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Thread: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

  1. #201
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    Quote Originally Posted by Lord Of The Avatars View Post

    Why. Why. Why did Leman Russ, The embodiment of a wolf, return as a mere object of the IG?

    None of the actual loyalist primarchs make a definite return. No one, not even the Lion, strode into the field as an undeniable demigod. There is still, what lawyer would call "reasonable doubt." Maybe Fulgrim really was hallucinating? This is so it's possible the primarchs did not actually pull a deus ex machina in favour of the good guys (an event as uncommon as a flying pig in the 40kverse.)


    The hellish paradise of Slaanesh is said to be deep in the warp and home to the dreaded Palace of Slaanesh, which sits like an eye behind six regions that one must pass through to reach where the prince of pleasure himself. The deepest perversions of a mortal’s dreams played out in one thousand forms all around each of these places. Daemonettes and other beautiful horrors of Slaanesh too numerous to mention drifted through these layers, looking for any mortal that had wandered from the universe into this place, their beautiful eyes glimmering as they waited in excitement for their next victim.

    Their delights were answered when a black robed figure strode into the first of these freakish domains of poisoned fantasy. Daemonettes closed in, ready to claim the mortal’s weak soul. But instead of succumbing to his or her own desires, the disciplined figure strode onward, face hidden underneath a black hood. When the figure, the daemonettes determined it was a man, reached the second of Slaanesh’s layers, they had not even seen his masked face flinch from his path. Onwards, with rigorous determination, he strode. Whoever this masked pilgrim was, his lust did not tempt him to take a beautiful maiden when one was offered, nor did his hunger drive him to eat. The temptation of power and fame had no effect on this disciplined soul. Not even the utopia of Slaanesh’s final layer could turn him from his path. The emotionless being walked through the golden threshold of the palace, tall and mighty, as it appeared before him, its walls stretching off for eternity in all directions.



    “And soon, it will all be ours,” sighed Slaanesh as his tongue lashed across the sculpted horns of the daemonette he had in his slender hands, his ivory skin shining like the moon in the light of the candles that lined the walls of his throne room. All the wealth in coins and jewelry that lay heaped against the wall was enough money to bribe an inquisitor or hire out an Astartes chapter. It was said that every coin that had ever been spent on an idle pleasure collected here in the warp. The door to the throne room could not even be seen behind the coinage that piled high, disappearing into the shadows that consealed the ceiling. “The galaxy, the Materium, all ours my love.”

    “I cannot wait my prince…oooo!” the daemonette tickled his chin and lounged against his chest. Slaanesh was about to tell her more, make her more promises, but fell quiet. He could feel the stranger approaching, each step like a ripple in a pond, each footfall like distant thunder. The humble daemonette blinked her eyes and looked in the direction her lord looked. She danced to her feet and grinned from ear to ear as what appeared to be a mortal man in a black cloak appeared in a gap between two piles of heaped jewels. His eyeless mask was pointed straight into Slaanesh’s eyes. The prince of pleasure felt no fear when he found he could not bring power over this one.

    ‘Not a mortal?’ thought Slaanesh. ‘How…pleasant.’ The daemonette he was toying with danced across to the robed stranger, her tender fingers reaching out.

    “Ah, welcome,” she sang to him sweetly. “Make yourself comfortable. And do take off that cloak and that mask. Let me…” she grinned wickedly as she reached him, “…touch you.” He stopped as she pulled back his hood.

    With a shriek that would deafen a mortal listener, the daemonette exploded. Her pale flesh burnt away to ash in an inferno of blue flame. The stranger stepped through the ash cloud that hung in the air where the daemonette stood, still looking at Slaanesh with an empty stare. The ash turned to mist, and the daemonette was no more. And still the stranger came. Slaanesh smiled: amused.

    “I see you are a tough one. But everyone, even the creatures of the warp, have their desires. Oh, please…PLEASE, tell me what you want, what will make you...sing your praises to me out into the vastness of the warp,” asked Slaanesh. He licked his lips and held forth a handful of pleasure, offering it as a gift. Around his head, love danced, and in his eyes burned the fires of passion. A spark of the flame in his eyes would cause even the most senior of the Sisters of Battle to damn her pledges and leap into his masculine arms. But the man did not shift. His metal face did not move as he stopped in front of Slaanesh: six meters away. He did nothing but pull his hood back on.

    “Your deepest desires…anything,” whispered Slaanesh. “Do you want a whole planet to sate your lust upon?” The man reached into the fold of his cloak. Slaanesh hoped he was undressing, but he instead drew a sword, which Slaanesh could tell had been built from the bones of dead eldar gods. The sword looked like one of the swords Vaul had built. Slaanesh’s smile melted and a frown creased his flawless brow. He took a half step back.

    “What do you want?” he asked as the fires faded from his piercing blue eyes. He discarded the pleasure, which winked away as soon as Slaanesh’s skin left it. The man did not answer, but instead raised the blade to challenge the god of excess.

    At this moment, Slaanesh felt a sensation he did not usually feel. It was as intoxicating as wine but sharp as the kiss of a flame but it was unpleasant and difficult for Slaanesh to endure. Panic.

    “Who are you?” Slaanesh demanded sharply, drawing a silver-edged saber into being and raising it to defend himself. “Who sent you? Why are you here? Why won’t you take off that soulless mask and speak to me?!”

    “Yehn Ay Yad,” whispered the man’s ethereal voice not from behind his mask as a mortal would. Instead, Slaanesh felt the voice, rather than simply hearing it.

    “Yehn Ay Yad?” Slaanesh asked quickly, searching the man for clues to his identity. If he were to write the word he’d just heard, he would spell it “Ynnead”. “Is your name Ynnead? Are you eldar? That sword looks like the work of the eldar smith god Vaul…”

    The man abruptly lunged forward and Slaanesh quickly blocked the strike. He drew back and waited for the man’s next move. Behind the piles of coins, he could see a swarm of his faithful servants rush to his aid. All turned to dust when they approached the man.

    “I will make you suffer,” spat Slaanesh, coming forward again. Sparks of passion leapt from his sword as he and the stranger clashed. Lithe, graceful Slaanesh leapt about the man, trying to find a weakness in his defense. But the solitary swordsman, who had nothing to say except “Ynnead” was too great a fighter. He countered Slaanesh’s grace with acrobatics of his own, leaping onto Slaanesh’s blade and twirling over his head to land behind him. Slaanesh kicked the man in the back and sent him into a mound of coins. The gold turned to dust as it touched him, reducing a fortune to nothing in seconds. He leapt to his feet and dove into Slaanesh, turning into a storm of attacks. Slaanesh found himself overwhelmed and forced to retreat up a pile of coins to escape his unnamed attacker. His safety was over fast as the attacker collapsed the pile of coins, melting the bottom layers away to nothingness as he walked through the solid metal as easily as water. With a rumble, the coins came clattering down with bone breaking ferocity. Slaanesh leapt through the collapse, jumping away from the raining coins, all the while under the steel gaze of his attacker, who merely walked through the rain of coinage unscathed. Slaanesh barely parried his next strike. Coins rained down about the two as they clashed.

    “Who are you?!” Slaanesh retreated as the last coin from the collapse came to a stop. This knowledge was one pleasure he could not have. So he continued the fight. It was a thrilling pleasure that he had not ever experienced before. The energy of their movement, the perfect footwork, the gliding thrusts and parries combined into a dance of steel that seemed incomplete without music.

    “Yehn Ay Yad,”

    “What does Ynnead mean?” Slaanesh stabbed at his foe’s belly. The attacker dodged the strike and struck at Slaanesh’s flank. The young chaos god was too fast and leapt up atop another pile of coins, low enough to escape easily if the pile collapsed. “What do you want? I can make you happy…”

    The attacker stabbed the ground, driving the tip of his sword a few centimeters into the ground. Slaanesh could feel his throne room shudder under the gale of energy thrown into it. His throne room, his own throne room, was changing. Only when the mountains of coins unanimously fell did Slaanesh cry out in outrage and charge his opponent.

    Like dancers in a golden rainstorm, the two fought furiously under the falling hail of coins and the dust that they were turning into. Slaanesh was often blinded by his own coins and forced to duck back while his enemy did not need to worry. Swords beat aside coins as they fell, cutting some in two before the coins melted to powder. The two swords flashed tirelessly, up and down, left and right. There was nowhere to go. Slaanesh could duck and jump, dodge and swing, but the masked man had him matched to a step. He did nothing but lead him on a dance through the falling coins.

    Slaanesh jumped into the air to avoid a sideways attack. His feet left the ground and his body went parallel, jumping over the attacker’s chilling sword. Slaanesh pressed his claw against the flat of the blade to help himself over, stabbing at the enemy’s face. The enemy ducked his masked head beneath his sword and sprung backwards. For only a moment, neither duelist was touching the floor. Both landed gracefully, both bounded back to the other to continue their match. Were he not so intimately locked in combat with him, Slaanesh would have seen a friend in this stranger.

    Then, the attacker ducked down beneath a sweep of Slaanesh’s saber and slashed the god across the ankles. He dove nimbly back and waited. Slaanesh looked down at his cut ankles and made the wounds disappear. He smiled poisonously through the rain of coins at the hooded one.

    “You will have to do better than that,” he laughed as the last coins fell and turned to dust. The dust on the floor winked away and Slaanesh stepped forward. However, he paused when he realized his ankles were numb. He looked down at them and saw that they were healed, but no sensation reached out to his brain from them. His low skirt and the straps on his elegant sandals did not give him the simple pleasure of contact. Slaanesh looked up.

    “What have you done?” he demanded. He stepped forward and his enemy stepped back. Slaanesh stopped and his enemy stopped. “What is this?” he cried out as his lower legs grew numb. It did not stop there. The numbness spread upwards until it had enveloped his whole body.

    Sensation: it was gone. Slaanesh looked at his hands in horror and dropped his sword. He rubbed his arms, trying to restore sense. He clasped his face and ran his fingers across his lips. He could not feel anything. Kissing would no longer give him pleasure! Neither would…

    HIS THRONE ROOM! Oh, his throne room!

    It was so empty! Without his coins and his jewels, it was a barren cavern with distant gold walls that were all but brown in the dim light, diminished now that the gleam of wealth no longer filled it. He looked up at the ceiling and saw darkness. He looked around himself and saw vast emptiness. Nothing to look at but distant walls and darkness! Without the piled wealth, this room was not pleasant to Slaanesh as it had once been. Now it was a depressing place of loneliness and shadow. Slaanesh fell to his knees as he imagined what would happen to his realm, to his lovely daemonettes, to his followers. His knees didn’t even hurt when they thudded to the floor.

    “Please…” Slaanesh whispered as his attacker approached him. Slaanesh grabbed for his sword, but found it had turned to dust. He looked in fear as the attacker reached for Slaanesh’s throat with his free hand. “Please…I don’t want to die. What…what do you want?”

    “Yehn Ay Yad,” Slaanesh coughed as the man lifted him to his feet and drove his sword through Slaanesh’s breast. It didn’t even hurt. The bottom half of Slaanesh’s beautiful body turned to powder, than disintegrated, leaving the attacker to hold him up by his neck.

    “I don’t want to die,” Slaanesh begged in horror as the walls of his chamber were lost from sight under a thickening shadow. Like oncoming water, the darkness consumed the walls and the floor until he was alone with his murderer upon an island of dark grey stone on an endless sea of blackness. “Leave me alone.” The masked man drew his sword back and clove Slaanesh’s head from his shoulders, killing the god.



    The mysterious masked attacker had a name. It was Ynnead. He lowered his sword from Slaanesh. Just as Slaanesh was born from the collective depravity of an entire race, Ynnead was born from the disciplined souls of the eldar, held deep within the infinity circuits of the craftworlds.

    And now Ynnead had finally finished his job.

    Ynnead ducked his head back peacefully as the nothingness swallowed him. First the island was gone, and then his feet were gone and then he was gone, like a forgotten dream, just like the eldar.

    Nothing.



    He shook himself to his feet. The heat of the blast still singed his skin and his hair. His armor was steaming in a few places. Misty smoke was drifting from the surface of the pearly insignia on his shoulder pad. All around him, the others were dragging themselves to their feet. Those nearest to the blast were not getting up. Through the steam in the air, Usoran could see countless fallen giants coating Camlan, immobile but not blooded by shot or blade. The almighty lance had destroyed almost half the battle. All the good marines, lost forever! It might have brought Usoran’s faith lower if the heretics did not lie dead in equal tally amidst the scorched bodies.

    “Attack!”

    Those who had not been felled by the vertical inferno were still hobbling to their feet. Who was it that had yelled? Usoran looked around him at the survivors of the Alpha Legion, getting to their shaky feet, dazed by the destruction.

    “Kill those aliens?” From the side, Usoran head the first of many gunshots. Around him, the sounds of battle grew louder. Men staggered to their feet and slaughtered the survivors of the other side. Heretics and traitors filled Camlan, yes, but aliens? Through the melee’s rising intensity, Usoran saw them.

    “Tyranids?” Vashuss asked from Usoran’s side.

    Clambering over the edge of Camlan was a vast horde of shrieking, skittering alien beasts, whose unmistakable faces betrayed their link to the hive mind. Only tyranids had those ridges, those faces, those teeth. But their bodies, shaped in the sketchy likeness of a power-armored form, were unlike any of the xenos he had seen before. They boiled over the edge n the thousands, outnumbering both heretic and loyalist! By the Emperor, they’d sweep away both sides!

    “How did they get here?” asked Afennor, brushing some peeling skin from his arms. Across Camlan, where either the loyalists or the heretics dominated the field without signs of their original opponent in sight, the warriors turned as one to confront this new opponent. Hosts of space marines from both sides rushed towards the coming tide, blades raised and firing off what few shots they still had. Astartes accuracy slaughtered hundreds before the first one even reached the warriors of humanity and chaos.

    And so it was thown back into madness.

    Usoran scanned the fighting, looking for his surviving Dark Angels. He could only see Alpha Legion, fighting to hold off a surge of Death Guard. There was another thing missing from the fray.

    ‘Where is Angron? Where is Mortarion?’
    Last edited by nicholasakira; 09-02-2010 at 03:21.

  2. #202
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    wow epic fight scene and the eldar prophecy is fulfilled

    great write up once again
    "Duty, honor, and valor are either in your heart or they are not. You will never know until you are truly tested"
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  3. #203
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    I am impressed with how all of the pheonix lords died, and how it was fit into the prophecy e.g. The Burning lance obliterated by the Burning Lance
    Preview of General Disaster's story Ebon Chalice:

    Quote Originally Posted by GeneralDisaster View Post
    Chapter One:
    The Canoness was standing in the middle of the room, still squeezing the balls.

  4. #204
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    “Usoran?” Vashuss looked behind him. The Dark Angel and the scout had moved to a different part of the melee. Of course, there were no genuine “parts” to this chaos. He struck off the head of a tyranid creature, whatever it was, and turned to face the next one.

    The creature he faced though the melee was no beast of the hive, but more identical to a living man. His bald head was studded with knobby lumps of flesh and a mask bult of flesh wrapped itself around his nose. His powered armor was brown and he stood taller than even Vashuss.

    “Apollyon?” Vashuss asked in astonishment.

    “Ah, another who I know,” Apollyon spoke back, extending heavy claws from his hands. “Killing you shall be a joy…” He was cut off as a black dreadnought seized him, lifted him into the air and rended him apart. Vashuss blinked at the great black giant.

    “Calgar?” The Black Tomb turned its carved hull to face him. Vashuss paused. “No, it is another,” Vashuss whispered. There was no more time to reflect. The two turned to strike down the next wave of fierce tyranid beasts that rushed them. To their left, a whole squad of Alpha Legion warriors fell to these strange marine-tyranids. To their right, a knot of warring heretics and loyalists were swept away by the horde. Would the day go to the xenos? NEVER!

    “Alpha Legion!” Vashuss roared to his surviving warriors, “assume cobra for…” he coughed and spat out blood, the weight of a train striking his side. Vashuss looked at his attacker with some boredom: a duplicate of the body Apolllyare had first encountered him with.

    “You can’t kill me,” Apollyon sneered, his fanged jaws clicking. “Your race destroyed my hive mind. But you will still be purged until only the strong remain.” He withdrew his long claws from Vashuss’ body and let the lord fall to the floor. Apollyon looked up to face the Black Tomb, now struggling to wrestle thirty tyranids at once. With each stroke of his boulder-fists, two died.

    “After all these thousands of years,” Apollyon hissed, stepping over Vashuss, “am I a madman Guilliman? Do you think I am a madman now? Look around you Guilliman! The Hornet Legion has returned with me and your pathetic Ultramarines are all dead! I am vindicated Guilliman! After thirteen thousand years, endless stubbornness from you and an eternity of war, I have proven that it is you who was the madman all along! You expunged my Hornet Legion from the record, Guilliman, but you still could not stop me!”

    Apollyon reached out to the nearest living Hornet Legion warriors. They melted, their flesh gliding to him like water. Apollyon’s feet were soon buried under a mud of molten flesh that worked its way up his legs and across his chest. More and more warriors melted, gifting him with their flesh. It solidified across him, turning and changing him into a greater thing that could match this man of adamantium. As the Black Tomb finished off the last attacker, it turned to confront Apollyon.



    The fighting was outside.

    Angron did not feel shame at deserting the battle. The time had come to claim the skull that Khorne had sought for so long. The skull of the Emperor, on Khorne’s throne! HA! He strode through the vaulted halls, growing nearer the Imperium’s heart. However, under a golden archway to the Eternity Gate, he was confronted by a lonely fighter.

    A Blood Angel.

    “Stop were you are, traitor!” Dracuel commanded, his jump pack hissing, his chainsword blaring, his plasma pistol raised.

    “You cannot stand in my way!” laughed Angron. “No one can stop the daemons. It is said that there are more daemons lurking in the dark than there are stars shining in the sky. But there will be the day the stars will stop existing but chaos is eternal.” The Blood Angel twirled his chainsword. His wings, his jumppack hissed louder.

    Silence.

    “Sanguinius?” Angron asked the winged marine.

    “Chaos is not eternal,” Dracuel spoke coldly, “and neither are you.”

    “We shall see.”



    Mortal words could not fully express the misery around him. No one was not hurt. The greatest warriors of the Astartes and chaos lay in piles while the few survivors fought to kill off the last of the tyranids and one another. The tyranid assault, which had been so incredible, was softened, leaving few knots of scattered beasts. But they had inflicted enough hurt onto the proud legions to reduce the space marines to a few hundred scattered maimed warriors crawling amongst a pile of corpses. Usoran could believe that this battle would have no survivors, that the last two survivors would kill each other until only one man remained, who would then succumb to his mortal wounds.

    “Is that the last of the tyranids?” Afennor put his rifle to a dying tyranid and shot it.

    “It may be…” Usoran lost his breath.

    There, standing over the heaps of bodies that lay from Camlan’s harsh contest of attrition was none other than the daemonic angel himself, Mortarion. He stood atop a mound of claw-handed corpses and staring helms, arms and wings outstretched. He looked strong, he looked healthy. He was drawing might from the sheer misery around him! Usoran and Afennor could afford to look at him, for no one around them threatened their flanks: the melee had died down that much.

    “Emperor protect us,” Afennnor rasped, raising his rifle. He fired to no result. Usoran raised his primarch’s sword.

    “Where did you get that?” Mortarion commanded, striding across the field in three bounding leaps and ending up within a stone’s throw from Usoran. “Are you the primarch?”

    “It is our most holy artifact,” Usoran said bravely. “I will not yield it, for I am Usoran Tabbercs of the Dark Angels!”

    “Usoran,” mouthed Mortarion. He raised his scythe. From the misery, from the bodies and from the screams of the dying came a great sickly red and green mist, flowing up to the blade of his scythe. “Feel the wrath of Nurgle!” Mortarion hurled the daemonic bolt at Usoran. There was no hope of dodging it.

    “No!” young, swift Afennor leapt before his senior in the nick of time. Usoran was truly astonished by the act of one so young but had not the time to praise it. Afennor toppled lifelessly to the ground.



    Around them, nothing to be seen but a field of slaughtered tyranids and space marines, heretical or otherwise. Apollyon, the last tyranid, descended upon the Black Tomb.



    In the archway, before the Emperor, Dracuel and Angron leapt at one another.



    “You traitorous thug!” Usoran could see nothing but death. Had anyone, loyalist or not, survived? The sound of battle had gone missing. Those last few deadly moments of Camlan had truly been frightening in the intensity of slaughter. Perhaps it was what Mortarion had awaited.

    “The power of Nurgle is mine!” Mortarion roared.

    And the two dove for one another.

  5. #205
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    What happens next.

    WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!!!

  6. #206
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    Quote Originally Posted by puppetmaster24 View Post
    What happens next.

    WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!!!
    What? Everyone dies, damn saw that one coming at the start of this silliness.

  7. #207
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    The creature that Apollyon had become was unlike anything that had ever tread upon mortal soil. Even the machinations of chaos could not have come up with what now stood in flesh and form before the Black Tomb. It looked like a great chitinous insect of the locust species, standing as tall as a dreadnought upon six legs that ended in clawed feet. Three pairs of long wings reached out from his back in a transparent cloak. Whipping from behind him was a wicked scorpion tail mounted by a stinger. His armor was studded with hard spines and wicked blades. He was every inch a beast except for the head. It was Apollyon’s own head, humanlike and coloured to the colour of his natural skin. It looked like the giant’s head had been sewn to the decapitated form of a walking nightmare. Apollyon flexed his claws and slashed a deep gash across the Black Tomb’s hide.

    “You shall die!” Apollyon screamed, his voice like a bell, “die! You are weak, you are a fool!” He brought his other claw around to break into the dreadnought’s armored hide. His forelimb was caught before it could fall and was crushed to pulp in the machine’s hand. Apollyon whipped back, his fluttering wings taking him away from the dreadnought, which thundered forward like a bolt of lightning. Apollyon sidestepped the charging dreadnought and carved deep into its armored hull with his surviving hand. The Black Tomb swung a heavy brawler’s strike at him, smashing into the primarch, but failing to so much as crack his chitin. Apollyon gave a mocking cackle and lifted off into the air…



    Dracuel lifted off into the air, dodging Angron’s axe. He swung the blade down at the daemon, cutting into his ivory horns. Sparks lifted from the blade as it ate away into the bony crown the daemon wore. Dracuel barely managed to dodge a swatting blow from Angron’s free hand. The winged marine flew to the corner and readied his chainsword.

    “You shall not harm my Emperor,” Dracuel promised, his voice deep and carrying an accent that Angron recognized too well.

    “Blood for the blood god,” Angron snapped back, “Khorne’s power is my power. His will guides me.” Angron charged Dracuel, “you cannot beat Khorne you fool!” His axe bit into stone: Dracuel had bounded aside. Enraged, Angron brought his blade around to kill this upstart. The blade was parried. By a normal marine? Impossible! Angron and Dracuel exchanged crushing blows. Chainsword bit into axe, whirling teeth against hardened edge. Neither gained the upper hand over the other. Each combatant found the other’s defense unyielding. Sparks leapt up and they continued their dance of blades, neither fighter drwing back, neither fighter letting a mistake bring him harm…



    Usoran blocked Mortarion’s evil scythe. The Lion Sword knocked the metal of Mortarion’s blade to the floor. He took this chance and chopped into the weapon’s shaft to try and leave it useless to the primarch. But not even his primarch’s holy relic could undo the simple shaft of the fel scythe.

    “You cannot stop your inevitable decay,” Mortation jeered, swinging the scythe back and knocking Usoran flat on his back. “My blade needs but kiss you and your life is ended.” Usoran rolled to the side to dodge the scythe and parried it in a hurry when Mortarion brought it masterfully around to strike at him as if striking wheat. Usoran’s astartes body stung from the raw force of the daemon’s impact. He fell back, blocking two more heavy blows.

    ‘How can I beat him?’ Usoran wondered. He was far larger and seemed to have limitless strength. Usoran could feel the tendrils of exhaustion working their way into him. He could not afford a moment of weakness! Mortarion swung again and Usoran ducked. He leapt back, almost falling over Afennor’s corpse, now dry and seething with decay. What if Mortarion should fire another bolt?

    He was a child. Usoran was a child. He had been a child before, locked in the soft, nimble and wiry body of his former self in his dreams before his primarch. Now he was a child again, this time humbled one hundred times by a primarch of another sort. He too was an angel, but he was an angel of decay and evil.

    Mortarion swung again…



    Apollyon swung again, his blow falling painfully against the Black Tomb’s mechanical arm. The dreadnought was about to snatch Apollyon’s remaining claw to sunder it from him, but the primarch had already flown away yet again. He slammed down onto a pile of bodies, taking a moment to finish off a pair of wounded astartes of the Imperial Fists before snarling at the Black Tomb, daring him to rush him.

    The Black Tomb complied, storming across Camlan with a silent fury. The thunderclap punch he swnt at Apollyon could have broken his beastly form in two if it hadn’t missed. Apollyon stepped into the Black Tom and grasped him from the side, holding him still.

    “I will take you apart,” the primarch said. And then a jet of fire leapt from his lips, blanketing the dreadnought in a shield of fire. The dreadnought writhed under his grip, but in that moment, Apollyon made a mistake…



    “I am Sanguinius!” Dracuel finally shouted. Angron and the Blood Angel separated, notches in their weapons, hatred in their eyes.

    “Impossible,” Angron laughed, “You…” what it was that silenced the primarch of carnage, not even Angron knew. But as the Blood Angel twisted his sword about to face his opponent, Angron hesitated.

    “Sanguinius is dead,” Angron growled.

    “As will you, soon,” Sanguini…Dracuel replied. He activated his wings and again propelled himself into the daemon. Angron struck with the force of a falling star and, for a moment, fire exploded between them. Chainsword met axe, holy vigour met bezerk madness, daemon met astartes, primarch met primarch. Angron flew back from the force, stumbling and crashing to the floor. Dracuel landed, his wings sparking and smoking from the explosion. Both rose in a moment to confront one another. Angron hefted his axe. Dracuel rose his bare hands: his chainsword lay in ruins.

    “The power of Khorne is yours?” asked Dracuel fearlessly.

    “Why? Are you not afraid?” Angron jeered. He rushed Dracuel, axe raised.



    Usoran had only one chance. He had to find another survivor, the Black Tomb! He retreated from Mortarion, heading frantically across the flat vastness of Camlan towards where the Black Tomb stood, his eyes not leaving Mortarion. He ducked and dodged heavy strikes or parried them with his sword. Once, Mortarion tried to maul him. A flash from the Lion Sword forced the monster to withdraw: a jet of bright yellow blood shooting from the laceration he left.

    “You shall suffer eternally for that!” Mortarion roared, raising his hand, which began to blow a sickly green. Usoran had no choice: act now or suffer Afennor’s fate. He saw one chance…



    “AHH!” Apollyon leaned his head back in pain, flames shooting into the air. His hands left the Black Tomb and his face turned to look down at the offender. A single blade had found him, stabbing into his side, deep into one of his hearts. It was a gladius. Apollyon felt mechanical serpents coil around his insect wings, crushing and tearing away at them.

    “Did you think you could strike me down so easily, Apollyon?” asked Vashuss, spitting out blood with every word. Apollyon reached down to the upstart’s neck, choking him mercilessly. He intended to twist the man’s head from his very shoulders like a child’s toy! Unfortunately, it was the opening his opponent needed. Apollyon looked to the Black Tomb as a shadow fell across him.

    The dreadnought’s fist hit him with such force that his torso was torn clean from his giant body. Across Camlan it bounced, carried by the godly machine’s powered fist. It landed in a pile of dead space marines. Apollyon’s head faced the sky.

    “My…my flesh…” the eleventh primarch whispered. And then, his last words spoken, he fell silent.



    Mortarion was right, Usoran was going to die. For once he had accepted that and thoughts of his defense left him, Usoran saw the opening. He propelled himself forward, blade not raised to defend his flanks, for forward to stab. Mortarion cast away his energy and swung for Usoran.

    “For the Usor! For Tabbercs!” Usoran yelled without knowing why, “for the Emperor!” He was close enough now. With all his might, he threw the Lion Sword the way the academy had shown him to do with royal longswords. Mortarion’s two-handed blade did not protect him. Instead, it broke into Usoran’s body and threw him to the ground in a spray of red. Usoran heard a cry of pain from Mortarion and raised his eyes to behold his work.

    An angel made of light was smiting him with a flaming sword… the Lion Sword…

    No, it wasn’t. It was only Usoran’s wishful thinking, no matter how real it had seemed. Mortarion instead stood where he was, the Lion Sword driven through his throat. With a shriek, the primarch threw his head back, green light emerging from his eyes and mouth. Usoran plugged his ears to the sound.

    “Father! I am sorry!” roared Mortarion’s unnaturally loud voice. “Father? Father? Where are you father?” With those words, the light ended. Mortarion fell one way and the Lion Sword fell another. The relic clattered to the ground and the fallen giant turned to black mist.

    “Praise…the…Emperor,” Usoran gasped as he stood up and held his side where the scythe had broken through. He staggered towards the sword. He had one thing left to do.



    Dracuel smiled as Angron paused.

    “The power of Khorne?” snarled Angron, “the power of Khorne?” he could feel it draining, like a mortal felt the onset of exhaustion as he worked. But this exhaustion came on swifter than was allowed and did not abate when Angron willed it. “My blessings! My power! What is happening?” Angron demanded as he breathed a tired breath. Dracuel calmly drew his pistol and shot Angron once, to no effect.

    “The war is over,” Dracuel replied. He did not defend himself as Angron raised his axe and stood calmly by as Angron’s axe came down, cleaving the Blood Angel in two. Angron allowed himself a grin and headed towards the Eternity Gate. That damnable exhaustion built as he went on. He felt his strength leave him, his fire go out.

    For once, he could not feel the Blood God. For across the void, there was nothing. The warp had consumed all, left nothing behind on the few thousand worlds of the Imperium but ashes and memories. Here and there, one could find a sterile colony but those were few and out of the way. Even here on Terra, there was nothing but corpses. The Imperial Guard had been overrun and the Custodes were destroyed by the tower’s erection. They now lay lifeless in their stations, souls torn from their bodies. There was truly nothing left.

    The war of thirteen thousand years, it had ended. No beginning to mortal rage, no murderous zeal, no wars to feed His hunger, no blood for the blood god.

    Angron collapsed, unable to bear the weight of his own armor. And for a moment, as he lay, he shed his daemonic form. He was a man once again, muscled and insane. And then, there was only dust.

    Next one's the last one

  8. #208
    Commander EmMeTt's Avatar
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    ... Spelling....

    Other than that, it's great!
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    Quote Originally Posted by Lord Malorne View Post
    Afraid, terrifed, scared, horrified, shocked, weeping, sorrowful... the Octophallus is coming.

  9. #209
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    amazing thanks for what youve done

    heres waiting for the finale
    "Duty, honor, and valor are either in your heart or they are not. You will never know until you are truly tested"
    Ajani goldmane

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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    They lay across Camlan in piles. Loyalist and traitor, adeptus astartes, heretic, mangled and blooded. No longer to spread glory or death in the name of anything, but beaten and broken. The field was still, unmoving, as quiet as a crypt. A silent place for the greatest warriors in all the galaxy to sleep their final rest. Usoran, Vashuss and the Black Tomb, the only survivors, had already gone for the Imperial Palace.

    It was totally silent. A rogue wind blew and hissed softly though the emptiness of the abandoned hive city, through the rusting wrecks of fighting vehicles and along even further through vacant air. It was a totally alien world, a moonscape of desolation and quiet. Fallen hives, dust, and shadows prevailed through the hives of Holy Terra where not even a fly made its home now. No lights shone, no vehicles moved, no souls hustled their overly busy bodies through the maze streets. Most of all though was the visceral loneliness. It sucked one’s soul out of their body. The close-knit hives meant that any shout would be squelched to silence in the urban void. To have such a massive city free of life was unnatural. To call it a ghost town would be like calling a star a spark.

    “Why Vashuss?” asked Usoran as he placed the Alpha Legion lord at the mouth of the Imperial Palace. The Black Tomb took its place behind him, ready to follow him to the Emperor.

    “Chaos, it had to overreach itself…” Vashuss said, “from the start of the Horus Heresy, we have been trying to bring the Imperium to this moment, the only moment when chaos could wipe itself out. And now it has, and now we are all that remain of the Astartes.” Usoran nodded. Not even the Salamanders had survived. Their crashed gunships were still strewn with the bodies of their dead. “I am sorry, there was no other way. Now the galaxy is empty, hollow, lifeless, thanks to the powers unleashed on it by the tower.” He coughed.

    “No, probably not completely,” Usoran replied, “somewhere out there, there must be something…”

    “No,” Vashuss gasped, “finished.” Usoran would not argue further.

    “Come on, brother…”

    “I am not your brother!” Vashuss sputtered, coughing out blood. “I…I am not worthy. All the things I did in the Emperor’s name. Just do what I asked you to do…” Usoran nodded and raised Afennor’s rifle.

    “Go with ease, my evil friend,” Usoran said. And so it was that Afennor’s special bullet found its home at last, deep inside Vashuss’ skull. Usoran cast the weapon away and turned to the Black Tomb. “Goodbye,” Usoran said softly to the primarch-dreadnought. Even now, the Black Tomb was slouching forward as whatever animated it gently abandoned it. Then, it was still, like a logic-engine when the power-conduit was pulled. He turned back to the palace.

    “We’re here,” Usoran gasped to himself, clutching his injured flank. His fingers caressed the rift in his armor where Mortarion’s final blow had fallen. He flinched and thought of the daemonic contagion that was swiftly claiming his life. Though defeated here, chaos would take at least a generation to fade completely. Though now feeble, it had not lost the power to kill. It would remain in the much-weakend form of Nurgle, who would yet remain untl the last living thing died. But then, he too would be gone.

    He was alone, now shouldering not only the burden of the Emperor’s forgiveness for his chapter, but the burden of being the last of the Adeptus Astartes. It was an honour he did not want and even as he carried out his final pilgrimage through the hallowed and hollow corridors of the Imperial palace, he wished he didn’t have to live to see the last days of the Imperium. Once or twice he fell, Mortarion’s wound stinging, overcome. But his courage and determination stood him back onto his feet each time, edging him forward towards the throne room where he had stood when these halls were busy and the Imperium was merely dying. Through bomb-shattered chapels, caved-in halls, even through a room that still burned with the wreck of a crashed marauder, Usoran drove.

    He hurt the whole way. He bled the whole way. He weathered the pain for hours where any man, even an Astartes, would fall. But Usoran did not. This testing journey on its own would have been legendary were these halls still filled and the Imperium still alive. Now the only witnesses to his short but difficult quest were the staring marble angels that he walked beneath as he entered the presence of the Eternity Gate.

    Usoran journeyed down the long road to the gate from the entrance to the mammoth chamber containing it. He was unopposed as he passed by it and entered into the presence of the Golden Throne, surrounded by lifeless guards. It was there that Usoran cried for the second time since becoming a Dark Angel.

    “My lord,” he said, head bowed and sword held up. “My name is Brother-Captain Usoran of the Dark Angels and I am the last of nine true legions and their chapters.” Prayer was easy. What did one say when one was here? “My lord,” Usoran held the blade up. “Behold, the mended sword of Lion El’Jonson. Forgive the Dark Angels for their failings and their sins and their heresies. Absolve their conscience so that I may sleep in peace. The scourge of the warp is killed. After thirteen thousand years it is finally over. It…” Usoran looked up, “my lord, it is over!” He bowed his head once more and held up the sword in both hands. His body was thrown into scourging agony from the strain. It was like the Emperor was testing him. He placed the sword on the Emperor’s lap.

    Usoran. Sit by the throne. Sit by my throne, Usoran my son. Did he only imagine that or was that the pain talking? Regardless, Usoran did so without question, seating himself to the throne’s left. He closed his eyes.



    He was a child again, lying in a comfortable bed in a warmly lit room of wood, a lionskin rug on the floor and a motherly rocker in the corner. A brave sword hung above where the youth lay. Usoran lifted his pale hands up to wipe his weary eyes. He was sleepy.

    You have done well my boy

    Usoran looked at Lion El’Jonson, now standing by his bedside. It could have been Usoran’s little eyes, but the man was transparent like water.

    “Chaos…it destroyed all?” his tiny voice asked.

    Perhaps, out of the nothingness, life might yet bloom. But that is a question for the ages. Our war is won. Chaos cannot trouble us any longer,” the primarch promised. A thin hand reached down and stroked Usoran’s brow with a father’s love. “It’s time to go now.” Usoran nodded, a weak smile bending his boy-lips.

    “Where are we going?” he asked.

    We’re going home,” Jonson promised, “take my hand.” Usoran had to squint to see it, it was so hard to see now that it was so clear.

    “Thank you,” Usoran Tabbercs whispered with all his strength. And, side by side, the pair walked off into eternity.



    It was totally silent. A rogue wind blew and hissed softly though the emptiness of the abandoned hive city, through the rusting wrecks of fighting vehicles and along even further through vacant air. It was a totally alien world, a moonscape of desolation and quiet. Fallen hives, dust, and shadows prevailed through the hives of Holy Terra where not even a fly made its home now. No lights shone, no vehicles moved, no souls hustled their overly busy bodies through the maze streets. Most of all though was the visceral loneliness. It sucked one’s soul out of their body. The close-knit hives meant that any shout would be squelched to silence in the urban void. To have such a massive city free of life was unnatural. To call it a ghost town would be like calling a star a spark.

    And so it was that the final flames ignited by the Horus Heresy, which had been waged one hundred and thirty centuries before, were extinguished at last forever.

    And so it was that the Age of Man ended with as dignified an end as he could have hoped for.

    And so it was that the war across the stars ended.



    Many decades pass



    He was over a planet that had once teemed with civilization, contemplating his choices.

    For fifty years Rarend had plied the stars, alone, and for fifty years he was only further assured that he was the last man left in the galaxy. Warp travel was safe, for as the last cities of sterile humans aged and died, the emotions that fed chaos were eternally drained. Where once a burning maelstrom spun to forge the Immaterium, now a gentle stream of white silver spun. No daemon nor monster could climb forth from the Immaterium as there was nothing left to birth it. Rarend finally let his navigator die after they were spun off course and, in the space of two minutes in the warp, finding one century had passed in the Materium. The last sterile mutant cities were depopulated. Rarend was the last man in the galaxy. There was no more need to travel these empty stars.

    He sighed with the weight of what he knew. The Imperium was gone, as was chaos and so were the xenos. The plan that the doomed eldar had set him on finally came into focus. He still had Project Gaia.

    “Why me, Asurmen. Why me?” Rarned looked down at the planet through the window in the chamber of his craft. He touched the window and weighed his options.

    On one hand, he could repopulate this world with intelligent life or he could break the small mechanical artifact.

    “If,” he said aloud, “I populate this world, I could sew the seeds of a brand new Imperium. A new human, a new empire, all from me.” He closed his eyes. “On the other hand, I could reawaken chaos as well. Would this empire be as depraved as mine? Would it even be an empire of humans?” Rarend grew sick the prospect of spawning an Imperium of xenos. As a member of the Ordo Xenos, to do something like that would be the ultimate failure. But life was life! Was it then better to have a galaxy of emptiness? Would Project Gaia even work? Was he being tricked by the eldar into doing something else entirely? But mankind surely deserved another chance. All he had to do was drop the cylinder onto the planet. It was unbelievably simple and he would not live to see the fullest results. If he spawned an alien society from the bosom of the world he brought to life, he would die in blissful ignorance of it.

    So what would he do?

    Rarend opened his eyes. Reaching into his holster, Rarend produced his plasma pistol and turned it off. He looked over the room he sat in. It was rectangular, its floor covered by a red rug, and the wall opposite the windows carried only bland star charts. Rarend occupied the only chair and intentionally left the small table in the corner empty. He would unconsciously make the choice. If the pistol’s barrel faced the window then Rarend would seed the planet below him with Project Gaia. If it faced the charts, then the galaxy those charts showed would continue on without his intervention.

    Rarend flipped his pistol. The weapon landed with a clatter then went still, its position definite. Rarend sighed and nodded: he settled on which choice he would take. Rarend looked down at Project Gaia in his hands. A shaft of sunlight reached into the window, catching the tiny artifact’s metal. The light shone up from its surface, illuminating Rarend’s somber eyes.

    THE END

  11. #211
    Commander EmMeTt's Avatar
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    Quite cool
    Current Armies/ Projects:NONE getting rid of all my Warhammer
    Quote Originally Posted by Lord Malorne View Post
    Afraid, terrifed, scared, horrified, shocked, weeping, sorrowful... the Octophallus is coming.

  12. #212
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    WOW!!
    thats is a good ending.

  13. #213
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    A truly great ending

    Up next is its sequel Warhammer Fantasy: The Beginning
    Preview of General Disaster's story Ebon Chalice:

    Quote Originally Posted by GeneralDisaster View Post
    Chapter One:
    The Canoness was standing in the middle of the room, still squeezing the balls.

  14. #214
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    I feel slightly cheated and dissapointed, thats not a reflection on you, this was a great story, i have been following it for weeks now. I enjoyed the richness of the universe, the character interaction was brilliant.
    I am just an old fashioned guy who likes the hero to win, if he can do it against enormouse odds, thats even better. To have everyone die was a bit of a surprise.
    Well done, i look forward to your next post.

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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    @ Uncle Bomber
    Sorry there. I always felt that Warhammer could not possibly have a utopian kind of ending. A lot of people on the IGMB were predicting the Emperor would awaken to kick some **** and then rule the restored Imperium. But, no, that kind of ending wouldn't fit in with the flavor of the universe. Also, having a total party kill makes it certain that this is a true 40verse conclusion and not a mere lapse in the action. I wanted a scenario that leaves no room for a sequel.

    *Edit*
    I almost forgot. In regards to Rarend, one of you (i forget who) PMed me and wanted to know if there was a real ending. If I told you guys what I personally think Rarend did, then it would create a definite answer. If you prefer a total silencing of the story of humankind then Rarend casts project Gaia away, but if an empty galaxy makes you uncomfortable then he uses it. The only thing I will say is, it is not a trick and project Gaia is in perfect working order. So the conclusion is limited to whether or not Rarend chose to create new life.
    Last edited by nicholasakira; 18-02-2010 at 05:25.

  16. #216
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    fantastic ending thankyou for the effort Nicholaskira
    "Duty, honor, and valor are either in your heart or they are not. You will never know until you are truly tested"
    Ajani goldmane

  17. #217
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    Quote Originally Posted by nicholasakira View Post
    I almost forgot. In regards to Rarend, one of you (i forget who) PMed me and wanted to know if there was a real ending. If I told you guys what I personally think Rarend did, then it would create a definite answer. If you prefer a total silencing of the story of humankind then Rarend casts project Gaia away, but if an empty galaxy makes you uncomfortable then he uses it. The only thing I will say is, it is not a trick and project Gaia is in perfect working order. So the conclusion is limited to whether or not Rarend chose to create new life.

    It was Lord of the Avatars, when he told me I flipped a coin, I'm pretty sure the result was that he destroyed it :cries:
    Preview of General Disaster's story Ebon Chalice:

    Quote Originally Posted by GeneralDisaster View Post
    Chapter One:
    The Canoness was standing in the middle of the room, still squeezing the balls.

  18. #218
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    Re: Time of Ending: the 40k Finale

    Quote Originally Posted by Sons of Alaitoc v.2 View Post
    It was Lord of the Avatars, when he told me I flipped a coin, I'm pretty sure the result was that he destroyed it :cries:
    if youd have flipped a pistol then we'd all know wouldn't we but unfortunately noone will be doing that anytime soon so we will never know oh well until then the pistol is still rotating slowly in the air
    "Duty, honor, and valor are either in your heart or they are not. You will never know until you are truly tested"
    Ajani goldmane

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