must be fulfilled. Perhaps the Creator is suffering under the plight of a challenge I cannot understand. Perhaps the Creator is wresting control of his destiny away from the Creator that made him. All I know is that I am compelled to act, that when I stop acting, I stop being.

I‘m inside the house… how did I get inside the house? The family is sitting down to dinner, and it will be their last meal. I can sense the father coming towards me, rampant and afraid. He‘s the Chancellor, but he‘s not my Chancellor. I‘m not supposed to kill him… and yet I wrap my hands around his neck, twisting as hard as I can. He drops to the floor, but I‘m already stepping over him. How did I do that?

Please, Creator, do not use me as an instrument of destruction. These people have been placed into the eye of my darkening mind, yet I’ve never met them before. I don’t even know their names… and yet I do know their names now. Did you forget, O’ Vengeful Creator, and finally remembered to put them to my memory?

Now you will obey, the voice commands. Madness… I feel madness emanating from deep inside my being. The Creator is under duress—I must follow that which he forces me to do. I leap forward, taking the little four year old by the hair. Such innocence, such wonderment… I take the Chancellor‘s daughter and throw her into the glass china cabinet that just now appeared. Her back smashes through the glass, causing a gasped, stricken cry of pain from her worried mother.

I don‘t know if the girl is alive or dead, but she‘s not what I came for anyways. I‘m on top of the Chancellor now, ripping open her blouse. Why am I doing this? I have no sexual desire for this woman, but perhaps the Creator wants me to. She struggles against me, and I‘m smiling… but I don‘t know why I‘m smiling. What is smiling? Can a rational being smile when understanding this? Am I even here?

Her undergarments are snatched violently from her body, the cloth ripping strand by strand. And I furiously pound her body, her exposed flesh suffering heavily under my command. I thrust harder and harder, feeling nothing inside but an empty void that has always been there, yet never was. This is going too quickly… I climax, yet I have no sensation of gratification or desire. I take my hand and backhand the Chancellor in the face, licking the shades of purple and red that develop from my handprint.

The little girl is crying in the corner, and I take a shard of glass and stab her mother in the stomach, making her little girl watch as the blood runs from the wound. I rip at her chest with my knife—when did I have a knife? Slashing, slashing, ripping as hard as I can with as much vitriol and hatred that I can muster. Blood is spreading, but she‘s not dead. I want her again, and I take her again.

I flip her over, having at her from behind. Now I feel the sensations, the bloodlust boiling deep inside. Harder, faster, I can feel it now! I can feel it, and yet I am so reviled at what I‘m doing. This whore, this pathetic whore… oh, how has she wronged you so badly, Creator? What hast thou to do with a miserable wretch like this?

I can feel the excitement, the climax building. I‘m on the cusp of unleashing every pent up, newly-found sensation in her broken body. And my rage is fulfilled, and I‘m screaming… but no words come forward! I‘m a silent warrior, wounded and afraid, but I plunge deeper into the psychotic madness. She‘s broken, she‘s defeated. I have complete control over her, and now it‘s time to finish it, the Creator says.

I take my knife and plunge it as hard as I can into her back, feeling the blade snitch and tear at tendons and muscles. I spin her over, dragging my knife through her body with ease; my mind informing me coolly that I shouldn‘t be able to do that. She‘s barely holding onto life now, but I make her watch as I destroy the face of her daughter with the blade of my wrath.

I walk back to the Chancellor, and I plunge it into her face. She finally gives up her will to live, and her spirit dies within her. Now there‘s nothing but quiet… and the screams of her child and her panic-stricken body still reverberating in my ears. I walk out the door as quickly as I‘d come in, sitting down on the porch. There are flashing lights about, but no policemen. They had no face, in my recollections. How can I be held responsible for the Chancellor‘s family, when I couldn‘t see who I was hurting?

The world is growing dark. The lights are flashing, but the cars are gone. I‘m sitting in a world void of anything but that which is right about me. I want to resist, but I‘m bound to serve the Creator. But the Creator has no more use for me, and I‘m fading from existence. Why do I live? Who am I? I don‘t even have a name…

My world is gone, now. I‘m a formless void floating in the Cosmos. I almost make out the visage of a man staring at me from across this barrier… I don‘t know what it is, but I see that he‘s very sad. He‘s almost to the point of tears. Is this my Creator? Where is he at? And why… I know already the answer. I know it as he imparts it to me. I helped him, somehow, but I don‘t know in what manner. He nods to me, and I can see his face clearly. It looks like me… and he let me have one last moment of clarity before everything stops. Darkness is coming - I‘m fading from his memory.

Carlette… I think her name was Carlette…

[-Deus-]

[ PMT ]

[ Mature ]

[ The Birth Of A God ]

I breathed slowly, in…out…in…out, repeatedly, savouring each breath on my lips and tongue. I breathed faster and faster every now and then, clamping my teeth as I did so, the pain welling up inside of me. Issac was in front of me, that horribly man, the man who would touch and feel me awkwardly, the man who would spit and beat me, and the man who cursed and attempted to kill me multiple times was now helping me deliver a child. I breathed heavier, my arms chained to a wall as I sat and tried to lay on my back, yet to no avail. I struggled, the pain burning, swelling even as the man smiled and looked down, and holding out his hands to help me with the child. It was not his child, thank god. No, it was the ruler of my fair and noble country. It was my former love, my former friend, Shura Saius. The bastard was probably...Ah…pro...probably eating goose and lobster as I was thrown into this hole, into this underground prison.

I gritted my teeth, speeding up my breathing, panting even as I began to push just a bit, the man giving me a devilish smile as...as...Ah!...I sc…screamed. I gritted my teeth as tears slowly began to drip down my face, burning my cheeks and catching in my gaping mouth as I screamed again. The pain was excruciating, burning, I could hardly bare it as it went on, each scream and push putting me in more and more pain. I tried to close my eyes, but I could not, I had to stare, I could hardly blink. I screamed, the deafening yell echoing throughout the cave, the man bellowing with laughter at my pain. The tears burned down my face, th...the…wish to simply fall over and die a luxury something I couldn’t afford as Issac gave me a crocked smile. I yelled out again, pushing harder and harder, the burning pain filling my insides, Issac mumbling something as he slapped his hand against my cheek, my tears still streaking painfully. I cried out a final time, the shrill shriek echoing throughout the cave.

An…an…and then...then it just died down, the searing pain slowly residing, the lingering burn still there just…just not something I was worried about as a plump, colourless blob sat in front of me in Issac’s arms, the man smiling as the colourless blob shrieked and cried. All the pain…all the hate and anger I felt, all of it was gone as I looked over the blob, tears of joy replacing my painful tears. I just could not believe it. I just could not believe that this…thing was mine, that it was a part of me. Issac looked over me, giving me a crooked smile before lunging forward, clamping what felt like teeth on my neck. The pain was enormous but I did not care…no, I was just…to…to happy for my…Si…

***

“Well, aren’t you a purrty one. Heh heh heh.” Issac croaked, black blood dripping from his mouth as he looked at the small child, the baby shrieking as purple blood and other such liquids dripped from its tiny body. Boots could be heard in the distance, the sound of running echoing inside the cave as Issac looked down at the kid, smiling with his crooked teeth. The kid cried more and more as it’s mother lay slumped on the wall and ground, blood leaking out of her neck, the poor women killed just after giving birth. Issac gave another toothy smile, spitting across the room as he rocked the baby back and forth, chanting something, as the boots grew louder and louder. The clanging sound of metal soon deafened out the boots, Issac ignoring it as he slowly swayed his head back and forth.

“Prisoner 443243, what are do you have th…Holy Shit, a child!” A man ran inside the room, metal keys swaying to his side, deafening out the stomping sound of his boots. The man ran towards Issac, the oblivious prisoner going wide eyed before shrieking evilly and lunging his head forward, only to be stopped in his track, his neck caught by the man, his black spit dripping on the baby’s stomach, the child shrieking. The man clamped his hand harder and harder around Issac’s neck, the prisoner wheezing and coughing as he gasped for air, the guard clamping harder and harder until Issac wheezed a final time and slumped unto the ground, the baby rolling on the ground, the guard in shock at the scene. The rancid stench clogged the man’s nostrils, the floor drenched in faeces, urine, blood and other such things, the baby on the ground next to two corpses, shrieking loudly. The guard bent down, his face empty of everything except sadness, the horrendous birth of the child something even he felt bad about.

The man cleaned the child off, walking towards the door slowly, leaving the scene behind. “Oh you poor little…girl. You’ll be fine, oh just fine. Your daddy will be happy to see you.” The man wanted to shout for help, yet the child would be no doubt killed if he did. The child would survive however; if the man made it to the citadel in one piece that is. She would be destined for great things in her life, She would be a god amongst men if things continued on the path. Oh…The things this child would do.

[Greater Tezdrian]

沒有光

[MT]

[Mature]

---

---

Jin stumbled through the darkness. His breathe came in ragged burst as he ran through the undergrowth. Where? He didn't know. He stumbled again, this time falling. A branch had felled him but he stood again and ran; sobbing in desperation they were coming for him, he knew that. Stop. What was that? Jin heard a rustling in the undergrowth. He ran now, screaming with fear and anguish. He tripped again, and they were upon him. Boot to groin. Boot to chest. Boot to face. He spit out shards of teeth and coughed up glinting blood. And then he felt an icy hot pain.

Xinjian Incarceration Center, Puwei

Subject Neutralized. Prisoner +145498 was incarcerated for Crimes Against the State. Subject escaped and was swiftly dispatched.

Dr. Hoikin Gauzni,
NI Aug/2/90

[Abruzi]

Goodbye Homeworld

FT

Pride. All of them felt it, all of them basked in the glow of recognition as one by one they reiceved their rank pins. The clapping and cheering that echoed around the basilica of the Marital Academy Number Nine were overpowering yet to him they were far off and muted. Today, was the day he had waited for. Today he would take his place in the ranks of the Imperial Guard and finally begin to do his duty to the God Emperor of Man, for himself and his family. The Vatra family had for generations endured the stain of disgrace, earned on the bloodstained fields of Krieg herself during the Great Heresy. No more, today the last of the Vatras would earn his rank pins and return his family to the light and glory of the Emperor. Today the hidden disgrace of Krieg would be swept away forever!

As his name was called by the gaunt faced Commissars, Bol Vatra robotically stepped forward and ascended the steps of the stage. His Recruit Company Commander Colonel Schmerz smiled grimly and shook his hand, pinning the small rank insignia onto his tunic. The sensation of warmth began to spread through Bol’s body and after a confused moment he realized that this was the feeling of rapture that had for so long been denied to him. The old warrior before him he realized was a legend, a veteran from the wars of Armageddon who had only returned to Krieg because of the loss of his right arm.It was fitting that this glorious hero of the Imperium would be the one to welcome Vetra and his disgraced Comrades into the service of the God Emperor.

The crude mechanical limb growled slightly as he raised it into a salute, the gesture almost completely lost because of the large claw. Bol returned the salute and swiftly about faced, stepping back into ranks. Again one with his peers, Bol allowed his mind to wander back to the glories he would surely win in the name of the Imperium and the Vatra family.

Disappointment, anger, hatred, all circled around Bol’s head as he read and re-read his assignment. It surely was a mistake, surely it was not true! Yet even as he hoped that there was an error in the order he knew that it was correct. He knew that to argue would only be shameful and futile, a mockery of the Krieg way. Sliding into his overcoat that was marked with the still new Rank of Lieutenant, Bol donned his respirator and left his Spartan cell. The hallway was glaring bright and completely featureless with concrete-gray walls, floors, and ceiling. His footfalls echoed around the hallway, a quick beat to set his pace to. He walked for many minutes and finally reached the Shuttle that would take him to his assignment, his shameful assignment.

The gray box was full of Guardsmen, from the looks of it veteran soldiers one and all. Bol Vetra, Lieutenant Bol Vetra was very much the junior here and quietly took his seat closest to the cockpit. The Guardsmen regarded him for a moment but then seemed to carry on with their small talk, earning a sigh of relief from the fresh faced Officer. Strapping himself in, Bol adjusted his cap and closed his eyes. Rule number one of the Imperial Guard was ,“Always sleep when you can.” Only seconds later the shuttle rocked, ending Bol’s nap and abruptly silencing the conversation between the veterans. The grainy squeal of a vox system filled Lt. Vetra’s Respirator and the pilot said,

“Lift off commencing in ten seconds, praise the Emperor.”

Vetra smiled beneath his mask and replied with,

“Affirmative, blessed be his name!”

The ornate craft that came into view was more massive than any other Bol had ever seen. Covered in flowing High Gothic script, the ship was as much a work of art as it was an effective and fearsome weapon. As the Shuttle began it’s final approach the spindly name, “Zerstoer” came into view. Mighty cannons and torpedo tubes were visible but Bol was certain that there were dozens of weapons that were concealed within the great metal skin of the ship. The shuttle shuddered again and the pilot’s grainy voice returned to Bol with,

“ETA one minute, blessed be his warriors!”

Bol replied with,

“Roger, only with his blessing can we survive!”

The shuttle came to rest in the hanger and the Lt. rose form his seat. Feeling his inexperience, Lieutenant Vetra rose and barked,

“Form up men!”

The veterans complied though he received several weary looks from the Guardsmen. As the ramp lowered the Warriors of Krieg marched out, the very definition of military precision. The deck was completely filled with menials and servitors, demonstrating the wealth of their new Commander. Lt. Bol Vetra and his men marched down the corridor formed by the crew and came to stop before a mighty figure, clad in golden power armor. Together the Guardsmen saluted and the figure merely nodded. He made the sign of the Aquila and softly said,

“Welcome, my friends.”

The Lt. lowered his salute and replied with,

“Rouge Trader Schatten, by the order of the Governor of Krieg we have come to accompany your ship. May the Emperor bless our journey.”

Shatten lowered his metal shod arm and said,

“The Emperor protects!”

The newly formed retinue followed in the wake of the Rouge Trader, the veterans stared straight ahead while Bol could not help but gaze about him with awe. He had seen dozens of pics of the interiors of starships but now he was seeing them with his own eye, seeing things that mere pictures could not do justice to. They finally came to stop in the bridge, a great circular dome filled with servitors manning the various stations with an efficiency and diligence no human could replicate. The Rouge trader gestured towards the sensor that displayed the image of Krieg. His velvet voice echoed impossibly loud in Lt. Vetra’s head as he said,

“Take a good look men, you will never see her again.”

[Free Irish Lands]

Tag gona come back to this one

[-Deus-]

[ A Revelation ]

It was dark, cold, and lifeless. I drifted in what seemed like a space untouched by space and time, everything still as I floated like a speck of dust. I was calm, my heart beating with the pace of a snail as I looked around, making slow breaths, inspecting the sound and feeling of each one. I prayed, soon becoming afraid as the darkness seemed to enclose in on me, slowly crushing me, sucking out the life… *BOOM* . A crackling sound rippled out all around me, flashing lights and vectors swirling around my head and chasing the darkness back, the lights, those beautiful lights, showing me things that only the truly blessed see. Yet now the space was illuminated, the grand tick of a clock setting the pace, a sphere below me, the planet…my home. I could see rock and simply rock, nothing but the same brown coloured mineral, the sun brightly shining and giving it an ugly illumination. Yet soon the sound of pounding rocks jolted me out of my daze, the planet below being struck with a volley of space rock and ice, one space rock broke from its path, landing in an orbital path around the planet, it’s shape the same as the larger planet, the two of them seemingly hand and hand like spinning children.

The planet was littered with craters, the ice chunks covering the planet in large heaps and masses the eerie whistle that the planet gave off chilling me to my core as I sniffed and immediately the ice began to melt, the large quantities of water forming oceans, lakes and seas. The sparkling blue water lightened me up inside, warming my heart as I lowered my hand down and grabbed a handful of water, sucking up the crystal clear water, continents of lushes green forming. Green began to sprout this way and that over the planet, the lively green and blue planet like a shining gem in the dark void of space. Yet it was empty, devoid of life and other such things, the planet warm on the outside, yet dead and chilling on the inside. I sighed, clapping my hands as if to cheer the planet on…nothing….nothin- *Chirp* ! I heard something suddenly, the sound of life, the sound of primitive birds soaring in the air, squawking, the sound of fish stirring up the seas and massive land beasts that formed mountains as they walked, the crimpling planet forming hills, valleys and mighty mountains slowly as time went on. Life! Oh, glorious life had been born on the formally desolate Terra.

Yet still it was missing something, still it was devoid and empty of that essential intelligence. The beasts seem to act on instinct, yet not on feeling. The beasts acted on need rather than want. They only consumed and recycled, yet never create save for other, tinier versions of themselves. I sighed, thinking long and hard, a time passing, the planet below evolving, the former beasts growing larger and larger, dominating the planet heavily, the beasts now the masters of the living planet that not only served but loved it’s masters. I thought harder and harder, the noise of the planet below nearly blocking out all thought until…,finally it all just stopped, all of it, everything. I looked and saw nothing but an empty planet, only the slight sound of tiny creatures under and above the Terra did I hear. My heart grew sad…the clock ticking to match my growing depression. *Slap….SLAP* The sound caught me off guard, the large crack soon after getting my interest as I looked at the planet, small, hairy creatures standing on two legs instead of four like the beasts of times past. They walked like no creature I had ever seen. They acted on want and need. On instinct and feeling. They created, destroyed, recycled and consumed. They were human.

For a time things were simple, I watched the humans learn and grow, the simple creatures growing besides other beasts, and one in particular chilled my blood, their violent antics something I loathed. I cursed them with short lifespans, giving them the gift and curse of death early as well as the fear of water, something I personally found amusing, I named them blood eaters. The humans grew in number however, covering the planet soon after, grouping together in groups, creating dwellings out of rock and wood, creating systems to live in. They worked endlessly, like ants, creating, building, living in peace with one another. They praised one called “God”, one that I knew not of previously. However some did attempt to speak my name…something I found curious enough. As the humans grew in power, so did their arrogance. Soon the humans constructed weapons, things to strike one another, yet not with the intent to kill, but with the intent to wound. They called this “war” and forever more this simple game became a staple of human nature. Yet they were still a simple people, living in large dwellings of simple means and techniques. Their numbers grew however, an inflow of intelligence sweeping over them as they began to create temples of marble, walls as large as mountains that swept over the planet like a snake, or third dimensional triangles that stood on a golden carpet of dust. They turned herbs into medicine, turning rock into tools, metal into weaponry, feasting on the other beasts of the planet as their arrogance grew and they concluded that they were the highest creatures in the universe.

Yet the vanity of man grew to a point most foul, the game of war no longer a game as men slaughtered men, women cried for husbands and children cried for mothers. The planet was in turmoil, growing violent, growing arrogant and greedy, pride and vanity one of the greatest vices of man as they fought each other. I could not help but feel sadness in my heart as the clock ticked to a moderate pace, beads of sweat falling from my forehead as I watched intently. Yet one grouping of people caught my interest. A kind people, related to the blood eaters, which lived on an island, a small piece of Terra, a speck compared to other groups of people. They called themselves a particularly interesting name, one I have forgotten many times by now…yet I watched them intently, their kindness and intelligence something to admire, something to love about them. They lived in simple homes, lived by need, and feeling, yet were unconsumed by vanity. Even the blood eaters cooled down, settling on an island south of these kind people, the blood eaters living simply and calmly like humans. I paced left and right, watching these people grow, watching them learn and live in peace with their neighbour. Yet something grew in the people, something sick and deranged, something twisted and slowly corrupted…something inside them slowly began to covet a certain golden object, something I knew nothing about at the time. Yet this item transformed the people into monsters as they struck down their neighbours, conquering them, forcing themselves upon them, controlling them like animals, the once kind people taking over the entire island, the blood eaters themselves quacking in fear of these people.

Yet the blood eaters stood their ground, even the actions of a certain soldier not shaking them. They stood like pillars in their belief as the once kind people launched attack after attack on them, slowly breaking through the formally strong wall, the wall soon cracking, the city of the blood eaters crumbling and falling to the evil beasts. For once the blood eaters knew pain and suffering, for once the blood eaters cried out with fear and pain, being beaten and broken by the evil beasts day and night, the blood eaters dying slowly, crippling under the evil beasts before coming to the end, the blood eaters subjugated under the evil beats, the will to fight stripped out of them. I was heartbroken to see this, my heart ached for the blood eaters and I grew vengeful with the formally kind people. Yet I did nothing but watch, my heart beating quickly, nearly ripping out of my frail chest. For a time the blood eaters lived simply under the evil beasts who grew in power, the beasts themselves cooling down as the rapid waters of time eroded their evil ways. Yet still they were corrupted and twisted. The world was again in turmoil as I looked around, the advent of war all around me, the seas running red with blood. I was sick to my very core, vomiting up what seemed like bloody rocks, these rocks burning the planet below in some places. At least this cheered me up. I closed my eyes, tightly shutting them, hoping to get a closer look…hoping….

I opened up my eyes, a man in front of me, the leader of the evil ones. The man was tall, lanky and bony, old in wisdom yet young in years. He ruled with a just hand, caring, fair minded, and even looking out for the blood eaters who grew restless as time passed. I stood behind the man, the kid leader standing on a balcony over a large crowd, the sky above grey, a storm no doubt brewing. The man chanted with his people, lifting his arms in the air, his pride astounding. He would do great things for this nation, great things for his peo… *Bam Bam BAM* . Three shots rang out in quick succession, rocking the entire planet, shaking me down to my core. The feeling was unimaginably painful as the man, the great leader, the only one who could hope to restore the evil beast’s crimpled to the ground, slowly turning to dust as he faded out of history, my pain for him boiling out of my body as I grew into a rage. Yet it was no use, the people below had grown angry, brother taking up sword against brother and son against father as a war burst between them. The once green island turned red with the blood of the innocent, the tears and wailing of women without husbands and children without fathers causing me great pain myself. Yet I heard a yell soon after, a boy standing atop a mountain, a boy made of flesh and metal, his gleaming red eye giving everyone a comfort that was the only hope anyone had. He commanded them to put down their weapons, the entirety of the people joining him in his stance for peace. Yet the boy was weak inside, dying slowly, his flesh decaying before slowly he expired, the nation grieving for him intensely, weeping for him, praying to him even. Yet he would never be back.

Yet a woman rose in his place, a kind ruler like the former man. She was sweat, kind, her lover one of supremely high morals, the two nearly inseparable. Three children were blessed to them as the world around them slowly calmed down. The oldest, the son of the Morningstar was a kind child, helpful, compassionate, a beautiful child in physical merit and mental ability. Yet inside the child an evil grew, an evil the once again kind people knew nothing of. Yet the evil was hidden, unseen and unknown, the evil force growing and festering inside of him like a disease. The blood eaters grew more and more agitated the violent people of the past growing loud and rowdy. The daughter was of no importance, something I find odd. Yet the other son, the son of the twin moon was a child of extreme mental ability, yet squandered, unimportant physical merit. He suffered heavily, and I felt for the boy, yet I never rose my hand against them, instead spending my time among the clocks, the ticking often times jolting me out of a daze. Yet soon the find female ruler passed on, dying slowly with her lover, the two of them hand and hand as they ceased to exist, forever being solidified in history. The son of the Morningstar grew in power, taking command of the nation, the people cheering him on as he enacted great things with his sister and brother, the trio seemingly a blessing to the people as even the blood eaters calmed down. Yet something began to crack within the son of the Morningstar, the formally kind child growing into a pitiful monster as he thrust the entire nation into hell, even his sister dying by his hand. The nation was a wreck, gasping for air as it chocked under water, soon dying out in a ball of fire, only the son of the moon escaping…well, he and the monstrous leader of the former nation’s child, a boy known as the Morningstar Prince. The pair escaped, traveling to the land of the blood eaters.

I wheezed and coughed as I watched the pair, the son of the moon teaching and educating the Prince, the two of them the best of friends in the prince’s younger days. It warmed my heart, bringing subtle tears to my eyes watching them from above, the clocks all around me ticked slowly and peacefully. Things began to change though, the boy growing older, even running away with a girl, the two of them living a life of happiness and adventure, even supporting a child together. I closed my eyes again, hoping to get a closer look at the scene, opening up my eyes slowly to see a horrid sight. The girl lay dead, her cold, lifeless body in the hands of the Morningstar Prince, the boy sobbing uncontrollably as he begged for her to come back, his heart cracking, his mind trying to erase any memory of her, yet he could not. A timed passed, the boy sucking up his tears as he stood to his feet, wiping his face, walking away slowly, his mumbling words incoherent to anyone around him as he walked off into the distance, never to be seen again. Yet timed passed, no sign of the boy was seen or heard, yet stories ran rampant as the son of the moon finally died, his last words one of remorse at his evil brothers actions. Even I cried as the old man slowly passed. The ticking sped up, going faster and faster before completely stopping all together, transporting me again to an event in time. I could see a new man now, tall, fit, healthy. He wore a black suit, a little girl next to him, the two of them on a balcony atop of a tower, the city all around them dark and full of blood eaters. Yet as I walked around to see their faces only masks could I see, the shining silver of the pairs masks hiding their faces, obscuring them near perfectly before the ticking began again, the cheering around drumming out all thoughts from my head as time again sped up, this time a fully grown woman in a mask in front of the cheering people. It was odd, yet the blood eaters had finally be tamed, even one such city named after a monster was now tamed and calmed.

I turned my back on it all. The planet was growing more and more violent, a man in particular taking the prize of insanity, his name chilling me. Humans had grown insane with arrogance and power, dominating the planet like evil beasts, sucking up every resource they could, killing each other like animals. It sickened me. The ticks became faster as I again looked down at the blood eaters, wars rocking the nation, the formerly masked woman disappeared as two soon took her place, twins even, one of superb writing ability and the other of extreme violence. They enjoyed life, even the writer was father to a daughter, the violent queen herself having a son. It was a time of war, yet peace as the nation fought with anyone and everyone it could, the inner part of the nation calm and peaceful. The ticking went faster, a large flash blinding me for a moment, a city left in rubble, people crying and cursing for it, loathing each other as anarchy fell over the ruined city. Time went into overdrive, the twins dying soon after, a new, capable leader putting the nation again into a twisted, singular regime, complete control given to her and her alone. Yet she fell by a bullet, just as leaders passed had. I cried and cried, the planet falling into disarray, explosions rocking the planet, blood turning the planet red, tears and weeping buzzing in my mind as I wanted it all to end, all it. Yet it never did, it just kept going and going, burning inside of me as the world descended into madness, everything following as it all went to hell. I yelled out, crying out curses and painful words as I tried to end it all, the poison that is humanity making it near impossible for me until with a loud voice I cried out “Enough!”…

[Abruzi]

Dreams

MT

The soft whisper of the wind on the trees was the only sound for miles around it seemed. The almost ever present wail of the telescreens was far behind them and the deep growl of industry a distant memory. The five pale figures marveled at the trees, the full green trees that looked so different without a gas mask on. The trees that had for so long symbolized more than just life and growth but freedom. Smiling, Yuri Prichudlivyi slowly sat and gazed upwards into the clear blue sky…..and then awoke.

The darkness was familiar, it was safe, and most of all it was home. All around him the snores and muttered phrases of his fifty Comrade Students continued unabated as Yuri sat and remembered his dream. The dormitory was small, only large enough for fifty cots laid out with less than two feet between them. Two telescreens blared their patriotic message from opposite ends of the room during the day and quietly muttered during the night. Above each bed was a small shelf that was filled with the only personal possessions the Comrade Students had, textbooks. Next to the books was their various colored gasmasks, with the majority being in the olive dab colors of the Lower Party and Military with one or two Scarlet Upper Party children.

Yuri’s mask was itself olive drab, the only reminder her got of his unknown parents. They lived in Utopia he supposed, or perhaps Unity City. Other than that he knew next to nothing about them. His thoughts returning to his dream, the young man hunched over and produced his most secret possession. The notebook was unremarkable. The cover was black with the normal white lined paper on the inside. Every couple pages or so there was a simple number that served as his own calendar and below these numbers were his idle writings or occasionally, dreams. He scribbled his recollections on the pad of paper quickly, taking care to glance over at his immediate neighbors.

Shoving it back under the skinny mattress he threw himself back down into bed and closed his eyes. Willing himself to sleep, Yuri rejoined his Comrades in his own dream world.

The woods were deep, filled with the animals that he knew he would never see within the Neo Bolshevist Union. The sound of a running stream gained his attention and just as he was going to reach out and scoop up a handful of water he blinked, and it was gone. The roomed was dark, just light enough to read the textbooks that sat in his hands. It had been over five months since the dream had begun, and gradually it had grown to dominate his life. Every waking minute was spent longing for the freedom and beauty the dream offered. His Comrade Teachers had long ago noticed but assumed that like many of his Comrade Students it was merely puberty. The Neo Bolshevist State could control much but it could not alter the natural progression of the body….could it?

Regardless, Yuri labored through the rest of the term quietly but passionately. He waited for the small window of opportunity he would have, the day of liberty the students enjoyed at the end of term could very well be spent running, running from this place. This hell that was all gears and warfare and the mask, the rubberized Gas Mask that placed a firm lock upon the window to the soul. The mask that was the reason why no one would ever know who their parents were or where they came from. The mask that was the State as surely as the Ministry of Contentment watched the citizenry.

As the day drew closer and closer Yuri grew more and more obsessed until finally it came. With shaking hands he opened the great iron door to the Academy, it squealed in protest but opened well enough. Walking down the street, Yuri stared wide eyed at the monuments to the Neo Bolshevist Union that lined the roadway. In the distance a great factory belched forth acrid smog and rained ash upon the depressing city and only a few feet away the familiar telescreens roared their love of country.

Standing before the Train Master he opened his Internal Passport and resigned himself to answering all of the other man’s questions as well as he could. The Train Master regarded him for a moment and said,

" Prichudlivyi zapyatoĭ Yuriĭ , kakova vasha tselʹ ? "

“Prichudlivyi comma Yuri, what is your destination?”

Yuri’s mind raced, he had not thought of a city to say he traveled to and blurted out the first one that came to mind.

" Nu ... . yedinstva goroda tovarishch ! "

“Uh….Unity City Comrade!”

The Train Master narrowed his eyes slowly and said,

" Kakova vasha tselʹ yestʹ ? "

“What is your purpose there?”

Yuri smiled and replied,

" Verhnyaya tovarishch Funktsiya partii! "

“Upper Party Function Comrade!”

Confident that he could bluff his way past the guard. The Train Master laughed and replied with,

" Malʹchik , ya vizhu vashi olivkovyĭ maska . U uchenyh uchitʹ nichego ? Vy dazhe ne mozhete lgatʹ mne pravilʹno, vy predatelʹ! "

“Boy, I see your Olive Drab Mask. Do the Scholams teach nothing? You cannot even lie to me properly you traitor!”

Yuri’s mouth slowly opened, it had been so obvious, it had been so glaringly obvious and yet he had fallen to ruin by his own hand. He realized that he was still so naïve, never mind it being his last year at the Academy, never mind him being the smartest in his class. The youth of the Neo Bolshevist Union had no common sense or practical uses, because those that attended the Scholam were completely isolated and had nowhere to demonstrate their talents. Now he had ruined his only chance at escape by blundering over his second answer.

The Train Master reached into his pocket and produced a small badge, smiling he said,

" Po rasporyazheniyu ministra udovletvorennostʹ, sila ministerstva , i volya Gospodar Lubanja YA arestovatʹ vas tovarishch ! "

“By the order of the Minister of Contentment, the power of the Ministry, and the will of the Gospodar Lubanja I arrest you Comrade!”

Fixing a set of rough iron cuffs to Yuri’s wrists and herding him into a tightly packed truck he whispered into Yuri’s ear,

" Kstati predatelʹ , my uzhe v gorode yedinstva. "

“By the way traitor, we are already in Unity City.”

Yuri swallowed and went to reply but was thrust into unconsciousness by the second Ministry Man who sat inside the truck. The vehicle sped off and hours later came to a camp far from the ash and smog filled city. As Yuri and the other “traitors” were shoved off a loudspeaker wailed and boomed,

"Dobro pozhalovatʹ v Ugolovnyĭ otdel 74602 , sluzhat gosudarstvu takzhe i Vy mozhete bytʹ pogasheny v glazah Neo bolʹshevist·skih idyealov i Gospodar Lubanja ! "

“Welcome to Penal Division 74602, serve the State well and you may be redeemed in the eyes of the Neo Bolshevist Ideal and the Gospodar Lubanja!”

[Zypra]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

Blood Stains

He was 18 and I was 12, still just a little girl. Me and Andrew had always been good siblings. Never had any fights, and Andy had a good influence on me. He stuck up for me when I got in trouble, he kept me away from drugs, and when I’d had a bad day he’d say “come home bro, I’ll make some hot chocolate and you can tell me all about it.” He was joking, as usual, but it would still happen. We spent most of our childhood down south, in Brennan, where the weather was exceptionally cool all year 'round, with the exception of a minor snowstorm every winter.

In the summer of ‘08, our family was on a day trip to Port Albury, during a weekend away. This was years after being diagnosed with major depressive disorder and I was finally at peace with my step dad, who was driving. Before getting back in the car to go back to the crib, my brother and I played paper-scissors-rock to see who would sit in the middle seat, the seat that only had a seat belt that goes across your lap. He lost. We were on our way back to the crib, and I was asleep. My mum was in the front, step dad was driving, my brother in the middle in the back, I was beside him, and someone who was with us on the other side of him. No one was watching the road except my step dad, who was going 90km/h. We were on a gravel road, and approaching a blind corner, when he cut it, going across on the wrong side of the road. I heard my mother scream something and we hit a truck, head on. I woke up in time to see bodies flying and I felt the shock and pain of the impact and the deafening sound of car vs truck, then everything went black.

After running from the car, I turn around to see my brother half off his seat, eyes half open, blood pouring from his face and he was making some sick moaning sound. Panicking I tried to open my mothers door but she was trapped, and screaming. I looked at the truck we hit, and I saw the driver. He was slouching in his seat, his face white, his eyes were staring, unblinking, at me. The weird thing was, I thought “he’s dead, I need to help the living.”

When I got back to my brother, my mum and step dad had got him out of the car and onto the road. When I saw that he had wet his pants, I knew that something was seriously wrong. He kept talking to me and saying weird things and didn’t make sense.

I ran to get my cell, but there was no reception.

An hour later, I was in the back of an ambulance, my brother beside me. I couldn’t breathe on my own anymore. (later found out I had broken ribs) By now there were several fire engines, ambulances and police cars everywhere. There were paramedics everywhere, between me and my brother. They were working on him. I heard him throwing up, and heard a medic say “he’s throwing up too much blood.” It was about then I went into shock, and later he was taken away in a helicopter I couldn’t even hear.

That night, in a strange hospital, I was saying goodbye to my brother, “just in case he doesn’t make it, sweetie..” as my mother said. After hours I was able to leave my bed in the emergency room and visit him before they flew him away again. His face was a sick pale grey/blue. His golden curls were matted with blood. He had been put into a coma. Machines were everywhere, keeping him alive. I held his hand, and it was cold. When you touch someone’s skin, you can feel them inside. You can feel their personality, your shared memories, the essence of them, under their skin. I couldn’t feel that in my brother. All I held was an empty, cold, white hand. My brother, wasn’t there. I whispered “I love you Andrew, I always will”, and let all the doctors take him away.

My brother survived. No one knows how, the only thing we can guess is that he was very, very lucky. The countless doctors, brain surgeons, are all surprised. He had several long emergency surgeries on his brain and face, one taking up to 11 hours. My brother is still with me today, and although a little different, I count every smile, every joke, every day as a blessing. It’s taken three years but he’s almost back to the state he was in before the crash.

I never thought something so horrible could happen to us, to my brother. To think that he was about to die, being told by my mother and the surgeons that he might not be around much longer, is unexplainable. No one can comprehend it until it happens, I swear.

[Abruzi]

The Last and the Lost

FT

Mature

The Primarch Zeta stood aboard his battle barge, awe inspiring in his obsidian MK IV Armor. The ashen Planet of Turgov, the new home planet of the Death Cult legion of Space Marines sat below. Appearing a sickly gray-green, the Marines and Menials had begun to fondly call it the Spherical Enigma. The surface of Turgov being completely devoid of plant life or anything remotely green being the enigma. Ruins and stone covered the majority of the planet and it seemed a fitting home world for the Death Cult.

Zeta, the last, gazed down at his planet. A mix of fondness and revulsion upon his marble features. His Brother Primarch of the Death Guard, Mortion, had once said that with this look Zeta could end civilizations and it seemed that if given the chance he would end his own now. The Death Cult and the Death Guard bore many similarities. Both Legions claimed the word Death in their titles, both refused to ornament their war gear, both Primarchs rarely spoke, and both had blazed a path of destruction before the Heresy. The Heresy that Zeta had to return to stop, to end, to exterminate.

The Death Guard and Death Cult had one difference, one that was in the eyes of many, insignificant. The sons of Mortion emulated the methodical approach of Death, the Death Cult emulated the fury of the grave. Here was Zeta’s secret, his fury, his rage, the emotion that allowed him to reduce whole species to dust without despairing. His brother could boast about his grim resolve but not even Angron could match Zeta’s rage. The silent rage that was the inevitable advance of death.

Zeta stared at his planet and thought of his Legion’s history.

The Death Cult had been at the forefront of the Great Crusade, claiming large swaths of territory for the Imperium on the eastern fringe of the Galaxy. World after world succumbed to the finesse and fury of the Death Cult, until Horus the great usurper unleashed his trap at Istivaan. What would come to be known as the Horus Heresy, the Death Cult would not be a part of. The great crucible of the Imperium, the most trying time in Humanity’s history, the Death Cult would miss. Another log to the fire of rage that burned within their many hearts, another deed to be righted as soon as they returned to the Imperium of Mankind and Zeta personally took Horus’ head.

The Death Cult received word from the Emperor to turn about and assist the Space Wolves in the purgation of Prospero the home world of the Thousand Sons space marine legion just before Istivaan. En route to Prospero the mighty Death Cult flotilla was lost in the warp, the marines battling the non-ending tides of Gibbering Daemons for weeks. Hope was hard to come by and the Primarch had personally prepared himself to die. Finally exiting the warp due to the skill and finese of their Navigator, the Death Cult was down to roughly half of it’s original strength. Where once was ten thousand proud warriors, now stood only five thousand.

The Legion exited the warp in an uncharted system in an unknown corner of the galaxy. There was a single planet that showed evidence of human life, an unknown dead hive world renamed Noctis. The Marines and Primarch Zeta fought a remarkable lightning campaign that installed them master of Turgov, crushing the petty Xeno Empire that had dominated a human minority.

With millions of “Cultists” to serve the Death Cult, the painfully slow task of rebuilding the lost strength of the Legion began. Great medical libraries were constructed and ancient tomes taken from the halls of Remembrance aboard the Cult’s Battle Barges. The few Tech-Adepts the Legion had brought labored intensely and while they could not reproduce the Gene-Seed lost to the creatures of the Warp they did make many discoveries that were put to use. The Cultists (as the menials had become known) were quickly the recipients of experimental genetic augmentation that saw them become more than men but still far less than Astartes.

Zeta, the Last, was however short of patience with the Adepts of Mars. Taking two hundred Marines he departed from Turgov to seek out the Imperium.

Zeta quickly stepped through the science lab, his aids were always showing him the various ways to augment his massive human armies, but what he wanted was to make more Marines and reforge his legion! The civil war was raging in the Imperium and another space marine legion would tip the scales firmly against Horus. Firmly against the foul traitor who had ended the Great Crusade and shattered any hopes for a future free of fear and carnage.


He screamed at his scientists, his mighty voice raised to a deafening roar. He told them how no matter what combat drugs and armor they put a human into he just would never be an Adeptus Astartes. In the end, a man was a man and a Space Marine was something more. Something far more. The men cowered but quickly returned to work, roused by their overseeing Magos, 01. The Primarch turned and departed from the glaringly bright and sterile domain of the Tech Adepts, muttering as he went.

Everywhere his cultists worked and his Marines trained, the dark gray power armor made his men almost blend in with the dark marble walls. The fiery glow that emanated from the old style Mark Two helms cast hauntingly beautiful images, silent tears in the dark. Zeta snorted in laughter, muttering a name several times.

“The Tears of Darkness….”

Zeta walked quickly into the command, Tech marines were busy plotting satellite launch dates and manning sensor array. Towering over the two meter tall space marines he seemed like a father to his children. They all resembled him since they all had come of his genetic stock. The precious Gene seed, that is what the legion lacked, the gene seed from the fallen. They needed a way to produce more of it, they needed technology. They needed technology of the most potent kind, they required one of the fabled STC Machines.

Zeta flashed back to the present, he had boarded his battle barge the Fury of Death and with two hundred of his chosen had departed from the freshly built docks of Turgov. They would scour the galaxy for either the Imperium or the Technology they needed. His navigator a sickly little man who shrieked as he was bolted into his chair. The metal rods holding him down went right through his spindly little hands, earning some disgusted glances from the Cultist Crew. Yet despite their revulsion they managed to go about their duties and soon the ship orbited over the silent Hive World of Noctis.

The Battle Barge orbited over the dead hive world, Zeta gazed upon the planet through one of the sensor arrays. Marveling at the smoke still drifting across the continents from ancient industrial fires that burned still. Broken buildings loomed like the broken teeth of some primitive God out of the darkness of the unknown and if the mighty Primarch ordered maximum magnification he could see the cracked streets of the Hive. Centered around a massive fortress, the Hive was protected by anti air batteries that still covered the sky. Ancient machines still performed their task and made it impossible for the Death Cult Legion to land on Noctis Hive directly.

Zeta smiled, it had been too long since the Warp Journey. It had been too long since he had wetted his great sword in the blood of his and his Father’s enemies. The Primarch turned to his closest adviser and said,

"Markus, you are in command of the fleet, I am taking Squad Alpha and landing. We will make our way to the fortress and disable the anti air batteries."

Markus said nervously,

"Sir, we have no idea of what’s down there, remember The Blood Angels' legion on Murder..."

Zeta motioned to him to stop talking, he slowly said,

"I am landing with Alpha squad, there is no discussion here."

Markus looked like he would say something but Zeta finished the conversation by saying,
"If you question me again, I will shoot you and tear your gene seed out myself."

Markus nodded, knowing all along that his Lord would demand the right to do the necessary tasks himself. He paused, partially to see if his Primarch was indeed drawing his ornate Bolt Pistol before saying,

"Yes sir I will command the fleet."

Zeta smiled and walked quickly to the hanger, every step filled with purpose. His Chosen Marines had to jog to keep up with their Primarch. He pushed his way into the drop pod as did the rest of the squad with an almost boyish eagerness. Preparations were made quickly, the fury of the Primarch ensuring that the flight crew performed as able as they could. The drop pod shot out of the hanger, rocketing down towards the streets of Noctis.

The pod smashed through a decrepit Hab, all the way down to the ground level. The bolts holding the panels shot off, and the squad under Zeta pushed their way out of the pod and out of the hab. The decrepit moldy building smelled of old death and fear, two things that the Space Marines did not know. The squad ran out into the street, covering each other perfectly. The ancient evidence of warfare were everywhere, ancient skeletons held decrepit ancient weapons, burned out tanks sat as silent guardians of the hive's streets. This great discovery did much to enlighten the warriors but still they did not know what caused this or how the Anti Air batteries remained active.

The squad ran off through the streets, shades of people glimpsed out of the corner of their eyes followed them. Zeta said slowly over the vox,

"We're being followed, head for that large manufactorium to the west."

A flash of confirmation runes flashed on Zeta's helm, the Death Cult legion Marines did not talk much. They were as Zeta said, “Death's followers and Death came silently.” The squad thundered into the factory, the massive machines were decrepit and broken. Massive pistons and presses rusted to the point where they were little more than junk greeted them and the aspirations that had been shadowing them did not enter.

Brother Tor, the grizzled veteran slowly walked to a rusted door. Raising a mighty servo assisted leg, he kicked it in and smiled when he saw that is was the basement.

"Sir I found something."

He voxed to Zeta, who ushered the rest of the squad inside. Brother Tor closed the door slowly, the hinges squealing in protest.

Zeta Smiled and said,

“Tor, Egor, Groton keep watch, the rest of our brothers rest. We have over seventy kilometers to travel tomorrow and possibly a fight to enter the great fortress.”

Zeta sat on the ground, he as a Primarch did not need sleep, but it was luxury he would partake in. He drifted off quickly. He could will himself asleep and yet he remained alert though sheet force of will alone. He dreamed, Zeta saw a bustling hive, serene, and prosperous. He saw people who went about their lives in relative comfort and with a joy that came only from working hard but reaping the fruits of their labors.

Then Zeta saw the end of this pleasant hive. Daemons sat atop piles of human heads and the Traitor legions marched through the grand streets. A flood of Angron's barbaric children, (he had always disliked Angron) butchered those they came across until the fortress was the only bastion of the living and non mutilated.

Zeta saw fighting all across the Hive world, Millions of soldiers fought hundreds of Millions of Daemons. The fortress could not be breeched, so they pilled millions of corpses in front of the main gate. The macabre monument stood, seven stories high with the children of Angron atop it. Like masters of an unholy siege tower, they called praises to their dark god of slaughter.

The last of the World Eaters was obviously a grizzled veteran and favored son of the Lord of Skulls. He called out to Khorne, and a dark Booming laugh sounded from beyond the veil of reality. A dark purple beam of lightning shot out and struck this veteran in the chest, the Warrior fell to his knees and began shrieking in pleasure and pain as his bones elongated, his skin grew leathery hard, and he turned into a mighty Daemon Prince. With the transformation complete he stood and boomed out to his amassed millions,

"Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne!“

His massive hoard charged forth, smashing the walls of the fortress with warp fire. The Daemon himself melting the steel and stone with a whim. The garrison fought like devils, but were worn down to nothing. The Daemon roared and a massive warp riff began to form, the purple haze of the imatrium soaking the bloody fields of battle. The Daemon roared again in victory and began to turn. As he turned Zeta could see his own features on the Daemon's face, twisted into a menacing smile. He shook awake but still heard the dark booming laughter of the god of slaughter fading into the recesses of his mind.

Zeta formed the squad up, all of the Astartes reported having similarly disturbing dreams. Space Marines did not know fear, but this heightened sense of things that now dominated the Legionnaires was the closest they could get. Suddenly they all knew just how isolated they were, effectively trapped in a dead city on a silent world. Zeta himself was taken aback by his foolishness, a well timed ambush could take the leadership from his Legion and sign their death warrant for all time.

The Marines slowly opened the heavy rusty door to the basement, the door oddly silent. Before them stood a child, a thin malnourished pale child. Zeta stared down at the small human, child human opened his mouth wider than it should have gone. With a loud crack the child's jaw snapped and a dark scratchy voice projected from him, the voice said,

"Welcome children of death, my lord has been waiting for you for a long time, and he wishes to send his greetings to you Zeta, born of the corpse god, child of dea-"

The child would never finish, for Zeta had drawn his sword and severed it's head. The lifeless body fell to the ground but it still stirred. The squad crept closer, recoiling in disgust and surprise when a hand made of solid darkness punched out of the former child's stomach. The blood that sprayed out was ancient, little more than red dust. The daemon tore it's way out of the body, it's long head almost coming into view before Zeta roared,

" Sergeant Tor get your flamer on that abomination!"

Tor stepped forward, he lowered his flamer and burned the beast. He screamed the new litanies of hate and fury as he hosed the unholy being. The daemon screeched, his cries ascending into a spectrum of hearing beyond even a Space Marine‘s. Finally the solid darkness that made up the daemon dissipated, it leaked away like smoke and gave off the stale odor of rotten flesh.

Zeta turned to his men and slowly said,

"My sons we must not let the great enemy tarnish our resolve, for we are death, and none can resist the grave."

His marines all nodded, only Tor was allowed to speak, it was one of the privilege of rank. He carefully said to Zeta,
"My lord, should we not contact the fleet and tell them of our find?"

Zeta nodded and replied,

“No Tor, it is but one daemon. We have already sent it back to the warp."

Tor nodded and made the sign of the Aquila.

The squad jogged off down another street in the dead hive, the fortress was still miles and miles away but they could feel it’s silent presence. The dark city seemed to change it's distances at will yet the oppressive fortress always projected it‘s invisible presence. There had been no more Daemons or walking dead, but Zeta still felt like something was watching him and his men.

They ran for the entire period of Daylight and it seemed like the fortress was no closer. Zeta once again ordered the Marines to find shelter. The squad located what appeared to be an ancient Arbites precinct. They walked inside slowly, surveying the entrance area for threats. The black armored skeletons that greeted them held combat shotguns and bolt pistols in their ancient hands. The Marines eagerly looted their corpses taking all the ammunition they could find for their bolt guns, and several of the Death Cult grabbed Shotguns as well.

They pushed deeper and deeper until finally finding the command room of the Precinct. They engaged the perimeter defenses and Brother Egor reprogrammed the automated defenses to recognize the Marines. Zeta pulled off his helm and smiled to his assembled sons. His marbled features making his smile seem more like a grimace. He ordered the other half of the squad to keep watch and once again settled down to sleep.

The first thing Zeta could see was war. War in front of the Imperial palace the traitor legions and the Loyalists battled for control of the Imperium. Zeta saw his father the Emperor kill Horus aboard his battle barge and he saw him enthroned and entombed upon the golden throne. The civil war that Zeta's legion had to get back to was over. The great defining time of humanity had passed.

He saw next the Imperial Scribes writing a great list of the Heretics and Loyalists. One of the scribes an ancient man who's gray hair was tied to his chair quietly asked a question of his Brother Primarch Roboute Guilliman,

"My lord, what of Zeta and his legion?"

His brother frowned and said ,

“They must've fled into the warp for no communication has been received. Mark them traitor and burn all history of their legion, they are beyond the Emperor's light!"

The scribe wrote them upon the list of Heretics and traitors, forever exiling them from the Imperium and marking them enemies of Humanity.

Zeta awoke in the private chamber he had chosen for himself, he screamed and punched through the wall. He knew that what he had seen must surely be the truth! He cried out in his fury,

"Father, why have you forsaken me?!"

A dark voice that surely did not belong to the Emperor boomed out,

"See the weakness of your Father? You kill for him, you conquer for him and yet you are tossed aside! Kill for me, rule for me, destroy for me, and I will honor you forever. You will be truly immortal, beyond the weapons of the weak mortals who infest this plane of existence! You legion will be replenished by my servants! You will have dozens of legions of mortals who will die for you! You will be master of a thousand worlds, and you will be synonymous with the word death. If you but serve me, the lost god, Malal!"

Zeta slowly raised his head and whispered,

"Yes."


Zeta stood before his Marines and told them of what he had seen. Malal had already visited the other brothers and all had converted to his worship. The squad affirmed their loyalty to Zeta and Malal by carving the mark of Malal upon their chests, a writing rune that seemed to thrash against the barriers separating the Immaterium from the Materium. After this ritual was completed they set off from the ancient Arbites precinct.

The street before the precinct was bleaker than when the Death Cult came in. Perhaps it was Malal’s unholy touch, perhaps it was merely the light of the morning sun. The various colors of the world changed to different shades of gray before the Primarch’s eyes. Zeta turned and gazed at his men, they were the darkest black. Their features only visible if Zeta focused on them specifically yet the mark of Malal burned white hot.

The squad ran on, Zeta gazed ahead, following a dark gray trail along the lighter gray of the landscape. It was almost like a pathway to the fortress and in his heart Zeta knew that the Lost God had granted him this power. He turned his head and looked at the fortress, it was dark red like the color of old blood.

"Khorne."

The word just appeared in his head when he saw the fortress. Zeta then immediately knew his mission, deep in the fortress lay a daemon prince once a warrior of the World Eaters. The massive Daemon now ruled the dead hive as a king. A king who had succumbed to hibernation now that no blood ran through the streets. His eyes seemed to zoom in and he saw the legions of warriors and daemons that the Death Cult would have to overcome and Zeta smiled for he knew Malal would aid his warriors soon enough.


The squad covered miles and miles following the unholy pathway. It led them though habs and factories, through streets and alleys, but abruptly the path ended. Zeta looked all around searching for the path but it was ended, the fortress was before them. Still four miles distant across a hellscape with piles of severed heads and skulls strewn about.

The cold skeletal voice that Zeta determined must be a Shadow Lord, one of the greater demons of Malal said,

"My lord spoke to your entire legion personally, and they have accepted your new God. Malal has gifted them with the knowledge of how to make the mark as you did, and has given them his unholy sight like you now have. They can see you from your battle barge, who's machine spirit has also been turned to the worship of the Lost. Call them on the vox, for your landings will be obscured by unholy shadow."

Zeta nodded and slowly said over the vox,

"Markus, land our men here."

There was a slight pause then Markus said,

"Yes my lord, Malal has shown us where to land."

Zeta clicked off the vox and smiled as he saw that a dark cloud had risen around the landing zone. He knew that it would confound the questing spirits of the Anti Air batteries. The shadow lord said,

"Your enemy will be great, but know that every one of your marines who falls will be resurrected in the shadow realm of Malal . He will hold them ready until you find a sorcerer who can open a rift blessed by Malal with two of his artifacts."

Zeta nodded and said,

"After the battle we will worry about this, for now we will prepare!"

The Drop Pods and Thunder Hawks from the fleet were landing, their dark gray paint job replaced by one of black and white. After an hour the entire army of two hundred Marines formed up, with only the Menials left aboard the ships. The Marines of Squad Alpha each led a detachment of Astartes. First to receive Malal's blessing and first to be named Zeta's commanders.

The great host formed up and began to slowly trudge towards the Fortress in a great phalanx, shadow following in their wake. Before them the daemons of Khorne howled and tried to engage, but they were blasted apart by the bolter fire from the Marines. As they neared the Fortress a great horn sounded and millions Daemons of Khorne assembled before the fortress two miles still from the host of the Death Cult.

The Khorneate army swelled as more and more Daemons climbed from the lower levels and cracks in the ground. Zeta could see that their numbers would destroy his host, so he called to Malal, imploring him for aid. Thee Lost God smiled upon him as his own daemons formed. Zeta’s army doubled in size but was still much smaller than the mighty army of the Daemon prince.

Zeta could see the great rift in reality that was pouring more and more Daemonsonto this planet. Zeta then saw six sorcerers, rare for Khorneate armies yet critical. These pskyers were inside the fortress and where the only weakness of the enemy host, this knowledge given to him by Malal himself.

Zeta turned his head to Tor, the grizzled veteran who was now Zeta's champion. He said,

"My favorite son, when the battle is joined, infiltrate the enemy fortress and find the enemies sorcerers. There are six of them that you must send to the Realm of Shadow. It will be difficult, but you must kill all of these bastards of Tzeentch and Khorne. Striking two of Malal's hated kin will please him and is the only way we can win this battle. After you do this, I alone will fight the Daemon prince. Only I have to power to vanquish him, and bind him to my likening. Malal has told me that it is to be so.

Tor nodded, he slowly said,

"Yes my lord."

The Lone Marine broke off from the host and headed for the fortress. He would need to hurry if he was to reach it before the Death Cult reached the enemy.

Tor ran, the dark red fortress was nearer than ever before. Blood rained down from the heavens and gibbering Daemons watched him from above. He turned back for a moment and gazed at his Lord he was black as night to his Malal blessed eyes. Bright red streams of bolter fire stitched out from the Phalanx which was now only two hundred meters from the hordes of the blood god and reaffirmed Tor’s need for haste.

The massed hoard of Khorne surged forward, the notorious fury and blood lust of the God of Slaughter making his subjects prone to berserk rages. Tor turned and continued to climb, he was only ten meters from cresting the walls. He pulled himself the last ten meters and dropped into the courtyard with a silent scream of internal rage.

Zeta and the rest of the Death Cult advanced silently, their fury was articulated by the fire of their bolt guns. The Last Primarch raised his blade and let out one scream, a shrill call to beyond the grave. The call that would sound the end for millions in the future and in the Warp Malal smiled.
With a wave of his hand his Shadow Beasts and Shadow Lords materialized alongside his newest soldiers, just as the Death Cult smashed into the enemy. Hacking and killing their way deep into the unimaginably massive hoard, the Marines quickly depleted all of their ammunition and the battle turned into a brawl. Daemons of Khorne and Daemons of Malal fought, the fury of the Blood God matched by the cold resolve of Malice.

Tor ran through the massive fortress, his Malal blessed eyes showing the location of the foul sorcerers. The unholy union between the powers of Tzeentch and Khorne created an odd brown color that Tor eagerly searched for. He whirled as he heard a patrol of Human Cultists running towards him, obviously the elite guard of the Sorcerers. He fired one round from his bolt gun and killed the lead man, blowing the crimson contents of his chest onto those that followed behind. Tor turned again and sprinted, he had to kill those sorcerers.

The cultists shouted and followed him, the fury of Khorne lent them speed enough to catch the Marine. They swung at him but Tor's armor stopped their blades easily enough, and he chuckled. Tor fired another round from his bolt gun, blowing the next cultist’s brains onto the men behind him. The blood fury of Khorne surfaced at the worst time and the cultists began swinging at each other as well, giving the lone Legionnaire an opening. Tor ran on leaving the now blood frenzied cultists behind him.

Before him was the massive warp rift, he could hear the scream of Daemons and the howl of lost souls booming out from the warp itself. Tor felt an unknown urge to leap into it, to lose himself in an eternity of slaughter and taint. He turned and stopped for a moment, staring down into the rift and seeing the true forms of madness. The cold voice of Malal himself sounded icy cold in his mind,

"If you betray us, you will live an eternity of shame. Complete your mission!"

Tor shook himself and ran on. The unholy chamber was ahead, the silhouettes of the six sorcerers were in view. He kicked open the heavy Daemons Bone door and the six sorcerers and one other, a son of Angron. The blood mad Marine stood in the center of the room, his chain axe gore encrusted and massive. One blood shot eye stared out from the axe at Tor, it howled as the engine inside of it revved. The larger Marine turned to regard Tor.

The small shred of a noble warrior left in the World Eater raised it's axe in a salute before charging at him with a howl. Tor met this howling warrior with silence as he drew his short combat blade, he fired round after round from his bolt gun, the World Eaters armor stopping the bolts easily. Within an instant the Marine was upon him he swung his axe heavily.Tor was forced to dive forward to avoid being cleaved in two! He rolled and stood, the berserker howled again and charged him swinging his Daemon axe in vicious circles around his body.

Tor stabbed forward, his combat blade slipping through the World Eater’s clumsy guard. The small blade tore through the Marine's neck, but was stopped by the rock hard bone of the World Eater. the Berserker swung his axe upwards and snapped the blade of Tor's knife. Tor jumped back and frowned, how could he kill this beast of man?

***

Zeta was death incarnate, reaping a bloody tally as he killed Daemon after Daemon. His legion followed him in silence, they killed and died without a sound. Khorne's host surged forward still, they died in their thousands but there were always more of them. Daemons of Malal and Khorne battled still, the fury of a Blood Letter matched by the resolve of a Shadow Beast. Zeta's Malal blessed sight showed Tor's desperate battle against the Berserker and Zeta silently ordered two flying Shadow Beasts to go to the man's aid. Those sorcerers must die or the forces with Zeta would be worn down to nothing.

***

Tor danced around the Berserker, the large Marines swings were dodged by the more agile and faster Death Cult Marine. Finally the World Eater grew wise to Tor's tricks as he swung his axe one handed his Iron clad fist shot out and struck Tor in the chest as he tried to dance around the blow. He soared across the room and struck the far wall with a bone shattering crunch. He tried to regain his feet, but the World Eater stood over him, spittle and froth dripped from the Astartes‘ mouth as he howled,

"Skulls for the Skull throne!"

millimeters before the Daemon Chain Axe struck Tor the two flying Beasts of Shadow crashed into the World Eater. the Daemon Axe clattered to the floor as he fought off the two Beasts. Before Tor's eyes the World Eater snatched one of the flying Daemons out of mid air and tore it in half, wallowing in the black gore that sprayed out. He threw the one half of the beast at the other flying Damon and grabbed that one as well. With a roar of hatred he tore the wings off of the beast and stepped down upon it, crushing it to a broken pile of flesh.

Tor saw his opening however and grabbed the Daemon axe. With a shout he charged towards the World Eater and swung the Daemon Axe into the Berserker's chest. The teeth of the Axe whining in protest as they ground their way through the cermite of the World Eaters Armor, the Daemon cackling as it slayed it’s own master. The big man was not done though, and he punched Tor in the side his fist crushing the side of Tor's armor.

Tor drew his Bolt Pistol in response and jammed the muzzle into the hole in the World Eaters neck guard. He fired ten rounds, the bolts turning the Berserker's head into an unidentifiable red mush. He turned to the Sorcerers and killed each of them with the Daemon Axe, the pure energy of the Warps flowing into the fell weapon with every killing blow. The floor shook as the Warp Rift began to close. The call of the Blood God sounded stronger than ever, and the Daemon Axe let loose it's own kindred call.

Malal was powerless to stop Tor as he jumped from the tower into the closing Warp Rift. He was sucked into the realm of insanity and chaos without a sound. Tor had severed himself from the Legion for all time and would go his own way. Forsaking Malal and Zeta, he had embraced Khorne and the promise of eternal slaughter. His armor turned from a deep black to a mottled red, like arterial blood. He howled his freedom from the solemn worship of death, his freedom from the Legion, and his freedom from himself.

***

Zeta smiled as he saw the rift close, without it's constant source of reinforcements the Hoard of Khorne was finally being depleted. As the Death Cult and it's Daemon allies continued to push into the hoard, the Enemy shrieked as they saw they were losing the battle. In their frustration they began to strike each other, the unreliable blood fury of Khorne showing it's ugly head again.

Within seconds the battle turned from a battle to an unorganized rout with the few remaining Daemons of Khorne killing each other more often than their enemies. Zeta allowed himself to smile, the Death Cult had practically won.

***

The sun was bright on this new world, the hills were of black obsidian and the trees were massive skeletal constructions. The sky was home to flocks of flying Daemons and the rivers were of blood. Tor gazed all about him, and found that it was oddly arousing. Before him towered a massive mountain, the rock was formed out of ancient bone and sinew. Tor roared and climbed the hill, fighting off the flying daemons with every step.

He stood atop the massive monolith, gazing down and upon a massive city centered around what seemed to be an arena of epic size. Tor howled again and set off towards the city looking for something to kill.

***

The Death Cult stood on the now silent field of battle, the servants of Khorne were all dead and now Noctis belonged to Malal. Already the taint of the Blood God was being replaced by the ashen oblivion of Malal. The fresh corpses of the cultists were fading to piles of ash, their weapons and gear rusted beyond use.

Zeta stood before his assembled force, they had lost many brothers the force of two hundred now stood at only fifty. Their ranks had swelled massively with Malal's Daemonic children, thousands and thousands stood, sat, flew, and hovered all around the Death Cult. A particularly massive Shadow Lord slowly rumbled,

"My lord Zeta, Malal himself has sent you these gifts."

He slowly handed Zeta a massive bone scythe, it glowed with unholy power and as Zeta touched it he could feel the unimaginably ancient intelligence inside of it. Next the Shadow lord handed Zeta a single Gauntlet, it pulsed with ancient energies. The shadow lord waved his hand and a terrified Cultist materialized, he said, "Point it at him and concentrate it's energies." Zeta held out his hand, smiling as the cultist writhed in pain, he slowly disintegrated to ash, before finally blowing away. Zeta boomed,

"Very good, Praise Malal."

A cold skeletal voice sounded in his head, it was surely the unholy voice of Malal himself.

"Zeta my champion, to replenish your legion you must find four artifacts, one form each of my hated brothers, bring them all to this your new fortress world of Noctis, and I will personally lead you in the dark rites."

Zeta said to his new god,

"Yes, my lord."

Zeta turned and watched as the evil magic of Malal the Lost God, the Destroyer of All Things, turned the rest of Noctis to an ashen wasteland. The mighty buildings turning to dust and in their place rose more walls, the original continent sized fortress seeming small compared to the new bastion Malal forged.

Zeta smiled for he and his Legion was now home.



Zeta surveyed his new domain, the entire world had crumbled to ash save the massive bastion that now housed the entire Death Cult legion as well as half of their human cultists. After much digging had been done, ancient relics of unimaginable power had been uncovered but not understood.

Massive obelisks had been found along with thousands of metal skeletons that proved to be very short lived. The power of Malal melted them to pools of liquid turning them into various weapons before the eyes of the Death Cult. Zeta now was armed with one of these weapons, the regenerative metals served him well when he had the luxury of combat. The quest for the four relics was yet to begin but Zeta already knew that it would be a bloody and long search.

***

Tor howled, it had been untold years since he had lost himself on the Daemon world. His once dark armor was copper red, fresh coats of biological paint were added daily and in large quantities as he took part in the many slaughter-games for Khorne. The area was a massive blood stained pit largely because of him. He had fought for days on end, killing and killing until now.

His latest foe was brought before him. A fallen Space Wolf named Etri, leader of the Bloody Wolves Renegade Company.

The wolf eyed Tor’s rare armor, forged and blessed by Daemons. he slowly said,

"I will fight you for your arms, if I die you will have my Wolves."

Tor merely growled and raised his axe in a salute. Etri raised his sword and growled like a wolf as he circled Tor, slowly waving his chain blade from the left to the right. Etri screamed, and swung his blade in a downward arc aiming to split Tor in two. The (former) Death Cult Legionnaire dived to the left and brought his Daemon Axe to bear, hammering the Space Wolf's defenses again and again.

The Wolf recovered and struck back. The chain blade gouged chunks out of Tor's armor but Tor did not care. He grabbed the chain blade itself and laughed as the teeth struggled to tear through his gauntlet of Daemon Bone. He dropped his axe and punched Etri in the head again and again, finally he tore the Wolf's helm off and tossed it aside. Etri tried to draw his bolt gun but Tor leaned in and bit out the marines throat, his berserker strength made the struggles of a space marine seem like that of a tired child.

He drank deep the man's blood and howled in victory. Etri's former pack howled back. The Bloody Wolves now belonged to Tor, victory was sweet but not as sweet as blood. Beneath Tor the Blood Wolves would soon be wetted as a quiet voice whispered,

“The time draws near.”

[-Deus-]

[ The Field ]

Imagine for a moment, that you are in a field. Imagine the field is lush and fruitful, that beautiful flowers grow, flowers, some as tall as trees, with beauty practically shooting out of them. Trees as tall as buildings, fruit dropping off their branches, the fruit delicious and good too look at. Close your eyes and imagine it, soak it in, imagine this perfect scenery, this perfect setting. Let the feeling of joy and happiness overwhelms you. Inhale…Exhale…Inhale…Exhale; let your thoughts and imagination flow like a river as more and more happiness floods your system.

Then in a distance, a darkness comes, a horde of shadowy mist and dark coloured clouds, they travel with a snail’s pace but eventually they will come. They suck up everything in their path, the flowers wilt and turn into dust, the grass dies and turns a sickly brown, the tree falls and rots and the fruit shrivels up. You try to run, the feeling of sadness no doubt picking up speed within your body as you try to push the clouds away, but you cannot, they will come. You cannot fight the system, you cannot swim up current. You must simply accept it. The clouds continue on their way, everything disappearing behind them, everything seemingly disappearing around you as other, better things appear, immune to this thick cloud for the moment, but soon they too will succumb to it and be absorbed by the system.

You fall to your knees and weep, your tears only speeding up the cloud, which comes near you. Everything you loved, everything you cherished, your family, your friends, your beautiful field of flowers, all of it gone and replaced by newer, different…alien things of which you could only dream of when you first arrived. Yet you care not for them now as you stop crying, your tears dried up and a waste of your time as you lay on your back and prepare for whats next. You recall all the good times, a faint smile coming to your face as the cloud washes over you, the darkness all you can see. Nothing…just pitch-black space. No sound. No feeling. Nothing.

[Alitaria]

[ The Three Brothers and the Greatest Journey [PT] ]

Once, when the world was green and wide, and the Empire was strong and expansive, there lived three brothers. They were the sons of the Great Emperor of All the Lands, and so they were rich and comfortable. But for all their wealth and splendour, what they longed for most was adventure. So it was that they set out one day, with their bags packed and their goodbyes made. They intended to travel across all the lands, so as to take in all of their future Empire, and to have adventures like in the tales that had been read to them, passed down by years of scholars.
The first brother was strong and proud, and showed no fear of any living man or beast. He was tall and wide, and carried a great sword of polished iron, given t him by the chief of the Great Hill-Tribes for victory in battle. The second brother was wily and cunning and cruel, and could outwit any living man or beast. He was small and wiry, and carried with him a pack of cards so as to confuse his enemies, given to him by a travelling trickster whom the second brother beat in a game of Guessing. The third brother was humble but brave, and loved all living men and beasts. He was of an average build, but proud in the jaw and noble in stature. He carried with him at all times a necklace of platinum and diamond, made for him by a shamen of the mountains after the third brother saved him from a bear. It was said that the necklace allowed him to talk to all beasts of the field and all birds of the air.
The three brothers came after a week and a day to a great mountain. Its heights were shrouded by great clouds and its flanks were steep and covered with loose shingles, small and sharp. The three brothers tried to climb over the mountain, but were stopped when the Mountain Spirit blew them back with a mighty gust of wind. Then they tried to go around the mountain, but found their way blocked by the Forest Spirit, who barred the way with great fir-trees. The three brothers argued for a day and a night as to how to get over the mountain, but they could not come to a decision. Finally, they decided to get over the mountain by their own ways.
The first brother sliced down a tall oak with two strokes of his sword, and fastened a granite shard to the end, so as to make a huge axe. With this, he clove the mountain side into two halves, and he cut his way through the mountain with huge swings of his mighty arms, and came out into an enormous cavern. There, he met the great Rock Spirit, who embodies the mighty strength of the Earth. The Rock Spirit challenged the First Brother to a dual by sword and fist. The First Brother, being proud and easily challenged, accepted, and the two clashed their mighty strength in the caverns beneath the mountain. They fought backwards and forwards for hours, until the FIrst Brother was nerly exhausted and was on the point of collapse. He thoguth to himself, What can defeat tEndless Strength? And then it came to him. Taking his great sword, he drove a huge rent in the floor of the cavern, and drove the Rock Spirit backwards and into the hole. There, he fell down into the deepest bowels of the Earth, and remained there for all eternity; for the only thing that can defeat the Earth is Time, and Time is what the Rock Spirit would have the most of, down in the dark caverns beneath the world.

The second brother, for his part, climbed halfway up the mountain, and there he called upon the Mountain Spirit.
"O mighty spirit of the mountain, who blew us over with his great breath!" he called, waving his hands in the air. "I demand to play a game of riddles with thee, who has defeated me once! It shall not happen twice."
The mountain spirit was infuriated, and came down to the slopes of the mountain.
"Who dares call upon the mighty Spirit of the Mountain?" he roared, blowing his mighty breath all around. "I accept, although thy audacity shall be the end of thee! If you win, you may pass. However," he laughed, "if by sunrise tomorrow neither of us is victorious, then I shall have thy bones for a necklace, and thy blood for wine, and they flesh for evenmeal!" With this, he took human shape and sat upon the mountain slope with the second brother. The two clashed their wits all that night, but neither came out victorious, for although the second brother was cunning, the Mountain Spirit had beaten many a man at Riddles. Finally, it came to nearly sunrise, and the Second Brother had run out of questions to ask. He cast around for something to challenge the Mountain Spirit with, but could think of nothing. Then, he came up with a devious plan.
"O mighty spirit of the great mountain, I have but one riddle left" he said. "Here it is: What do i have in my pockets?"
The mountain spirit was outraged. "That is not a riddle, insolent human!" He boomed, and cast rocks down all the mountain's slopes.
"Nevertheless, you must answer it, as we decreed." said the second brother, quite rightly. "You have three guesses."
The mountain spirit sat down, grumbling.
"Very well! My first guess is air." Said the Mountain Spirit, who had heard this question before. The second brother laughed and shook his head.
The Mountain Spirit was bemused; normally that was the answer.
"Very well! My second guess is "Darkness"." he said, thinking that he had truly got the second brother. Again, though, the second brother laughed and shook his head. The Mountain Spirit was very confused, as this was normally the only other answer.
"Fine then! My final guess is "Nothing"." The second brother rolled onto his back with laughter, and shook his head.
"Foolish spirit of the stony mountain, your eyes have failed you! For you see," he said, standing up and twirling around, "I have no pockets!"
The Mountain Spirit was so angry that his voice cracked the top of the mountain. He raged and roared until the earth cracked and the clouds fell. Finally, he came back down onto the mountain.
"Very well!" he said. "You win, insolent one! You may pass. But if I ever see you again on my mountain, then you shall pay the price for your trickiness!" And with that, the second brother passed.
While all this was happening, the third brother was busy around the edge of the mountain, gathering herbs and spices. For he was learned of the ways of the plants and the trees, and knew how to appease the spirit of the forest.
He assembled a totem of thyme, ginseng, garple, kap-kap leaf, and wild mountain elm, and placed it in the ground in front of the forest of pine around the mountain's edge. The spirit of the forest came forth, and took the totem to be his own. He was very much pleased by the offering of the third brother, and gave him shelter under his leafy canopy. However, while the third brother was sleeping, the Forest Spirit came down and placed leaves tight around his mouth so as to suffocate him; for the Forest Spirit was jealous of the Third Brother's knowledge of plants, as the Forest Spirit only knew the ways of the great, slow pine, and the oak, and the red-wood that towers above all other trees. However, the third brother, who knew the ways of all men, had expected the attack, as the spirits are not much different to us humans, and covet all things beyond their power. He immediately used two rocks to create a spark that ignite his totem, for it was made of the flammable leaves of the forest. The blaze tore through the forest, and burned the Forest Spirit and all his mighty pines to dust. But the Third Brother was protected by the Shamen's blessing, and so he survived the flames, and walked around the mountain.
So it was the next day that all three brothers met around the other side of the great mountain, and continued their journey onwards.

The Three had many other adventures besides the Mountain Passage, abut finally they came to World's End, at the Edge of the world. There they found the Dead Canyon. It is said that at the end of the Canyon lies incalculable amounts of treasure that cannot be taken by any great man. Nonetheless, the Three Brothers were determined to find it and take it. They made their way into the Canyon, and were soon lost among the twisting passages and dark caves that lay therein.
Eventually, they had to stop for the night, and so they found their way to a small cavern that was cut into the side of one of the great walls of the canyon. They lay down, and were soon asleep. While they were slumbering, a dark spirit came upon them, and gave them nightmares. The First Brother dreamed of a strength so insurmountable that not even he could defeat it. The strength drove him downwards, into a pit full of darkness and fallen pride, and endless, taunting voices that dug at his soul and degraded his spirit.
The Second Brother dreamed of a will that could perceive all things, and could see through all tricks. Despite his best efforts, the Will could see into all his tricks and wiles, and then cast him down into a pit of eyes and minds, forever to be seen and always watched.
The Third Brother dreamed of a great, wild beast that could never be tamed by a man or woman. It hunted him and stalked him, and, although he tried to calm it, it eventually drove him down, down, into a pit of darkness and despair, forever to remain.
Finally, the Three brothers woke and, disturbed by their dreams, made off down the main part of the canyon. It grew darker and darker as they progress,d and te canyon became thinner and thinner, until eventually the three were walking in single file, the First brother leading and the third keeping watch behind.
After a day of travelling, the path was nearly pitch black and the Three Brothers were very weary. Finally, however, they reached a widening in the path, at the end of which was a cave. The three were heartened greatly, and stepped forward towards it. As soon as they did so, however, a great fog came down and shrouded the way. The three brothers were wary, and did not approach. They debated for an hour, and then their debates turned to arguments, until all three had their weapons drawn and were facing each other. Finally, the First Brother stepped forward, and said,
"I will step through this fog, for I am invincible and fear no danger."
And so he stepped into the fog, and immediately the Dark Spirit took his bones and reaped his flesh, and burned him to ashes; for so is the fate of the proud and wilful and violent, as they will become so lost in love of themselves that they see nothing else. The two brothers were stunned, but the fog cleared, and they decided that they had no choice but to go on. They proceeded down the canyon, their hearts burning with desire for the treasure that lay within the cave. And then in front of them, a great wall rose out of the ground, and it was covered in symbols and signs. The Two remaining brothers were bemused, and their debates again turned to arguments until the two were grappling on the ground. Finally, the Second Brother stood up, and said,
"I will solve the puzzle on this wall, for I am unmatched in wit and guile."
And so he stepped forward, and arranged the symbols on the wall until they made a shape to his satisfaction. But as soon as the last piece was in place, the Dark Spirit drove out his wits and boiled his brains, and turned his eyes to stone; for so is the fate of the cold-hearted and tricky, for they will always play themselves into a trap of their own devising.
The Third Brother was stunned, but he decided that there was no turning back by this point, and so he continued.
He was within touching distance of the cave mouth, when abruptly before him fell a great darkness, and within it he saw his defeat in battle. But he said, "I need not pride, for I know my place in this world."
Then within the darkness he saw a thousand men and beasts perishing, and their bones rotting and turning to dust, and the world crumbling. But he said "I heed not this warning, for the endtime is not for men to know."
And then finally within the darkness he saw himself on his deathbed, and his spirit fading and the life going from him. But he said,
"I fear not death, for it is a natural part of life."
And so the darkness passed, and the Dark Spirit revealed itself to be the Spirit of the canyon, who tests all men who wish to seek the treasure.
"You have passed the test, braveheart," he said, "for you are noble of stature and kind of heart, and you do not hunger for glory or riches, and you know your place."
And with that the Third Son went forward into the cave, and found beyond it a treasure above all others; the treasure of love, to have and to hold forever onwards. And so he came back to his Empire, and reigned for five score of years and three, until finally Death came to him, and they parted as old friends.,



Hope you enjoyed this!

[-Deus-]

[ Stories From The Union ]

[ PMT ]

***
[A Soldier]

I walked with my crew, a cig in my mouth as I swayed from side to side. I clutched my rifle in my right arm, a sword in my left. My padding and armour was tightly fitted around me, the armour meant to keep me fast and safe. I am a part of Aggeros, the Aggression-oriented side of the Tarragon, the armed force of the Union. Too be specific I’m with the Arashok, one of two ground based sectors. I’m a B-level captain, running a squad of ten as we make our way through the bog and mush of this here jungle, a large pack strapped on my back, bogging me down as I stumble through the forest, intent on reaching my point. The sun shined down on me, cooking my insides, the cooling packs strapped around my waist keeping my body chill enough for me not to fall over and die, the rest of my squad seemingly fine. I think they are human or something, tough buggers they are. I let thoughts drift into my mind, the doctrine of the Arashok something I didn’t always agree with as I recalled memories of days past, burning the jungle inhabitants to charred crisps, leaving there smoked husks in large heaps. We kept a steady momentum, making a quick and sustainable path through these bad lands, the soothing music we were more or less forced to listen to keeping us in check and calm.

We followed the path of the Jhatakan, those beasts tearing a frighteningly quick path, killing everything in their way, the poor beasts purposely angered and instigated and then let loose on the world, they too forced to listen to music…even though there music was more like the screams and shrieks of a woman. Most of them aren’t very smart and will only fight if there “Mother” tells them too. They love their Mother, they truly do and the beasts will do anything for her. Heh, silly bastards. The Arashok though, heh, we are trained for success, trained to be quick, to be smart and lethal. But hey, it is what it is. I spit out my cig, lumbering forward, the tune, the music stuck in my psyche now. I hum to it, dance to it slightly. Heh…those sick bastards…trapping me like an animal, like a Jhatakan.

***
[A Slave]

It was the dead of night, nothing but the subtle sound of music keeping the nightscape seemingly alive. The stench of food, drugs and fire filled the air, pounding on any foreigners nostrils like a lingering candle. This sector of the city was closed off, the tired people sleeping restfully, there tired, aching bodies recuperating after the painful session of working in the steel mills, the rhythmic beat of the pounding of hammers and steel still trapped in some of the peoples mind, the steel city of Skhan nothing more than that. Yet elsewhere in the city people worked the nightshift, pounding with hammers, creating fine products of steel and metal, products to be sold around the Union to keep the always busy and bustling economy going. The Union wasn’t anything without it’s purposely built “Slave Cities”, entire settlements crafted for the sole purpose of work, the tired, beat down people usually the toughest the Union could foster up. Yet underground, in the depths of the earth, something…stirred.

The heavy beat of music rippled through the underground, Unionist people of all kind and species partying, breaking out of there curfew to quell the monsters inside of them. Gambling, drinking, partying, all of it went down in these underground shafts. None of these privileges were necessarily illegal, the common populace of the slave cities were just encouraged not to partake in them or else face “re-education”. But the people kept dancing to the music, swaying to its charm, the underground party scene the only place the populace of the slave cities could get music, save for the city stores that sold only state provided propaganda tunes. “Animals are simply animals until death” Seemed to be the saying of the government. But the party went on, drugs and liquor of all kind flowing freely. A knock on the door cut through the music, everyone’s eyes going wide. Another knock and another, shouting building up until *BOOM* the crackling sound of a flashbang rippled through the caves, the raid successful as slave after slave dropped, stunned by the 03’s specially designed rifles. The Kai-03…Heh, a rebellious slaves worst enemy, the so-called “Men in Black n’ White.” But these party monsters would be transformed into monsters of another kind…taken away to the far side of the great Line, to the Deusan side of things too be beaten, tortured, conditioned into a proper slave who only followed the sway of the steel and hammer. But was life in a slave city.

***
[A Party]

The cityscape sparkled like a diamond, the shining “party” city seemingly going with the flow of the music, the deep techno vibe blasting throughout every corner. It smelt of cologne and other such things, the people moving through the alleyways and streets of New Deus like ants, ants working for their supreme queen, the music that was oh, so serene. Their minds told them only to party, only to survive, to have a good time. The music kept them going, the food keeping them happy, the drink keeping them intoxicated for the night. The sex, the lust, the insanity of the moment were broadcast on every building, every street corner, the city itself one large sin. Girls flaunted there curves and men tried their best not to strike out, the high rollers dominated the corrupted casino’s and stoners chilled in the mellowed out “Drug Café’s” that were filled with things such as Salvia, Marijuana, Rouge and other such things. Oh the party would never stop until the sun came up, if it came up!

The Kai-03 were hardly anywhere to be seen, instead the lingering eye of the RzA and the specially crafted PCP kept things in check. Yet overall, unless you were endangering the state, anything and everything went on, from illegal drug dealing to outright murder, and on a night like tonight the streets ran purple with the blood of young, insane Daius. The colourful vectors of the overhead lights and fireworks only added to the flare, cities like New Deus uncommon but known as a way to boost morale amongst the citizens. Only the rich could afford to live in cities like New Deus, something the government used to its advantage. Ah, but as long as the wine flows, the blood drips and corruption is kept in check…it should all be good. Hah.

***
[A Union]

Ah the Unionist government, the calmed, collected, all seeing, all controlling government. At its core its simple, just looking out for its people, looking to make life better. Yet add in everything else and it becomes a clusterfuck. Ruled by the Diarch council, the Unionist Government controls every facet of life, excluding the Party Cities and smaller, less important shantytowns that run on anarchy and music alone. No the Union has other things to worry about. They run this country like a machine, treating everything like an opportunity, like a test or challenge. They care little for the outside world unless it suits their needs…apathetic bastards. Corruption is rampant and sometimes I wonder if they really care about me, the little guy. Who knows. They use the Kai-03 to patrol the internal affairs of the Union, the DDP acting as the HQ for all internal humanitarian affairs. No one gets in or out without flashing the ever-popular ID card and ID chip, the only way to combat illegal immigration.

The nobles are a mess, acting out there medieval fantasies, flaunting there riches as the regular people are pounded with psychology fuelled propaganda music, food, posters, movies and media. Every piece of media is inspected, drained and rebooted with pro-government ideals. The catchphrases like “Education is the sword of the champion of tomorrow!” or “Stand against the horrors of hyper-individualism!” and even still “Join the Junior-03 today! Help keep up wall against the horrors of the outside world.” Are often times plastered on every poster or piece of concrete in the cities. The ideals of collectivism, greed, envy, pride, intelligence, wisdom and strength are pushed. Yet hyper-individualism, stupidity, open-mindedness and especially outside influences are strictly a big fat “NO”. I shudder to think what life would be like if the Union wasn’t caring for us though. They don’t smother us, we have our rights, our freedom. They just give us that helping hand. For the Union, I stand with my brother!

[Kyrusia]

[ PMT ]
[ Mature ]

"The Drums"

Drums. Ceaseless drums. Drums of war. Drums of loss. Drums that never stopped their endless drone. Drums that slagged-away at the soul; drums that broke the heart in tune. Drums that seemed to only increase their tempo as the years wore on, one after the other; another drum, another beat, another sliver of sanity chipped-away from the mind of even the most veteran of soldiers.

Twenty-six years. Twenty-six years of loyal service. Twenty-six years spent rounding-up the filth of the State; twenty-six years cleaning-up the scoundrels and afflicted souls who had been so unfortunate as to be beyond the help of the Central Authority. Twenty-six years pumping hot lead into the face of every mutant fuck; twenty-six years of summary executions in back-alleys and in dank, prison cells. Twenty-six years of Hell. Twenty-six years, with what to show for it?

Captain Khiron closed his eyes tightly, inhaling a sharp breath, before exhaling just as sharply, sending his nostrils aflame. The burning was common, at least for the past few years. Snorting too much “dirt,” as some would say; breathing-in too deeply over one-too-many an anomaly, was another cause. Of course, the blurred vision had come later. The small sparks, vibrant as they were, were only a recent addition to symptoms of prolonged radiation sickness. Vibrant bursts of light, bursts of light that only a single man could see; bursts of light that brought the drums.

They were always so loud, the drums. They drilled into the skull like an ice-pick to the temple. They chipped, they wore, they eroded, ceaselessly, endlessly. They rotted the will; they buried rationale with their filth and their stench. They simply never stopped...

The sparks – the star bursts signaling the slow cooking of a retina here, an optical cone there – had been growing in severity the last six months. Khiron had taken note. He always took note. In a man of such position and rank, it was demanded of him; of course, it was also demanded to report symptoms of the “sickness,” but sometimes things simply fell through the cracks. Some things simply had to fall through to insure that the bread was bought and the milk – as rare as such a luxury was – was on the table. Sometimes, a man simply had to do what was necessary to survive.

The commanding officer of the Kyrusian operation lowered his head, slowly raising his aging, weary arms to unbuckle the numerous clamps and bolts that mounted the heavy helm and respirator to his skull, quickly making work of them before tossing them onto his cot. His hand rose, feeling, slowly, for the tale-tell signs of progress: pustules, bumps, even uneven skin texture, but found none. Such was a good sign, at least for now. Yet, things were progressing quickly. As he mouthed, attempting to rid himself of the desert that seemed to have taken root behind his lips, he felt it.

A pustule. It was small, perhaps no bigger than the end of a pencil eraser, but it was there; just beneath the lips his tongue found it, swelling, warm with the heat of infection and throbbing with bile. The only comfort was, in truth, that for now it was hidden; hidden from the prying eyes of his comrades, and, even better, hidden from the scrutinizing gaze of his subordinates. Hidden from the dredges he was forced to command; hidden from those filth, those fuckers, those—

Pulsing, throbbing, aching, Khiron quickly jerked off his great coat, allowing it to fall nonchalantly to the plastic and latex floor that served to protect them from the cold, irradiated earth. His fingers curled, driving into the thin fissures beneath his arms, tugging ferociously, jerking, almost flailing as he attempted to peal off the layer-upon-layer of protective garb that, supposedly, shielded him from the very effects he currently suffered. Though nearly a minute passed, his fingers numbed by the cold and aching with inflammation, he managed to tear his left arm free from the claustrophobic clutch that was the standardized attire for the “liquidators.”

The captain's eyes widened, small sparks arcing across the peripheries of his field of vision, but these mattered little. What mattered most was his arm. An arm throbbing with pain, pulsing with infection, its flesh soaked with bile from the thick cluster of boils and open sores that had begun to form in the crook of his elbow. The infection was growing, its vectors sending bolts of agonizing rot through his veins, bulging them to the surface in aggravated, tenuous, violet filaments that threatened to up-root from his skin and overtake him. Threatened to consume him. Threatened to lash his hide into slivers and strangle what remained of his measly existence from him.

He was mesmerized, awestruck, near-catatonic from the sight. His control wavered in that moment, and he knew it; he knew what he must do. He knew that the kit – a kit prepared by his own, irradiated hands – was in the top of his duffel, ready, waiting to bring forth the sweet, glorious – if but fleeting – relief. Yet, he didn't bother to reach for it. He watched, he gazed like a young elk being watched down the barrel of a scope, stupidly down to the rotting carapace that his left arm had become. He watched as the flesh slowly began to fissure, streaks of carnelian spew dripping at first, then beginning to seep through not merely the lacerations, but through the thin, diseased dermis that coated his weakened muscles. His eyes remained transfixed even as his fingers began to shrivel, the nails extending beyond the reach of natural growth, before growing ashen and cracked, begging to be reamed from his body. He merely observed as his wrist began to droop from slack of the released tendons, and as teeth began to tear through what little flesh remained. He couldn't turn away even as the newly formed maw lunged toward him, seeking to—

Captain Khiron dived to the floor, using his weakened arms to drag himself across the ground toward his duffel that had been stacked in the corner of the small, partitioned compartment of the Kyrusian containment tent, set aside for the members of the Bureau. He trudged, tugging with all his might, freeing one of his nails from a prone hand, using his legs in sporadic kicks and violent spasms to propel him forward; forward to relief, forward to a ceasing of the drums. He forced himself forward, holding back the desire to scream, even has the small stack of cases and luggage fell onto his spine, sending screaming bolts of agony through his tender, sore body. Luckily, however, the duffel he needed, his own, fell directly before his grasp. He fiddled with the zipper before freeing it, reaching inside, and shearing free the small, black-leather case that contained the “kit.”

With quick work, though more labor was required to ride his fragile form, Pytor opened the buckle of the pouch, grasping a small, plastic cylinder, before tossing the remaining contents of the bag aside. All that mattered was the cylinder, the single syringe, the small heaven-on-earth that was known only as Xyclecin. Swiftly, Khiron bit the end off the small syringe, raised his hand, then plunged the device directly into his throat, the pressure valve releasing the contents directly into his circulatory flow, sending pure ecstasy through his veins in a matter of instants. The relief was almost immediate, as it had always been. He briefly glanced down if but only to assure himself that, in fact, no great protrusions, no manifestations of the "sickness" had began to rip free from his body, and calmed his nerves upon the discovery that such an occurrence had only been a manifestation of the worst symptoms of his disease. The contents of the so-called “contamination cocktail” didn't need to be known to bring this relief, this calm, this pleasure to Khiron – or the others. All that mattered was the ceasing of the drums.

”They'll never stop...”

Khiron jerked around, falling onto his side in the process, but placing him in prime position to grip the sidearm that had been set beneath his cot. Gripping it, he flailed violently, the first sound of thunder beginning to roll from overhead. “Who's there? Who the fuck is there?” he shouted loudly, his voice muffled to near-silence by the wailing of an emergency klaxon, fright and terror filling his eyes even as he flailed in futility to find a culprit.

”No one, Pytor. No one...”

— An Edited Excerpt from "Chetverta-6: Lucifer's Ladder"

[-Deus-]

[ "Welcome to the Union..." ]

[ PMT ]

The cold night air stung against my dried and cracked skin, the howling wind adding to the scene. I looked around, nothing but ice and snow, the subtle sound of music in the distance uplifting my spirits as I drifted through the snow, intent on reaching that beautiful sound. I blinked my eyes, the snow condensing on my face, the furiously blowing blizzard blinding me. I tried to cover myself up, pulling up my flimsy scarf over my face, panting to warm my slowly freezing face. I shivered under my jacket, the dingy piece of cloth nearly falling off as I crossed my arms together to save the heat. I tried to adjust the flimsy jacket, bits of snow flying into the holes, the icy touch of the frozen water stinging my bare skin, the jacket suddenly flinging off my shoulders, falling to the ground, quickly being buried in the snow. I sniffed my nose, trying to push on, the music growing just a bit louder as I went on. I took another step, yet suddenly falling over, my body dropping into the freezing cold snow, the cold pain paralyzing me as I closed my eyes and shivered, thinking back to before…

I was not a special man, a soldier, an executive or politician, just a simple soul. I wandered the earth, living here or there, drifting where ever the wind blew me. I was not sure why or even how I was going to make it to that city in the south, but I had heard so much of it that I just had to go. I had heard of the music that was blasted night and day, the supposed power of its rulers and the people…oh how the people interested me. And…And, I, heh, I—I went, I sucked up my doubt, packed my bags and got a ticket to a southern port town supposedly the only way for my kind to get to this fabled city. I packed light, only taking what I needed, the appropriate clothing, protection, money, the usual things for anyone like me. I even bought one of those little travel guides from the port town in the south, filthy bugger near useless from what other natives told me. The port town was a busy little place, so cute and innocent. Yet no one was “ballsy” enough to take me to the city, they called it “the city of night eaters”, a chilling name that made me a bit hesitant, I admit. But one man I met, Skippy or something, yeah Skippy, good man he was; yeah, but this man, Skippy, he pulled me aside one day and told me how to get there, he told me that he’d take me to the city. And off I want, just like that; I boarded the man’s little “ice-plane” as he called it and was off, just like that.

It was a calm, everyday flight. No storms, no technical problems, not even any uncomfortable silence. The man, Skippy, heh, guy could talk and had some stories to tell. Was a nice guy, the weird but sensible uncle type. Yet throughout my trip, I had the lingering feeling of doubt that somehow I was getting into something bad. Again, I simply swallowed it, dropping my doubt and blindly following the tales of grander I heard. And this is when my trouble started. Out of nowhere a storm hit us, a full on blizzard. To tell the complete truth, I was scared for my life, yet determined to finish this. Skippy reminded me that this was completely normal though, so my fright slowly subsided. The flight was still relatively easy as the blizzard was going on. But…Huh…But suddenly I remember Skippy yelling out, cackling like an insane man as he smiled, a flash of light speeding towards us on the si—

--I shivered in the snow, picking myself up, my face and skin drenched of all colour as I continued on, my eyes drooping from fatigue. I could still see the wreckage from here, the towering smoke stack and blazing fire from the plane, heh, that poor bastard Skippy no doubt a mangled mess. I shook the snow off of my back, pushing forward as the wind continued to howl, the music growing louder and louder, a smile covering my face as I dropped everything and started to run in an intoxicated mess. I could hear the music perfectly now, the chatter of people, the sound of a bustling city, my own thoughts pushing me forward as my tired joints and bloodied body ached. The people, yes, the people! They would help me. I hurried up, trying to push faster, yet my pained body only slowed down to a job as I went, the city nearly in my grasp. “Well I’ll be da—” I heard a bang behind me, a sharp pain in my back spreading throughout my body as I crimpled to the floor, my vision crystal clear as a man walked from behind me, his jackboots jet black and recently polished. I was sure I wasn’t dead, sure that this was only security making sure I wasn’t an intruder. I blinked once or twice, everything twisting and turning, slowly going hazy. The man bent down and looked me in the eye, his seemingly humane smile putting my off as my vision became even more hazy, everything exaggerating and twisting, corrupting itself into a distorted mess.

But the man laughed a bit, snickering lightly as he gave me a smile and pat on the back of my head. He mouthed something…my slowly decaying mind piecing it together “Welco…” . He picked me up, dragging me by the shoulder, pulling me towards an array of lights and sound, the city perhaps, my mind was still focused on the man’s words “Welcome to t…” . My vision slowly became worse, the…the…my mind shutting down, resting from the stress it just endured. I looked up, staring at the lights and listening to the sound, yes yes, this was the city! I slowly closed my eyes, the words of the man stinging my brain… “Welcome to the Union.”

[New Balkaney]

[ FT ]

"Vraks Remembered"

The tags keyed to his neural net and the words and numbers inked onto his flesh listed him as Colonel Vraks, Arkady, NP7-5-5-3/14856. The soldiers crammed into the trench around him knew him as the Colonel. The men closest to him, those in his unit, called him tinpot behind his back and cogs to his face. He was the epitome of the Balkan soldier, a seething mass of scarred flesh and knotted wounds, twisted electronics and armor plate grafted to missing bone and muscle. He was battle scarred and angry, coiled violence that could almost be felt in the air around him. He was a wounded man sustained by old machines, a brutal fighter shackled to soul-less code. Nobody crammed into the trench around him remembered that he'd once been a boy, a fresh recruit into the Sturmtruppen with his own ideas about the future and his own will to act upon his desires. But Vraks remembered.

Decades past, back in amongst the scathing sands of Nova Poltavi, a dead world adopted as the home of a crazed people, the center of the Balkan war machine and it's most shining example to the world. Violence and peace clashing on every street corner, industry and humanity mashed together at every turn. He was only Arkady then, an example for others to look upon, a unit leader in the compulsory military academy of Axiom. He'd fought through tests and won endless honors, all of it dashed to nothingness upon graduation.

He'd become Cadet Vraks then, stripped of his honors and his humanity, nothing but a statistic in the eyes of the state and his latest instructors. A worm to be crushed up and beaten down, reshaped again and again into the perfect image of the Balkan Soldier, the ever vigilant Sturmtruppen. It was a short but brutal time, one best forgotten but always remembered in the back of the mind, the old pain of metamorphosis keeping him alert and alive.

Within a month he was Private Vraks, 7th Shock, 5th Division, 5th Company. A rifleman on the front lines, fighting the inexorable, unstoppable, insectoid Draal in the eternal war that engulfed Krieg. One of billions over a hundred years, a minor number in a major campaign, tossed by fate onto the spear head of a grand advance back into long lost and crumbling cities. Unspeakable horrors and more xenos and Balkan blood than he'd cared to have seen stained his mind and corrupted his soul, deadening him to the terror around him, breaking him down and costing him most of the fingers of his left hand.

Then he was Corporal Vraks, leading a fireteam into the worst of the nests of the Draal that had seeded Rak, offered up as a sacrifice yet again upon the altar of battle, pulled from deployment to deployment at the whims of his faceless, authoritative superiors. Constant fighting for weeks, months, years on end, bloodshed and desolation without the briefest of respites, fighting through high tide floods and mini ice-ages as the passage of time faded from his mind and he fell into the rote routine of a Sturmtruppen.

In time he was Sergeant Vraks, Raider, hurtling in rocket pods through the void of space, impacting against hulls with a near zero life expectancy rate, blasting through bulkheads in search of targets of the highest priority surrounded by the most impregnable defenses, hitting dirt only when advances stalled and his men were forced to fall like comets from above to dislodge some awful new foe.

By the time he was Lieutenant Vraks nobody but he remembered his past. The scars of over a decade of warfare had taken their tole, had ravaged his body almost beyond recognition. Already he was becoming visibly more man than machine, his wounds patched over with circuits and armor plates, his body adjusting to the modifications necessary to preserve his life and his lethality. And still, no respite, still no rest from the terror that constantly pulsed around him.

A decade more of fighting and further promotions still and Major Vraks had his first extended peace, deployed to world after world of occupation, colonies becoming a blur as he was shuffled to and fro beneath non-combat commands, the only real sign that his State still cared for his health, still cared for his preservation outside of the medals that were heavy and clinking upon his chest. But this too passed, this peace too was forgotten as war reared it's head again, as the Garvari re-emerged at the outskirts and the old nemesis returned with a new vigor.

Nobody remembered that Colonel Vraks had once been a starry eyed youth, that he'd once had dreams and hopes and all manner of personal ambitions. Nobody in crammed into the trench around him remembered that he'd once been known as Arkady, that he'd once been human. But as the light flickered in the corner of his neural net's heads up display and the order to go over the top and charge across the no man's land came in over the battle chatter, Vraks remembered. He remembered everything, every little moment, every senseless killing, every awful shelling and all the bullets from all the guns in all the battles he'd ever fought, everything a violent blur, a seething, buzzing frenzy in the back of his head.

Vraks remembered, and every day he tried to forget.

[Falkasia]

The Falkasian Gulf: First Blood

[MT]

Test Drill 01022, Somewhere off the coast of Falkasia
It was incredibly cold, made worse by the horrendous, subarctic conditions of the Falkasian sea. The sky above was a dreary grey, covered thickly with a blanket of clouds. Throughout the waters stood gigantic monoliths and hulking white behemoths, sitting quietly as the enraged ocean pounded away at their rusty support structures and exposed ciy surfaces. From a distance, a passing boat would have never guessed that the stations were occupied, but that assumtion couldn't have been more wrong. This was the largest venture Morozov Energy had ever made, a risky move to search for oil in the Falkasian Gulf. Many attempts had been tried in the past, but had only left the parent companies broke and empty-handed.

Aboard one of a hundred drills, stood two crewmen. They were covered in thick, wet jackets that stretched well past their waists, and had on multiple shirts and undergarments underneath. However, no matter how much or what they put on, the cold was still penetrating and near-unbearable. As the stood there, rubbing their arms and breathing into the gloves, the whispered to each other.
"So, how long you think we'll be out here," one said, sending a mist of frozen breath towards the other.
"No idea. I've been out here for three months, and haven;t even heard a word about going home."
"Damn.... well, maybe if we spill something from the galley on ourselves, they'll send us home."
"Not likely. They'd just lock you up in the Medbay until you're all healed. Then they'll kick you out and put you back to work."
"Damn......"
"Yea, damn...."
Their conversation ended with what sounded like a bubble popping, then another and another. The two men looked in the direction of the platform's drill, an archaic device which used nothing more than a Diamond-Tungsten drillbit and hydralic power. The ocean directly below it was covered in wash, white as snow. Very faintly however, the two men could see a small black dot that seemed to grow the longer they looked at it. Having been stuck on a cramped, frozen hulk in the middle fo the ocean for months on end, it took the men a moment to register what was happening. Once they heard more bubbles however, it became apparent. The two men jumped, screamed, cheered; loud enough to wake the whole platform. From the lower decks poured out a dozen other crewmen, armed with frying pans, crowbars, and bottles of beer to fend off the Russians they though were raiding. In the end, no one really knew what the more comical sight was, a bunch of half-naked men armed with kitchen utensils and drinks on the barren platform, or two crewmen on top of one another, rolling around the deck in blissful exhultation. What was known in the end however, was that they had struck oil and defied the odds to get there.