First Illumination, Rise of the Blasphematii.

For Warhammer fiction not strictly from either universe.

First Illumination, Rise of the Blasphematii.

Postby JJvagnar » Sat Jun 01, 2013 1:33 pm

This was originally going to be part of the Last Chancers Age of Dusk fic I'm also working on. but it simply grew to large and unwieldy for it since it's really back story to the Blasphematii. So I decided to put it on a separate thread. It will be in two parts and here is the first. Please enjoy comments and criticism welcome.


RISE OF THE BLASPHEMATII. PART ONE
Kol Basilis hated the inactivity forced on him by his duty. Technically, to be a guardian of the Basilica of Torments on the Word Bearer home world was an honour, bestowed upon the warband he served on by the Dark Council, but to him it was a torment. Every Word Bearer, without exception, lived to serve the True Gods of the warp. And the holiest shrine to Chaos was the battle field, punishing unbelievers, spreading the Word and tearing down the rotting edifice of the hated Imperium of Man. That was the truest service any could offer them, the path to recognition, promotion through the ranks of the legion and the rewards of service. However, the Dark Apostle that the aspiring champion had served since the Heresy seemed content to rest in his laurels and play politics on Sicarius, leaving the Aspiring Champion little outlet for his ambition.

Standing at over eight feet tall in his ancient crimson Mark 4 power armour, a casual observer might take him and the other 7 guards for statues, so still were they. His olive toned, Colchisian features, hidden beneath his helmet, were currently locked in a sneer of discontent as he watched the day to day monotony of life in the capital city of the Word Bearer Theocracy from atop of the 100 metre wide marble stair case that led to the main entrance of the vast structure. At least, as a consolation, from this vantage point he could gaze upon the great Avenue of the Faithful, the longest street on Sicarius.

Holy Sicarius. The world upon which Blessed Lorgar first stood in audience with the Gods, the first world claimed by the Word Bearer legion upon its exile from the Imperium of man and now the greatest Cathedral World in the Eye of Terror. The red armoured giant stood stock still as he scanned the world through his helmet lens, the awe of having his warband permanently stationed on the holiest world in the galaxy having long since faded with time.

The entire planet was dedicated almost exclusively to the worship of the True Gods. As far as one could gaze, temples and fanes lined the street and beyond, where Word Bearers, favoured cultist priests and, occasionally, even Dark Apostles and daemon princes carried out sacrifices and worship almost continuously throughout the day. The scent of blood was omnipresent as it pooled down from the open air alters at the bases of each temple. Chaos furies cackled and swooped down from the minarets and spires that dotted the landscape to lap up the blood or feed on the corpses of the victims. A few more daring of their kind even tried to pluck the herds of captured slaves being driven through the streets by the cruel mutant overseers, to where they would either become sacrificial victims themselves or be put to work erecting even more places of worship to the gods.

Indeed, the only thing that rivalled the piteous wails of the condemned sacrifices, chanting of the warp touched and the susurrus of the daemonic spirits was the sound of construction. For millennia, the Word Bearer had dedicated themselves to building greater places of worship Chaos. With the exception of the holiest sites, such as the Templum Inficio, the Basilica of the Word and the Basilica of Torments which were raised up above other constructions as they built, previous holy sites were built upon, leading to the world resembling a hive city that crossed the planet. This fitted with the de facto social structure of the world.

The very deepest part of the hive, near the ruins of the ancient Eldar city that they first built upon, was populated by slaves. It amused the Word Bearers to allow captured slaves from their many holy crusades loose beneath the surface, those who were not immediately driven insane would form gangs and try to struggle, both against each other and against the things that lurked there, for food and survival. They provided a ready source of labour and sacrifices, whilst the constant warfare provided the Word Bearers with experienced recruits for their slave armies. A lucky few of the boys born and raised in the harsh environment would even be elevated to join the ranks of the Word Bearers.

Favoured Chaos cultists, mortals who had proved themselves in the eyes of their Astartes masters, stood on the rung directly above the slave fodder. They were a constant presence on the Avenue, outnumbering their lords near ten to one, trailing behind particularly important Aspiring Champions and priests, or attending any of the vast numbers of religious ceremonies constantly taking place. They thronged through the streets, babbling in tongues, showing off mutations or conspiring to win favour from the ceramite clad Angels of their gods.

The Word Bearers themselves stood head and shoulders above the heaving masses, each one moving with purpose and surprising grace through the streets, where the crowds parted before them like water. Occasionally, one could make out Chaos Marines wearing different livery could be spotted, Iron Warriors, Black Legionnaires and others, given permission by the Council to pursue the dark knowledge available in the many libraries of Sicarius, for a tremendous price in slaves.

The air, saturated with chaos energy, writhed and twisted in ways that would unsettle him were he not already long since parted from the illusion ignorant mortals called ‘sanity’. Warp energy drenched the world to such an extent that miracles were common place. On some days the sky was forged of balefire, which would rain down on the teeming crowds, on others beautiful auroras of unholy colours, which would suck a man’s soul out of his body, were he to gaze at it too long. It all depended on the whims of the gods. Today, however, it was completely clear and ones vision could stretch out to space, where he could see hundreds of ships in orbit, bringing tithes of slaves and bounty, or departing on missions to strike at Chaos’ enemies, a sight which never failed to make him seethe with envy and awe. The satellite worlds of Grau’tel, the Mechanicus world that supplied most of the Word Bearer armaments, and Dalout, the prize agri-world were also perfectly visible to him.

The Basilica itself was one of the few Eldar structures remaining upright when they made the world their new Colchis. The great cataclysm that ad wiped out that degenerate race had occurred here, in a once holy place that they had used a centre of the violent excess that had doomed them. The flesh of the aliens that had been within the area had been welded to the great structure, covering it in a sort of external living muscle. When they had arrived, the flesh had long since dried out; it was only when they poured blood on it that it awoke, displaying a dreadful sentience as its flesh was rejuvenated.

The Basilica, being of such great importance to the birth of the Eye, was proclaimed a holy site. It was used as a place of judgement and punishment for those Word Bearers who failed grievously. Such individuals were judged by the gods themselves within the Basilica, each Bearer facing the direct scrutiny, not of a lesser daemon, but the Four themselves. Very few ever survived, their souls subjected to torments and tests that even the most warped minds could imagine. But those who did were often considered to be marked out for a great destiny. Avadarak the Faithful, Tzo’lotz of Colchis, even the turncoat who now wore the colours of the Black Legion, Eliphas the Inheritor. All had passed through the Basilica and survived and were considered to have the approval of the gods for some great feat.

The Basilica’s constant need for nourishment was supplied by left overs of the hive ganger wars beneath the surface. The building was surrounded by holes to the under hive. Rail tracks led from these tunnels, upon which ogryn servitors would drag massive carts, each 9 feet across, containing the gangers’ tithe, limbs and dead bodies which were then fed to the Chaos Temple, granting it a full fleshed and bloated look. A few favoured slaves were given the duty of overseeing the hulking servitors as they pushed the bloody cargo to the surface. One such individual caught the Word Bearer’s eye as he walked along side an unusually large servitor.

The ragged man was painfully thin, the tattered remains of a filthy military uniform clung to his skeletal frame as he marched painfully up from the tunnels that led to the hive prisons. The remains of a commissar cap tied around the short man’s throat with a string hung forlornly on his chest as he wheezed painfully up hill. Despite this, it was clear he was trying to maintain a military bearing as he walked, occasionally turning to mutter to the vast ogryn servitor by his side.

Suddenly a moan came from one of the carts. A bloody hand rose from the bodies. The old man became animated and, with a startled whoop of excitement clutched at it. Leaning over the side, he could see the lacerated female ganger it belonged to, barely alive with the many wounds she had received.

“Oh Praise His name! You live!” The little man grinned with a manic joy. “Give me your confession, and I will recommend you to Him before you die!”

His voice, used to barking out orders over the din of battle and across vast parade grounds, carried out clearly to the other servitor overseers and to the Basilica Guard themselves in spite of the cacophony, many who turned to watch this with interest.

The young woman wept, she might once have been pretty beneath all the grime. “I don’t want to die! Please do some thing!”

The ogryn continued with its preset orders despite her protestations, approaching the wall of the edifice which seethed and pulsed with unnatural life.

The man scurried alongside “Do not fear, even in this hell pit. He hears us. I can’t save your life, but He can save your soul. Just speak the words and commend your soul to him!”

The woman screeched in anger and with her last faltering breaths began cursing the Emperor, for leading her to join the PDF of her home world, then abandoning her to the slave ships of the victorious enemy she had fought so hard to defend. She cursed him as well, and tried to spit in his face. The man’s face fell, but only for a moment as he saw that they had reached their destination. A massive buboe at the end of the track tore open, exposing the bloody ichor that pumped through the beast temple’s body. The woman began shrieking as the ogryn began slowly tipping the cart’s contents over into the waiting maw. The preacher began redoubling his efforts.

“He is always with us, He always watches and hears. Please I beg you.” His eyes grew desperate as he pleaded, his voice rising louder and louder “ He came to me in my dreams. He will come for the faithful. Be numbered among them!”
Her cries went silent as the tithe was poured into the buboe, which sealed shut. The ex commissar, forced to release her hand at the last, just seemed to be driven into fresh fanaticism by this.

As his ogryn lowered the cart, the man began shouting preaching loudly to all who could hear.

“And lo His time is near. Woe unto those who do not believe for His wrath shall strike down the mutant, the alien,” A mad look in his eye, the scraggly figure turned his gaze very deliberately to Basilis, staring him right in the lens “the heretic!” He spat the last word.

“He brings-“

The man was cut off suddenly as a stone few overhead and connected with his skull. Already weakened from his long incarceration, he fell into a heap and gazed around bewildered. Several of his fellow overseers were jeering and throwing abuse and debris at him, their eyes occasionally darting to Basilis.

Basilis growled beneath his breath as he watched the abuse, surprised that his contempt for the slaves could get any stronger. Former imperial Lapdogs themselves, they hoped to curry favour with him by showing how far they had rejected their original creed. While on the other hand, despite all things, this one had maintained his faith despite the horrors he had faced. Indeed it had actually seemed to grow stronger. He was responsible for having started countless imperial cults among the slaves over the years, almost always among new arrivals, dedicated to escape or the death of important officials.

The Basilica guard, of course, knew about almost everything he did. Basilis’ master, Dark Apostle Phegan, had purposefully allowed him to continue his activities. It contributed to the disillusionment of the new slaves, as they clung to the old man’s rhetoric in the hope that the Emperor would somehow save them. Receiving no relief or rescue, they all eventually turned with bitterness on their former beliefs, making excellent slave stock for the crusades. But through it all, the old man’s faith remained untarnished! The Word Bearers held faith and devotion as the highest possible ideals for a mortal to have and this- Basilis stopped that line of thought and sighed inwardly as he realised what he had been doing. Admiring the misguided ignorance of a fool who could ignore the glory and truth of chaos when it was abundantly clear all around him. Truly, he was losing his edge here. He sighed, and began relaying instructions by vox to the Disciples of Penitence to prepare their blades. He would assign himself an extra hour of penitence to atone for such unworthy thoughts.

The ex commissar stood up groggily, wiping blood from a cut on his face. The other slaves, seeing that their masters were not interested in their actions, had slunk off. His servitor had ignored the stoning and had moved to the other side of the cart, ready to return it for yet another tithe. For a moment, he held his head between his hands, feeling the utter despair of his situation envelop him again. How long had he been here? How long since he had fallen to the cultist rabble, into disgrace and shame? His beloved regiment torn asunder, the few guardsmen taken captive with him long since fallen or dead. Time was meaningless here, though it had felt like an eternity had passed. Now he alone remained faithful. No, not alone.

He opened his eyes and cursed his weakness. A commissar never showed weakness on the field, regardless of circumstances. He glanced up to see the servitor pushing the cart back to the tunnel and hobbled over quickly until he was walking side by side with it.

“Don’t worry old boy,” he grinned up at the impassive face through broken teeth “we’re not lost yet, keep your buttons all nice and shiny and we’ll be out of here in no time.”

He patted its elbow, which was as high as he could reach. The servitor continued to stare dully ahead, as it had since the chirgeon had cruelly lobotomised it, obeying the orders implanted in its data wafers. The mad old man continued speaking regardless, as he had for years.

“I had,” his eyes grew sly, as they darted around conspiratorially “I had another dream!” his voice grew reverential as he spoke, “He was in it. He is free now! And this time He’s coming, He promised!”

The old man’s face fell for a while, as though remembering all the other times he had promised salvation or escape to his other followers, only to have it fail to materialise, but then rallied. It was not his fault that they were weak of will! As long as he had one follower still here, one loyal servant of the God-Emperor, then he had a duty to succour his spirit and maintain his faith!

“Come, let’s sing the Hymn of Dimmamar together! That’ll cheer us right up Nork my boy.”

Greiss’ began the first part of the ancient hymn, and then suddenly faltered when he felt it. He was not the only one. The chaos furies were the first to react, the surly daemons suddenly taking wing with raucous cries and screams. Like a constant noise that isn’t noticed until it falls silent or a sudden change in air pressure, the creatures of the Eye of terror felt it. The incessant wars paused, daemon, mortal and alien alike lowering their weapons and gazing upwards. Sorcerers paused in their chanting, sacrifices and torture halted. Even in the deepest dungeons and manufactorums of the industrial hive worlds the wretched slave workers paused in their labours and their overseers did not strike them. For one moment, the Eye fell still as a great weight of expectation fell across it.

And it was thus that the denizens of the warp saw as a sector of space hundreds of light years across suddenly grew static. The riotous ever changing colours of the warp stopped their random churning entirely, a never seen before occurrence. A brilliant golden light blazed forth from the epicentre of the phenomenon, causing Basilis helmet’s display to blank out. Basilis instinctively raised his arm across his eyes, his other hand reaching for his chainsword. When his vision cleared, he saw a great golden stairway now occupied the centre of the Eye seemingly reaching back into infinity. Standing on the lowest step was a magnificent golden being, dressed in a silver robe. In its left hand it held a massive staff, encrusted in what looked to be suns while its right hand stretched out towards them, as though beckoning.

Kol had no doubt whatsoever that the inhabitants of all other planets in the warp were also viewing this unprecedented phenomenon. Somehow, he could make out every detail on the impossibly handsome face, though it must have been billions of miles across, as it spoke:

"Come forth my Sons! Heed the call of your Lord and Father! All will be forgiven if you come and kneel before me again!"

Basilis realised that, even as he had been watching the sky, he had been walking forth from his post. All around him, cultists and slaves were running, panicking or simply crumpled up on the ground gibbering. But the crazed old man stood out. He stood next to his servitor, his hands raised above his head as he exalted.

“Oh, Ave Pater Dominious, Lord of all Dominions! We Adore and Obey!”

Suddenly, Basilis knew without a doubt why he had been walking. He had to kill that man. It was important, he did not know why, but the gods did not always announce their demands overtly to their followers. He just knew that it was important. With a snarl, he knocked aside a cultist to slow to get out of the way, his chainsword roaring to life as he broke into a run, the crowds scattering before him. The old man saw him, his face creasing with fear, then turned and ran. Basilis, still running whipped out his bolt pistol. The old man was half running half limping to the tunnel, but at this range he knew he could not miss.

A fist like a hammer smashed down on his hand, causing his shot to go wide, exploding harmlessly on the rockcrete floor. He instinctively brought up his chainsword to parry the follow up blow, which nearly knocked it from his hand. Taking a step back his eyes widened incredulously as he saw the massive servitor had attacked him! The huge creature lumbered ungainly towards him, its fists pulled back for another heavy blow. Basilis placed two shots squarely in its chest and the brute fell.

The Word Bearer, looked up and felt a wave of despair come over him. The old man was nowhere in sight. For a moment he debated pursuing the madman into the tunnels, but felt the feeling of urgency ebb, as though a great opportunity had been missed. Instead he turned his face skyward, grimly watching as the Forces of Chaos mustered to meet this new threat. Whatever happened he would redeem himself for this failure.
JJvagnar
 
Posts: 244
Joined: Thu Mar 22, 2012 9:13 am


Re: First Illumination, Rise of the Blasphematii.

Postby Chh » Sat Jun 01, 2013 5:51 pm

A very good read. Only request would be to leave the text Aligned Left, rather than Centred. It makes it difficult to read sensibly on a mobile like mine (for me, at least). Thanks

I will eagerly await Part II

Spoiler: I assume the Emperor just died?

Currently writing: http://www.thebolthole.org/forum/viewtopic.php?f=19&t=2138 (Sanguinian Heresy)

Please read some of it, and give feedback. Please?
Chh
 
Posts: 81
Joined: Wed Feb 22, 2012 12:59 am


Re: First Illumination, Rise of the Blasphematii.

Postby JJvagnar » Sat Jun 01, 2013 9:02 pm

Chh wrote:A very good read. Only request would be to leave the text Aligned Left, rather than Centred. It makes it difficult to read sensibly on a mobile like mine (for me, at least). Thanks

I will eagerly await Part II

Spoiler: I assume the Emperor just died?



Yep. Will make sure to align the next one properly.
JJvagnar
 
Posts: 244
Joined: Thu Mar 22, 2012 9:13 am


Re: First Illumination, Rise of the Blasphematii.

Postby JJvagnar » Sat Feb 28, 2015 7:10 pm

Star father 2
The tunnels beneath the Basilica were a far more dangerous to live in than the surface, but Griess had long grown accustomed to them. Barely an hour after he had made his escape from the surface, he sat in his tiny chamber a mile below ground, a ‘perk’ he enjoyed thanks to his position as a Basilica overseer. Already quite small, it was further cramped by the presence of his five remaining followers. Since their arrival in the slave ships of the Word Bearers, these people had fallen to the very bottom of slave society on the harsh world. Too frail or frightened to join any of the violent gangs of slave chattel who constantly fought each other for food and territory in the hellish caverns, they only survived due to the protection and food he granted them as a favoured slave.

The 6 of them knelt in a circle, muttering prayers around a crudely sculpted Aquila while, beyond the tattered cloth that covered the entrance to his cell, Griess could hear running feet and far more gunshots than was usual. It seemed word of the disturbance had reached far indeed, there was rarely so much fighting this close to the Basilica, for fear of incurring its Astartes custodians’ wrath. He ignored the sounds of panic to survey his flock. Two administratum clerks, an ex Attilian horseman with a broken leg, a feeble minded PDF irregular and a blind and elderly sister of battle. Though they were all gaunt, dirty and half starved, he felt a well of pride at the strength of their faith and devotion, maintained through the unknowable time they had spent there. Together, they would remain in the chamber, in prayer, whilst the Immortal God Emperor visited his long overdue wrath on the heretics.

The former commissar froze mid chant as he felt a shift in the air before him and he looked up to see the air shimmered just above the idol. The remaining five continued their prayers seemingly oblivious to the greasy corona of silver light in the centre of the circle. Then, the battle sister gave out a strangled cry as her head shot up, her lips moving faster and faster, as though unable to halt her prayer. Before Greiss horrified gaze, her flesh unravelled from her form, thick strands of blood, meat and bone, flowing into the corona. Her cataract ridden eyes held his gaze for a moment in an expression of sheer terror before the rest of her body was consumed by the steadily growing light.

The old man fell back in shock, his mouth gaping as the rest of his flock met a similar fate, their flesh, blood and bone feeding the light which grew brighter and brighter, until it became blinding. Then with a noise that was felt more than heard, reality tore apart and an enormous creature of light and metal stood before the cowering former commissar. It seemed somewhat similar to an Astartes warrior, possessing the same imposing bulk and height. At the same time, he could see elements of the Ecclesiarchy’s more fanciful murals of saints and primarchs. Gold and silver armour shone on its frame, and a pair of wings made of ‘feathers’ that looked more like serrated knives than anything organic. In its hand it held an enormous black sword that seemed to writhe and twist in its grip, as though in pain.

For a few seconds, Greiss lay prone on the floor, before raising a skeletal hand upward in supplication. “Are-are you an angel? Come to answer our prayers?”

The faceless helmet turned towards him.

“I am Crowe,” the daemon spoke in a deep monotone “My sin was doubt. The Star Father commands your obedience in bringing down this nest of heretics. Do You Submit?”

Those words, ‘Do You Submit?’ seemed to carry a tremendous weight and potency beyond their meaning. Greiss was suddenly painfully aware of what he must seem like, encrusted in dirt, half starved, ragged clothing. The old military pride lost in his madness reasserted itself as it dawned on him that this was the most important choice in his life. He reached behind him to a hidden recess beneath his bedding and pulled his most prized possession from its water tight plastic bag. Standing, he placed his old commissar cap, still in pristine condition from years of care, and placed it on his head as he stood at the closest approximation of parade attention he could, slumped back as straight as possible.

“Yes.” He said simply.

The creature placed its hand on his forehead. Greiss felt the years fall from his body like scales from a fish. He straightened fully, as the grime sloughed off of him, poorly mended broken bones reknitted properly and wasted muscle firmed again. Better still, was the knowledge imparted. The Emperor, freed from the shackles the corrupt Imperium had placed on him, ascended to the true Godhood that was rightfully His! Here to lay waste to His enemies! An enormous sense of purpose filled him, driving out doubt, shame and fear. He knew what was expected of him and relished it.

The creature, the Angyll, withdrew its hand, leaving the commissar standing ramrod straight, with a strange blue light just barely visible in his eyes and a tattoo of a clenched fist clutching a thunderbolt on his forehead. It reached for its wing and tore out one of the ‘feathers’, leaving a trail of ichor from the wound and presented it to him in the hand of it’s over sized palm. Greiss took it by the base with reverence. It changed in his grasp, lengthening to resemble his old power sword, complete with handle and devotional script laid into its silver handle.

The two servants of the Star Father left the chamber without any further ceremony, the Angyll heading towards the surface and the Adorant deeper into the hive. They both had far too much work to do to waste on idle conversation.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The worlds of the Eye were in turmoil. This in itself was nothing new, as the conflict and change were the only true constants among the diverse servants of Chaos, whether Astartes, Xenos, demonic or mortal. But for the first time since the fall of Malaal, the ire of every single chaotic entity was directed towards one being. Every inhabited world had witnessed the birth of the Chaos God of Order. All Chaos tainted souls recognised the challenge it set towards them, feeling the intense hatred of their masters towards it. And as one, they attacked.

It was larger than a dozen solar systems clumped together. The impossible physics of the Eye warped and twisted time and space to allow trillions of its entities to attack the interloper in a tide that flowed towards the golden figure. Tallymen rode discs of Tzeentch, Daemon Princes flew side by side with Naval battalions, strike cruisers and far more esoteric ships. World Eater battlebarges and their Emperor’s Children enemies, which had been engaged in heated battle turned and joined Warptide, the flow of chaotic energy and beings that joined together with no orders being given. Wars that had raged on since the moment of Slaanesh had torn its way to the galaxy ceased instantly, as almost every sentient mind in the Eye turned to the new born God of Order. The will of the chaos gods directed the individual creatures and ships into streams, that further coalesced into great tide which rode the energy generated by their hatred directly towards their nemesis. A Warptide.

Basilis cried out in religious fervour and battle rage as he rode a disc of Tzeentch higher towards the vast, impossible figure that stood stock still, its hands spread wide in a welcoming gesture towards the forces that raced to kill it. He could not remember how he had even gotten on to the disc, only that the compulsion to join the attack had been overwhelming, maddening. And he had welcomed it. He moved at speeds that would have been impossible in real space, covering hundreds of lightyears in mere seconds. His only companion on the disc was a gibbering bandylegged thing, either an alien or a mutant, which jumped up and down and screamed something indecipherable as it glared at the Star father. Normally, he would have killed it for the effrontery of being near him, but he cared for nothing now but to destroy the Star Father.

But no matter how fast they moved, Hell Talons, Shrikes and demons rocketed ahead of him, their numbers beyond reckoning, and for the first time since he was a mewling mortal aspirant on Colchis, he knew true terror. Cold fear struck his heart, that the creature would be destroyed before he reached it, before he could crush its perfect face with his fists. His disc screeched in despair as well as it was outpaced, and the ships and demons at the tip of the Warptide opened fire on their foe.

Planet killing ordnances were fired from traitor barges, corrupted Ark Mechanicii fired warp reactive plasma fusion beams designed to end suns. Greater daemons cast infernal hexes so potent they became sentient and hurled themselves at the face of their enemy. Weaponry both mundane and Eldtrich hurtled at the entity driven by the hatred of Chaos Undivided.

The golden face grew stern as ordinance smashed into its face, tiny pinpricks leaving scarcely a blemish. It slowly pulled its hand back and made a dismissive waving gesture as though swatting away a fly.

“OBEY!”

The Aspiring Champion felt it even though he was still lightyears away. The word was a force that seemed to reach beyond his physical shell, beyond his mind to strike at the very centre of his being. The vast Warptide buffeted, like a swarm of wasps suddenly struck by a hurricane. Ships twisted and turned under the force, colliding with each other in vast conflagrations of atomic fire and metal. Basilis’ disc shrieked as it smashed into a Night Lords craft that twisted desperately to avoid the wreckage of another.

Basilis was hurled clear and landed on its surface as the disc and its other occupant were shredded by some kind of organic growth of spikes on its side. The painful impact of his helmeted head on a gun prow brought him to his senses as the battle fury he had felt earlier ebbed and he struggled to maglock his feet to the hull.

He could do little else but gape in astonishment as the Star Father, face contorted with controlled wrath, reached out with its right hand and sent thousands of tiny silver strands out from its palm. But as the strands grew closer, he realised that they were anything but tiny. Each was a chain with links miles across. They hurtled past the ships, destroying many in the Warptide who could not get out of the way in time.

From the Star Father’s forehead a silver light shone, and the Greater Angylls of His rule poured forth. Basilis recognised the forms of thrice damned Rogal Dorn, Malcador, Celestine all shining beings now, but… wrong in ways he could not define. He had no further chance to study them as the Dorn thing, smashed through the heart of the Warp tide and brought a revving chainblade half the length of a strike cruiser down on the beleaguered Night Lord ship, shearing it through and sending him spinning into space.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Nedon and his gang watched in silent horror as the small figure wielding the shining silver sword marched towards them. The gang leader groaned in dismay as he took a good look at him. Greiss. The little commissar was utterly dwarfed by the ex-goliath gang member, yet Nedon still shied away from him.

It was the story of his life, just when he thought things were going well the universe took a huge steaming shit on him, no matter how what decisions he made. Like fleeing the Ran Lo bounty on his head by bribing his way into the Imperial Guard. Which resulted in him being captured on some backwater in the segmentum obscures by Word bearer slavers and brought to the actual Eye of Terror, a place he had been sure the Emperor bothering Cawdor preachers had made up in their fiery harangues against sin. Definitely the worst mistake of his life.

But as bad as they’d said it was, the reality was so much worse. They had been herded out of their overstuffed cargoship by sinister mutant overseers with whips that hurt deep down, like your soul itself was being shredded. They were hunted through the streets of the city by daemons, actual daemons, that had done unspeakable things to those who could not run away fast enough while the sinister Wordbearers had watched from floating platforms, laughing or firing into their ranks. The only escape from the madness was to descend beneath the surface, where they had encountered previous slaves, most of who were horribly mutated or worse, whom they had to fight just to eke out a living.

Still, Nedon was a natural survivor and a Goliath. Sicarius was bad to be sure, but it was almost Necromundian in terms of the rules of survival, albeit Necromunda on slaught and flects. He had fought back, joining the rough gangs of slaves, forming and betraying, countless alliances to stay alive, even forming his own little following that carved out a small territory near enough to the surface to get the best food and water available. This modest success is what had attracted the attention of Hasokan.

The reason he and his fellow guard had been permitted to flee, rather than being sacrificed, set to work or sold by their Astartes captors, was to create the material necessary for their cultist armies. Aspiring Champions of chaos would descend to the depths alone to recruit and proselytise, creating their own cultist squads from the strongest slaves to accompany them on Dark Crusades throughout the galaxy.

Hasokan had appeared one day, while Nedon and his men were fighting something unspeakable that had crawled out from the depths and eaten his lieutenant and half of the rival gang they had been fighting with at the time. Hasokan had killed it easily and challenged Nedon for leadership of his 13 man strong gang. Nedon had dropped to his knees immediately, he’d seen enough of what Traitor marines could do to have any illusions of his chances, and stated that he couldn’t give his gang away since they, like himself, were already Hasokan’s property. His grovelling seemed to have pleased Hasokan, who’d made him the cult leader. Then killed 4 of his men whose performance he had considered weak during the battle.

The Aspiring Champion had led them for the last 2 years on his personal pilgrimage through Sicarius’ rough streets. They had spent 9 months fighting the nightmarish things in the deepest depths, where they raided ancient crumbling fanes, built by Wordbearers millennia ago, then built over by other temples and forgotten, for unholy artifacts to bare with them. They had travelled to the surface, were he’d led them to engage in running battles on the streets with rival cults, some led by their own Aspiring champions, over religious dogma, ancient vendetta, the right to worship at certain temples and the slave fodder to sacrifice at said temples. Or often as it seemed to Nedon, he started fights just for the hell of it.

He gave them long sermons, teaching them of the dread gods that now owned their souls, of Khorne and Nurgle, of Slaanesh and Tzeentch. And Nedon thrived by making himself indispensable. A lot of people thought that goliaths were dumb, but while they weren’t as smart as most people, truly stupid people didn’t live long in hive primus. He’d noticed that, while Hasokan had preached that all four gods were to be treated as one and revered equally, he seemed to grow especially ecstatic in his mad rantings while exalting the one called Tzeentch.

So he’d made sure to memorise those verses which related to the Changer of Ways and shout them out when charging into battle with his warhammer, even carving its mark on his crude weapon and ragtag armour. It was a risk that the Aspiring Champion might kill him for such blasphemy to the notion of Chaos Undivided, but Hasokan did not speak of it, and instead showed him more favour.

As they continued the blood soaked pilgrimage, Hasokan had killed numerous gang leaders, and some of his fellow Wordbearers, whose skulls he wore in a bandolier around his massive chest, adding numbers to his army. After every victory, he made it a point to sacrifice any of the new recruits he decided were weak or lacking in zeal, until they stood at 81 in total, including himself. And through it all, Nedon’s own star had risen as he became the de facto second in command. After Hasokan had killed his 9th rival Champion and declared the pilgrimage over, he’d even honoured Nedon by carving a Mark of chaos on his forehead with a ritual sacrifice blade, which he’d suffered silently despite the horrendous pain it caused beyond what a small knife should be capable of. Screaming or even whimpering could be construed as weakness. It seemed he might be able to get a head in life, with a protector like Hasokan and the chance to finally leave the hellish depths.

And just as it seemed things were finally looking up for him. Greiss had shown up unannounced while Hasokan was preaching to them in the underground cloister that served as their home base, telling them of the glories that would be theirs as he led them out of the Eye to raid the weakling Imperium. Hasokan and the commissar had taken one look at each other, recognising what each other was, before immediately attacking.

Hasokan stood at 8 and a half feet tall in his artificier plate compared to his adversary’s 5 foot five. He had been heavily blessed by the gods, his bald head had grown a fleshy hood, like a sump cobra, that flared with rage as he fired at Greiss with the ornate plasma pistol in his right hand. His left arm had long ago swollen to grotesque proportions until it had burst out of his armour, looking diseased and oozing venoms that had been used to mark his followers. Despite its diseased look, it struck with all the force of a power fist, and Nedon had witnessed its massive claws tearing the adamantium hull of the walker constructs they had faced when defending the Temple of Seven Tears a month back. Hasokan was strong, Hasokan was fast, Hasokan was skilled. Hasokan was dead in less than a minute.

Greiss ignored the severed head of his enemy as it rolled away from him, jaws still working as though alive, and stopped a few paces from the awestruck mob, not a hint of fear on his face. He locked eyes with Nedon whose face fell as he saw recognition in his eyes.

“I remember you! Private 3rd class Nedon Haddraught, a thorough disgrace to the uniform, drunkard, thief, gambler and now,” he scowled even more as he looked at the Mark on the Goliath’s head “ Heretic!”

Nedon grimaced with each word, wondering whether he should attack or flee and bitterly regretting all the beatings he had dealt to the miserable Emperor botherer. But before he could make up his mind, Greiss spoke again.

“And yet even one such as you is not beyond redemption. The Star father walks among us, the God Emperor reborn, will you accept His grace and walk the path to absolution? Do You Submit?”

The Goliath’s scarred face broke into an uneasy grin. He’d had enough experience of powerful religious maniacs, both in the Eye and back home, to know that agreeing with them was the safest course of action, regardless of whether or not you understood what they were talking about “Yeah, of course we submit! We’re all for it. For the Star Father!”

A chorus of agreement came from behind him as his gang members saw which way the wind was blowing.

“Kneel.” The commissar spoke

As one, the hive gangers knees struck the ground, many of them blinking in surprise at how fast they fell. Greiss placed his hands on the closest of the heretics, and as Nedon felt the power of the Star Father flow through him, he realised joining the guard was only the second worst mistake of his life. But by then he did not even have the self will to scream.
JJvagnar
 
Posts: 244
Joined: Thu Mar 22, 2012 9:13 am


Re: First Illumination, Rise of the Blasphematii.

Postby librisrouge » Wed Mar 11, 2015 9:21 pm

It can be hard for some to see and write the Starfather as actually worse than the four gods of chaos but that last sentence did it for me.
User avatar
librisrouge
 
Posts: 84
Joined: Sat Sep 29, 2012 4:55 pm


Re: First Illumination, Rise of the Blasphematii.

Postby Morning Soul » Wed Mar 11, 2015 10:51 pm

Pretty cool add-on. I do find the idea about Chaos Anti-Angyll 'Grey Knights' fun.
User avatar
Morning Soul
 
Posts: 7
Joined: Wed Mar 11, 2015 4:59 pm
Location: The In Between


Re: First Illumination, Rise of the Blasphematii.

Postby JJvagnar » Wed Jun 03, 2015 9:54 pm

[CENTRE][CENTRE]I've just learnt to accept i'll never be close to the writer Lord lucan or midgard are, especially in writing conversations. but here's an update.




As the warptide reformed in the Eye and began a second assault on the Golden figure, a far greater battle was taking place in the Realm of chaos. A titanic golden palace, with jagged crenellations arose at the ever shifting meeting place of the four great chaotic realms. At its centre a titanic golden giant stood, the true Star Father, of whom the being who assailed the Eye was a mere avatar. Silver walls around the palace grew outwards, preceded by fissures that emitted silver light, and extended into the realms of chaos.

Formed of the Imperium’s mindless faith, the desire to dominate others and to submit one’s self to a higher power, the endless striving for perfection as an ideal of purity. The Star Father desired adoration and obedience.

Hairline thin cracks erupted beneath the divans and cushions of the Palace of pleasure, the centre of Slaanesh’s realm. Daemonettes that had lounged around the throne of their god, toying with unfortunate (or blessed depending on one’s point of view ) mortals stolen from the real world, squealed in outrage as the floor ruptured, horrifyingly beautiful mosaics swallowed hole by the growing fissures. Cherubs, tiny humanoid Angylls with vox grills for mouths were the first to emerge, followed by larger and more powerful beings that dragged down daemons into the depths. The ruinous powers were not merely ‘gods of particular concepts and emotions, they were those concepts and created their realms and followers out of pieces of themselves. The Star Father was laying claim to those concepts and seizing warp matter and daemons formed of them. Slaanesh raged in frustrated lust, lashing out at the creatures that had had the temerity to interrupt its pleasures and steal its property, deftly slashing millions of the swarming creatures with every twist of its sword and even destroying its own servants rather than seeing them fall to the new god’s control.

Formed of the Imperium’s hatred for the other, the endless drive of its most celebrated heroes for glory and conquest and the hunger to utterly crush its enemies, the Star father demanded courage, wrath and martial prowess.

The minions of Khorne reacted much more rapidly to the encroaching of the Star Realm, constant war leaving them in a constant state of readiness. Never the less they suffered from a lack of adequate fortifications. Only cowards hid behind walls when there were enemies to slaughter. This cost them heavily as the fissures first appeared on the outskirts of the Bloody Plains and snaked they’re way rapidly to the forges at the base of the Brass keep. Warring daemons fell into the sudden fissures, only to crawl out again as gold and silver horrors that resumed their battles, but now for a different lord. The great gate to Khorne’s throne room cracked as the servants of the Star realm dared to assault the skull throne itself, powerful greater Angylls threw themselves fearlessly at the God of War, and died hopelessly as it slew them with its bare hands, disdaining to use its weapons in response to the insult of them believing that they could harm it. Nevertheless, this did not deter their assault as they were driven by the Pure Will of the warp Imperator and the WarGod was armoured form was covered in swarms of the creatures.

Formed of the desperate hope that the Imperium clung on to, even as the Alien, Heretic and Daemon pressed upon it, the desire for knowledge to safeguard itself, and the contradictions and paradoxes inherent in its very make up. The Star Father sought knowledge and the power to control fate and change. Too control the very future of existence itself.

Tzeentch’s maze formed far better than its rivals in withholding against the Star realm’s growth. Even as fissures tried to coalesce on the edges of the great maze, its walls warped and shifted to impossible angles, switching and turning in such a way that it could not find purchase. The daemons of Tzeentch capered and crowed with delight as they watched the other realms assailed, and may have sat out the Star father’s assault gloating at their rivals’ misfortune, were it not for a thoroughly unexpected event. The great maze was breached from within by an explosion of eldritch light. Tzeentch’s labyrinth could easily with stand the crude assault of the Star father from without, but when it was coupled with a blow from inside its walls it crumpled and opened to a wide thoroughfare. Millions of daemons, mortals and things that could not be identified by any sane mind flooded out of the maze, driven hopelessly mad from aeons trapped within its walls, their names and old allegiances long forgotten. Bloodletters, Keepers of Secrets, Lords of change chaos marines, xenos, all would have fallen to infighting or wandered off in their insanity, were it not for a tiny girl in red slippers who strode unafraid between them[CENTRE]
. miraculously calmed as she passed them, their madness abating temporarily. Accompanied by large beastman, a self aware Iron Man and a possessed straw mannequin, she led the obscene army on the golden path left by the maze’s collapse, leaving the 5 power conflict behind her and disappearing into the chaos wastes even as the forces of the Star father poured into the breach they had left behind.

Formed of the imperium’s despair, as despite millennia of sacrifice, decay and hardship took their toll, the futility of fighting a war that could never be won, that ground them under slow attrition to an inevitable defeat. Yet the Star Father endured to fight on regardless in defiance of the inevitable and would do so for all eternity if that was what it took to see its enemies broken in the heat death of the universe.

Of all the chaos gods, Papa Nurgle was the most ‘orderly’ as his minions endlessly trying to catalogue the diseases and contagions he so lovingly gifted his mortal followers. Thus the garden of the Pox Father was heavily assaulted by questing tendrils of the Star Realm. The carefully tended forests of bloat trees and plague swamps erupted in silver fissures. Tallymen rushed to and fro frantically trying to save notes and laboratory equipment from equally determined Psyber Servitors who wished to catalogue the notes themselves. Angyllic cherubs squalled and fought with irate Nurglings , who flung their faeces up at the flying nemesis in an effort to despoil their obsene cleanliness. Nurgle’s roars shook the warp itself as he flung himself against a host of Greater Angylls who were hacking away at the cage of his beloved Pox fulcrum.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………...

In the Eye, Basilis first experience of consciousness was hearing a dull thunk noise as something impacted against his helmet. His eyes flew open and he saw a great warhammer through his lenses, reeling back for a second harder blow. It took less than a second for him to go from being prone on the ground to snapping his attackers arm with one blow and standing up straight. His keen Astartes mind took in his surroundings in a bare 1 and a half seconds, without the bleariness or confusion that a mortal might experience.

By some miracle of the Chaos gods, he was back on Sicarus. In the sky above him the battle against the Star father still roiled. The Warptide reformed, hurled itself at the golden obscenity and was broken again to repeat the cycle. He still felt the same febrile energy that had led to him joining it, but his mind was his own again and he took stock of his surroundings, feeling a bitter sickness at what he saw. The surface of Sicarus was in ruins, he could see many of the fanes and temples burning and hear gunfire in the distance. Yet he did not hear the anti air guns. How had the enemy landed to assail them?

Before him stood a gaggle of ganger scum armed with makeshift weaponry and lasguns. Incredulously, he watched the same person who had attacked him before, a great brute with the symbol of a lightning wielding fist on his forehead lift his hammer in his one unbroken hand to strike at him again. He was so shocked at the temerity of the slave before him that he did not act until after it struck ineffectually against his chest. Basilis gave an incoherent scream of outrage as all the anger and frustration he had experienced exploded from him, bringing his open palms together with such force they crushed the hammer wielder’s skull between them like an over ripe fruit. Then he was upon the small group. The depth of the insult was staggering! How dare these slaves even think of striking a legionnaire? Were he not so angry he would have taken them to the excruciation chambers himself. Instead he tore the 8 fools apart before they had time to lift their weapons against him. This took a further 4 seconds of his time.

It was in the seventh second of regaining consciousness that he realised why the anti space guns were silent. The invasion had not come from the skies, but from beneath Sicarus itself. A tide of slaves staggered or marched from the underworld, tearing down their overseers and clashing with the cultists hordes on the street. A sea of chanting mortal flesh stood between him and the horizon, and as one they turned to him after he had finished killing the group. He snarled as they closed in on him, standing with his back to a fallen wall. He had lost his weapons during the fall, but never doubted he could route this rabble with ease. And once the battle was done, he vowed he would personally see to the gassing of much of Sicarus is underhive.

At first, the assault on the Word Bearer was a laughable farce. Rickety stubbers and lasgun rounds didn’t even scratch his daemon forged armour, while those who approached him in melee did not even get to see the blows that killed them. But still they came on in waves, seemingly impervious to fear, yet with none of insane rage or glee of chaos cultists. There was fury in their eyes, but it was fatalistic, almost mechanical, their droning of some religious chant reminding him of Nurgle’s pox daemons in its monotony. Despite his efforts, two grown men leapt upon and seized his right arm, dragging it down with their weight and slowing his blows. More slaves came, clutching and grabbing at his limbs, clawing at his helmet seals and bearing him down. The Word Bearer disappeared beneath the tide of Adorants, howling curses and struggling with all his might… before a wave of force blasted them off of him.

The Word bearer came up gasping, his armour dented and blood soaked. His elation at being saved from a humiliating death soon soured as he saw the sorcerer who’d saved him.

Amon Philestophenes’ skull like helmet watched him impassively, though Basilis was sure that he was smirking at his rival’s discomfort beneath it. Like Basilis, his armour was the red and gold of the Wordbearers, but far more ornate, covered in mystic sigils and tattered scraps of human faces inscribed with colchisian script. A staff as tall as he was crackled with the dying energies of the telekinetic wave that had saved his life as the sorcerer stepped over the remains of the cultists to approach him.

“Running off like one of Angron’s children and abandoning your post like that, disappointing even by your standards brother.”

Basilis sneered as he removed his ruined helm “I felt the call of the Dark Gods. I did what any true believer would have done!” He looked the sorcerer up and down, sneering at the spotlessness of his armour “I am surprised you did not join as well. Did you not feel the will of the Gods yourself?”

Though he could not see the sorcerer’s expression, he felt it become sincere as he spoke “It is the lot of the weak slave fodder to lose themselves completely to Chaos. By charging into the fire of our enemies, their souls become nourishment for the Gods and win us their favour, which is the most they can be expected to achieve in life. But we are the Sons of Lorgar, we are better than that. We serve the will of the Gods and maintain our discipline and focus whilst lesser beings lose theirs. That’s what the Gods expect of us.”

Basilis turned his head in shame, swallowing his anger because he knew his enemy was not taunting him, but speaking a truth that had eluded him in the heat of the moment. That brought an unpleasant thought to mind.

“Has Dark Apostle Phegan noticed my absence?”

For a second, Amon froze, then burst out laughing, eliminating the brief sense of kinship Basilis had felt with him.

“You have been gone 3 days, of course he bloody well noticed!”

3 days! His secondary heart began beating as thoughts of the penalties he would face for such a dereliction of duty pulsed through his mind. at the

“I shall return to the Basili- WHAT IN THE 8 HELLS IS THAT?”

Amon lazily turned his head in the direction Basilis had begun walking “Ahh, I was wondering when you’d notice that!”
[/CENTRE][/CENTRE][/CENTRE]
JJvagnar
 
Posts: 244
Joined: Thu Mar 22, 2012 9:13 am


Return to Board index

Return to Warhammer Adrift

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest