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Hushrong
30-08-2011, 02:59
I have my own warband of the SoM that I wanted to give more fluff to however, I will be taking ideas originally meant for them that never made it and give it to a second warband I am coming up with. With this, I hope to flesh it out and bring it to life. I also hope, with a strong emphasis on 'hope', that I can keep this up with small segments being added. I wish that you enjoy these story segments and can give some comments and critiques to help me out. Thanks and enjoy A Son of Malice.

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Armored fingers dipped into the powdery substance. The four fingers barely fitting into the bowl crudely made from the skull of a xeno beast.

The warrior hesitated as he began to bring his cupped hand, covered in powder, to his face. He had always hated this ritual. Only the command of his lord to do so was the only reason why he would inhale the vile material.

Finally, he brought his hand up and inhaled.

Immediately his respiratory system came under the sensation of fire. His nostrils and the back of throat felt scorched as though hot air had been breathed in. He winced as he felt a thousand stings in the corners of his eyes. As he opened his mouth he felt as though smoke would fume out.

His hearts raced to the point that their beating would result in bursting. His lungs convulsed from the substance as they inflated and deflated erratically.

He would cough for several minutes. The contents of elixir were potent that it could kill a mortal. For a Demi-God such as he, the results were varied as well as strenuous.

When his internal organs calmed his eyes opened, wide, blood shot with the veins appearing to change color. His mouth began to gap as blood began to trickle down his chin. Despite the numbed expression of his bare face his mind throbbed and pulsed with activity.

He saw the faces of kinsmen past, the battles he had fought, and sometimes glimpses of his own death yet to come. As though a haunting witness to his own life, he walked the plains of his homeworld, the blighted surfaces of daemon realms, and the battlefields where so many lives were ended by his own hands.

He could not see or feel the blood running from his tear ducts. He was last in the lucid hallucination that gripped him and a voice that called him by name.

When he finally blinked after time unknown had passed the warrior stared with his blood shot eyes to the wall before him. He could now remember in vivid detail of when he carved into the steel flesh of the wall with his blade. Etched in the crude and forgotten alphabet he had carved words of praise & hate.

They were marked into the wall the shape of an eleven pointed star. Ten points, stretched out from the center symmetrically with one another while the eleventh had started from the bottom and pierced into the star itself.

He began to utter the words as specks of blood were spat forth from his mouth. Litanies speaking of a thousand betrayals, utterances of a dark and vengeful God, and hymns of utter destruction spilled forth from his lips.

The warrior could feel the sensations finally ebbing away as the prayer drew to its end and looked about the arming chamber. To his left and right were his brothers that formed a semicircle around the wall carving centered on him. Each coming out of their trances and slowly gaining coherence.

With a grunt from his throat their servants came from out of the shadows.

They brought forth the warriors tools of vengeance. In their cloth covered hands they bared boltguns bearing various forms of fetishes and trophies, bladed weapons of differing makes, and helms of black & white.

Before their masters the mortal servants knelt on their knees and elbows while holding up the relics they had been entrusted with.
The warrior took his boltgun and mag-clipped it to rear of his waist. Next he tethered his sword to his left. It was good to have them at his side once more.

Finally the warrior looked at what his third servant held from his kneeling position, his helm. The black was chipped and bare metal peered from the layer underneath and the white was stained and fading. The blue lenses were dull until they would be activated. He took pride in the lower jaw and tusks that decorated his helm that had been torn from a daemon of the false god of change.

He reached down and took it in his armored gauntlets. He looked at his reflection in the lenses. His features were brutish and insincere with his maddened eyes and blood covered mouth. He smirked as he clasped his helm in place.

The warrior breathed in the recycled air then tasted the bitterness of the powder and the sweetness of blood on his tongue. From his vox grill he uttered the final words of the prayer carved into the wall “Sins of our Father”.

“His Sons inheritance to avenge” his warriors responded in kind.

Soon, Ollphest and his kin would shed blood once more.

Hushrong
06-09-2011, 16:49
The second part of the story written between last night and this morning...so it may have some errors here and there. Hope you enjoy!

--

Captain Farrow admired his fleet from the comfort of his hand crafted throne as the ships tore out of the warp and back into the void. He grinned as he saw the precision with which each vessel maneuvered as they materialized in their formation.

Frigates, hauling vessels, and mining ships formed into their respective positions of the fleet. With his own Flagship, the Dreadnought, taking her place in the center. Men of the Imperial Navy had referred to her as a bastard, a ship made from the hulls of other second-hand and decommissioned vessels. She had been built to fill a void caused by the loss of ships from a distant Battlefleet. At the conclusion of a campaign against xenos she was to be disposed of. However, materials offered by
Farrow for her was worth more than scrapping the conglomeration of a ship.

What the Imperial Navy saw a ship that would be cannibalized and scrapped, the rogue trader saw a kindred spirit that had been underestimated. Spending much of his wealth, the Dreadnought became the envy of his peers.

The staff on the bridge sat at their station and monitored their instruments with extreme diligence. Officers buzzed to and fro in their respective sections of the bridge, narrowly colliding with one another as they checked on their charges.

Farrow eyed his crew awaiting results. When transitioning from the warp back into the material realm he demanded status updates of his ships and information on the sector his humble fleet occupied within two minutes. If anymore time passed his officers & staff could expect a growing percentile to be docked off from their pay.

One minute and thirty-seven seconds out of the warp and his officers stood at attention before his seat. This was twenty-three seconds longer than the last transition. Still, they performed well having received word that this sector interfered with many naval instruments.

Each carried a grin, pleased they were not the last to take up their place before the captain and that they would earn their keep. Despite the stress of the transition and the hurried effort to gather details their uniforms were still fine pressed, their awards pinned flamboyantly to their chests, and their boots polished to mirror sheen. It had cost a small fortune for Farrow to go so far as to have tailors design and produce uniforms, but when dealing with members of high-esteem it gave off a sense of pride.

He gripped the edge of his chair, feeling the hard-grain wood and velvet on his finger tips and palms. As Farrow rose he could see from the viewing port a shadow moving like a phantom in the void.

His facial expression changed and his eyes squinted to see the blur clearer. The officers looked at the rogue trader and then one another in confusion before turning in the same direction as their captain.

Then they saw it. A flash of light and the explosion of the frigate Lover’s Blade off their forward port bow.

Alarms sounded and the shouting of the bridge staff erupted. A red light permeated the bridge as the signal for battle stations rang. First blood had been drawn from the darkness.

--

Hanng the Shepherd stood apart from his brothers. Though sworn to the chapter he was not sworn to a kin like the others. He took solace from solitude and took to battle among his many pets.

As he marched down the corridors mortals fled when they heard the sound of his beasts and his brothers would look on in curiosity and disdain. In his left arm he wielded his staff with its claw like head piece, serrated and razor sharp. In his left he held a ring from which a dozen chains were latched. He did not need to tug to let his charges know that they must follow. He was their master and they were his to command.

Bound by chains and bindings etched with wards, the feminine monsters of the warp followed. They howled and hissed from as they followed

Hanng. Their purple, reptilian skin tattooed with more arcane symbols seemed to almost focus in and out of reality. Their black eyes never blinked as they were led by their master and their clawed feet echoed off the deck.

Finally they had entered the temple. The Librarians gathered from its shadows to look upon the Shepherd and examine his daemons. Many of the creatures cowered as the hands of the librarians reached out for them. The hateful presence of so many psykers caused them pain. They recoiled in their presence and their howling becoming cries.

Hanng turned to see a librarian whose grip choked a daemonette. Had that arcanist been a mere mortal the warp creature would slash him to ribbons and feast on his soul. Yet, even with their clawed arms being released from their magick bindings they shrunk back from the librarian’s presence. Finally the creatures were freed and the librarians returned to the shadow, continuing his march Hanng’s pets followed to the far-end of the temple.

Runes and symmetrical diagrams formed a circle against the stone floor and wall. Hanng understood it very little and his daemons howled from being so close to its proximity. He understood their dislike of arcane practices his brothers employed.

Others had already gathered. A dozen kins stood shoulder to shoulder in the confines of the temple. The entire compliment of warriors from their barge would take to the hunt. Many watched the shepherd as he herded his pets toward the rune covered wall.

His beasts howled wildly when the librarians began their chanting. The words were not of their own language but one that had been long forgotten and mistaken for dead. With each syllable the painted diagrams began to rise and a haze of black and purple steam lifted.

Hanng closed his eyes and whispered a pray to his dark god as he felt cold air envelop his armor and the sensation of his limbs tearing apart..

--

Captain Farrow watched as another ship was delivered unto oblivion.

He knew the name of the ship before one of the bridge staff announced its loss. The frigate Terran Serenade had been in his family’s fleet even before his birth. For twenty-generations it had served his family and all before him had called it home.

Its position close to the Dreadnought was one of honor and gratitude to the ancient vessel. Now on the starboard bow of his ship he watched as all hands were lost about the Terran Serenade. Anger took a brief hold of Farrow before he reasserted himself to the coordination of battle.

Already two frigates, a transport, and two mining ships were gone. He calculated the loss of souls and the damages done to his fleet and Farrow wished to repay in kind.

The attackers were too well equipped to be mere pirates. Their stratagem did not reflect the customary hit and run style as the foe simply went in headlong. The enemy ships were not identifiable but judging by their weaponry they were human and that was all he could tell. Perhaps another rogue trader had plotted to rid themselves of competition. Farrow knew that the whispers of raw wealth in the system may have been too good to be true.

The Dreadnought held its fire. Glancing blows from its guns could be disastrous to the smaller ships of its fleet that ironically were placed close for their defense. On orders, the remaining frigates broke from their respective battlegroups with only a single ship from each left to defend while others went on the offensive. They would chase away and attempt to bring their numerous guns to bear on the attacker.

Orders barked back and forth between the officers and their staff aboard the Dreadnought to the ships of the fleet. Though still unidentifiable, the attacking ships were in retreat with twice their number of the rogue traders forces in pursuit.

Many breathed a short sigh of relief before panic resettled. Proximity alarms flared into life from an unknown source. As though hidden by a blackened shroud another vessel appeared from nowhere in the void.

She was massive, dwarfing the Dreadnought and her accompanying vessels. Her weapons batteries were intimidating for they were designed to obliterate whole hives and level continents. Unlike the others Farrow knew the ship, the Black Death. She was a ship of legend that preyed upon travelers, merchants such as himself, and the Imperial navy itself. Farrow had lost friends with many being rumored to have perished from the guns of this monstrosity.

He never expected the ship to be of a design he had admired his whole life, a war vessel of the Adeptus Astartes.

As Farrow, his officers, and their staff stood in awe they barely felt the chill that had overtaken the bridge. Nor did they realize the shadows that crept and overwhelmed the space behind the captain’s chair.

It was only when they heard the howling and screeching of immaterial monsters, daemons, which they realized they had been boarded.

--

Releasing the lock of the chain ring his daemons were unleashed and let loose to indulge in their desires. Hanng could see the small build up of ice that covered his armor and on the scales of his pets. It melted away into puffs of black smoke as they emerged into the material realm.

Before him was a man wearing a great covered with gold and bits of ribbon. It was either someone of importance or someone who that that much of themselves. It truly mattered not when the claw of his staff reached out for him

With a thrust the clawed blade incised the man below his left eye, cutting into the bone. Before the mortal felt the ice cold burn he was pulled forward. The serrated teeth of the hook bit deep into his shoulder, rending flesh and scraping bone.

As the mortal was pulled toward the iron behemoth he was taken by the neck. The white armor was freezing to the touch and its servo-muscles whined as the chokehold grew tighter. Hang looked into the eyes of the man. His faced was fixed in a silent scream and his pupils were wide with fear as his small hands struggled to free him from the grip.

Hanng felt only something that reminded him of remorse as he flung the man toward his ravaging pets. He had wished for something worthy to kill.

As soon as the warring spirit of his armor calculated the numbers of souls within his proximity the number began to dwindle. His pets were fast at work dashing between stations and leaping from one victim to another.

Their howling turned into a song that enchanted their victims and rendered them awestruck before their clawed limbs would lash out.

Within a minute the bridge had been cleared. It had become a gore house as flesh and torn uniforms festooned the bridge and damaged panels sparked wildly.

Many of the creatures continued to take out their aggressions on the corpses surrounding them, hacking away wildly. He listened to their capricious humming, ranging from pleasurable to antagonizing, as they covered themselves in blood.

There was enough slaughter and debauchery within the confines of the bridge.

Hanng slammed the end of his staff into the deck and its ringing turned the heads of his pets toward him. They watched with their unblinking eyes as he directed them to the hatch leading deeper into the ship.

His brothers would soon be aboard the ship to work their butchery. He desired that his pets share their fill of blood before confining them once again. As he made his way toward the opening his pets rushed past him and seconds later the screaming of innocent souls formed a symphony with his pets singing.

He blink-clicked for his vox from the lense of his helm, he wished to record every sound. Its sweet melody would play over, again and again, as he strode silently through the corridor of the ship.

Hushrong
15-09-2011, 21:33
At the moment I have this little segment I would like to offer up. It is a bit shorter as I am still determining what will happen in the course of this story. Enjoy!

--

Every shadow aboard the Dreadnought became a gateway. Unnatural means expanded them beyond comprehension. Those of the crew who dared to examine the phenomenon could hear the whispers of a dead language as cold air filled their lungs.

Aboard their own war vessel, the Librarians of the Outcast applied their arcane arts and manipulated the sanity of the material realm. Their art was potent and its efficiency deadly. A hundred tears pierced into reality, opening paths only the fearless and insane would dare trespass. From the shadows the armored forms of Demi-Gods emerged, the blue glow of their eyes ominous and searching.

Their armor reflected the light of glow-globes aboard the Dreadnought. Their armor seemed polished and flawless as ice appeared to coat them wholly. With every movement bone-shattering sound echoed out as the ice broke away. Seconds after their emergence the rest began to crack and break away into sheets of black ice that hissed and steamed. The foul essences of sorcery lifted from their armor like a warm breath on a winter’s night.

Underneath it all true monsters had broken free from their shells.

Their presence was surreal. Scions of hatred and vengeance had come to work their craft upon the crew of the Dreadnought. Now within the confines of the ship they were eager to spill blood. Those who witnessed this fled while others were trapped from the sheer aura of terror that permeated the atmosphere. Whether they ran or stayed did not matter, there would be no escape from this nightmare.

Not even a minute had passed as the vox network of the crewmen cried out in desperation. Throughout the ship the same specters had come aboard and began to reap the souls of the living. Despite the horrors that ran at blinding speed, ducking in and out of safety, these monsters were another terror to behold.

Clad in armor painted black and white, with horns and tusks jutting from their helms, and adorned with grim trophies the warriors carried out their butchery in silence save for the screams of their victims. With curved and hooked blades they ensnared their prey and removed limbs with flawless precision. With their boltguns echoing through the decks they would burst those who attempted to flee into a spray of blood, flesh, and bones. The most worrisome were those marked by change.

The warp changes those who dwell within its insane realm into living nightmares. For some, armor had become flesh that was reshaped to enhance the inflicted. With their flesh made on with their armor, their bones lengthened, expanded, and twisted into horrendous forms. For some, an extra joint in their legs added to their speed, arms were extended with longer reach, razor like digits that made a mockery of armory, and across their entire body spines had grown through their newly rendered flesh. With animalistic-like reflexes these creatures, for they no longer where what they had been in birth, seized the moment to shed blood.

Every corridor had become a hunting ground. Every man and woman became prey. There would be no salvation for both death by their blades or enslavement by their chains offered no comfort.

Sons of a Vengeful God, they would slaughter until they had satisfied their ever increasing lust for bloodshed.