Jungle vines hung through the blasted window that had once looked out across the stars. Its wide oval was about thirty feet across and where it once it held a view of dark stars it now held the prospect of an overgrown jungle. Green vines spilled forth into the command chamber of the Tau battleship. Leaves and plants hanging down over command consoles. The power had been off for about a month and so the edges of once white chamber were hidden in shadows. Dark control panels were quiet and where once the chatter of Air Caste pilots had sounded, now the chatter of exotic birds called out.
Anemos walked cautiously into the chamber. Its silence and her witness to the remnant of what this place once was, made her shiver. There were parts of the ship that still buzzed with activity. She had made sure of it. Despite the rough landing and the destruction of the main viewing chamber, the ship was still intact and she had been running the war from the tactical alcoves several decks below. Hundreds of Fire Warriors worked and planned from other parts of the ship in full confidence of eventual victory. Anemos was not as confident. She returned to this place knowing that this was at the heart of the campaign. She swallowed hard facing the reality that at the core of her command was this room and madness of the jungle crowding around. She looked toward the shadows. She was looking for her god. She knew he was here. She knew he was lurking in the shadows.
“My lord” she called to the darkness “we need to speak of the war”. There was no response. “It goes poorly”.
“I see it” the voice came from one of the dark corners. She looked closer and saw the shape of her Ethereal. “I see it in you. I see your desire”. The voice was ghostly and lonesome. She started toward the dark form and saw that he was dressed in little but rags. “You want me dead. You want me gone”
“I do not. I seek your council.”
“You seek to blame me for your failure.”
She breathed out slowly measuring her temper. He was right. She did want him dead. He had lead their forces into an evil alliance with the Dark Eldar and and their wytches and the Cemephon expansion had become their playground. Their wanton destruction and torture had become her daily observations. They all had been lead to their doom.
“I've seen the horror. Horrors that you've seen.” The voice came from the blackness.
"The field is lost. Our forces are in retreat. The northern front has collapsed and the hives cities are overrun with Imperials.” She paused. Her anger was building. “Obolis is missing. Tranthus’ break through assault on the dark gate has failed. And he is dead!” She paused letting her words sink into the darkness. They also sank into her mind. She thought of Obolis’ warning all those months ago... “Whatever walks through that gate will destroy us” he had said. She now came to see that he had said was right. The call of a Jimjok bird sounded in the jungle outside and brought her back. She could feel her own contempt. “What is your wisdom?” she spat. Her words were soaked in malice.
“You have a right to kill me” the voice from the darkness was slow and seemed to slide across the room like a filthy oil. “You have a right to do that, but you have no right to judge me. I am your god and I have lead you to this point of glory”
“Glory!?”
“Glory indeed. The inky, bloody revelry of what we have made is glorious. It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what glory means.”
“How are we glorious? How?” Her face was twisted in a snarl.
“Glorious in death”.
Anemos eyes grew wide. She now knew what Obolis had seen all those months ago at the start of this war was true. The Ethereal was mad. She loosed her sidearm from its holster and drew it up to fire but her finger never made it to the trigger. A ghostly shadow from behind darted over her striking her and lodging a needle through her neck. It protruded from one side through to the other. She dropped to her knees gurgling as a poison strode through her body. Her face contorted as she twisted against the toxin. She was trying to see the face of her attacker.
The voice from the inky blackness sounded again as calm and slow as cold tar. . “Horror. Horror has a face, and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and mortal terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies.” She hit the cold deck still writhing against the poison. Her eyes could only see the long black heeled boot of her assassin standing before her. She heard the rasp of her own breath. “The genius of it. The genius. The will to unleash mortal terror on your foes and love it. If I had ten divisions of those dark eldar kin, then our troubles here would be over very quickly. You have to have warriors who are moral and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill with feeling, with passion, with judgment--with Passion! Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure.”
The Ethereal had stepped from the darkness and walked toward her. She could see his tattooed body. From head to toe it was covered in the insane etches that now covered her warrior’s suits in tribute to this insanity. He carried a halberd in his hand. It was the once proud and now defiled symbol of his office.
“I realized what they could stand was so much beyond what we could do.” He came to stand before her looking down at her. He stood beside the Lady Hosphel, the assassin, and they both looked down at Anemos’s prostrate body. The fire warrior was now still. Her breathing was a labored panting. “These were not monsters, these were warriors, trained cadres, these who fought with their hearts. Our kin, Anemos, the Tau, have no passion. Passion is what is needed.” And with that the Ethereal raised the long blade of the halberd. And with a swift ease he inserted it into the soft flesh of Anemos’ stomach. It easily slid through to the floor with a dull sounding. She gasped with the last of her strength and her fingers spread wide in agony.
“The genius” the Ethereal said again, repeating himself as a widening pool of Anemos’ blood neared their feet.
Monday, January 31, 2011
The Dolgath Legacy Part 18: The war is done
Dolgath sat unnoticed in a dark corner on the seventh tier of the tactical command center. It was a tall, circular chamber located in the most secure core of his battle cruiser, the Subjugator. He had never used it himself, preferring to conduct operations from his private audience chamber. Shortly after taking command of the campaign, Nelthas had moved her operations here – systems dark for centuries suddenly flickered to life, servitors long dormant slowly twitched into motion, fitful glow-globes cast reluctant amber illumination upon ancient heroes carved millennia before in immutable bronze and immaculate marble standing in silent vigilance.
The tactical command center was designed to provide full situational awareness. At the center of it was a holographic sphere that displayed an incredibly detailed, three-dimensional representation of the battle zone. One morning, after not meeting with Nelthas for their customary breakfast, Dolgath discovered her in the newly awakened command center standing at the nexus of the holographic sphere like some towering avatar of war.
Dolgath was at first surprised, not pegging Nelthas as a war-monger, yet she had never before been given full command of a campaign. She seemed to embrace it with frightening force and efficiency. Her victories were quick, efficient and brutal. She wasted nothing. Every asset at her disposal was utilized to its utmost; every advantage was exploited for maximum effect. Although the xenos invaders possessed superior resources and technological capabilities, Nelthas outmaneuvered them at every turn. Her victory was almost frightening in its speed and ruthlessness. Inquisitor Welch was sent packing back to Ordos command even before he was fully settled into his new quarters.
At the dawn of the twenty-seventh day of the campaign, Dolgath entered the main floor of the tactical command center. The guards did not challenge him; they were his own men after all. Nelthas still hovered at the center of the holographic sphere – she had not left it since the beginning of the campaign. She was like a dark god, her arms outstretched, and her eyes like faintly glowing emerald embers. Only a few tiny red indicators remained in the entirety of the battle zone – a few last pockets of feeble resistance…
“Nelthas,” Dolgath said tentatively. She did not respond.
“Nelthas!” Dolgath shouted.
The god’s eyes flickered uncertainly and then focused on Dolgath.
“Come, the war is done,” Dolgath said with his arms outstretched.
Nelthas descended from the battle sphere like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She literally fell into Dolgath’s arms. He bore her back to his private chambers; a tiny slight bundle. It was fourteen days before Nelthas was well enough to join him once again for their customary morning breakfast meeting.
On the fifteenth day, Nelthas glided into his audience chamber, all slight of stature and demure, adorned in cream and sea-foam. Dolgath glanced up with a lopsided smile.
“It seams the Ordo Hereticus congress has recommended you for consideration for Lord Status for your work in this campaign…” Dolgath commented casually.
Dolgath watched as Nelthas carefully picked up her customary liquid nutrient glass, inserted the straw between the succulent full lips of her psychomorphic mask, and took a long drink…
“Swell…” she replied noncommittally.
Dolgath lowered his head and began to laugh – slightly at first and then growing in volume…
Nelthas watched him for a moment, and then began laughing herself…
The tactical command center was designed to provide full situational awareness. At the center of it was a holographic sphere that displayed an incredibly detailed, three-dimensional representation of the battle zone. One morning, after not meeting with Nelthas for their customary breakfast, Dolgath discovered her in the newly awakened command center standing at the nexus of the holographic sphere like some towering avatar of war.
Dolgath was at first surprised, not pegging Nelthas as a war-monger, yet she had never before been given full command of a campaign. She seemed to embrace it with frightening force and efficiency. Her victories were quick, efficient and brutal. She wasted nothing. Every asset at her disposal was utilized to its utmost; every advantage was exploited for maximum effect. Although the xenos invaders possessed superior resources and technological capabilities, Nelthas outmaneuvered them at every turn. Her victory was almost frightening in its speed and ruthlessness. Inquisitor Welch was sent packing back to Ordos command even before he was fully settled into his new quarters.
At the dawn of the twenty-seventh day of the campaign, Dolgath entered the main floor of the tactical command center. The guards did not challenge him; they were his own men after all. Nelthas still hovered at the center of the holographic sphere – she had not left it since the beginning of the campaign. She was like a dark god, her arms outstretched, and her eyes like faintly glowing emerald embers. Only a few tiny red indicators remained in the entirety of the battle zone – a few last pockets of feeble resistance…
“Nelthas,” Dolgath said tentatively. She did not respond.
“Nelthas!” Dolgath shouted.
The god’s eyes flickered uncertainly and then focused on Dolgath.
“Come, the war is done,” Dolgath said with his arms outstretched.
Nelthas descended from the battle sphere like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She literally fell into Dolgath’s arms. He bore her back to his private chambers; a tiny slight bundle. It was fourteen days before Nelthas was well enough to join him once again for their customary morning breakfast meeting.
On the fifteenth day, Nelthas glided into his audience chamber, all slight of stature and demure, adorned in cream and sea-foam. Dolgath glanced up with a lopsided smile.
“It seams the Ordo Hereticus congress has recommended you for consideration for Lord Status for your work in this campaign…” Dolgath commented casually.
Dolgath watched as Nelthas carefully picked up her customary liquid nutrient glass, inserted the straw between the succulent full lips of her psychomorphic mask, and took a long drink…
“Swell…” she replied noncommittally.
Dolgath lowered his head and began to laugh – slightly at first and then growing in volume…
Nelthas watched him for a moment, and then began laughing herself…
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Sunday, January 09, 2011
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Nelthas Ascendant
The Aquilla-pattern shuttle was configured for command and control, as such; it was heavily shielded and outfitted with the best systems the Adeptus Mechanicus could cram into her small frame. Other than its crew of three, it held five individuals whose positions were critical to the Imperium for the prosecution of the war. Had the xenos invaders been aware of it, they would most certainly have sent every resource available to destroy it. As it was, the small craft drifted like an insignificant speck in low orbit, providing its passengers a brilliantly panoramic overview of the territory over which the coming conflict would be fought.
Standing at the pinnacle of the observation dome was Inquisitor Nelthas outfitted in a sleek and severe garment of glistening black and crimson leather. Her psychomorphic mask bore more resemblance to a helmet crafted in the most elaborate Imperial fashion, the face a fierce blending of a beautiful woman and a raptor, surmounted by feathered wings carved of white-lacquered adamantine. From her position she had a commanding panorama through the hemispherical view-ports around her, as well as of the various pict-screens and com-relays arrayed around the dome.
To her right stood the hulking form of Captain Jeremiah of the 9th company of the Imperial Dragons chapter of the space marines, representing the primary force at her disposal. His youthful face surmounted by golden curls seemed incongruous set as it was atop the gleaming suit of green and ivory power armor. To her left was Major Raker of the 3rd Company of the 77th Kelten Rifles Imperial Guard Regiment. He represented the secondary force at Nelthas command, which were actually the remnants of Dolgath’s original battle force who secured New Boston. He was dressed in the trademark black, white and grey striped camo pattern uniform of the White Tigers company, with a dark grey cape resting over his shoulders. His face was broad and lantern-jawed; his eyes peered from beneath the brim of his peaked cap like a surly predator. Behind him stood a woman shrouded in a voluminous white cloak trimmed in luxurious fur from which peeked a high-cheekboned face of porcelain perfection with dark eyes as inscrutable as a statue. This deadly raven-haired beauty was Palatine Quallar representing the Ordo Hereticus force left behind by Inquisitor Treyquill. Lastly, there was a figure who sat inconspicuously in a dark corner, seemingly oblivious to the important personages standing before him; instead, his attention was focused on a well-worn leather book. He was dressed in a simple dark grey overcoat with a black felt collar and lapels upon which was pined a tiny golden Ordo Maleus seal. Inquisitor Lord Dolgath’s face was a lean stony mask, his eyes as deeply green and unfathomable as the sea.
Beneath her impenetrable mask, Nelthas was concerned about Dolgath. He was special to her. Ever since she first constructed the entity that was, Nelthas, she knew that most would avoid her, and a small few twisted individuals might be attracted to her. Never before had she encountered someone who was so accepting of her. Dolgath had become increasingly quiet and withdrawn since control of the campaign had been transferred to her. At first she assumed it represented a certain amount of petulance on his part; which was understandable considering he lost command of the campaign which he had so far successfully prosecuted. Yet, his relief at ceding control of the campaign was palpable. He performed the required transfer functions almost happily. Once all his duties were done he offered up his audience chamber to her and retreated to his inner-sanctum. He would join her at every morning and evening meal and discuss the latest developments in the campaign, but inevitably as soon as the meal was over; his nose would be buried in a book once more. Nelthas had grown to suspect that Dolgath, the inspiring battle commander, was as much a façade as her own, and she was just now beginning to see the real Dolgath; the introspective delver into forbidden secrets...
“Inquisitor, we have a Dark Eldar signature on the scan,” one of the crew stated.
The four commanders focused on the pict-screen, all accept for Dolgath who seemed oblivious, engrossed in his book.
The pict-screen resolved on the territory within which the defense missile silo resided. Nelthas quickly evaluated the associated data; it was an automated facility manned by servitor drones that had been entirely ineffective at striking the invading forces. A second pict-screen showed the xenos forces descending on the facility and quickly taking control of the command center and fuel bunkers. A third pict-screen showed Imperial Guard forces moving into position to assault the xenos-controlled areas. Nelthas summed up the situation and made her decision instantly. She turned to Major Raker.
“Withdraw your troops, Major,” she said confidently.
“What?” his heavy jaw dropped in surprise.
“You heard me. Have them retreat in good order and establish defensive positions around the Starport.”
“Inquisitor, with all due respect…” Raker began to say with something less than a respectful tone.
Nelthas raised one of her tiny delicate hands and pointed a dainty finger at him; the gold ring upon her finger emitted a ruby targeting beam that formed a conspicuous red dot between his eyes. “Now, Major,” she said darkly.
Everyone’s eyes, including Dolgath’s, focused on Raker. He stood transfixed for a brief moment and then bowed slightly. “As you wish, Inquisitor,” Raker replied as he moved to a com-panel to relay his orders. Through her restrained fury, Nelthas noticed as the faint hint of a smile ghosted across Dolgath’s face.
###
The next morning, Dolgath appeared in the audience chamber for his customary morning meal, only to see servitors and functionaries scurrying about. Nelthas, arrayed in flowing garment the color of sea-foam, her psychomorphic mask like fine jade, had activated the holographic display above his desk and was engrossed in reviewing a stream of battle reports coming in. Dolgath sat inconspicuously down opposite her and observed the controlled chaos with a faintly bemused expression. After a few moments she finally noticed him. Her mask smiled with barely repressed satisfaction.
“I take it, the Dark Eldar took your bait,” Dolgath said.
“They could not resist. The servitors manning the defense facility would be naught but straw men to them; they could not leave the field without drawing blood and pain,” Nelthas replied. “They still control the defense silo, but they have been crippled with negligible losses on our part.”
“Well played,” Dolgath chuckled.
A servitor brought them trays of coffee and pastries. As Nelthas turned back to the battle reports, Dolgath pulled out his well-worn book and settled back to read.
Standing at the pinnacle of the observation dome was Inquisitor Nelthas outfitted in a sleek and severe garment of glistening black and crimson leather. Her psychomorphic mask bore more resemblance to a helmet crafted in the most elaborate Imperial fashion, the face a fierce blending of a beautiful woman and a raptor, surmounted by feathered wings carved of white-lacquered adamantine. From her position she had a commanding panorama through the hemispherical view-ports around her, as well as of the various pict-screens and com-relays arrayed around the dome.
To her right stood the hulking form of Captain Jeremiah of the 9th company of the Imperial Dragons chapter of the space marines, representing the primary force at her disposal. His youthful face surmounted by golden curls seemed incongruous set as it was atop the gleaming suit of green and ivory power armor. To her left was Major Raker of the 3rd Company of the 77th Kelten Rifles Imperial Guard Regiment. He represented the secondary force at Nelthas command, which were actually the remnants of Dolgath’s original battle force who secured New Boston. He was dressed in the trademark black, white and grey striped camo pattern uniform of the White Tigers company, with a dark grey cape resting over his shoulders. His face was broad and lantern-jawed; his eyes peered from beneath the brim of his peaked cap like a surly predator. Behind him stood a woman shrouded in a voluminous white cloak trimmed in luxurious fur from which peeked a high-cheekboned face of porcelain perfection with dark eyes as inscrutable as a statue. This deadly raven-haired beauty was Palatine Quallar representing the Ordo Hereticus force left behind by Inquisitor Treyquill. Lastly, there was a figure who sat inconspicuously in a dark corner, seemingly oblivious to the important personages standing before him; instead, his attention was focused on a well-worn leather book. He was dressed in a simple dark grey overcoat with a black felt collar and lapels upon which was pined a tiny golden Ordo Maleus seal. Inquisitor Lord Dolgath’s face was a lean stony mask, his eyes as deeply green and unfathomable as the sea.
Beneath her impenetrable mask, Nelthas was concerned about Dolgath. He was special to her. Ever since she first constructed the entity that was, Nelthas, she knew that most would avoid her, and a small few twisted individuals might be attracted to her. Never before had she encountered someone who was so accepting of her. Dolgath had become increasingly quiet and withdrawn since control of the campaign had been transferred to her. At first she assumed it represented a certain amount of petulance on his part; which was understandable considering he lost command of the campaign which he had so far successfully prosecuted. Yet, his relief at ceding control of the campaign was palpable. He performed the required transfer functions almost happily. Once all his duties were done he offered up his audience chamber to her and retreated to his inner-sanctum. He would join her at every morning and evening meal and discuss the latest developments in the campaign, but inevitably as soon as the meal was over; his nose would be buried in a book once more. Nelthas had grown to suspect that Dolgath, the inspiring battle commander, was as much a façade as her own, and she was just now beginning to see the real Dolgath; the introspective delver into forbidden secrets...
“Inquisitor, we have a Dark Eldar signature on the scan,” one of the crew stated.
The four commanders focused on the pict-screen, all accept for Dolgath who seemed oblivious, engrossed in his book.
The pict-screen resolved on the territory within which the defense missile silo resided. Nelthas quickly evaluated the associated data; it was an automated facility manned by servitor drones that had been entirely ineffective at striking the invading forces. A second pict-screen showed the xenos forces descending on the facility and quickly taking control of the command center and fuel bunkers. A third pict-screen showed Imperial Guard forces moving into position to assault the xenos-controlled areas. Nelthas summed up the situation and made her decision instantly. She turned to Major Raker.
“Withdraw your troops, Major,” she said confidently.
“What?” his heavy jaw dropped in surprise.
“You heard me. Have them retreat in good order and establish defensive positions around the Starport.”
“Inquisitor, with all due respect…” Raker began to say with something less than a respectful tone.
Nelthas raised one of her tiny delicate hands and pointed a dainty finger at him; the gold ring upon her finger emitted a ruby targeting beam that formed a conspicuous red dot between his eyes. “Now, Major,” she said darkly.
Everyone’s eyes, including Dolgath’s, focused on Raker. He stood transfixed for a brief moment and then bowed slightly. “As you wish, Inquisitor,” Raker replied as he moved to a com-panel to relay his orders. Through her restrained fury, Nelthas noticed as the faint hint of a smile ghosted across Dolgath’s face.
###
The next morning, Dolgath appeared in the audience chamber for his customary morning meal, only to see servitors and functionaries scurrying about. Nelthas, arrayed in flowing garment the color of sea-foam, her psychomorphic mask like fine jade, had activated the holographic display above his desk and was engrossed in reviewing a stream of battle reports coming in. Dolgath sat inconspicuously down opposite her and observed the controlled chaos with a faintly bemused expression. After a few moments she finally noticed him. Her mask smiled with barely repressed satisfaction.
“I take it, the Dark Eldar took your bait,” Dolgath said.
“They could not resist. The servitors manning the defense facility would be naught but straw men to them; they could not leave the field without drawing blood and pain,” Nelthas replied. “They still control the defense silo, but they have been crippled with negligible losses on our part.”
“Well played,” Dolgath chuckled.
A servitor brought them trays of coffee and pastries. As Nelthas turned back to the battle reports, Dolgath pulled out his well-worn book and settled back to read.
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
The Dolgath Legacy Part 17: Never show emotion
They both turned at the sound of strong rapid footsteps advancing into the chamber. A Space Marine officer in full regalia marched toward them – his green and white power armor gleaming, his feather-crested helmet held in the crook of one arm, his opposite armored fist gripping the pommel of an ornate power sword. A second figure trailed in his wake, endeavoring rather comically, to keep up with the massive stride of the Astartes. His attire was suitably impressive in the Ordo Maleus style, yet his flushed face and labored breathing defeated his attempts at dignity.
The Space Marine snapped to attention at the foot of Dolgath’s desk, his youthful, clean-cut face belied the fact that he was likely significantly older than Dolgath’s advanced years… The second figure stumbled up to his desk standing red-faced and breathing heavily.
“Captain Jeremiah, 9th Company, Imperial Dragons Chapter, Legions Astartes,” the space marine stated smartly.
“Inquisitor Welch, Ordo Maleus, Segmentum Obscurus,” the second figure said breathlessly.
Dolgath didn’t recognize either of them. Although had had worked with the Imperial Dragons chapter on numerous occasions over the years, he expected that he might not know some of their officers. Conversely, the Inquisitor was a member of his own order, yet he was young – probably hadn’t even been born yet the last time Dolgath had attended an Ordos congress. As Dolgath walked slowly to his desk, Nethas moved behind him rising up to twice her former height creating an effect both intimidating and comforting that Dolgath was growing quite fond of…
“Captain Jeremiah, the Inquisition acknowledges the past service of the Imperial Dragons as exemplary. In fact, I personally stand in your debt,” Dolgath bowed deeply. For a moment the space marine seemed taken-aback, but saluted smartly in return.
Dolgath turned toward Welch. “Why are you here?” Dolgath said in a strikingly icy tone. The space marine’s eyes shifted sideways, but his stony face showed no other signs of emotion. Welch blinked in surprise, but quickly produced a sealed message scroll and responded in a tone that seamed well-rehearsed.
“By order of High Lord Veridian of Ultima Segmentum Ordos Command and Lord Inquisitor Sarc of Charadon Sector, authority and command of all forces engaged in the prosecution of the subsequent campaign against the Tau invaders has been transferred to Inquisitor Nelthas of the Ordo Xenos. The services of Inquisitor Lord Dolgath shall henceforth be retained in an advisory capacity only.”
Dolgath took the offered scroll without expression; however, Nelthas suddenly rose up like a towering storm cloud her voice booming link thunder: “What!” The space marine actually tilted his head backward to gaze up at the enraged apparition. Welch cowered like a frightened animal.
Dolgath’s calm voice quickly diffused the situation. “Our thanks, Captain Jeremiah; Inquisitor Nelthas shall convene a tactical briefing of all campaign forces at the earliest opportunity. Inquisitor Welch, accommodations shall be made available to you immediately.”
The space marine captain turned on his heel smartly and marched out of the chamber, leaving Welch to stand blinking up at Nelthas stupidly.
“Was their something more, Inquisitor?” Dolgath asked.
“Um, I was instructed to remain as an observer for the subsequent operations,” Welch replied focusing with difficulty on Dolgath.
“Very good, you shall be included in all subsequent briefings. Good day, Inquisitor,” Dolgath said with finality. A servitor came to escort Welch out. He departed with a rather bewildered expression. The moment the door sealed behind him, Dolgath turned on Nelthas and pointed a harsh finger up at her.
“That was unwise! Never show emotion, especially in front of an Astartes!” Dolgath growled.
Nelthas shrank like a deflated Emperor’s Day float. She seemed to vanish into a billowing pool of black and cream fabric, making Dolgath wonder just how tiny she really was inside all that façade. Her psychomorphic mask lay in the center of it, upturned; deathly pale, the mouth a tiny crimson pout, the eyes wept blood-red tears. Slowly, a tiny figure rose in the center of it all, hardly taller than a child. Dolgath moved to put his arm around those tiny shoulders, his iron-hard visage cracking for a moment.
“It makes sense, does it not? The elements of Chaos have left this particular engagement. This is now truly an Ordo Xenos matter…” Dolgath opinioned.
Nelthas rose up to stand at equal height. “Yes, you are correct,” she said with an overly harsh tone.
Dolgath looked at her and smiled. “Your outburst was unwise, but very much appreciated!” He smiled at her.
The eyes of her psychomorphic mask opened wider than he had ever seen. He almost though he caught a glimpse of the amethyst orbs that lay beneath. He reached out and touched it, brushing his fingers across the mask’s lips; they were surprisingly warm and yielding…
The Space Marine snapped to attention at the foot of Dolgath’s desk, his youthful, clean-cut face belied the fact that he was likely significantly older than Dolgath’s advanced years… The second figure stumbled up to his desk standing red-faced and breathing heavily.
“Captain Jeremiah, 9th Company, Imperial Dragons Chapter, Legions Astartes,” the space marine stated smartly.
“Inquisitor Welch, Ordo Maleus, Segmentum Obscurus,” the second figure said breathlessly.
Dolgath didn’t recognize either of them. Although had had worked with the Imperial Dragons chapter on numerous occasions over the years, he expected that he might not know some of their officers. Conversely, the Inquisitor was a member of his own order, yet he was young – probably hadn’t even been born yet the last time Dolgath had attended an Ordos congress. As Dolgath walked slowly to his desk, Nethas moved behind him rising up to twice her former height creating an effect both intimidating and comforting that Dolgath was growing quite fond of…
“Captain Jeremiah, the Inquisition acknowledges the past service of the Imperial Dragons as exemplary. In fact, I personally stand in your debt,” Dolgath bowed deeply. For a moment the space marine seemed taken-aback, but saluted smartly in return.
Dolgath turned toward Welch. “Why are you here?” Dolgath said in a strikingly icy tone. The space marine’s eyes shifted sideways, but his stony face showed no other signs of emotion. Welch blinked in surprise, but quickly produced a sealed message scroll and responded in a tone that seamed well-rehearsed.
“By order of High Lord Veridian of Ultima Segmentum Ordos Command and Lord Inquisitor Sarc of Charadon Sector, authority and command of all forces engaged in the prosecution of the subsequent campaign against the Tau invaders has been transferred to Inquisitor Nelthas of the Ordo Xenos. The services of Inquisitor Lord Dolgath shall henceforth be retained in an advisory capacity only.”
Dolgath took the offered scroll without expression; however, Nelthas suddenly rose up like a towering storm cloud her voice booming link thunder: “What!” The space marine actually tilted his head backward to gaze up at the enraged apparition. Welch cowered like a frightened animal.
Dolgath’s calm voice quickly diffused the situation. “Our thanks, Captain Jeremiah; Inquisitor Nelthas shall convene a tactical briefing of all campaign forces at the earliest opportunity. Inquisitor Welch, accommodations shall be made available to you immediately.”
The space marine captain turned on his heel smartly and marched out of the chamber, leaving Welch to stand blinking up at Nelthas stupidly.
“Was their something more, Inquisitor?” Dolgath asked.
“Um, I was instructed to remain as an observer for the subsequent operations,” Welch replied focusing with difficulty on Dolgath.
“Very good, you shall be included in all subsequent briefings. Good day, Inquisitor,” Dolgath said with finality. A servitor came to escort Welch out. He departed with a rather bewildered expression. The moment the door sealed behind him, Dolgath turned on Nelthas and pointed a harsh finger up at her.
“That was unwise! Never show emotion, especially in front of an Astartes!” Dolgath growled.
Nelthas shrank like a deflated Emperor’s Day float. She seemed to vanish into a billowing pool of black and cream fabric, making Dolgath wonder just how tiny she really was inside all that façade. Her psychomorphic mask lay in the center of it, upturned; deathly pale, the mouth a tiny crimson pout, the eyes wept blood-red tears. Slowly, a tiny figure rose in the center of it all, hardly taller than a child. Dolgath moved to put his arm around those tiny shoulders, his iron-hard visage cracking for a moment.
“It makes sense, does it not? The elements of Chaos have left this particular engagement. This is now truly an Ordo Xenos matter…” Dolgath opinioned.
Nelthas rose up to stand at equal height. “Yes, you are correct,” she said with an overly harsh tone.
Dolgath looked at her and smiled. “Your outburst was unwise, but very much appreciated!” He smiled at her.
The eyes of her psychomorphic mask opened wider than he had ever seen. He almost though he caught a glimpse of the amethyst orbs that lay beneath. He reached out and touched it, brushing his fingers across the mask’s lips; they were surprisingly warm and yielding…
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part thirty six: Static
Loose static. Images in digital green came together and became clearer. Obolis’ looked at the communication screen within his suit. A communications signal was forming. He couldn’t see what it was yet. The data stream was struggling to form a clear link. The tau commander looked for his tap bar. He tried to boost the reception. While in his suit it was as if he were floating in a warm darkness. When inside the suit a warrior had the distinct feeling of levitation. The grasp of the motion actuators, that sent signals to the suit itself, was so slight that he couldn’t feel them~ even though they held him firmly. He just felt the sensation of floating. All about him, or so it appeared to him, were digital screens and monitors and control pads. They too were suspended in the warm darkness as if floating and as he needed them he would draw them in close or conversely move them to a less direct view when they were less important. He had dimmed the circular view screen that surrounded his head. Normally it showed the perspective he might have seen had he been able to see through his armor to the outside. It was background now.
He had been focusing on several incoming data feeds from the many Pathfinder and Stealth teams in the field. Three video images played in the background. He brought them to the fore and shuffled them like pieces of paper, viewing them each in time. The first was an image of several Devilfish APCs advancing on a burned out agricultural dormitory in the middle of a field. There was little opposition. The next image was from an advance stealth team. The grainy strange image of an eldrich gate. He could see its dark spires guarded by the cold forms of Space Marines. He looked closer at this one and pondered it. He had sent the stealth team to that remote location at the request of the Etherial himself. He dared not question the Etherial’s orders again. The partnership between the Dark Eldar of the Rancid Blade and the Etherial (and therefore him), forged at New Boston last year, persisted. The idea that the noble fire warriors were risking their lives in aid of the Dark Eldar was abhorrent to him. However, his words stating such had relegated him to obscurity (for now). He frowned, noting the data feeds from the Southern front. The dark warriors’ (as they called themselves) lightning attacks had opened an entirely new front in the southern part of the country. There was some good, he guessed, in their razor sharp speed sweeping across miles of territory while teams of Fire Warriors followed behind securing the critical assets. Perhaps the Etherial had been right, he pondered. The southern front had pulled away many of the vast resources that the Spaces Marines were directing to halting the Cemephon Expansion. He shuffled the image to the back. The third picture was an image of a large Imperial transport landing at the city sized space port close to the eldar advance. He could see the huge insignia of an Imperial Guard regiment on the side of the lander. He checked the scale. The lander was eight city blocks long. More Imperial reinforcements. He frowned again. Perhaps another foe for the Dark Eldar to deal with.
He set the vids to repeat and then pushed them to the background. Several scrolls of text passed by to his left. He kept an eye on them also. They were repeating data feeds from the two fonts of this war. He pulled close another screen that had been pushed to one side. It was a medical report. His friend Maturn had been in critical condition for several days. The real time report showed his condition unchanged.
He looked again to the incoming data feed. It was slowly taking shape. It became clearer and solidified. It was another video feed. This one was live. The Imperials were advancing again on the Garison on the northern front. The outer pathfinders were relaying the images from their hidden positions. Several weeks ago, in the opening stages of the war, he had moved to secure an old Imperial Garrison on the outskirts of the Maximilian Hive city. He had been concerned at having such a large Imperial garrison on the doorstep of the hives cities that he controlled. The Garrison was yielded with virtually no resistance. The troops within had apparently been neglected by their masters because they had not put up any sort of a fight. He had secured the humans in their bunkers and the Water Caste had begun the process of indoctrination to the greater way. They reported similarly light resistance from the humans in this matter. Like the populations of the hive cities, the humans in the garrisons seemed to welcome the hope that the Water Caste presented to them. Hope seemed like a commodity the humans rarely saw. The Water Caste had it in ample supply.
The garrison had become a key asset in the war. Perhaps because of the efforts of the Water Caste the Space Marines seemed intent on securing it. Last week Anemos, the leader of the Cemephon expansion, had lead the successful defence of the Imperial Garrison when the Space Marines had sought to retake it. Now it appeared that the Marines were moving in to try again. He noted from the data feeds that gave narrative to the videos that a second advance into the dry hills to the west of the garrison and the hive was also occurring. The humans were widening the front of the war. They were trying to stretch and then break his lines. He looked toward a tactical display that showed his deployment of resources surrounding the massive city of Hive Maximillian. There were few resources to the west. He considered the twin advancing columns of the human forces. Repelling both the columns at the same time would be difficult. He tapped a control pad and selected several options. It sent a signal to the other commanders in the field and to Anemos seeking a council of war to discus the widening front. As the signal was sent he saw that several others of the commanders had requested the conference also.
A second video feed arrived from the same Pathfinder team as the first image. Obolis’ eyes grew wide as he saw the image. At the heart of the Imperial advance on the Garrison was the form of a massive war machine. A gigantic tracked weapon moved slowly along with the squads of Space Marines. It’s massive gun barrels swayed and turned as though the heads of a massive beast looking for targets. The scale of this machine dwarfed any resources he had. It’s presence could change the fortunes of the war. He zoomed into the image, concern showing on his brow. The widening font and the presence of this machine was cause for concern indeed. The Imperials had upped the anti. He closed out several of the other screens clearing the palate so he could focus on the changes of the northern front. This machine had to be stopped.
Then, like the turn of a ship on a tack his mind changed direction. He considered an opportunity. If this war machine broke through the tau lines at the Garrison it would roll right into Hive Maximillion with little resistance. The front would collapse. He considered the forces available to him. Many of his Fire Warriors were spread out securing a wide area of the region. Perhaps, however, there was a tool that he might use. He would have to pick well the location and his forces well to blunt this attack. He might even have to cede ground to the humans as he mustered his defences. The key would be stopping this behemoth and then moving the bolster the rest of the lines. He also considered that were he to stop this advance, were he to repel or even destroy this war machine he would at the same time be repelling the criticism that had been leveled against him. It would be difficult for Anemos and Tanthus to criticize him given such an achievement. He noted that several of the others were responding to his request for audience~ they too had seen the video feeds. He hit the key and immediately the images of the other commanders arrived, their faces seemingly in the warm dark with him. He saw that they had seen the video... but had they seen the opportunity?
He had been focusing on several incoming data feeds from the many Pathfinder and Stealth teams in the field. Three video images played in the background. He brought them to the fore and shuffled them like pieces of paper, viewing them each in time. The first was an image of several Devilfish APCs advancing on a burned out agricultural dormitory in the middle of a field. There was little opposition. The next image was from an advance stealth team. The grainy strange image of an eldrich gate. He could see its dark spires guarded by the cold forms of Space Marines. He looked closer at this one and pondered it. He had sent the stealth team to that remote location at the request of the Etherial himself. He dared not question the Etherial’s orders again. The partnership between the Dark Eldar of the Rancid Blade and the Etherial (and therefore him), forged at New Boston last year, persisted. The idea that the noble fire warriors were risking their lives in aid of the Dark Eldar was abhorrent to him. However, his words stating such had relegated him to obscurity (for now). He frowned, noting the data feeds from the Southern front. The dark warriors’ (as they called themselves) lightning attacks had opened an entirely new front in the southern part of the country. There was some good, he guessed, in their razor sharp speed sweeping across miles of territory while teams of Fire Warriors followed behind securing the critical assets. Perhaps the Etherial had been right, he pondered. The southern front had pulled away many of the vast resources that the Spaces Marines were directing to halting the Cemephon Expansion. He shuffled the image to the back. The third picture was an image of a large Imperial transport landing at the city sized space port close to the eldar advance. He could see the huge insignia of an Imperial Guard regiment on the side of the lander. He checked the scale. The lander was eight city blocks long. More Imperial reinforcements. He frowned again. Perhaps another foe for the Dark Eldar to deal with.
He set the vids to repeat and then pushed them to the background. Several scrolls of text passed by to his left. He kept an eye on them also. They were repeating data feeds from the two fonts of this war. He pulled close another screen that had been pushed to one side. It was a medical report. His friend Maturn had been in critical condition for several days. The real time report showed his condition unchanged.
He looked again to the incoming data feed. It was slowly taking shape. It became clearer and solidified. It was another video feed. This one was live. The Imperials were advancing again on the Garison on the northern front. The outer pathfinders were relaying the images from their hidden positions. Several weeks ago, in the opening stages of the war, he had moved to secure an old Imperial Garrison on the outskirts of the Maximilian Hive city. He had been concerned at having such a large Imperial garrison on the doorstep of the hives cities that he controlled. The Garrison was yielded with virtually no resistance. The troops within had apparently been neglected by their masters because they had not put up any sort of a fight. He had secured the humans in their bunkers and the Water Caste had begun the process of indoctrination to the greater way. They reported similarly light resistance from the humans in this matter. Like the populations of the hive cities, the humans in the garrisons seemed to welcome the hope that the Water Caste presented to them. Hope seemed like a commodity the humans rarely saw. The Water Caste had it in ample supply.
The garrison had become a key asset in the war. Perhaps because of the efforts of the Water Caste the Space Marines seemed intent on securing it. Last week Anemos, the leader of the Cemephon expansion, had lead the successful defence of the Imperial Garrison when the Space Marines had sought to retake it. Now it appeared that the Marines were moving in to try again. He noted from the data feeds that gave narrative to the videos that a second advance into the dry hills to the west of the garrison and the hive was also occurring. The humans were widening the front of the war. They were trying to stretch and then break his lines. He looked toward a tactical display that showed his deployment of resources surrounding the massive city of Hive Maximillian. There were few resources to the west. He considered the twin advancing columns of the human forces. Repelling both the columns at the same time would be difficult. He tapped a control pad and selected several options. It sent a signal to the other commanders in the field and to Anemos seeking a council of war to discus the widening front. As the signal was sent he saw that several others of the commanders had requested the conference also.
A second video feed arrived from the same Pathfinder team as the first image. Obolis’ eyes grew wide as he saw the image. At the heart of the Imperial advance on the Garrison was the form of a massive war machine. A gigantic tracked weapon moved slowly along with the squads of Space Marines. It’s massive gun barrels swayed and turned as though the heads of a massive beast looking for targets. The scale of this machine dwarfed any resources he had. It’s presence could change the fortunes of the war. He zoomed into the image, concern showing on his brow. The widening font and the presence of this machine was cause for concern indeed. The Imperials had upped the anti. He closed out several of the other screens clearing the palate so he could focus on the changes of the northern front. This machine had to be stopped.
Then, like the turn of a ship on a tack his mind changed direction. He considered an opportunity. If this war machine broke through the tau lines at the Garrison it would roll right into Hive Maximillion with little resistance. The front would collapse. He considered the forces available to him. Many of his Fire Warriors were spread out securing a wide area of the region. Perhaps, however, there was a tool that he might use. He would have to pick well the location and his forces well to blunt this attack. He might even have to cede ground to the humans as he mustered his defences. The key would be stopping this behemoth and then moving the bolster the rest of the lines. He also considered that were he to stop this advance, were he to repel or even destroy this war machine he would at the same time be repelling the criticism that had been leveled against him. It would be difficult for Anemos and Tanthus to criticize him given such an achievement. He noted that several of the others were responding to his request for audience~ they too had seen the video feeds. He hit the key and immediately the images of the other commanders arrived, their faces seemingly in the warm dark with him. He saw that they had seen the video... but had they seen the opportunity?
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Characters of the Rancid Blade: The Lady Hosphel
The Lady Hosphel The Lady Hosphel is often known as the Mistress of the Dragons. She is the leader of the Screaming Dragon Wych Cult which makes it home in the many arenas of the Cabal of the Rancid Blade. She and the Archon Actev Nu have had a long and profitable relationship through the years. She and her wyches are happy to entertain and provide a never ending parade of victims for the amusement of the cabal. In turn the wyches are sheltered and honored amongst the minions of the Rancid Blade.
The lady first rose to prominence in the arenas of The Cymbel. As one could imagine she became used to the finer things in life while fighting in the arenas of the most privileged. Cymbel is a small arena circuit reserved for only the most powerful and wealthy of Commoragh’s denizens. It was in this most elite circle that she came to be noticed. When she struck out to form her own cult she did not want for wealthy patrons to support her and her clan. The Archon Actev Nu was the most wealthy.
None would call the lady a servant of the Rancid Blade because it if often unclear who in fact is in charge of the cabal. Her and Actev vie for ultimate control. Some years he is undisputed and others she is of clear prominence. One of the closest warriors to Actev once said that the Lady and the Archon lead the cabal as though they were in a constant knife fight with each other. The Lady is amongst the most powerful of leaders, especially in these dark days when for several years it was rumored that Actev had been slain. The lady is a highly skilled martial artist and performer favoring an Agonizer as her weapon of choice. Often she rides to war bare breasted on a reaver jet cycle. However, recently she has been seen with a phalanx of Incubi. Her fortunes must have increased indeed to have such assistants at her side.
Lady Hosphel is an Archon. She is an HQ choice and an independent character. She carries an Agonizer, a Shadow Field, a close combat weapon, and takes combat drugs.
Lady of Speed Special Rule
Lady Hosphel is an ace at fighting at speed from the seat of her reaver jet bike. She may ride a Reaver Jetbike into battle for a cost of an additional 25 points. She benefits from the following Special Rules: power through pain, acute senses, fleet (if on foot) or skilled rider if mounted.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part thirty six: His primary creditor
Burgoful had seen the body. His crew had carried it, dripping, from the streets of the old city back to the oubliettes of Archimedes. It was here that the old Homunculus had begun his cruel work. His lonesome work. It was here that the old Archon was reborn. There were so many deals that the old one had made. So many plans and schemes and bargains. None of the partners on the other end of the deals, and the plans, and the schemes were prepared to let Actev Nu get away from their bargains through something as easily as being shot through the skull and having his heart cut out and stolen. They paid in saves and in dark favors to make sure the old Homunculus brought the Archon back from the dead. Despite what Burgoful knew about the dark ways he was still amazed when watched the Archon walk through the crescent door into the dank light of the antechamber. It was him. It was the man grown young.
The Grand Archon, as he was known, had been the lord of the Chalice Pit, the Nightmare of the Chill Worlds, and the curse of a thousand million brothers. He who had once been the old Archon of the once mighty Cabal Rancid Blade and lord of the Screaming Dragon Cult, now stood before Burgoful as a young man. His head was shaved clean and the fine princely features of one of the sculpted class now only held a shadow of the old man’s face~ but a shadow was enough. He wore a long dark robe, a dank green, and held a white cloth in his hand. His eyes were the color of a glacier~ cold and blue. They met the Sybarite’s and Burgoful saw the old man deep down. Behind the Archon shuffled the form of Archimedes. His long leathery head moved mechanically as the horror merchant stepped into view. His hand curling out, from within long blue robes, two of the six fingers were scalpels.
“My old steward” Actev said revealing a grim of evil energy “I see you are surprised. You should not be. Death and time have made me stronger. Stronger than I have felt in an age.”
The Sybarite nodded. “You look young”.
“I feel it. I feel as though a metal grip were released from me. I feel as though I am as young as when I was in the elder days.”
“You are younger...” Hissed the Haemonculi “Your body and heart is that of a Trueborn who sacrificed himself for his master. The form of your old body has been...” the creature thought of an adequate term. “... retired”. Actev held out his hand, stretching his fingers, inspecting his nails.
“It feels as though these are my own fingers. My own hands.”
“It should. The body hasn’t changed. Just the brain. All that remains of your old self is your brain”
“Then why does he look so similar to the man he was? I mean his foes will know it’s him”. Burgoful asked. The horror merchant turned away snarling at the question.
“Do not ask of that which you choose not to experience”. The sybarite was silenced. “The lord of the Rancid Blade has many friends... and they have paid well to see he has been restored to his former greatness.”
Actev looked into the crimson darkness the surrounded them. He knew he had no friends. There were none who had friends in the dark city.
“Tell me Archimedes, what to I owe thee for this service?”
Silence for a moment and then: “Nothing great one... nothing today... ”
Nothing today. The Archon nodded. He mentally added this item to a new list he was forming in his head. Nothing to be paid to the Homunculus Archimedes. He was sure that he would find out what compound interest would be paid to his creditors. Those who would not let him be slain by a human’s pistol. Those who would not let deals be undone and plans unravel so easily. He nodded to himself in confidence.
“Burgoful, what of my domains?” he asked as he began walking confidently from the Homunculus’ door. Their footfalls echoing through the dark passageway before them. The old leather face watched them leave with an evil smile on his maw. He listened to their footfalls. “What of the Lady Hosphel?”
“She has been watching over your domains my lord.” The Sybarite replied “She has secured your realms during your... convalensence”
Actev Nu nodded again considering the wych. For a moment he was glad of her loyalty and then he reconsidered. She, it seemed, was now his primary creditor.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part thirty five: The Silvery Hand
There are many who can claim the mantle of greatness amongst these stars. Many who can be called heroic, or gigantic, or even mighty. The heroes of the Space Marines live to fight a thousand wars and that is heroic. The ageless lords of the Eldar strive for the remnant of their race and that is timeless. Even the flicker of greatness can be seen in an Imperial officer or a Tau colonist for the moment of his life. But there are some beings who cast a longer shadow than those. There is one who casts a shadow that the ages can not measure and time is fearful of. The Silvery Hand is his name and he is bringing his children together.
The mighty Actev Nu was not the first of his minions. One of the greatest Archons of the fallen Eldar kin. Perhaps the greatest. Actev's greatness was born, like so many others, out of the fall. But unlike his dark brothers something changed him as he fell. When the birth scream of the Thirsting God occurred all those millenia ago Actev was but an Eldar. At the moment he slipped toward the vortex of Slanessh, pulled into the horror, a silvery hand stretched out from the cosmos and caught him. A molten dream captured him and carried him away. He fled from the horrors of that moment and as he did a living silver crept into his eyes, crept into his mind and hid there. It hid there and helped him carry his domains to the great crimson city of the webway. The Silver Hand hid there and through its shiny influence Actev became a mighty master of the dark streets, an overlord of the horrible neighborhoods. Through the millenia the Silvery Hand secreted away... waiting... growing.
When the great Confessor Sylax was but a preacher he was lead by the Silvery Hand across the blasted sands of Mordia. His trek brought him renown and took him to the Sororatas that were cloistered in the mission there. As Sylax marched across that furnace landscape he was sustained and changed by the melted glass and molten that existed there. The spirit that lead him was the same that guided Actev Nu, unknown, for the millenia. Unknown it sustained Sylax through his pilgrimage across the wastes and through the decades of war and conspiracy and tricks and schemes. Sylax, guided by the Hand manipulated the 27th Mordian Iron Guard for two hundred years advancing schemes, unknown even to himself, but known by the Silvery Hand. When the Inquisitor Gulofil learned and revealed Sylax’s true nature the Confessor fled. Few believed the claims of Gulofil or his minions but Sylax was driven out, stripped of his titles. He fled to and hid in Commoragh. He was sheltered by the same Silvery Hand that had brought ActevNu to power so many millenia ago. The Silvery Hand protected its own.
Sylax returned to the real world hundreds of years later. The Mordian 27th regiment was long destroyed but the Sisters of the Cloistered Heart were yet to be unleashed. Sylax continued the schemes of the Silvery Hand with the sisters at his side and none as faithful as The Nurse. She stood by his side, bore his child, Sylvie and raised her to be a sister of the Adeptus Saroratas. The Silvery Hand was at work in the universe through Sylax, preparing the way... Getting ready.
Through the generations Actev Nu was also working the will of the Hand. Though he only knew a faction of what he did. His actions and the actions of the Confessor built the path the Silvery Hand needed. Actev Nu’s eldar pirates disrupted trade fleets and delayed colonial settlers so they would not reach the Sleeping Worlds. Sylax destroyed the moon of Palthanx so that the gravitational vacuum would activate long lost technology, technology frozen by those who once moved the stars and moons at will. The minions of the Actev Nu included the corrupted Etherial Ari’Ashi who is but now leading a vast invasion on the Cemephon System to divert Imperial resources from discovering hidden worlds. The attention of Inquisitor Nelthas was diverted so easily by the Tau invasion fleet. She had been so close to finding the long hidden tomb of the Cyiontyr and all it’s secrets. But the Silvery Hand knew best and it had for bllions of years before any of these character’s races had been born. It’s manipulations had stretched though the eons, protecting, working, nurturing those who slumbered.
Until one night both Sylax and Actev Nu were struck down on the field of battle~ the same field of battle. Thrice wagered schemes played themselves out to that moment. Sylax and his companions fled the field of battle with his broken body. They cut the Archon's heart from its corpse and carried it in the bloody helmet of the Archon. Sylvie, the daughter of Sylax, and her lover, Yanaloo, a minion of Actev Nu’s arena, carried the servants of the Silvery Hand back to the dry sands of Mordia. They were lead down the winding stair by the Nurse, the last and most faithful of the sisters that dwelt in the old Mission.
Down down down into darkness they ran. Their feet falling on old stone. Flaming torches held aloft they strode through dark passages carrying the bodies past watching eyes inscribed on anchant walls. In the oval Chamber of the Eclipse The Nurse took a vial from the dusty shelf and as Sylax drank the universe groaned in horror. The silver flowed into Sylax. His old eyes expanded while the channels of his brain filled with quicksilver. He grasped the dead heart of the old Archon and absorbed it's evil core into his new body. It seemed to melt into his chest. As the silver engulfed him he rose from the arms of his daughter, floating above the ground, lifting to center of the oval chamber. His body expanded. A dark green light flowed from his eyes while face reveled in the power of his new form. His body expanded and his mind awoke. The Silvery Hand was born into the world. It lifted up and placed the old Archon's helmet atop it's head. It swept the Nurse aloft with a broad long arm capturing her and cursing her to live with him forever.
Sylvie and Yanaloo fled the chamber. As they ran they saw the dark metal eyes of the newly awoken, the long sleeping, the Nercontyr reborn as the Necrons. They stood and came to life. The Silvery Hand was their lord of long ago, a son of the Star Gods, and imbued with their power. His millenia of plans and works, orders, machinations, and schemes was almost fulfilled. His minions were almost ready. His silver tide would sweep through the universe. His carefully laid schemes would now unfold. He would prepare the way for the horror of the Necrons. Few were left to stand in his way.
The Dolgath Legacy Part 15: despite the doom
The Adeptus Astartes fleet dropped out of the warp right on top of them. Every alarm on his battle cruiser seemed to go off at once. Dolgath sat down heavily in his chair and pressed his palms over his ears. A flurry of functionaries swarmed his audience chamber, all babbling incoherently. He turned away and gazed through his expansive viewport at the arriving fleet. The looming bulk of the newly arrived strike cruiser – like some massive shark with its fins spread wide and its jaws gaping – dominated the vista, surrounded by multiple escort craft like remoras swarming, he watch as a shuttle instantly launched from the strike cruiser’s black maw and headed for the docking bay of his ship. He turned back to the gibbering mass gathering in front of his desk.
“Cancel the alarms! Receive our guest promptly and courteously, and show them here at their convenience,” Dolgath said with and effort at calmness.
The functionaries receded, taking their cacophony with them, leaving only a tall, solitary, silent figure shrouded in shadow. Dolgath seemingly ignored the figure as he rose, walked to the viewport and stood gazing at the newly arrived fleet.
“I have a feeling our lives just got a bit more complicated…” Dolgath spoke, as if to himself.
“You did not expect the Tau to give up so easily?” The shadowy figure spoke.
“They are annoyingly optimistic, aren’t they?” Dolgath chuckled.
He turned as Nelthas glided forward and simultaneously reduced her height; the sight was strangely disconcerting as if she was racing toward him from a great distance. She was attired in black underlain in creamy lace; her psychomorphic mask was rosy ping with lips as darkly crimson as newly shed blood. He felt a great surge of happiness at the sight of her despite the doom the fleet’s arrival brought with it.
“They expected this planet to fall easily. When it did not and the rest of their advance thrust past it, they realized they had a glaring weakness in their flank. They are turning now to address it,” Nelthas analyzed.
“Makes perfect sense,” Dolgath nodded. “I just didn’t expect reinforcements so soon.”
“Treyquil...” Nelthas offered.
Dolgath rubbed his temples. “Could be, although I heard a remnant Imperial Dragon force struck the Tau as a target of opportunity with some success several months ago. Perhaps the Astartes have taken a personal interest in the prosecution of this campaign?”
Nelthas glided up to the viewport to stand close to him. “They have arrived in force to be sure…”
Friday, December 10, 2010
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part 34: Fragments
Fragments. Wood shards. Stone chips. They floated in the air before him. Slowly. Light reflected off plaster dust as it splayed through the air. It had been punched from the wall beside him. The wall had erupted in a riot of noise and fragments and pain. But he watched it move in slow motion. As he must have been moving. Moving through the air. What once had been an abandoned room in a derelict building now became like the contents of a snow globe, swirling moving, rearranging. As his body moved through the air his mind flashed thoughts through his head.
He saw the recent arrival of two drop pods, Space Marine assault vehicles that plunged from the sky, delivering a monstrous payload. Maturn remembered watching a mechanical coffin lumber from the pod, gout's of flame issuing from its arms. He was embarrassed to recall that he was relieved the monster had moved off to focus on a team of Crisis Suits rather than toward his fellow Pathfinders. His relief hadn’t lasted long. The stationary Drop Pod’s auto sensors detected his team immediately and began launching shells into his position. The wall beside him dematerialized, blowing outward and knocking him off his feet. As his body crescented though the air his mind cast about trying to catch something familiar.
Analop stood in a field. It was a long time ago and the red Holhok grasses waved in the slight wind. Trees and their yellow foliage waved and caught her attention. She looked up in slow motion. A long dark pony tail curved as underwater. Her spring dress frolicked about her long body. He watched the curve of her neck. The skin, a slight blue, was dotted with the finest freckles. It had been one of the first things he had noticed about her. He had thought that they were like tiny river rocks amongst the stream of her skin. Her attention was drawn back toward him now. Her large dark eyes widened to see him approach. It was Millliltan, the festival of the dry season. He was meeting her to picnic in the field. Six years ago. As he approached her face brightened and her glands blossomed. A roar swept over them and at first he thought it was a wind in the field... but the fragments drew together and he was back in that building. What remained of that building.
He crashed to the floor and felt fragments in his shoulder snap apart. Pain seared into him. He genuinely thought his life had been flashing before him. The sound roared back and he heard the punching of shell impacts. He looked around and saw the bodies of several of his team mates. He saw a pulse carbine, his, some distance off laying on the floor. Then, he felt a presence nearby. He looked up and saw the huge form of a Broadside Suit standing above him. Its massive arms, supporting railguns, faced away from him out the blown windows of the building. It's dominant white form hadn't been touched by the impacts from the drop pod at all. He followed the barrels to where they pointed. The yellow of the morning light was still on the building across the street.
Bolts ricocheted from the street below and another explosion threw debris and fragments across the room. Maturn flinched at the concussion and tasted the thick of blood in his mouth. His eye glanced back at the Broadside. It’s relatively small head had turned to look down at him. He saw the green of the optic lens looking at him from the tower of it's body. Just as he thought the robot might say something it’s shoulder mounted smart missile pods opened. Blunt missiles spewed from the pods, screeching and creating clouds of snaking exhaust that curled and twisted, following the missiles as their instinctive programming sought a target. The suit looked on at him as though it were ignoring the fusillade that it was creating. The missiles were gone in an instant, the smoke swept after them. And the raucous detonations could be heard a moment later. He could imagine what the recipients were going through.
He saw the recent arrival of two drop pods, Space Marine assault vehicles that plunged from the sky, delivering a monstrous payload. Maturn remembered watching a mechanical coffin lumber from the pod, gout's of flame issuing from its arms. He was embarrassed to recall that he was relieved the monster had moved off to focus on a team of Crisis Suits rather than toward his fellow Pathfinders. His relief hadn’t lasted long. The stationary Drop Pod’s auto sensors detected his team immediately and began launching shells into his position. The wall beside him dematerialized, blowing outward and knocking him off his feet. As his body crescented though the air his mind cast about trying to catch something familiar.
Analop stood in a field. It was a long time ago and the red Holhok grasses waved in the slight wind. Trees and their yellow foliage waved and caught her attention. She looked up in slow motion. A long dark pony tail curved as underwater. Her spring dress frolicked about her long body. He watched the curve of her neck. The skin, a slight blue, was dotted with the finest freckles. It had been one of the first things he had noticed about her. He had thought that they were like tiny river rocks amongst the stream of her skin. Her attention was drawn back toward him now. Her large dark eyes widened to see him approach. It was Millliltan, the festival of the dry season. He was meeting her to picnic in the field. Six years ago. As he approached her face brightened and her glands blossomed. A roar swept over them and at first he thought it was a wind in the field... but the fragments drew together and he was back in that building. What remained of that building.
He crashed to the floor and felt fragments in his shoulder snap apart. Pain seared into him. He genuinely thought his life had been flashing before him. The sound roared back and he heard the punching of shell impacts. He looked around and saw the bodies of several of his team mates. He saw a pulse carbine, his, some distance off laying on the floor. Then, he felt a presence nearby. He looked up and saw the huge form of a Broadside Suit standing above him. Its massive arms, supporting railguns, faced away from him out the blown windows of the building. It's dominant white form hadn't been touched by the impacts from the drop pod at all. He followed the barrels to where they pointed. The yellow of the morning light was still on the building across the street.
Bolts ricocheted from the street below and another explosion threw debris and fragments across the room. Maturn flinched at the concussion and tasted the thick of blood in his mouth. His eye glanced back at the Broadside. It’s relatively small head had turned to look down at him. He saw the green of the optic lens looking at him from the tower of it's body. Just as he thought the robot might say something it’s shoulder mounted smart missile pods opened. Blunt missiles spewed from the pods, screeching and creating clouds of snaking exhaust that curled and twisted, following the missiles as their instinctive programming sought a target. The suit looked on at him as though it were ignoring the fusillade that it was creating. The missiles were gone in an instant, the smoke swept after them. And the raucous detonations could be heard a moment later. He could imagine what the recipients were going through.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Thirty Three: For the greater good
The crest of the hill was rocky and strewn with brooms of brown tall grass. The sandy dirt was a dull yellow color. A brilliant blue sky reached from horizon to horizon interrupted only by the occasional dry rise in the land in the distance. If one were to have cast an eye at the hilltop without a detailed inspection or the assistance of a view enhancer one would have missed the two small figures crouched amongst the rocks at the hem of the bluff. A shelter field masked and distorted the colors of their uniforms so that they appeared yellow and brown as the surrounding landscape. They had been crawling about on the bluff for a few hours now that so much of their clothing was the same dusty yellow of the earth. Maturn sat amongst the Rockey outcroppings with a scope that he’d detached from his weapon held up to one of his large dark eyes. His view carried him down into a slight sloped valley before them. Nearby, Atticus, another Pathfinder in his team, cradled his pulse carbine in his arms while keeping an eye out for movement close at hand. He would occasionally look through his scope toward the valley below and then shift back to the surrounding area.
Through the scope Maturn watched a column of Imperial tanks advancing. He pondered the many behemoths as they churned up the yellow earth. The column was lead by three large battle tanks. They were followed by six or so armored personnel tanks and then several dozen humans on foot. He watched them march. There was a spring in their step. It was a confidence that he hadn't seen on a human’s face since the start of the war on this world. They were advancing on an enemy position. Also something that hadn’t happened for them in a long while. He tapped the top of his scope with a stubby blue finger as he considered the column. He noted several preachers walking along behind the foot soldiers chanting as they went. One of them held a censor. The smoke of their faith could be seen wafting from its innards as the holy-man swung it. He could see some of the foot soldiers chanting along with the priests, their mouths moving. They were too far away to hear a sound. He also observed several artillery pieces moving along behind the foot soldiers. Large tracked guns.
“If this is a typical column their advance will be slow” Atticus noted while viewing the slow progress of the foot march.
“Yes” Maturn said slowly not taking his eye from his scope. “A giant can move slowly and blunder about and still wreak havoc all around”. They both sat in silence for some time as the column passed them by. The sound of a stutter bird’s call echoed in the distance. Shhhii, shhhi, shii. They ignored it.
After some time Atticus turned quickly to the east. He pulled his weapon into an aiming stance. Matrun lowered the scope from his eye slowly and turned his head to observe an approaching human. He was a soldier from the column. The tau had been waiting for him. Maturn rose from his seated position and walked toward the human under the watchful eye (and barrel) of Atticus’ weapon. The man wore a camo green grey uniform and a green cap. The insignia of an Imperial infantryman, standard barer class, hung at the man’s shoulder. Maturn nodded as the human approached.
“Maxwell, it is good to see you again” Matun spoke in the human language of this man’s homeworld with barely a trace of an accent.
Maxwell nodded casting a nervous glance around. “Maturn” he said in acknowledgement.
“I am happy that we can bridge the gap between our two races once again. The peace that we force here will soon spread...”
“You talk too much” the human cut off the tau.
Maturn attempted as close to a grin as his alien face could manage. “You’re right. Maxwell, brief as always. I like that.”
“Sure” the human muffled and then coughed. “Did you bring the beans?”
“Yes” he said. At this the man’s hand shot out. Maturn observed a quiver in the man’s hand and it sought the ‘beans’. Maturn hesitated. “A partnership is always a trade” said the Water Caste member. The man’s hand slowly withdrew to his pocket. The human reached down into his fatigues and pulled a small datacard. He presented it to the tau.
“Troop deployment plans” he said.
“Are the Marines included?” Maturn asked taking the card from the man.
“Yes. I also got the communication transcripts like you asked.”
Maturn nodded. Maturn liked to read the conversations between the human generals. Their petty bickering conveyed so much information. He imagined himself and his prying into their arguments as a thick viscous liquid closing about them. He knew so much about these men who opposed him, yet they didn’t even perceive him. The arguments between them were like the cracks in the massive wall. He saw the cracks so clearly, so well. Any monument can crumble with enough cracks he thought to himself. All he needed to do was flow into the cracks and wider and wider they would become.
Maturn took from his pocket a blister of pills. Small plastic enclosed capsules in a bean shape. They had a light blue color. He handed over the blister and the man’s eyes focused on the pills. “There are always more ‘beans’” Matrun said. The man looked up at the tau. A small laugh of self doubt issued from the human. “I need the communication codes next time. I need to be able to intercept and modify the transmissions”. The man rubbed his chin as if pondering the words. “I need them soon” he said. “Once this war heats up again there will be few times for us to meet. You’ll have to make the beans last much longer.”
The man nodded. “It can be done”
“I know”.
Maxwell started to back away slowly. Maturn looked past him. The light had begun to fade into the early evening. Maturn raised his three fingered hand in a wave.
“I think you’re forgetting something my friend” he said. The human paused and swallowed hard. Maxwell raised his hand in a similar fashion to the alien but in the human it seemed like a hand raised in surrender. Maxwell spoke as a defeated man.
“For the greater good” he said
“Yes” said Maturn “For the greater good”.
The Dolgath Legacy Part 14: A voice that would haunt him for years to come
Inquisitor Trequill was feeling somewhat more charitable towards that Ordo Xenos spook, Nelthas, since she had loaned him her ship and Navigator to speed him on his journey. The ship, the Nostramus, was a spartan thing, barely light cruiser class, but he had to admit; it had it where it counted. His stateroom was as plush as anything he could want, but more importantly, the ship was outfitted with the most advanced Mechanicus systems available. In fact, much of it was entirely unfamiliar to him; reverse-engineered Xenos tech, he assumed. The command deck was a wedge-shaped structure three stories tall lined with matt-black cogitator stations each connected by a snaking mass of cables to a silent and immobile servitor dressed in the crimson and brass of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Some of these stations would light up at unpredictable intervals as their particular functions were activated, the servitors suddenly twitching to life. At the crux of it all was the navigator fulcrum, a transparent sphere of greenish fluid held in place by arcane field generators.
The Navigator in question, Dom Hellaith of house Sennesh-Constantine-Matsumishi, was a horror to behold. Yet despite the flapping gills, translucent skin, protruding eyes, bulging forehead and purplish veins; she was apparently considered quite the catch amongst the young eligible males of the great houses of the Navis Noblite. She came with a host of suitors and sycophants – hideous unrepentant mutants all. The worst part was she was apparently in the midst of some sort of extended copulation ritual, evidenced by the obscenely throbbing device that attached her and several of her suitors together at the nether regions. This device, he was told, ensured that only the finest seed would be the source of the next scion of the Navis Noblite. Just the thought of it made his skin crawl. Never-the-less, Dom Hellaith was supremely proficient at her job. They had made the transit from Schindelghiest to Cypra Mundi in merely six weeks, traversing nearly the full breadth of the galaxy, loosing only 22 days Imperial standard time. Dropping out of warp after a seemingly endless stretch of boredom, Trequill was absolutely stunned to see the grand spindles of the massive space station of Cypra Mundi filling the view ports. Not as stunned has his quarry would be, he was thinking…
The stop at Cypra Mundi was unfortunately necessary as he needed to check in with the Segmentum Obscurus Ordos command. The wait in the foyer of the Ordos sanctum was interminable. The chamber was vast and cold; but owing to the fact that it was limited by the confines of a space station, it was not nearly as excessive as similar Ordos edifices he had visited in his travels. Never-the-less, the expanse of glossy black marble and towering ornate statuary was clearly designed to impart insignificance to those who waited. No less than seven other Inquisitors loitered here waiting their turn for an audience with the High Lord. Each was a singular presence, some surround by a host of exotic henchmen. He recognized only one by reputation. The massive suit of golden baroque terminator armor was an image widely circulated on the pictcasts and could only mean he stood in the presence of the Witchunter Borros.
The hard-line puritan was flanked by a squad of stormtroopers in immaculate white carapace, arrayed in perfect formation. Borros stood stone still reciting scripture as he patiently waited, making no effort to engage anyone in conversation. Treyquill was extremely thankful for that. None of the dogma Borros would inevitably spew was of any interest to him what-so-ever. In his opinion, Borros was the embodiment of the worst the Ordo Hereticus had to offer. That kind of blind adherence to doctrine was everything his master, Onrholt, had preached against his entire life. Unfortunately, Borros’ aloofness was not shared by everyone…
The wizened Ordo Xenos Inquisitor, Glaxx, endeavored to engage him in conversation nearly the moment he walked into the room. The ancient and invalid inquisitor was held erect by a spindly brass apparatus and maintained by a host of support servitors. He obviously had a wealth of experience to impart, unfortunately, his conversation consisted of a stream of disconnected trivialities interrupted constantly by inane contributions from his sycophantic hangers-on Trequill heaved a huge sigh of relief when the nuncio called Glaxx into the audience chamber.
Free at last. Treyquill spotted a refreshment servitor and immediately snatched a glass of something and downed it in one gulp. Absinth – and a good vintage, he grabbed another glass in each hand before the servitor scurried off. He made a bee-line away from the rest of his fellow inquisitors and stood looking up at an ornate tapestry depicting some bloody event in Imperial history – just which one he wasn’t quite sure... He took another drink and noticed an individual who sat silently in a shadowed corner nearby surrounded by four intimidating Grey Knights. At that moment, Trequill realized he stood alone. Strangely, he had brought no entourage, he was traveling light these days and he was beginning to like it.
“Grace,” a breathy and cultured voice said from the shadows.
Treyquill wasn’t quite sure what that comment referred too. He let it hang in the air for a moment before he replied.
“Indeed…” he said neutrally.
“Nocturne, the Enigma Cabal, I remember thee,” the shadowed voice said.
A host of memories flooded through his mind, mostly consisting of death, darkness, and desperation, yet he could not place that exquisite voice.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” he finally admitted trying to get a glimpse of the speaker between the hulking forms of the Grey Knights.
“We have not met, yet greatly thou have aided me, though you knew it not. I offer my thanks,” the shadowy speaker said.
Just then the nuncio came into the chamber and rapped his staff loudly three times on the marble floor. “Inquisitor Treyquill, the High Lord will receive you now!”
“Fare well in your endeavors,” the breathy voice said.
“Until we meet again,” Trequill replied with more conviction than he felt. He doubted if they would ever meet again or if he would even recognize her if they did.
As the massively tall doors parted Treyquill ventured one last look into the shadows and saw the figure stand. Long raven hair and a finely sculpted porcelain face were the last impressions of her that he took with him; along with that voice that would haunt him for years to come…
The audience chamber of High Lord Melphas was as ostentatious and obnoxious as anything he might have imagined; and Trequill could imagine quite a bit. It was vast and designed to be awe-inspiring; at least forty stories tall and twice that distance long, decorated with massive gilded sculpture and impossibly tall marble columns. Surprisingly, it was not a singular audience chamber; in fact at least two other Inquisitor Lords and a half-dozen Adeptus Arbite Judges were simultaneously conducting proceedings in this chamber. The general din drowned out most of what was going on in adjacent venues, not to mention a good portion of the critical information imparted in the individual sections. The High Lord’s dais was somewhere several stories up, Treyquill could only vaguely glimpse it.
Trequill knew High Lord Melphas from his youth. While still at schoolagem, Melphas was an occasional and dynamic lecturer emphasizing the importance of deductive reasoning. Even then, he was a morbidly obese individual. As the years passed he grew into a nearly unrecognizable grotesque mass of bloated flesh made marginally mobile by the resources of the Adeptus Mechanicus. On this day, only his voice bore any resemblance to the man he once knew.
“Oliver!” That deep, rich, jolly voice resonated in the chamber. “I remember you well, those bright eyes, that sharp tongue…”
“My Lord, I am honored,” Trequill bowed deeply.
“Nonsense, let us speak intimately,” Melphas said.
Suddenly, Treyquill found himself rising smoothly and rapidly from the floor. When he reached the dais level he glimpsed copious amounts of Imperial splendor, but his attention was focused on the High Lord’s seat. Melphas was far less the man than he was expecting. His once corpulent bulk was now a pile of pale flaccid skin. The skeletal structure of his face was actually visible beneath the sagging folds.
Treyquill bowed once again. “My lord, you look… thinner…”
Melphas gave a low liquid chuckle. “Yes, I suppose I do. Cenobite parasites will do that for you,” he chuckled one again. “You look… dangerous…”
Treyquill snorted in surprise.
“No, really, you have cultivated an aura since I saw you last, what, fifty years ago?” Melphas said.
“Perhaps, or maybe it is merely the fact that I’ve been spending too much time in the company truly dangerous individuals…” Treyquill offered.
“Hardly, I have always recognized your dangerous intellect, I think it is only now just starting to shine through,” Melphas said. “What’s the word from the Charadon Sector?”
“The Tau have been acting up,” Treyquill said.
Melphas sniffed. “Better than a Tyranid invasion or Chaos incursion, I suppose.”
“Such an appraisal would be unwise. The Tau are a more significant threat than most suspect, but then that is a matter for the Ordo Xenos. “More importantly for us, Inquisitor Lord Dolgath has identified a considerably more insidious threat,” Treyquill offered.
“Dolgath… Your old schollagem mate, yes?” Melphas frowned. “As I recall, at the last congress, Inquisitor Yerth forwarded a motion of Excomunicatus against him. No others backed that motion, but it stands as a serious matter none the less.”
“Yerth is a twit!” Treyquill spat.
Melphas chuckled, “Yerth is but a tool, to be sure.” He took a long moment before he continued. “However, you may be certain other, more dangerous, individuals proposed that motion…”
“As you know, I am a true student of Onrholt,” Trequill shot Melphas a long significant stare. “Dolgath has become a radical, that much is clear, yet his record of service is exemplary. For nearly twenty years he has been in exile, but when the call to service came he answered the challenge without hesitation. New Boston would have fallen by now without him. Moreover, he has thwarted two significant threats to the Imperium – at least one of which was a truly ancient evil…”
“Yes, I read the reports. And now they are here, all the way across the galaxy in Segmentum Obscurus, on Mordian in fact!” Melphas exclaimed.
“They are merely husks now; they cannot harm anyone unless they are reconstituted… Yet, this cannot be allowed to happen. It is my purpose to snuff out whatever remains of this evil so that their shadows never again darken the galaxy,” Treyquill said.
“This is a worthy mission,” Melphas nodded without hesitation. “You have authorization to access whatever resources necessary to accomplish this goal.”
“My thanks…” Treyquill started to bow.
“You realize the success of this mission will likely vindicate Lord Dolgath in the eyes of the congress?” Melphas asked.
“I do,” Treyquill finished his bow.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Tales of the Rancid Blade: Part Thirty Two: An opportunity to redeem yourself
Obolis reviewed the tactical data in front of him. He shook his head slowly. It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful. It wasn’t that he wasn’t relieved. It was that he wasn’t sure where this fortune was coming from. He had finally been assigned the forces from the Sphere that he had been requesting. After six months of feign and retreat, advance and scatter, his forces had been ground down and now he was being resupplied from the homeworlds with enough resources to push the Imperials back to New Boston and off this world for good. The main advance of the Cemephon expansion had moved on from this world months ago and he had been left on mop up duty. Once his place at the right hand of Anemos, leader of the Cemephon Expansion, had been assured. His public criticism of the Etherial had relegated the proud (some would say haughty) Fire Warrior to back world duty. He had to rely on his friend Maturm, a peculiar Water Caste member who chose to join ranks with a Pathfinder unit, to bring news from the front~ light years away.
From his seated position in his command gunship, Devilfish class, a fast moving dry landscape outside, he read the information over again. He had removed himself and his quick escort from the front line, if it could be called that, to meet the advance force of his resupply column arriving from a transport ship in orbit. He looked up at his tell screen in the command console. Several feeds were coming in from the rendezvous point. He could see large Orca dropships landing en masse. He noted their payloads in detail notes on the screen. His grin showed itself in a rare performance.
The three devilfish that transported the commander and his team arrived at the large landing zone deep in secure ground. It was a large open field, once a farm, surrounded by low hills that could be seen off in the distance. The lead craft dropped toward the ground and landing props lowered. The side doors of the well worn drop craft slid aside. The other two gunships took up a circular patrol orbit around the drop site. Obolis leaped from his transport before it finished touching down. He looked into the sky, his two escorts moving off. Beyond them he could see several of the large drop ships lowering from above. Several were already on the ground. He began his walk toward what appeared to be the command post for the drop location. Two of his lieutenants ran after him from the transport. As Obolis approached the command post he was met by another officer. The grim faced officer nodded and met Obolis’ eye.
“Welcome” Obolis said. “I am Obolis, commander of all Cardres on this world.”
“Indeed” the officer spoke “I am Tanthus of the Second Flame Cardre. I bring messages from Anemos and greetings from your master.”
Obolis nodded. The newcomer referred to the Etherial. It was clearly a reminder to Obolis of his mistake in criticizing the sacred one. The Firewarrior took from his belt a scroll case and quickly removed the cap. From within he pulled a shaft of paper and proceeded to read it.
“You are directed to hereby pull all your forces back to the points described in the data manifest. This planet is being resupplied with seven battle groups and their heavy transports. Lady Anemos and the Etherial are returning from the front lines at the edge of the expansion to address the situation.”
Obolis shook his head. “What situation?” he asked “this world is a backwater. We’ve been pushing the humans around this ball of rock for weeks”.
Tanthus looked at Obolis with unhalting contempt. “Space Marines have landed on the far side of Palthna river two days ago. They are now striking at will and securing the the hive cities you were unable to capture.” Obolis swallowed at the stabbing words. The newcomer continued “The Imperials have made this world a priority again, we had left in your hands to secure. That has clearly not occurred". Obolis bristled at the insinuation that the world had been all but secured. "Fire Warrior, you have an opportunity to redeem yourself in the eyes of your brothers and your master. I hope you have the will to recognize it”.
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